Chapter 110 - Trance Over

Cale raised his odachi, the cold steel reflecting his piercing gaze as torrential rain battered his stoic form. His striking eyes narrowed over the metal. The apocalypse raged around him, but his mind remained an unbreakable singularity.

With a sudden, explosive thrust, his sword pierced the very fabric of the storm.

The abyssal sky shattered like fragile glass, violently bleeding the tranquil, ink-washed mountains of his mind directly into the chaotic reality.

He wasn’t merely executing a technique. His overwhelming power was actively rewriting the lands around him, though only at a normal level.

Twisting low, he slid across the flooded earth and unleashed a massive, sweeping arc. A towering phantom of ancient pines and majestic peaks erupted from his blade’s edge, crashing through the gloomy wasteland like a devastating tidal wave. He moved as a peerless god of creation and destruction, violently painting his dominion over the apocalypse.

Landing with earth-shattering force, Cale drove his sword in a ruthless sweep across the watery ground. A colossal stroke of thick black ink surged in the blade’s wake, completely overwriting the muddy, stormy earth beneath his feet.

In the terrifying wake of his strength, the storm was silenced, leaving only his masterpiece behind.

Cale spun, his blade carving a massive, crescent arc through the torrential downpour. A thick wave of dark, liquid energy trailed the heavy steel, bending the chaotic elements to his will as he launched himself into the stormy sky.

He hung suspended in the violent tempest for a fleeting second, his silhouette that of an unrivaled martial god preparing to strike down the ruined earth.

He plummeted, driving his sword forward in a ground-shaking lunge. From the very tip of his blade, a breathtaking ink-washed mountain range erupted into reality, its ancient peaks and sprawling pines violently overwriting the apocalyptic gloom.

It was a display of mastery. His single thrust carried the literal, crushing weight of an entire painted world.

Without missing a beat, Cale launched into another brutal, mid-air rotation, his momentum an unstoppable cyclone of raw power. He landed in a low crouch, his heavy sword extended in a thrust that commanded the battlefield to submit.

The raging storm instantly stilled, leaving heavy water droplets frozen in mid-air around his chillingly calm, marked face as he surveyed his conquered domain.

Cale’s piercing gaze remained fixed, time itself seemingly halting as heavy rain droplets hung suspended around his blade. With a single sweep, he unleashed the culmination of his martial insight.

A colossal wave of pure, monochromatic energy exploded outward, violently tearing through the very fabric of the desolate wasteland.

He stood tall amidst the fading chaos, raising his heavy sword straight toward the heavens like a god demanding obedience. Above him, the devastating ink-wave formed a massive, turbulent arch, completely rending the apocalyptic storm apart to reveal a calm, clear sky.

The lingering dark energy dissolved into ethereal, floating spheres, ascending quietly around his untouchable, solitary form.

The tempest was broken. Reality itself bowed in absolute submission to his singular will. Slowly, deliberately, Cale lowered his weapon, the storm’s remnants washing over the cold steel. The intricate silver hilt, embedded with glowing purple gems, gleamed as his grip tightened—a silent testament to the terrifying, peerless strength he had finally perfected.

He had mastered his sword intent completely. Be it ink, chaos, lightning, or demonic—he could now wield them as simply as breathing. They would grow alongside him, evolving with every step forward.

Eleven years had passed in that trance alone.

Normally people would need to consume something once in a while. Although cultivators didn’t need food for longer periods, they still needed it eventually. Cale sustained himself by having his soul bodies eat food and herbs, a clever workaround he’d discovered early on.

Sprawled on the cold ground, he looked up at the sky. ’Eighty-nine more years, huh.’

For obvious reasons, he hadn’t encountered anyone here. This was the period they all used to build their foundations. Why would anyone waste a single day?

’By the time we exit to the outside world, about six years would have passed. Our continent would either be completely fallen, or maybe joined hands with the Eastern Border. Those are the only possibilities.’

In his previous life, the Eastern Border Continent had come for an alliance when they were weakened, but were sent back more than once, hence they joined sides with other three.

His mind drifted to Sirius Einhorn Velard, their emperor. The only mage with a complete sixth circle opened, and likely at Emperor Stage cultivator or higher. The only person his father couldn’t beat—else the throne would have been theirs by now. All their other siblings were dead from the succession wars.

’Sirius only cares about getting stronger. His avatar handles all the kingdom’s affairs while his main body does nothing but cultivate.’ Cale’s jaw tightened slightly. ’That’s exactly why we fell in the first place. And it’ll happen again in this life too.’

It was because of his father and Sirius that they’d managed to join hands with the Eastern Border to fight back against the other three continents for a few months, when all other parties of Vaeloria still refused making the Eastern Border go back on their word. Masters, high-circle mages, cultivators from foreign lands—they’d all come under the guise of helping, likely to form some kind of union to choose a new leader.

Sirius and his father would obviously refuse such an arrangement.

’Should I try for it?’ The thought lingered, tempting. But he pushed it aside. ’First things first.’

Fiora would arrive when the ninety years finished. Him, her, and Niva Xercs would set up the soul-collecting array. He still didn’t know how she’d convinced Niva to serve under her, but it didn’t matter. These other continents were seriously underestimating them. They only had seventy to one hundred years of cultivation history, still they were a mage dynasty with hundreds of thousands of years behind them.

’What can I say? We still lost, heh.’

How many would fall under his soul-collecting array? Who could say. First, he needed to summon that spirit beast and use the other technique—the one that could enhance one’s talent. He definitely needed it. His cultivation talent was that of a mortal. He was never supposed to cultivate by fate.

But he’d also gained his ancestral dragon’s blood by fate.

’Funny how that works out.’

He got up and went back into the cave, opening the Book of Endless Refinement. Time to put that knowledge to use. Entering the mindspace, he began preparing the rituals.