Their sacrifice is not meaningless

On the third night after the Calming Array vanished, the waters of the South Sea began to flow backward.

The surface of the eighty-thousand-li South Sea had been as calm as a mirror, with regular waves stirred by the sea breeze. But on that night, all the seawater was churned as if by an invisible giant hand, and a massive whirlpool a thousand li in diameter appeared on the surface.

The center of the whirlpool did not sink inward—it bulged upward.

A black dome of water rose from the seabed, as if some colossal creature was emerging from the deep. The dome swelled larger and larger, higher and higher, until it expanded under the cover of night into a black mountain of water ten thousand li tall.

Thick black liquid flowed across the surface of the water mountain. It was not seawater—seawater was salty; this liquid was dead.

Every drop of it reeked of a suffocating, eerie presence. Any cultivator with weaker cultivation who approached within a hundred li of the water mountain would have their soul corroded by that presence and turned into a shrieking madman.

Deep within the water mountain, something was breathing.

With each inhale, the seawater for a hundred li around was sucked into the body, leaving a temporary void on the surface. With each exhale, black mist burst from the mountain and spread a layer of viscous black fog across the sea. Wherever the fog passed, every creature in the ocean floated up dead—fish, shrimp, crabs, clams, even sea demons. Every living thing struggled for a moment in the black mist before turning belly-up.

After the ninth breath, the water mountain split open.

A crack running through the entire mountain spread from the peak to the seabed, and from the crack seeped a ghostly green light. The light shone on the sea, dyeing thousands of li of ocean an sickening pale green.

Then, howls emerged from the crack.

There was not just one voice—there were ten thousand. Ten thousand mouths screamed at once. Ten thousand voices cried, laughed, cursed, and begged simultaneously. The power in these voices twisted space itself; the air above the sea trembled violently with the sound waves, and water droplets, shaken free from gravity, floated upward in an inverted rain.

From the crack, something crawled out.

Its shape could not be described in words. It had countless tentacles, each tens of thousands of li long, and their surfaces were covered with densely packed human faces. These faces were not carved—they were alive. Every face writhed, screamed, wept, and laughed hysterically. Each face bore a different expression, but they all shared one thing: black viscous liquid dripped from the corners of every mouth, and where it fell into the sea, the water turned black.

It was the Soul Devourer, a peak Nine-Tier horror.

Its true body was a massive, writhing black lump of flesh, covered in eyes. Each eye was the size of a human head, with vertical pupils of a ghastly green hue. The number of eyes was ninety-nine at any given moment, but a new one appeared with each breath—endlessly splitting, endlessly regenerating.

The first thing it did after crawling out of the crack was devour an island.

That island was the territory of the Azure Dragon Clan, one of the thirty-six tribes of the South Sea Dragon Court. Upon it stood palaces, mineral veins, and treasures accumulated over thirty thousand years. The nine hundred ninety-nine tentacles of the Soul Devourer reached for the island simultaneously, and the faces on those tentacles opened their mouths. Countless mouths bit into the island at once.

The island vanished.

Not destroyed—devoured. The rock, palaces, mineral veins, and formations—all of it dissolved into nothingness in the mouths of those faces. Thirty breaths later, nothing remained where the island had stood but a patch of black water.

The Azure Dragon Clan dragons had already migrated north with the main force, but the island still held slaves, spirit beasts, and magical creatures who had been too late to flee. They all dissolved into nothing in the Soul Devourer's mouth, without even time to scream.

It was the most horrifying calamity to befall the South Sea Dragon Court in fifty thousand years.

Scouts from the Dragon Court sent word of the Soul Devourer's emergence to the migrating dragon fleet.

King Ao Guang stood at the bow of the flagship, the dragon-head prow, looking back at the black fog spreading steadily across the southern sea. The fog reflected in his vertical pupils. His dragon claws dug deep gouges into the ship's railing.

"How long until we reach the Eastern Desolation Sea?" His voice was hoarse.

"At full speed, three more days," replied Ao Zhen, the Dragon Court's naval commander. His voice trembled. "But the Soul Devourer is spreading at least twice as fast as our fleet. My King, at this rate, it will catch up to us one day's journey from the Eastern Desolation coast."

"No," Ao Guang said, closing his eyes. "It won't catch us—it will catch the rear guard of the old and weak."

Ao Zhen's body shuddered violently.

The South Sea Dragon Court had 3.2 million subjects, of whom only 800,000 were able-bodied warriors. There were 2.4 million elderly, women, and children. Their fleet traveled at half the speed of the main force. If the Soul Devourer's rate of spread did not change, the rear fleet would be overtaken by the black fog before midnight.

"Pass my order." Ao Guang opened his eyes; his vertical pupils churned with despair and reluctance. "The able-bodied fleet advances at full speed without pause. The rear fleet of the old and weak—"

He could not finish.

But Ao Zhen understood.

They were to abandon the old and weak.

"My King!" Ao Zhen dropped to his knees on the deck, his forehead striking the railing. "The rear fleet holds our parents, our wives, our children, our kin! You—"

"I know!" Ao Guang whipped his head around, his vertical pupils blazing with blood-red flames—flames born of agony. "Both of my daughters are in that rear fleet! Do you think I want to abandon them? Do you think I don't know what it means to abandon the old and weak?"

His roar echoed across the deck, drowning out the wind and waves.

"But the fate of 3.2 million lives weighs on me! I must preserve the able-bodied—if they live, the South Sea Dragon Court still has hope! The old and weak can be rebuilt later; if the able-bodied are lost, the Dragon Court is truly doomed!"

On the Dragon Palace flagship, hundreds of Dragon Court generals knelt at once.

No one spoke, but the eyes of all reflected the same color—that golden dragon tear, each drop carrying a deep, cutting grief.

Ao Zhen knelt on the deck, his forehead touching the planks, and after a long moment, he forced the words from his throat: "Your subject… obeys."

When news reached the rear fleet that they had been abandoned, 2.4 million elderly, women, and children were struggling across the sea. Their vessels were the crudest rafts and hide boats, moving at less than half the speed of the able-bodied fleet. Most boats lacked any formation protection, relying only on a thin layer of dragon scales on the hull to fend off sea monsters.

The commander of the rear fleet was Ao Guang's queen—Ao Yue.

She had lived for 46,000 years, borne Ao Guang seven sons and four daughters, and was the most revered queen of the South Sea Dragon Court. When she heard Ao Guang's order, she stood aboard the largest dragon-scale ship of the rear fleet, cradling a newborn dragon infant less than three months old.

She looked down at the sleeping baby in her arms, at the tiny, unhardened dragon horns on its forehead, at the fleck of milk still clinging to the corner of its mouth.

Then she lifted her head, gazing into the encroaching black mist looming over the South Sea, and spoke a single sentence.

“Keep moving forward.”

Her voice was calm, but laced with a resolute finality.

“Go as far as we can. Until we are caught.”

The fleet of the old and weak continued northward, crawling along at a painfully slow pace.

The black mist pursued from the south, closing in faster than even the most pessimistic forecasts had predicted. By dusk, the edge of the mist had already caught up with the fleet’s rear.

The black mist touched a dragon boat carrying three hundred elderly dragons.

The three hundred elders raised their heads in unison. Their horns were withered and cracked, their scales dull and faded, their beards snowy white. The youngest among them had lived for five thousand years; the oldest had endured seventy thousand.

The three hundred elders stared at the twisted faces within the black mist, and then did something no one expected.

They rose to their feet.

At their head stood Ao Xuan, an ancient dragon who had lived for sixty-eight thousand years. He was the oldest clan elder of the South Sea Dragons, a witness to the fall of the Primordial Dragon Emperor and the glory of the Dragon Clan’s golden age. Though his cultivation had long since plummeted to the edge of the Voidwalking Realm, the aura he unleashed in that moment surpassed even the peak of his prime.

“Ao Xuan of the South Sea Dragons,” the old dragon declared, facing the black mist, his voice unwavering. “With these three hundred old dragons, I shall guard the rearguard for our descendants.”

He raised his right hand, his fingers gnarled like dry branches, and formed an ancient seal over his chest. It was the Dragon Clan’s most forbidden art—Dragon Soul Dissolution. Using one’s own soul as a catalyst, the body transforms into a final strike. The power was immense, but the cost was total annihilation of spirit and flesh.

The three hundred elders formed the seal together.

Three hundred beams of golden light burst from their bodies, igniting a radiant sea of brilliance over the dim ocean. The light contained the purest essence of the Dragon Clan’s soul power. Each beam burned, fueled by the accumulated cultivation and life force of sixty-eight thousand years.

“Great-grandfather!” Countless young dragons on the fleeing fleet wept and fell to their knees.

Ao Xuan looked back one last time at the youthful faces behind him, a tender smile spreading across his weathered features.

He parted his lips and spoke his final words: “Children, run. Run to the Eastern Wastelands. Tell the Emperor of the Great Xia that the old dragons have kowtowed to him.”

Then the three hundred beams plunged into the black mist.

The explosions from Dragon Soul Dissolution detonated within the mist, a violent clash of gold and black. The mist was torn open by a massive rift. Countless faces shrieked and dissolved as the dragon souls scorched them. For thirty seconds, the black mist was forced back a full ten miles.

But after thirty seconds, the golden light faded.

The three hundred old dragons had been utterly obliterated in soul and body.

The black mist closed ranks and continued its advance northward.

Having devoured the soul power of three hundred ancient dragons, the tendrils of the Soul Devourer grew even more frenzied—the faces within the mist grinned more savagely, the black fluid dripping faster from their mouths, the tentacles stretching longer.

At the fleet’s rear, another group of dragons was overtaken.

This time, it was the wounded dragon warriors—those who had lost their combat ability after battles with sea demons and had been transferred to the fleet of the old and weak to recuperate.

Leading them was Ao Lie, former Dragon Knight Commander of the South Sea Dragons. He had lost both legs and one eye in a battle against a deep-sea demon. His cultivation had plummeted from the Martial God Realm to the Voidwalking Realm, confining him to a wheelchair ever since.

But when the black mist caught up, he was the first to push his wheelchair to the rear of the fleet.

“Ao Lie of the South Sea Dragons,” he declared, raising his dragon spear, a fierce light burning in his single eye. “I will lead eight hundred wounded warriors to guard the rear for our people.”

Eight hundred crippled dragons followed him into the black mist.

Then came a thousand elderly dragon women.

Then three hundred dragon orphans.

Then five thousand civilian dragons.

Each group that charged into the black mist bought moments with their lives—a cup of tea’s time, an incense stick’s duration, a few fleeting seconds. Each interval grew shorter, but their choice was made without a moment’s hesitation.

And so the fleet of the old and weak crawled northward, one hard-won moment at a time.

Ao Yue stood at the bow of the leading ship, her face utterly expressionless. The infant dragon in her arms had woken, staring at her with eyes not yet fully opened. The baby was smiling. It did not understand what was happening; it only knew this embrace was warm.

“How much longer?” Ao Yue asked.

“At our current speed,” the maid beside her sobbed, “we need six hours to reach the Eastern Wasteland waters. But the black mist will catch us within three—”

“Enough,” Ao Yue cut her off. “Notify everyone. From now on, whenever we are overtaken, those who are oldest will form the rearguard. By age—starting with the eldest. Tell them this is the rule of the South Sea Dragons.”

She looked down at the infant in her arms, forcing the faintest, most strained smile onto her lips.

“The eldest go first. The youngest go last.”

The fleet of the old and weak continued northward.

Behind them, the black mist pressed in relentlessly.

The sea surface grew littered with dragon corpses—the remains of those who had stayed behind. Their bodies had been torn apart by the Soul Devourer’s tentacles, their souls devoured by the faces in the mist, leaving no chance for reincarnation.

But their sacrifice was not without meaning.