The distance between him and the Red Pagoda was only one meter.
But that single meter seemed farther than the depth of an endless abyss.
Chiantai Wuji took a step forward.
And something stopped him.
Not the wind. Not bones. Not any visible force.
But a faceless, silent, invisible barrier that stretched like a wall between him and the crimson structure.
Chiantai Wuji stood still.
In the depths of his eyes, the reflection of a dying fire sliding across the Pagoda's walls shimmered.
A moment later, his body shifted. His feet found a stable stance, arms rising fluidly—and in a blink, the technique "Mountain-Shaking Fist" was unleashed.
A pressure wave burst from his Qi. His fist, filled with power and certainty, shot toward the Pagoda's wall. But—
Exactly one meter before contact, the strike stopped.
Not with a thunderous boom, but with a silent thud—like a feather striking a wall of jade.
A faint tremor rippled through the air. Something like a spirit's echo, brief and soft, reflected off the unseen surface.
Chiantai Wuji's eyes narrowed.
He was not defeated. Only... halted.
He did not kneel. He did not retreat.
He stepped back, clenched his fingers together, and calmly said,
"So, that's how it is..."
With his current power, the barrier could not be broken.
But he would not give up.
He was not the kind to turn away before a closed gate.
His mind began analyzing.
The flow of Qi in the area, the intensity of the barrier, the rebound of the technique, the structure of the death-Qi...
He had to break it. He had to enter the Pagoda.
Not out of curiosity.
But because fate had drawn him here. He was convinced the Red Pagoda was no ordinary place.
The very fact that it had remained untouched in such a cursed land—where countless had perished—proved it wasn't just a relic.
Perhaps... it was linked to the "Battle of the Emperors."
Three days had passed. Maybe four.
In the Graveyard of Bones, no sun rose, no night fell.
Dark clouds blanketed the skies, allowing no light through.
Time melted silently among the rotting bones and the ceaseless howling wind.
Yet in that timeless void, Chiantai Wuji opened his eyes.
He was still one meter from the Pagoda—exactly as he had been at first.
But something in his gaze had changed.
Not anger. Not frustration.
But a calm flame of understanding and resolve.
He had spent the last three days studying the barrier.
If he could understand it, he could destroy it.
From the maternal Dantian, from the death-Qi in the air, even from the barrier's invisible structure, he drew imaginary lines in his mind.
This was no ordinary feat—only a rare few were capable of such.
In these three days, Chiantai Wuji discovered that the barrier wasn't just a protective field.
It was the work of someone with an extremely high level of cultivation—perhaps a master or a grand expert, who had poured every last ounce of strength into its creation.
But why? To protect what?
The answer was simple.
Undoubtedly, the Red Pagoda was the answer.
Chiantai Wuji reached this conclusion.
And at the same time, he realized: the barrier wasn't flawless.
Three points.
Three scratches. Three fractures. Three weaknesses.
Maybe the great master who forged the barrier had nothing left to give.
Maybe his strength or spirit had been exhausted, and he could not repair them.
Or perhaps... he had left them on purpose—for only someone with open eyes and a clear mind to find a way in.
Chiantai Wuji had found them.
One at the lower left, where the Qi was slow and thin.
Another at the upper right, where the pulse of the barrier was faint.
And the third, dead center—where the barrier seemed to draw its core rhythm.
He stood for a moment, inhaled deeply, and focused his Qi.
The first strike: to the lower point.
The second: to the upper right.
And the third...
In silence broken only by the wind's moan, the third fist struck.
No sound—only a gentle tremble, like ice cracking under pressure.
The invisible barrier, like mist evaporating, slowly faded.
Qi settled around him.
The air grew slightly lighter.
The Red Pagoda now stood exposed before Chiantai Wuji.
Defenseless.
Yet still silent.
And perhaps... awakened.
Chiantai Wuji took a calm step forward. Just one step remained.
But at that moment, the world darkened.
Not fully—more like a heavy shadow falling over the starless sky above the bone grave.
Before he could take another step, a figure appeared.
Bodiless. Shadowy. Like dense mist shaped by night itself.
Chiantai Wuji paused, focusing his gaze.
An old man with long white beard, wrinkled brow, and piercing eyes.
Though without a body, the weight of his presence pierced to the bones.
His form resembled vapor—a spectral robe draped over an echo of a man.
This was without a doubt an echo of who he had once been.
The old man's sharp eyes studied Chiantai Wuji.
A poisonous smile touched his lips, but the words he spoke carried a quiet admiration:
"Boy… your talent is not bad."
His tone was calm, but beneath it brewed a storm.
This boy—not only had he escaped the illusory formation built into the mountain range (a formation that trapped intruders in a false life)—but had also shattered a thousand-year-old barrier!
That formation had been the pinnacle of the old man's final days.
So powerful, none had broken through it for centuries.
But this boy? Just a teenager… his cultivation merely at the Acquired Realm.
Over the past days, the old man had watched from the interdimensional veil.
Time and again, he had murmured to himself, "Impossible…"
But now, this calm, oddly tempered youth stood before him.
And the old man said again, this time with narrowed eyes:
"Even so… you are not the one destined. This Pagoda was not built for you. Leave!"
Chiantai Wuji looked at him for just a moment.
Though the presence was oppressive, something deep inside him whispered:
Just words. An empty threat. Why? Because he's afraid.
He replied flatly,
"I don't care about destiny. I don't care who it was built for. I came. I won't leave."
His cold, unapologetic response twisted the old man's expression.
A scream echoed through the mist:
"Arrogant brat! You don't know who you're speaking to! I've seen geniuses whose names shook the heavens. You're not even worth their shadow!
So don't get cocky—listen to this old man!"
The spirit surged forward.
His features darkened.
With a voice deep and threatening, he declared:
"If you don't turn back now… I'll kill you myself!"
Chiantai Wuji stood unmoving.
His eyes narrowed—like a sword slowly being unsheathed.
Fear? No.
Respect? No.
He saw only one thing: another veil to tear through.
Another performance.
Another attempt to protect something.
And maybe... a lie.
He thought:
You think you can scare me? Just because you're louder?
And a faint smile appeared—quiet, yet sharp.
He hadn't come to retreat.
Chiantai Wuji had thoughts of his own.
This old man? Only a soul remained. He had used the last of his power to create that barrier.
That meant he had nothing left.
Worse—now that the barrier was gone, a recoil must've hit him.
His spirit must've been further wounded.
So if he left now, he'd gain nothing.
Chiantai Wuji's audacity and composure struck the old man's pride like a hammer.
The spirit's faint smile vanished—replaced by a dark, simmering rage in his lightless eyes.
No more threats.
Only action.
He summoned his soul force.
Suddenly, the world grew heavy.
As if a mountain collapsed onto Chiantai Wuji's mind and spirit.
A wave of silent, freezing energy surged from the old man—cold and crushing, like the nights in the Graveyard of Bones.
His cultivation base, even in death, was mysterious and vast.
He didn't want to injure Chiantai Wuji—he wanted to shatter his soul.
But the old man made a fatal mistake.
He thought this boy was merely arrogant.
He didn't realize Chiantai Wuji was sharper than he looked.
As the soul pressure deepened, Chiantai Wuji's mind raced like lightning.
The old man? Just a spirit. No body. Spent energy.
Barrier broken. Recoil unavoidable.
All those threats? Just cover for weakness.
Chiantai Wuji had figured it out.
At the moment the spirit's pressure peaked—
His Maternal Dantian activated.
Suddenly, dark and cold energy burst from within—Death-Qi!
The forbidden, terrifying energy that corrodes the soul on contact.
A wave of Death-Qi exploded outward, swallowing the space in a vortex of darkness.
For the first time in centuries—
The old man felt fear.
He hated this.
Death-Qi—the natural enemy of spirits.
And now, before him stood a 13-year-old boy... who could control it.
How?
The game was over.
With a silent scream, the spirit shuddered, flickered, and vanished into mist.
He fled.
Chiantai Wuji stood silent.
The pressure was gone.
He exhaled slowly.
If the Dantian hadn't acted at the right time, even he wasn't sure what would've happened.
The Death-Qi hadn't erupted randomly.
It was focused. Controlled. Protective.
Now, nothing remained in his way.
His eyes turned to the Red Pagoda.
There was no longer any obstacle.
He stepped forward.
When his foot touched the first step of the Pagoda, he paused.
Up close, it was even more mysterious.
A towering nine-level structure, each level more intricate and haunting than the last.
Its crimson surface was carved with ancient symbols and scripts—glowing patterns not of ink, but of hidden energy.
Their language wasn't human.
They could only be called "beyond."
Chiantai Wuji reached out.
As his fingertip neared within a handspan—
A cold, invisible force pushed him back.
No sound. No light.
But the message was clear: he was not accepted.
This time, it wasn't an outer barrier.
The Pagoda itself rejected him.
Not with violence—but like a living being, silent and mistrustful.
He circled the Pagoda.
There was no door.
Only a single stair, a single path, a single message: No.
But he would not give up so easily.
His mind worked.
And from its depths, a memory surfaced.
Ancient texts spoke of artifacts that could be bound by blood.
If accepted, the artifact would open its secrets to its bearer.
He reached into his robe, drew a small dagger, and nicked his finger.
A drop of warm blood fell onto the Pagoda's cold, unfeeling surface.
Nothing happened.
Then—
A gentle tremble.
Like the breath of something long asleep.
Then the Pagoda began to glow.
The symbols lit up. One by one.
All nine levels—from top to bottom—burned in soft light.
And then—
The Red Pagoda, over a thousand feet tall, began to shrink!
Chiantai Wuji watched in stunned silence.
The crimson structure, ancient and proud, grew smaller and smaller.
In a blink, it became the size of a child's fist.
Then, it radiated a soft light and transformed—
Into a small pendant.
A necklace inscribed with ancient symbols—now resting gently against his chest.
No sound.
No explosion.
Just silence.
But in that silence, he felt something awaken within.
A bond.
A deep connection.
He was now the master of the Red Pagoda.