Jian hovered inches above the earth, suspended in a cocoon of swirling Spirit Power. Every nerve in his body screamed—not in pain exactly, but in something utterly overwhelming. It felt like he was being unraveled and re-stitched, thread by ancient thread.
He could feel her.
Qian.
Not just her power, but her soul. Her memories, her iron will, her defiance. Her sorrow, quiet and endless, weaving itself into the very fiber of him. It was like roots pressing into soil, gentle yet unyielding, carving new meaning into who he was.
Then—
A flash.
Like the birth of a star right before everyone's eyes.
Jian's Spirit Rings materialized, one after another. They didn't just appear—they erupted into being. Each one pulsed with energy that threatened to tear the world apart at the seams.
The first ring was crimson, bright and fresh as spilled blood. Then the second. Then the third. The fourth. The fifth. On and on they came, until all eight of his original Spirit Rings had reformed and changed. Transformed.
All of them blazed red. All of them had crossed the boundary of 100,000 years. A force that defied the laws of Spirit Master cultivation.
Jian gasped, his breath catching in his throat. His chest felt tight, his ribs creaking like they might break under the pressure.
This is too much.
But it wasn't done.
The final ring emerged.
Qian's ring.
And it wasn't red.
It was something else.
It shimmered with color and light that seemed foreign to this world—rainbow hues folding over each other, bleeding into a brilliance that couldn't be named.
The other rings responded, subtly. They shifted in the air, as if bowing. As if recognizing something far beyond themselves. They began to orbit Qian's ring slowly, like planets around a star.
And then, softly, the soles of Jian's boots touched the earth.
The ground sighed beneath him. Moss curled around his toes, not in restraint, but in welcome. His breath came out shaky, misting with something ancient.
He opened his eyes.
And the world had changed.
Everything was sharper. Colors sang where once they merely shone.
His own body felt alien. Tremendous. Alive in a way that was almost frightening.
What am I now?
He raised his hands slowly. They trembled, not from fear, but awe. Faint green light pulsed just beneath the surface of his skin, flowing in time with his breath. Power, alive and quiet, running like a river through him.
Then, the silence in the clearing thickened—
And his Spirit manifested.
The Seven Kill Sword.
It didn't just appear—It floated above him, The blade gleamed, polished to a mirror finish, its surface now marked by nine radiant stars. Eight burned a deep, familiar crimson.
The ninth was different— proof of A million-year bond.
Proof of the impossible.
At the edge of the clearing, someone stirred.
Dugu Bo stood beneath the shade of a twisted pine, arms folded, his golden eyes unreadable.
Then he spoke.
"You are now called… The Sword Douluo."
All around the clearing, the other elders stared at Jian, at The Sword Douluo—with a mixture of awe and disbelief. The pressure in the air had lessened, but the weight of what had just happened still lingered like thunder after a storm.
Then Rong broke the silence.
He let out a low chuckle, arms crossed over his chest, and said with a grin, "Let's see those Spirit Hall cronies try to mess with us now!"
A few of the others barked short laughs in response. Even the more stoic among them cracked faint smiles. The tension, sharp enough to cut stone just moments ago, melted away like morning mist.
Jian exhaled slowly, grounding himself in the sound of their laughter. He didn't laugh himself—not yet—but a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Rong's joke had done its job.
Bo stepped forward, the faint crunch of moss beneath his boots the only sound as the others instinctively made way. The air seemed to still around him—not because of fear, but respect. He carried himself like the storm after the fire: calm, powerful, inevitable.
He stopped in front of Jian and looked him in the eye, his expression unreadable for a long, heavy moment. Then he nodded, once.
"Congratulations," Bo said, his voice low but firm. "I am a man of my word."
Simple, but it carried the weight of an oath fulfilled.
He turned, his gaze sweeping across the gathered members of the Dugu Clan. His presence expanded as he spoke—not just a man, but a leader born of steel and legacy. Even standing beside a newly ascended Titled Douluo, Bo's charisma remained undiminished. In that moment, he didn't need Spirit Rings or flashing power to command attention. His voice, his presence, was enough.
"This is a turning point," he said. "Not just for Jian, not just for the clan—but for the world."
The murmurs of the crowd fell to reverent silence.
Bo remained still for a moment longer, his gaze calm but piercing, as if weighing the future in his mind. Then he continued, his voice carrying clearly through the clearing.
"As a clan with a Titled Douluo, we can truly call ourselves one of the Seven Great Nobles," he declared.
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the elders and juniors alike.
"This encounter with Lady Qian was… unexpected," he said, his tone momentarily softening, touched by awe and caution. "But a gift from fate, no doubt. However, we must not let this moment of glory blind us. We need a clear plan moving forward."
He raised one hand slightly, commanding their full attention once again.
"There are two remaining million-year-old Spirit Beasts not under the control of any major power or clan. One lies far to the south—difficult terrain, perhaps, but attainable with proper planning. We'll use this Current expedition not only to train the young ones, but to secure Spirit Rings for Uncle Cheng, Sister Meiying, and Brother Guan."
From where he stood near the edge of the circle, Guan stepped forward slightly, voice firm and filled with conviction. "You promised us million-year-old Spirit Beasts," he said. "After today, I believe you. There's no longer a need to explain every step, Clan Leader."
He bowed low, deeply, respectfully. Meiying and several others followed suit, heads lowered in unity and trust.
Bo looked at them—really looked at them—and let out a slow breath. His expression softened, but his authority never wavered.
"There's no need to bow, refined Elders," he said, raising one hand again. "It is my honor, and my duty, to lead this clan. If there was doubt in what I promised, that's a failure on my part, not yours."
He let that sit for a beat, then straightened, the sharpness in his tone returning.
"Moving forward. This is not a vote, but a declaration: the next Spirit Beast is for Rong. He will be the next Titled Douluo for our clan, and his strength is crucial for what's to come."
Rong blinked, then gave a quiet, appreciative nod, his usual smirk replaced with something close to humility.
"As for the final beast," Bo continued, "it lies in Doku Swamp."
He let that hang in the air.
"Capturing it will not go unnoticed. It will be a direct challenge to Spirit Hall—a declaration of war."
The word war echoed like a cold wind through the clearing.
But no one flinched.
Not anymore.
Not after what they'd just witnessed.
___________________________________________________
Far to the North, another force stirred.
The canopy above barely filtered the light through the heavy clouds, and what sun did reach the ground only made the air thicker, more stifling. The smell of rot and stagnant water clung to every breath.
Hidden in a ravine masked by illusions and ancient formations, the Spirit Hall's elite hunting team waited. At the center of the clearing stood The Glowing Feather Douluo, his long pale robes untouched by the filth around him, as if the mud and decay themselves feared his presence. Rank 93. A man known not only for his Spirit Power but for the surgical precision with which he removed threats—clean, efficient, final.
Beside him stood two other titans of Spirit Hall: The Golden Crocodile Douluo, broad and hulking, with skin toughened like cracked stone and eyes like molten bronze. His armor was made from the bones of beasts long extinct, each piece humming with ancient brutality. Rank 91, his Spirit—the Golden Crocodile—was famous for overwhelming strength and strikes that paralyzed foes before they realized they were dying.
The third was The Sureshot Douluo, lean and sharp-eyed, his cloak whispering as he paced. He carried no blade, no visible weapon—but everyone knew his strikes never missed. His spirit, the Phantom Quill Hawk, gave him sight far beyond a human's range, and attacks that curved through space itself. He was also Rank 91—and perhaps the most unnerving of the three.
Surrounding them were ten more Spirit Masters—none below Rank 73, all handpicked assassins, control-types, or Power attack systems bred for combat. Their faces were blank, emotions buried under years of indoctrination.
Glowing Feather Douluo stared down at the map carved into the stone between them, etched with lines of qi and illusion markers to track Dugu Clan movement.
"We strike the moment they engage a powerful," he said coolly. His voice didn't rise above the gentle hum of power in the air, but the others listened intently. "When their focus is divided."
Golden Crocodile Douluo cracked his knuckles, the sound like boulders grinding. "You're assuming they'll still have strength. The Beasts in that part of the wildlands are strong."
"Even so," Glowing Feather replied, "they have a Titled Douluo of their own now. You all saw the baptism of Spirit Power that comes along with a Rank 91 being born. We don't leave that to chance. We strike clean. Fast. No survivors."
Glowing Feather finally looked up from the map, eyes catching both of theirs. "This will send a message to the other clans of Aurellan. One carved in blood."
There was silence between the three for a moment.
Then Glowing Feather continued, voice precise.
"Formation will be as follows. I'll take point once they are distracted—my Light Wing Cage will split the battlefield. Golden Crocodile, you'll engage their close-range attackers."
Golden Crocodile grinned, flashing teeth like a beast in heat. "I'll break their spine."
"Sureshot, you'll focus on eliminating the support ranks. Once they fall, the rest will follow."
"Understood." Sureshot adjusted his gloves, his voice razor-thin.
"And the juniors?" one of the Rank 78s asked from behind, quiet and hesitant.
Glowing Feather's gaze drifted toward him. "Eliminate them. No hesitation. If even one escapes, it could jeopardize the entire operation. Mercy is not our doctrine."
Another nodded. "Yes, sir."
Then Glowing Feather turned back to the others, eyes blazing with cold fire.
He clenched his fists, thick veins bulging.
"…we'll be the last thing they ever see."
And so, the trap was set.
The storm was coming.