This is — Sacred Decree

The Demon Lord's pupils contracted slightly. “Nation’s fate protecting your body? You are a sovereign of a dynasty?”

“The intelligence network of Dark City is rather unimpressive, it seems.” Wang Hao brushed the dust off his clothes. “You didn’t even bother to find out who I am before trying to kill me?”

The Demon Lord’s face darkened.

He had been in seclusion for three hundred years, and Dark City’s intelligence system had indeed fallen behind. He only knew someone had come leading troops to attack, but he had no idea it was a sovereign protected by the nation’s fate—a power exclusive to a reigning emperor, capable of deflecting a single fatal blow.

With that protective barrier, even if he struck with full force, a one-hit kill would be nearly impossible.

“Demon Lord, I have seen your strength.” Wang Hao rolled his wrist. “Now it’s my turn. If you can take one palm strike from me, I’ll turn around and leave. If you can’t—the agreement will still be signed, and the terms remain unchanged.”

He took a deep breath. The internal energy within him surged wildly as the power of the nation’s fate and the force of fortune poured into his dantian together. The martial god foundation blazed with a blinding golden light.

Prison Heaven and Earth Palm, Seventh Strike.

This time, he held nothing back.

A golden palm print surged from his palm, expanding into a thousand-zhang giant in the air. The palm was no longer pure gold but had turned platinum—a sign that the dao mark of annihilation had merged into the technique.

The five fingers of the palm loomed like mountains, and the lines on the palm were as vivid as a real hand, each vein flowing with white destructive power.

For the first time, the Demon Lord’s expression changed.

He sensed the destructive force within that palm—power that only a late-stage Martial God could barely touch. How could Wang Hao, an early-stage Martial God, wield it?

But he had no time to think. Both palms shot out, black energy curling around him like a storm, condensing into a black shield before him. The shield’s surface was covered with countless ghastly faces, each with a wide-open mouth, screaming silently.

The platinum palm strike crashed into the black shield.

The entire council hall trembled violently from the shockwave. Three of the eight faction banners on the walls fell, rocks cracked from the dome, and debris rained down like hail.

Outside, the Eternal Night Barrier shook fiercely, its emerald runes flickering wildly, as if about to shatter.

The six faction leaders released their full energy to protect themselves but were still pushed back step after step.

Yue Ji’s face turned pale. Now she understood why Shadow had said, “Three palms to defeat the Dark Demon True Form.” The power of this seventh strike was already beyond what Shadow could withstand. Even she, a mid-stage Martial God, would be severely injured if she took this blow directly.

The black shield held for five breaths. Then cracks appeared.

The fissures spread from the shield’s center, each one glowing with platinum light. The ghastly faces screamed louder and sharper until the shield shattered with a roar. The residual force of the platinum palm struck the Demon Lord squarely.

The Demon Lord stepped back three paces.

Only three paces.

His black robe was torn open by the shockwave, revealing a muscular chest. On it was a faint white palm print, but it quickly faded as his black energy wiped it away.

He lifted his eyes, and for the first time, the black whirlpools within them showed gravity.

“Excellent palm technique,” the Demon Lord said slowly. “Prison Heaven and Earth Palm—this is an ancient martial god’s lost art, vanished for at least fifty thousand years. How do you know it?”

“I know many things.” Wang Hao withdrew his hand, his breathing as calm as if he had just warmed up. “Demon Lord, you took the seventh strike. What about the eighth? The ninth?”

The Demon Lord was silent for a moment, then did something no one in the hall expected.

He smiled.

That smile carried the thrill of meeting a worthy opponent, and a deep, calculating cunning.

“Your Majesty, I suddenly feel that merging Dark City with you is not entirely a bad thing.”

The six faction leaders were stunned.

The Demon Lord walked to the round table, picked up the “Agreement on the Merger of the Eastern Wilderness Empire and Dark City,” and leafed through it from start to finish.

Then he raised his head, his whirlpool-like eyes fixed on Wang Hao: “I can sign the agreement, but I have one condition.”

“Speak.”

“The commander of the Dark Legion shall be me.”

Wang Hao narrowed his eyes. “You want to lead troops?”

“Not lead troops—survive.” The Demon Lord was blunt. “Your Majesty can swallow Dark City today; tomorrow you can swallow places farther away. If I sign the agreement, I become your man. If I hold no position, one day when Your Majesty finds me inconvenient and decides to cut me down, I would have no chance to resist.”

He looked straight into Wang Hao’s eyes, speaking each word deliberately: “What I want is a fair deal—I help you manage the Dark Legion, and you guarantee my safe exit. Dark City is yours, but I am not your subject. I am your partner.”

Wang Hao was silent for a long time.

Then he extended his hand: “Deal.”

The Demon Lord took his hand.

The moment their hands clasped, everyone in the hall felt it—above Dark City, the emerald light of the Eternal Night Barrier now shimmered with a thread of gold.

That was the mark of the nation’s fate beginning to seep into this underground city.

For the first time in seven thousand years, Dark City had opened its doors to a single man.

The agreement was signed swiftly.

The Demon Lord was a clever man, and the greatest trait of a clever man is knowing when to yield. Wang Hao’s seventh palm had shattered his Abyss Demon Shield, and before the eighth strike was even unleashed, the Demon Lord had already done the math—if they fought to the bitter end, the best outcome was mutual destruction; the worst was Dark City’s seven-thousand-year legacy turning to ash.

He chose the outcome most favorable to himself.

Less than an incense stick’s time after the signing, control of the Eternal Night Barrier had been handed over. The seven faction leaders of the Eight Alliance, in Wang Hao’s presence, handed over their respective formation-eye tokens to Wei Zhongxian.

When Yue Ji handed over her token, her lifeless gray eyes showed no emotion, but her slender fingers lingered on the token for a full three breaths before letting go.

Xue Wuhen was the most straightforward. He slapped the token on the table, spat out a glob of bloodied saliva, and turned to leave. Wang Hao had sent him flying into a wall with a palm strike, and the platinum mark was still imprinted on his chest.

Shadow handed over his token with his head bowed the entire time, not daring to meet Wang Hao’s eyes. After his life-bound artifact was confiscated, his aura had dropped by at least thirty percent, sliding from the peak of early-stage Martial God to an awkward position barely clinging to the martial god threshold.

Wei Zhongxian held the nine formation-eye tokens, his face expressionless as he recorded each token’s corresponding defense zone and activation chants. His fingers were as steady as iron, as if the priceless control of the Eternal Night Barrier in his hands were nothing more than a stack of ordinary ledgers.

“Old Wei, tally it up.” Wang Hao sat on the stone throne once belonging to the Demon Lord, legs crossed, twirling a blood-jade ring he had just lifted from Xue Wuhen’s storage ring.

Wei Zhongxian flipped open the account ledger, and the abacus clattered away for a long time before he finally reported a number: "Your Majesty, the assets transferred by the Eight Alliance of Dark City are as follows: seven spirit ore veins, with an annual output of twelve billion spirit stones; fifteen medium and small ore veins, with an annual output of approximately three billion spirit stones; twenty-one rare divine material deposits, valued at roughly fifty billion spirit stones; eighty-three underground trade routes, with an annual profit of about eight billion spirit stones; and an intelligence network covering seventy percent of the continent, with a value impossible to calculate."

"Additionally, the Eight Alliance has a total inventory of eighty-four billion spirit stones, along with various pills, cultivation techniques, strange artifacts, formation plates, and other materials worth approximately sixty billion. Plus the debt owed by Red Flame Casino of three hundred billion—Your Majesty, you've hit the jackpot this time."

Wang Hao tried on the Blood Jade Ring on his thumb, found it didn't quite fit, and casually tossed it to Xiao Chen beside him: "It's yours."

Xiao Chen caught the ring, his mouth twitching. Had this dog emperor changed? He was actually being this generous?

This ring was the storage artifact of Xue Wuhen, the leader of the Blood Fiend Sect. Its internal space could hold at least three small mountains and was worth no less than fifty million spirit stones. Wang Hao gave it away as if he were tossing a pebble picked up from the roadside.

"Your Majesty, this is far too valuable—"

"Valuable?" Wang Hao glanced at him. "How much is my life worth? You took three flying daggers for me at Blackwind Valley. One little ring means nothing. Take it and stop babbling."

Xiao Chen opened his mouth, then finally tucked the ring away. Having served Wang Hao for two years, he'd learned one rule—when this emperor gave something, accepting it was the greatest respect; declining would only annoy him.

The Demon Lord sat across from Wang Hao, his pitch-black vortex-like eyes fixed on every move Wang Hao made. He watched as Wang Hao casually tossed something worth fifty million spirit stones to his subordinate, and he saw the genuine loyalty shining on the faces of Xiao Chen, Ye Guyun, and the others.

"You're quite generous, Your Majesty," the Demon Lord remarked flatly.

"I don't judge my things by value, only by usefulness," Wang Hao said, leaning back in his chair, his gaze sweeping over the remaining six gang leaders in the hall. "Gentlemen, the agreement has been signed, the tokens surrendered, and the inventories reported—so there's no need for me to spell out what comes next, is there?"

Yue Ji stood up, her lifeless gray eyes meeting Wang Hao's gaze for the first time: "Dark City needs time. The Eight Alliance's outer disciples number over three hundred thousand, scattered across seventeen towns and hundreds of outposts. Recalling, reorganizing, and reassigning all of them won't be done in three days."

"I'll give you ten days." Wang Hao raised a finger. "Within ten days, all outer disciples must be recalled to Dark City. After ten days, my legion commander, the Demon Lord, will personally handle the reorganization. Those who stay will be assigned positions based on their skills. Those who don't want to stay—"

He paused, and his smile took on a hint of menace: "They can leave, but before they go, they must return everything they've taken from Dark City. Techniques, pills, spirit stones, artifacts—every last item. That's my rule."

Yue Ji's eyelid twitched, but she eventually nodded.

Just as she was about to speak further, the communication jade slip in her sleeve suddenly flared with a piercing blood-red light.

That light wasn't the usual faint green of a regular message—it was a chilling crimson, like the color of dried blood. Yue Ji's expression instantly shifted, and the faces of the other five gang leaders changed just as swiftly.

The Demon Lord's pitch-black vortex eyes constricted sharply.

"A supreme-level alert." Feng Wanli's voice trembled. "This is—the Sacred Grounds Order."

The Sacred Grounds Order was the highest-level alarm signal on the continent, only issued when all sixteen Sacred Grounds acted together with a unanimous decision. The last time such an order appeared was seven thousand years ago—when the sixteen Sacred Grounds joined forces to destroy the continent's then-greatest power, the Heavenly Luo Dynasty. In that battle, eleven Martial Gods died, rivers of blood flowed, and the Heavenly Luo Dynasty's capital still lay as barren, lifeless scorched earth to this day.

Yue Ji's hand trembled slightly.

Wang Hao noticed, then asked a question that left everyone stunned: "What's a Sacred Grounds Order?"

Silence.

Then Yue Ji stared at Wang Hao as if he were a monster: "You don't know what the Sacred Grounds Order is?"

"Would I be asking if I did?" Wang Hao spread his hands matter-of-factly. "I've only been on the throne for less than three years, and I've been in the Central Continent for under half a year. Who has time to learn your old fossils' customs?"

Yue Ji ground her teeth in frustration, but took a deep breath and quickly explained the meaning of the Sacred Grounds Order.

After listening, Wang Hao nodded thoughtfully: "Oh, so it's sixteen Sacred Grounds ganging up on one person. Last time, they took on the Heavenly Luo Dynasty? What was the name of its last emperor?"

"Luo Wuji," Feng Wanli answered. "A late-stage Martial God, half a step into the peak realm. He had eight Martial Gods under him, one hundred and eighty Void Masters, and six hundred thousand elite troops. Seven thousand years ago, the continent's greatest power."

"And the outcome?"

"Total annihilation. Luo Wuji was killed by the combined might of the sixteen Sacred Grounds' sect leaders, his body and soul obliterated. All eight of his Martial Gods fell in battle, only three out of the one hundred and eighty Void Masters escaped. Forty thousand of the six hundred thousand soldiers were slaughtered; the remaining twenty thousand had their cultivation crippled and were condemned to eternal servitude."

Once again, the hall fell into silence.