Chapter 313

Chapter 313: That Scene

The Ghost Ship of the Buried Immortals, a cycle of life and death.

Once aboard, one would face danger after danger. Everything before reaching Ghost Island was merely an appetizer. The true feast began after.

What awaited them were their past lives and present selves.

It was said that the light in these waters held profound mystery, likely remnants of a terrifying battle between immortal masters, with a fragment of immense power lingering here, never dispersing.

Sailing into these waters could induce a deep slumber.

Within that dream, they would witness their past lives.

Some would obtain opportunities so grand that even Saints would envy them.

Others would fall into eternal sleep, never to awaken again. Even the invocation of Saints’ laws would be useless, they would simply cease to exist.

To die in the dream was to truly die.

Even Saints were not exempt.

In this test of past and present lives, strength, status, or cultivation meant nothing.

It was all a matter of luck.

And so, as the Eighth Battle approached, Zhang Yang couldn’t help but sigh. At last, Yaoruoxian had begun to act more like a beast than an immortal.

A beast thought freely, unbound by convention, and could even disregard its own life.

Even the moon-returning dragon smiled wryly and said,

“Brother Zhang, this battle isn’t about strength but fortune. I’m afraid you may have no chance of winning.”

It was the truth.

Even Saints could fall here. There were well-documented cases of ordinary martial artists waking while powerful beings perished in their dreams. Clearly, luck played a central role.

Zhang Yang laughed lightly.

“I’ll take this battle.”

Past lives?

Did such things truly exist?

He didn’t know.

But if they did, he wanted to see who he had been—why, after encountering that crimson lightning, his destiny had shifted so drastically.

He felt a flicker of anticipation.

The moon-returning dragon shared the same feeling, apprehensive yet eager to uncover his past. Would it grant him the strength to rise again and lead the Cold Moon Dynasty through crisis? Or would it leave him forever trapped in a dream, with no future at all?

“In this life, I am a prince. Who was I in my past life?”

He gently closed his eyes, sitting cross-legged to steady his mind awaiting the moment of truth.

The others did the same.

Only Zhang Yang and Yaoruoxian remained calm, quietly watching each other.

The Eighth Battle.

It marked the prelude to the final fight at the end of the Nine Battles Tribulation.

Zhang Yang was filled with anticipation.

So was Yaoruoxian. From the moment of her birth, fortune had followed her. No one knew how she had been able to craft Saints’ laws at the Ascending to Heaven realm, an unprecedented feat tied to the vast world beyond Eternal Night, and perhaps even to the brilliance of Buddhist practice before its fall.

“All things that come to be are like dreams, illusions, bubbles, and shadows.”

She murmured her Saints’ laws softly, hoping this moment would allow her insights to deepen and her laws to advance further.

Zhang Yang, too, focused his mind, paying her no more attention. Instead, he pondered the mystery of that crimson lightning.

The Ghost Ship of the Buried Immortals drifted silently along the River of Death.

In the distance, the endless river surged, dark and boundless.

A small boat slowly entered the area bathed in ethereal light. Sweet melodies echoed softly, auspicious signs rose into the sky, and countless rays of dawn shimmered, forming a striking contrast to the desolate gloom of the River of Death. Beams of light cascaded over everyone on board.

No one escaped.

No one perceived it.

Resistance was meaningless.

Silently, they each drifted into the realm of past and present lives.

It was a strange, dreamlike sensation—like a voice calling gently beside the ear, or a soft hand grasping theirs, guiding them along a cottony path. The air carried a faint, floral fragrance. Everything felt light, hazy, surreal.

Then, as they passed through this enchanting threshold, Zhang Yang suddenly felt himself plummeting into an abyss.

And he saw something.

An unmatched immortal sword, brilliant and sharp, lunged toward him with terrifying force.

He had no time to react.

He caught a glimpse of the sword’s wielder—a bloodied face twisted in fury, eyes full of murderous intent, roaring words he couldn’t comprehend.

Thunk!

The immortal sword pierced through his body.

Pain consumed him. His consciousness faded.

Then he opened his eyes again only to see a demonic blade, glowing with a sinister gleam, hewn from immortal bone, cleaving down to end his life.

Pain surged once more. His vision went black.

He awoke again, this time in a dragon’s body, overwhelmed by agony. His claws were buried in an enemy’s chest, killing them only to be struck from behind, losing consciousness once more.

When he woke again, he had become a colossal being, like a Battle God. He fought ten terrifying immortals, surrounded by mountains of corpses. Thousands of immortals had died by his hand. Weary but unyielding, he continued the slaughter.

With a wave of his hand, the heavens cracked and the earth trembled. Immortals shattered like glass.

But then he was pierced from behind. An immortal sword burst through his chest, stained red with his blood. He retaliated and killed the attacker. After slaying six more immortals, he was struck down again—falling from the skies, buried beneath a mound of immortal corpses. His consciousness faded into darkness.

He awoke again. This time as an immortal general, only to perish once more in brutal combat.

Then he rose as an immortal king, rampaging across the Nine Heavens, yet even then, he could not escape his fatal doom.

Next, he became a black qilin, and again, he died in battle.

He transformed into a silver phoenix, another death.

And so it continued, life after life, death after death, until the repetition numbed him.

Yet, even through this cycle of endless slaughter, one truth began to emerge, every form he took, every identity, every death… all occurred on the same battlefield.

It was as if every immortal, every beast battling against the invading forces… were all incarnations of himself.

That realization was strange, disorienting.

Then came another transformation into a towering immortal figure, his roar summoning heavenly thunder from the Nine Heavens.

And in that moment, something wondrous stirred.

The immortal thunder brimmed with endless mystery.

Its level was too high, its secrets too vast beyond comprehension.

Yet the sensation of reliving that being’s life, of embodying their essence, allowed him to grasp a sliver of insight. In that instant, Zhang Yang remembered the question he had long pondered:

What lay beyond the Consummate Slaughter Thunder Saint Power?

Then came a great awakening.

His spirit surged, this was it. The opportunity to understand, to break through.

He was ecstatic, determined to seize it.

But just as he was on the verge of enlightenment, as heavenly thunder obliterated legions of immortals, a vast and immeasurable immortal hand descended from the skies.

As if to crush the world itself, it shattered the celestial dome and pressed down, overwhelming the thunder-wielding immortal.

Another death.

Zhang Yang awoke once more, this time crowned and robed in gold, appearing as a celestial emperor, leading an army of immortals to confront the descending hand from the pinnacle of the Nine Heavens.

Then, the heavenly emperor and his immortal allies transformed into boundless light, merging into the form of an immortal sword. With unstoppable might, they pierced the invading celestial hand.

They succeeded.

But at what cost?

Countless immortal corpses rained from the sky. Blood painted the heavens. The hand withdrew, but the heavenly realm was left in ruins.

At that moment, Zhang Yang trembled from the depths of his soul.

This… this was the vision that illuminated the celestial realm, the revelation of what came after death.