Chapter 147: The Obsidian Throne and the Price of Blood
The change was not subtle. It was not a gentle transition between sleep and wakefulness. For the thousand disciples of the Morningstar Clan, who had collapsed exhausted in the cold barracks of the Citadel after fifty days of uninterrupted slaughter, the awakening was a true biological and spiritual shock.
They were not awakened by the shrill sound of an alarm bell, nor the shout of an officer on duty. They were awakened by Qi.
A tide of golden energy, immensely dense and warm, filtered through the corridors and the windows of the pavilions. It was not the normal air that mortals were accustomed to; it was an ocean of vitality. It caressed their wounded skin, violently penetrated their pores, and began to circulate through their meridians with an intoxicating ferocity.
One by one, the thousand warriors snapped their eyes open, gasping. The air smelled of electric ozone, of ancient flowers that did not belong to that era, and of fresh spring rain. It didn't smell of machine oil, nor sweat, nor the dried blood that had permeated their clothes for months.
Many cowered on their cots, coughing violently. Their bodies, forced by the astonishing density of a Qi multiplied five hundred times, began to expel mortal impurities. Youths who had suffered near-lethal wounds watched their scabs fall away, revealing perfect, new skin. They coughed up small clots of black bile: bad luck, toxins, and exhaustion being forcibly purged by the Imperial Luck of the new world.
Yin, a regular infantry disciple who had lost two fingers in the war, stumbled up from his cot. He looked at his bandaged hand; he felt an unbearable itching in his amputated knuckles, as if the bone were anxious to grow back. Rubbing his eyes, he walked outside the pavilion.
What he saw upon crossing the threshold made him fall to his knees on the stone.
"By the ancestors..." Yin whispered, his voice cracking, unable to process the immensity of the miracle.
The cold metal and obsidian walls of the old Citadel had disappeared, or rather, had integrated into something infinitely larger. In their place, the thousand disciples found themselves in the heart of a Floating Continent, paved with immaculate white marble and pure spiritual jade that emitted a soft glow.
Above their heads was no longer the steel roof of the ship, nor the gray, stormy, and oppressed clouds of the outer southern continent. There was a sky of its own, born from the will of their Patriarch: the Eternal Dawn. It was a hypnotic vault of deep indigo, crossed by rivers of bright violet light and liquid gold. Massive stars shone in the firmament even beneath the perpetual light of a runic sun that did not burn, but nourished.
In the distance, immense islands of earth and forest floated in zero gravity, connected to the central capital by dazzling bridges of solid light. Waterfalls of crystalline spiritual water fell from the edges of the aerial continents, plunging toward an infinite sea of clouds stretching below, with no visible bottom.
But the absolute center of all creation, the cosmological axis that held this impossible world together, was the Tree.
The Tree of the Stellar World stood on the highest peak of the terrain, towering over the jade mountains. Its new black trunk, rough and ancient as the universe itself, was as wide as the original citadel. Its titanic branches, laden with millions of leaves in Imperial Violet and Crimson Red, spread out like a protective roof over the entire realm.
Whenever the wind blew, the leaves did not rustle with the ordinary sound of vegetation; they sang. They emitted a melody of Dao resonance, a sub-harmonic song that cleared the mind, erased fear, and calmed the heartbeats of the astounded warriors.
Thousands of disciples streamed out of their rooms, walking like sleepwalkers, hypnotized by the incomprehensible majesty of the landscape. They descended the marble stairs and congregated in the immense Plaza of Origin.
"Are we dead?" asked a girl from the alchemy wing, tears falling down her cheeks as she felt the Qi heal the burns on her arms. "Did we fall in the last battle? Is this the Heaven of the gods?"
"You are not dead."
A female voice, cold, clinical, and crisp as cut glass, broke the amazed murmuring and cut the mystical illusion at its root.
"But if you don't form up in ten seconds, you will wish you were."
On the immense raised dais of the Plaza of Origin, right in front of the infinite trunk of the World Tree, stood Vexia.
She did not float like an unreachable specter, nor was she a projection. She stood solid, real, and imposing. She wore her impeccable gothic head maid uniform: black and white, without a single wrinkle, with a pristine apron and white silk gloves that hid biomechanical hands capable of shattering divine steel. Her rectangular glasses reflected the light of the aurora, hiding the lethal calculation in her violet eyes.
There were no combat puppets of the Dead Blood Legion there to intimidate them. They weren't needed. Vexia's very posture, standing tall with her hands clasped in front of her, radiated an authority so heavy and terrifying that the air around her seemed to turn solid.
Vexia didn't need to shout. Her voice, amplified by the cold perfection of her Qi, resonated in the ears of each of the thousand disciples like a military order injected directly into their brains.
"Attention!" Vexia ordered.
She lifted her foot and struck the jade floor with the sharp heel of her boot. CLACK!
The sound was dry and solitary, but it had the physiological effect of a whip crack on the spine. The 1,000 disciples, driven by the most primal survival instinct Vexia had burned into them with fire and blood during their months of hellish training in the south, snapped out of their stupor. The amazement faded, replaced by pure discipline.
They ran.
In exactly eight seconds, the chaos of marveling sleepwalkers transformed. The plaza became a sea of gray tunics perfectly aligned in combat blocks, chests out, eyes forward, in a sepulchral silence.
Vexia adjusted her glasses with a single finger.
"Slow," she judged with disdain. "You look like tourists strolling through an imperial garden, not the Sovereign's assassins."
She paced back and forth across the immense dais, her heels marking a beat that sounded like a countdown clock.
"Look around you," the Marshal said, extending a gloved hand toward the floating islands. "Breathe. Feel the overwhelming density of the Qi drowning you."
The disciples inhaled deeply in unison. The Qi was so dense and heavy that many nearly choked. It was literally like trying to drink pure water after spending a lifetime swallowing dry sand. Their spiritual cores spun at dizzying speeds just by existing in that space.
"The Patriarch has rewritten reality itself for you," Vexia continued, and for the first time, her tone lost its robotic coldness and filled with a dark, fanatical reverence upon mentioning her master. "He has stolen and slaughtered the luck of an entire millennium from the Purple Light Sect. He has fused physical laws. He has created, out of nothing, a primordial paradise where even a lame pig could become a flood dragon if it just sat there eating grass."
Vexia stopped in the center of the dais and looked at them with a coldness that froze their souls.
"But let it be clear: the Morningstar Clan does not raise pigs."
She pointed toward the immense obsidian Palace floating slightly above them, anchored at the base of the Tree's canopy.
"The Sovereign descends. On your knees!"
The crowd did not hesitate. A thousand cultivators, veterans of the bloodiest war in the south, fell to their knees in unison. A thousand right fists struck the jade floor simultaneously in a fluid motion of absolute and fanatical devotion.
From the Upper Palace, a figure descended.
Samael Morningstar did not use stairs of light, nor flashy mystical teleportation techniques. He simply walked down on empty air.
His appearance was the very incarnation of a divine monarch. His imposing height of one meter ninety dominated the space. His long white hair, straight and perfect, fell like a cascade of moonlight, creating an astonishing and hypnotic visual contrast against the purest darkness of his new war attire.
He wore the [Imperial Armor of the Void Dragon].
It was a masterpiece of impossible geometry, forged from solidified void crystal. It did not reflect the light of the Eternal Dawn; it absorbed it, leaving Samael enveloped in a constant, terrifying penumbra that seemed to devour the space around him. The liquid obsidian plates of his breastplate and abdomen were not rigid; they moved as if alive, adjusting microscopically to every one of his muscular movements. An intricate engraving of a primordial dragon ran across his torso in bas-relief.
Instead of a restrictive helm, the armor ended in an exceptionally high, sharp collar, forged with overlapping black scales that framed his pale, perfect face.
And upon his head, floating mere millimeters above his white hair, rested the [Crown of the Primordial Sovereign] in its evolved form. The seven needles that composed it had mutated into absolute black stellar diamond. They were not connected by metal, but orbited his head independently, leaving behind silver spatial micro-fractures that opened and closed to the rhythm of his breathing.
His eyes, a vibrant, neon crimson-violet, flared with the power of a god looking down upon his creations.
As he descended, the world around him reacted to his Absolute Authority of Micro-Space. In an exact radius of ten meters around his body, reality lost its vibrant colors. Everything within that sphere took on a grayish, dead, and frozen tint. It was the Domain of the Primordial Sovereign, a three-dimensional halo where the laws of the universe ceased to exist, replaced solely by his will.
His mere presence was suffocating. He no longer felt like a simple patriarch or the talented leader of a rebel clan; he felt like an inevitable force of nature. He was as fundamental, heavy, and absolute as the very concept of gravity.
He landed on the ornate obsidian throne that Vexia had prepared in the center of the dais.
He sat with unparalleled regal elegance and calm, crossing one leg and casually resting his chin on his dark crystal-gloved hand. The laws of the mini-world passively bent to his mere existence; the wind blowing through the plaza calmed to a gentle breeze the instant he took his seat, because the world knew its master required silence.
Vexia immediately positioned herself to his right, exactly half a step behind, with her hands clasped in front of her. The perfect, deadly, and immaculate image of unconditional loyalty.
"Rise," Samael said.
His voice was not a shout. He did not strain his vocal cords. But the resonance of his command filled the entire immense valley, vibrating in the bones of the thousand soldiers.
The disciples rose as one, but kept their heads bowed, their gazes fixed on the marble out of pure reverential respect. Only a few—those who possessed hearts of steel, the bravest, or the most darkly ambitious—dared to look up and meet their Patriarch's violet eyes directly.
Among them, standing in the third row of the infantry, was a sharp-faced youth with a heavily bandaged dislocated arm and cold gray eyes: Dante Morningstar.
Samael observed them in a silence that stretched for an eternal minute. The weight of his gaze evaluated the soul, the exhaustion, and the hunger of each of the thousand survivors.
"You have fought," Samael finally said, breaking the unbearable tension. "You have bled in the mud of the Purple Light Sect. You have killed your enemies when they begged for mercy, you have trampled their millennial history, and you have sacked their homes down to the foundations."
Samael smiled. A smile that harbored no paternal warmth, but a fierce, predatory satisfaction that made the dragon fangs on his armor seem to gleam.
"Well done."
A collective, heavy, and trembling sigh of absolute relief swept through the immense plaza. Their god's validation was the only emotional reward they needed.
"This world..." Samael lazily raised a hand, pointing a finger at the infinite horizon of jade islands, energy waterfalls, and the aurora sky, "...is your spoils of war."
The crowd held its breath.
"Here, due to the laws I have forged, one day of physical cultivation is equivalent to ten days on the outer continent. Here, millennial herbs sprout and mature in a matter of hours. Here, absolute destiny, cosmic luck, and the will of the heavens are tied like dogs in your favor."
The Sovereign's expression turned serious, darkening the tricolor halo of his crown.
"But let there be no misunderstandings. This is not a peaceful retirement gift. This is the most brutal training ground this universe has ever conceived."
Samael leaned forward on the obsidian throne, and the gray radius of his domain seemed to pulse with danger.
"The outer world does not know who we are yet, but they soon will. They fear us, but above all, they hate us for daring to break their balance. The old Sects of the Center, the Hidden Families... all of them will see our rise and come for us. They will come to claim our blood and destroy what we have built."
Samael's crimson-violet eyes ignited like supernovas.
"And when they come, when they cross our borders, I want them to crash against an unbreakable wall of monsters. I want them to regret ever being born."
Samael leaned back again and, with a minimal movement of his index finger, gestured to his Marshal.
"Vexia. Initiate the Merit Ceremony."
"Yes, Patriarch," she replied, executing a short, perfect military bow.
Vexia took a step forward, approaching the edge of the dais. She didn't pull out a modern holographic list from her system, nor a crystal tablet. She produced an immense, heavy, archaic scroll made from the tanned hide of a holy beast, unrolling it with a sharp, dramatic motion that made the leather creak.
"In the Morningstar Clan, empty words hold no value. Blood spilled in the name of the Sovereign is paid with gold and power," Vexia announced, her voice cutting through the air of the valley. "The central matrix has analytically tabulated and calculated every decapitation, every perfectly executed order, every completed infiltration mission, and every wound received on the front lines."
Vexia swept her violet gaze over the rows of soldiers.
"Today, the thousand of you will be rewarded for your service with 5,000 base Contribution Points, Earth Grade weapons, and access to the Marrow Pills of the dead. But the elite... the elite are forged with prizes that would make an Emperor kill. We will begin with those who have earned, through sweat and mutilations, the right to stand at the top of the mortal hierarchy."
Vexia raised the scroll.
"From Rank 50 to Rank 40. Step forward!" she ordered.
Twenty names rang out like gunshots in the jade plaza. From the rigid mass of gray tunics, twenty disciples broke ranks and stepped into the central aisle. They were visibly nervous, gulping under the Patriarch's gaze. The vast majority of them were hardened warriors in the Qi Sea Realm (Stages 4 to 6).
They weren't natural geniuses blessed by the heavens. They were the stubborn ones. The born survivors. Those who, lacking divine constitutions, had survived the onslaughts of the enemy Deacons using dirty tricks, deadly traps, poisons, and pure, unbreakable willpower.
As Vexia read their feats, the rest of the thousand disciples murmured with wide eyes.
The prizes they were awarded were absurd to the outer world. The 5,000 base Contribution Points already represented a fortune that would allow them to buy techniques in the Arts Pavilion that, in any other great sect, would be strictly reserved for the highest-ranking Elders. Additionally, each received high-grade pills guaranteed to cleanse the residual impurities from their veins and advance them a full realm of cultivation in a matter of weeks.
The twenty disciples, receiving their storage rings from Vexia's hands, returned to their formations. Some wept silently; others held tightly clenched fists, trembling with euphoria, ready to enter immediate seclusion.
The crowd watched them with a burning envy that could almost be felt in the air. Samael's message sank deeply into their psyches: Lethal effort pays literal dividends.
"From Rank 39 to Rank 30." Vexia's voice rose a pitch, becoming more authoritative and demanding. "Present yourselves at the foot of the throne!"
Ten more disciples stepped forward from the front rows. The atmosphere changed.
These were different from the previous ones. Their steps were firm, heavy, and synchronized. Their auras were razor-sharp, unable to hide the killing intent they still exuded. Almost all of them were at the absolute Peak of the Qi Sea Realm, and some were already showing the first glimpses of breaking into the coveted Transcendence Realm.
They were the feared squad leaders. The vanguard. Those who had bathed in the blood of the lower-ranking enemy Deacons and Elders to clear the path for the Sequences.
Samael nodded very slowly, acknowledging the value of the heavy infantry.
"You are the pure steel of my sword's blade," Samael said, his voice stroking their warrior egos. "You have demonstrated leadership under the fire of hell. You have demonstrated the methodical cruelty necessary to sustain an empire."
Vexia read the list of prizes assigned to these ten battlefield monsters, and every word she spoke was a sledgehammer striking the greedy hearts of the spectators.
"Base Reward: 15,000 Clan Contribution Points.
"Weaponry: A piece of Heaven Grade (Low) war arsenal, free choice from the newly expanded Imperial Vault.
"Special Evolution Resource: A pure vial of 'Dew of the World Tree'.
"Structural Privilege: Unlimited, unrestricted access to the new Tower of Thunder for three consecutive days, and a regeneration bath in the Origin Dragon Pool (5% Dilution)."
Heaven Grade!
An uncontrollable murmur of absolute shock swept through the plaza, breaking the formation for a second. On the outer Southern continent, and even on the borders of the Northern Empire, a Heaven Grade weapon was a mythical artifact, capable of starting a bloody war between entire kingdoms and annihilating noble families that tried to possess it.
And here, the Primordial Sovereign was gifting them to the thirtieth-ranked members of his infantry.
And the "Dew of the Tree"... Vexia coldly explained, without altering her expression, that a single drop of that emerald liquid extracted from the new leaves of the Forest King would permanently and organically increase the user's brain capacity, meridian density, and Dao comprehension.
One of the awardees, a muscular, scar-covered giant named Bron, received his prize on the spot. From a minor spatial portal summoned by Vexia fell an enormous black metal warhammer that crackled furiously with thick arcs of blue electricity.
Bron caught it in mid-air, lifting it with a single hand. He roared at the indigo firmament of the aurora with all the strength in his lungs, and the immense Heaven Grade hammer responded to its master with a deafening thunderclap that vibrated the jade floor.
"GLORY TO MORNINGSTAR!" bellowed Bron, tears of pure devotion in his eyes.
"GLORY!" responded the 5,000 warriors in unison. The fever of power, unbridled ambition, and fanatical loyalty had infected every soul present in the plaza.
Samael remained leaning back on his obsidian throne. His handsome albino face was stoic and impassive, but his violet eyes scanned the crowd with nanometric precision, measuring and weighing the ambition he had just injected into their veins.
He watched how the disciples in the lower ranks ground their teeth. He saw how they looked at the immense divine hammers and swords, not with healthy joy for their comrades, but with a dark, painful, and savage hunger.
Good, Samael thought, feeling the flow of the mini-world's destiny turn in his favor. Purified envy, when directed toward self-improvement and not betrayal, is the best thermal fuel for an army. They will desire to kill gods just to earn a glance from me.
Vexia slowly closed the scroll of the middle ranks.
At that precise moment, the atmosphere of the entire Realm of the Eternal Dawn changed drastically. The constant wind swaying the musical leaves of the immense World Tree stopped completely. Gravity in the Plaza of Origin seemed to multiply. The atmospheric pressure increased to the point where the disciples felt they couldn't catch their breath.
Instinctively, driven by a respect bordering on sacred terror, the thousand disciples stepped back and made way, clearing an even wider and more majestic aisle in the center of the formation, leading straight to the steps of the throne.
Samael leaned forward. The gray aura of his ten-meter domain darkened, and the seven black diamond needles of his crown began to spin faster, cutting the fabric of space.
"You have seen what is earned by being an excellent soldier," Samael said softly, but his voice cut the absolute silence like a scalpel. "Now, stand aside. You will see what is earned when mortality is transcended. You will see how a living Legend is rewarded."
Vexia made the beast-hide scroll disappear. With a ceremonious and solemn movement she rarely displayed, she pulled out a second document.
This new scroll was not made of normal leather. It was an abyssal black, crafted from thick dragon scales interwoven with gold threads. And the runes written on it were not painted with ink; they glowed and throbbed with a burning red light, as if filled with fresh blood.
"We enter the Territory of Monsters," announced the Marshal of the Void. Her tone lost its usual clinical, professional coldness, gaining a dangerous, almost predatory shade of respect. "I call to the front those who willingly walked through hell, defied major deities, and returned smiling with the heads of their enemies in their hands. The absolute elite of House Morningstar."
Vexia unrolled the scale scroll, and an aura of ancient war bathed the dais.
"From Rank 24 to Rank 1!" yelled Vexia.
In the crowd, sunk in the shadows of the back rows, Dante Morningstar tightly adjusted the bloody bandage on his dislocated arm. His heart beat with brutal force against his ribs, but not out of fear or the oppressive pressure of the environment, but from a cold, cutting certainty.
He knew what he had done in those burning ruins while the elite massacred Saints. He knew what he had stolen, who he had murdered in the shadows to secure his resources, and discreetly through the fabric of his tunic, he caressed the thirteen enemy spatial rings hanging like a profane rosary around his neck.
His gray eyes locked onto the empty space in front of the throne, where the gods of his generation would soon stand. Dante's envy wasn't vulgar; it was a silent oath. He would reach that place.
On the throne, Samael raised a hand, his fingers wreathed in platinum light.
"Prepare yourselves, soldiers," the Demon King whispered to his Legion. "Because today, upon naming my boys of the massacre, the very sky of the Aurora is going to tremble."