The Miserable Blood Without Trace

The ink-jade transformed qilin carried them through the inky auspicious clouds at incredible speed, traversing vast distances in an instant, heading away from the clamorous battlefield toward a secluded place.

Finally, they landed on a desolate lone peak amidst a sea of clouds, a place untouched by human traces.

The area was shrouded in mist and fog. Though the spiritual energy here was not of the highest order, it exuded a pure and natural Dao resonance, perfect for reflection and re-evaluation.

Xiao Ruobai drifted down from the qilin’s back, found a smooth boulder to sit cross-legged upon, and did not speak immediately. Instead, he slowly closed his eyes.

The aura around him, slightly turbulent from his recent breakthrough, began to subside and settle like a tide receding.

The insights gained from his breakthrough were like molten iron not yet cooled—they needed to be hammered while hot, refined meticulously before they could fully integrate into his Dao foundation and stabilize his newly attained kingly realm.

For a time, only the wind howled and the clouds rolled and unfolded atop the peak.

Ink Jade lay quietly at the side, his massive qilin head lowered slightly, his dark golden, slit-shaped pupils fixed on Xiao Ruobai, who sat with eyes closed in deep concentration. His gaze was complex—carrying reverence, humiliation, and a faint, indescribable yearning for great power.

After about half a day, the fluctuating aura around Xiao Ruobai finally stabilized completely, as calm and unruffled as an ancient deep pool or an old well. Yet the pressure he exuded had grown even more condensed and weighty than before.

He slowly opened his eyes. A divine light glimmered within them, clear and profound, and his gaze fell upon Ink Jade beside him.

“Ink Jade,” Xiao Ruobai spoke, his voice calm yet carrying an unmistakable authority.

Ink Jade immediately lifted his head, composed himself, and replied respectfully, “Your Excellency.”

Xiao Ruobai looked at him, his tone as flat as if stating a simple fact: “Your defeat to Wang Zhan was not due to the battle itself, but to flaws in your Dao heart and battle methods.”

Xiao Ruobai continued, “Go over your fight with Wang Zhan from beginning to end in careful detail. Do not just recall the decisive final blow, but every detail—how he threw his punch, how you responded, how his momentum shifted, how your emotions fluctuated. Why did he manage to seize the instant when you switched your technique? And at what point did you reveal unwarranted arrogance or a weakness?”

His words were like icy carving knives, precisely slicing open the painful wound Ink Jade did not wish to face.

“Your imperial bloodline talent is indeed your foundation. But relying solely on your bloodline’s divine abilities and charging in recklessly with brute force grows angry at setbacks and grows impatient at gains, is a lower-level approach—you possess a precious treasure but do not know how to use it.”

“A true master is stronger not only in power but also in willpower and spirit. What you must learn is how to command your imperial blood force as naturally as using your own limbs—to merge it into every breath and every thought of yours, not merely wielding it as a tool for intimidation and domination.”

Xiao Ruobai’s voice was not loud, but every word struck hard like a hammer against Ink Jade’s heart.

“Now, still your heart and reflect. Treat this battle as your first lesson in reshaping your battle spirit and seeing your own self clearly. Even if you glean but a tenth of its true meaning, today’s defeat will be worth more to you than years of bitter cultivation.”

With that, Xiao Ruobai said no more. He closed his eyes once again to reinforce his own realm, settling his insights deeply.

The peak once more fell into silence.

Ink Jade’s enormous body lay still, and the dark golden lights in his slit pupils flickered violently.

At first, there was struggle—the pain of recollection. Yet gradually, as Xiao Ruobai’s words echoed in his mind, he forced himself to calm down and began to examine the brutal defeat from a perspective that was unprecedentedly cold and objective.

Scene after scene replayed in his mind in vivid clarity.

This time, he no longer merely felt the difference in power and technique. He began to grasp those intangible yet decisive factors—war spirit, mindset, and battle intelligence.

A glimmer of realization, like a faint spark in the darkness, began to take root and grow deep within him.

While Xiao Ruobai mentored Ink Jade on the lone peak, and while Shi Jingxian and others returned to the Purple Bamboo Peak, and Wang Zhan sat in bitter contemplation on the site of his defeat—

Deep within the Tomb of the Great Emperor in the Desolate Province!

A dark, twisting corridor appeared to have no end. Ancient runes on the stone walls glowed with a faint, ominous light, and the air was thick with the decay of thousands of years and a heart-stopping pressure.

Third Patriarch stopped and looked around at the nearly identical dim surroundings, swearing under his breath:

“Damn it, what kind of ghost place is this? Layers upon layers of prohibitions, interlocking formation patterns—I’ve been walking in circles as if still trapped at the outer edge! Creepy as hell, I tell you!”

Despite his loud voice, his brows were slightly furrowed, and his gaze keenly swept every seemingly inconspicuous corner.

Even with his cultivation realm at Sacred King level and his experience, he had already felt considerable pressure along the way. He had triggered the prohibitions numerous times, and though his formidable strength had allowed him to manage each incident without serious harm, he had expended considerable effort. This Great Emperor’s Tomb proved far more dangerous than he had first imagined.

Following behind him were only seven remaining disciples of the Glass Holy Land, all ragged, breath weak, and trembling like birds startled by a bowstring.

Among them was the former quasi-holy son, Xue Wuhen—no, Blood Traceless. His cultivation level had surprisingly broken through to the early phase of the Heavenly Being realm, clearly having stumbled upon some fortunate encounter earlier in their exploration of the tomb.

Third Patriarch’s gaze swept across this group of defeated survivors, pausing on Blood Traceless for a moment, a barely perceptible trace of surprise flickering in his eyes.

“This kid is lucky, isn’t he? Several times I sent him to probe those deadly spots, and other disciples either died or were maimed—yet he always manages to crawl back alive each time with barely a scratch, on top of gaining some benefits, and his cultivation rose instead of falling...

Even though most of the loot he scavenged ended up in this old man’s hands, that kind of fortune is somewhat interesting.”

At this moment, Blood Traceless hung his head, appearing submissive, but inside he was filled with endless fear, humiliation, and a numbing, near-fatal despair.

His robes were torn, covered in dust and dried, blackened bloodstains.

‘A demon—that old bastard—he’s nothing but a demon!’

Every time he was forced toward those glowing, death-radiating barriers, every time he felt the casual, blade-cold gaze on his back, Blood Traceless felt his life hanging by a thread.

That old fiend was clearly using them, his “captives,” as nothing more than stones to test the path—using their lives to pave the way forward!

‘Why me? Why did it have to be me suffering like this…’

Once he had been a lofty quasi-holy son of the Glass Holy Land, with an infinite future—until he crossed paths with that accursed little fatso. Since then, nothing had gone right.

He had never endured such wretched, dog-like treatment. Each narrow escape from the barriers brought not relief but deepened his hatred for Third Patriarch, a hatred engraved into his bones.

The only thing keeping him from crumbling completely was a single thought, clutched like a lifeline, repeated until it became an obsession:

“Hold on! I must survive and get out of here!”

“The holy lord is all-powerful, and the elders’ cultivation skills are far-reaching—the Holy Land will surely notice something’s wrong, and they will definitely come to rescue me!”

“Once I get out, once I get out, I will make known the truth of this place. I will certainly make known what happened here, and petition the Holy Land to avenge us!”

“When the time comes, I shall not only raze this accursed tomb to the ground and dig three feet deep, but also rip out old man Shi’s soul and refine his spirit, ensuring he suffers eternal damnation and never reincarnates—only then will my hatred be appeased!”

This poor, ignorant boy had yet to learn that the Glass Sacred Land he had placed his hopes in had long turned to ashes, and the support he relied upon had vanished utterly. Even the Blood Fiend Sect, from which he hailed, because of its ties to the Sacred Land, had been purged and suppressed by the other great sects after the Land’s fall, now teetering on the brink of collapse, barely able to survive.