Chapter 287: What Are You All Looking At?

Six thousand Yin Soldiers, each equivalent in power to the peak of Foundation Establishment—such a force might not seem impressive in other versions.

Even in the Great Collapse version, the Alliance of Immortals boasted tens of thousands of Foundation Establishment cultivators.

But in this Mystery version, where supernatural traits are restricted by rules, this was nothing short of a world-shaking show of power.

If not backed by an immense, possibly one-and-only transcendent pathway as its origin, there would be no way to sustain such an army of extraordinary individuals.

That fact alone was enough to hint at the terrifying depth behind this so-called Underworld—to any force that understood the implications.

Still, this was already a battlefield where life and death clashed. No matter how turbulent his heart was, the Councilor of the Dead could not afford to show weakness.

“They’re just ants. What does it matter how many there are?”

Forcibly suppressing the dread that surged from the depths of his soul, he deliberately raised his voice, as if to reassure the rest of the Council of the Dead.

At the same time, he held nothing back anymore. The fearsome aura of a Sequence Four—Saint of the Mortal Realm—exploded like a tangible black curtain of darkness, shrouding the entire underground space.

The Sequence Four of the Path of the Dead was known as the Ferryman of the Styx. He possessed the fearsome ability to temporarily recall the souls and powers of the departed from that illusory River Styx that flowed between life and death. To outsiders, it was power that bordered on reversing death itself.

Because of this natural synergy with graveyards, the Council of the Dead had chosen to build their thousand-year-old base beneath this land teeming with corpses.

Over the millennia, the underground had filled with corpses. Even if most had long decayed into dust, the number of remains still capable of being drawn by supernatural power numbered in the millions.

“Field of the Dead!”

The Councilor extended one withered finger and tapped the air—like triggering some forbidden switch.

Instantly, the corpses buried deep beneath the ancient tombs broke free of their rotting coffins and heavy soil. The dense death aura accumulated over centuries surged upward, coalescing into thick gray-black mist.

Like a gluttonous beast, the mist opened an invisible maw to devour all signs of life. The vast underground tomb began transforming into an absolute domain of death.

Yet, against this field that would instantly wither any ordinary lifeform, the six thousand Yin Soldiers stood like immovable mountains.

The deathly waves lapped against their armored forms like harmless breezes, unable to even ripple their formation.

To these Yin Soldiers—battle-hardened veterans forged in the apocalypse—the revived corpses, reanimated by death energy, were nothing more than fragile, clumsy puppets.

In that end-times version, they had slain countless mutated zombies and supernatural horrors with their own hands. Compared to those monstrosities, these puppets were laughable.

“Kill!”

A cold, emotionless command descended from the void. Like the final judgment.

In the next instant, the six thousand Yin Soldiers moved!

The Soul-Capturing Chains in their hands shot out like venomous serpents, instantly piercing through the freshly awakened undead.

This wasn’t physical piercing, but direct soul impact. The moment the chains touched them, the fragile souls—temporarily recalled by the Ferryman’s power—were forcefully ripped away, letting out voiceless, wailing screams.

The Yin Soldiers swept through the sea of undead, swift and precise—like seasoned farmers during the autumn harvest.

The entire cemetery’s undead—like ripe stalks of grain—fell in waves before the merciless blades of judgment, reverting to lifeless heaps of bone and rot.

The energy sustaining the Field of the Dead was cut off at its source. It visibly dissipated like smoke in the wind.

This overwhelming display left the Councilor—who just moments ago had tried to display his semi-divine power—completely stunned. His face twisted with disbelief.

Within the Field of the Dead, even another Sequence Four would find themselves heavily restricted by the omnipresent death energy.

Moreover, the reanimated corpses, though weak individually, carried supernatural pollution from the Path of the Dead. Killing too many risked spiritual contamination, even for Saints, leading to madness and collapse.

The Field of the Dead was one of the Council’s most sinister and well-developed assets, honed over centuries.

Yet now, before these mysterious Yin Soldiers, this ultimate weapon was rendered utterly useless—like a paper shield.

This scene was clearly reflected in the magic mirror deep beneath the Steam Cathedral, within the Inquisition’s sanctum.

One of the knight inquisitors, watching the rapid collapse of the Field of the Dead, couldn’t help but murmur in awe.

“That field would terrify even a Holy Knight. And yet these Sequence Six soldiers walk through it unscathed… incredible.”

But another sharp-eyed veteran immediately doused the mood.

“They simply counter it perfectly. According to mythology, the Underworld holds dominion over the dead.

This level of power isn’t enough to crush the Council of the Dead. They have more than one Councilor. If several attacked together, how could mere Sequence Six foot soldiers stand against Saints?”

As if to confirm his words, the mirror’s image changed again.

Four more Councilors—stationed across the underground city—sensed the chaos and tore through space to rush to the battlefield.

Upon witnessing the Yin Soldiers decimating their centuries-old undead stockpile, the hooded Councilors were consumed with fury and disbelief.

“You dare destroy our Field of the Dead? Die!”

One of them roared with murderous intent.

His withered hand waved, releasing a dense fog of cursed death energy, like living venomous mist, rolling toward the Yin Soldiers.

Wherever it passed, even space itself sizzled and shrieked from corrosion.

Yet, before the fog could touch the Yin Soldiers, golden light suddenly burst from within their armored forms.

This light was not blinding, but carried an aura of supreme law. The cursed fog, upon contact, melted like snow beneath the sun—silently dissolving into nothingness.

“Impossible!”

The Councilor’s eyes nearly popped from their sockets. His face twisted with shock.

The other four, including the first, were equally stunned.

Even the observers within the Inquisition grew solemn.

“That golden light… I sensed something exalted—so pure it dispelled all curses in an instant,” one knight whispered.

“That power is faint, but its level is incredibly high,” said a red-robed archbishop gravely, eyes fixed on the mirror. “Could it be… from the fabled Emperor?”

In this mysterious version of the world, the Grand Dao was veiled and the Heavenly Will obscured. They had no idea that this golden light was Heavenly Dao Merit.

In the apocalyptic version, the Yin Soldiers had once been bathed in the Heavenly Dao’s Merit by the Human Emperor’s Banner, receiving divine blessings from the Dao itself.

Heavenly Dao Merit naturally suppressed evil and corruption. The cursed powers of Sequence Four Saints were powerless before its majesty.

One failed strike, and not even their defenses were scratched. A sense of foreboding filled the Councilors’ hearts as hesitation crept into their expressions.

But the mysterious being behind the spatial rift clearly had no intention of giving them time to hesitate.

A second, emotionless command echoed through the tomb:

“Form the array.”

The six thousand Yin Soldiers immediately shifted from cleanup duty into synchronized movement.

Mystic energies flowed between them, outlining an ancient, complex formation.

Netherwinds howled out of nowhere, carrying soul-freezing cold. Hellfire ignited—dark red, low in temperature, yet capable of burning both soul and flesh.

Woooong!

A deep hum echoed as a massive formation enveloped the entire Grand Tomb Hall.

The moment it activated, the realm was sealed—isolated from the world.

The netherwinds pierced the soul. The hellfire clung like maggots, consuming everything.

Under this terrifying formation, all members of the Council below Sequence Five, along with lesser undead, were instantly reduced to ash without a sound.

Even the five Sequence Four Councilors felt crushing pressure at the heart of this storm.

Their souls were torn by the wind, forcing them to burn power to resist.

Their death-energy defenses melted under the hellfire, and pained, guttural howls echoed through the tomb.

“Damn it! What is this formation?!”

“Use the sealed artifacts! Break out!”

Panicked and furious, the Saints revealed their trump cards—bone scepters that radiated chilling frost, crystal orbs that distorted space, altars that summoned wrathful spirits…

They activated them at any cost, trying to tear open a way out.

But at that moment, a majestic aura poured from the cracks above—pure and overwhelming Imperial Human Might.

The invisible pressure crushed everything. The glow of the relics dimmed. Even the semi-divine power of the Saints stuttered—burdened by the weight of the world.

Just as it seemed the formation would refine the five Councilors entirely, a voice boomed from the tomb’s deepest recess:

“Who dares disturb my slumber!”

BOOM!!!

An ancient coffin exploded. A shadow in black emerged.

He wore a robe of eternal night and a crown of withered thorns.

The moment he appeared, every corpse in the Orank Cemetery—above and below ground—howled in fear or submission.

Millions of long-buried undead were awakened.

A field of death more powerful than the five Councilors’ combined swept forth, forming a river of soul energy.

Sequence Three of the Path of the Dead: Ferryman.

The Speaker of the Council of the Dead. A semi-divine being who had existed for thousands of years.

“He really did awaken…” gasped a knight in the Inquisition.

“Tch… even just waking up caused an undead riot across the entire district. That lunatic lives up to the title,” someone muttered.

“Perfect!” Many experts in the room looked eager, unbothered by the threat.

Only such a being could truly force the Underworld to show its hand.

They stared intently at the mirror, waiting.

So far, the Underworld had only revealed one high-end power: the elusive Lu Yan.

Last time, he had ended the fight so quickly that no one had seen the true depth of his power.

If the Speaker forced Lu Yan to act again, they might finally learn more.

Yet, just as everyone focused on the terrifying Speaker…

A grand voice echoed from the rifts above the tomb:

“Mortal beings who dare meddle with life and death, upend yin and yang—the Ten Yama Kings hereby decree:

‘Purge them all.’”

Then, a golden decree condensed from cosmic order descended from the rift.

Radiant divine light swirled upon it, and a blurry figure in robes and a crown took shape within.

The moment the decree appeared, the massive Yin Soldier formation shifted again—

The Yellow Springs Formation—activated!

Six thousand Yin Soldiers alone weren’t enough to power the Yellow Springs Formation.

But they served as the coordinates, the conduit, the gate.

BOOOOOOM!

Like a dam breaking in heaven, a thunderous roar split the sky.

A muddy river carrying the dusk sun surged from the rift.

It was no ordinary water—it was the Yellow Springs, the river of apocalypse and annihilation, a force that devoured life itself.

It swept through everything below, consuming the ancient tomb in an instant.

Stone, corpse, ghost, and even the five Ferrymen were obliterated—reduced to nothing.

“No! This can’t be!”

The mighty Speaker, once shaking heaven and earth, now shrieked in terror.

He twisted space, trying to flee.

But how could he outrun the end?

The moment his form touched the Yellow Springs—

No explosion. No blinding clash.

He simply… disappeared.

His soul, essence, and legacy—all silently sank into the depths of that churning river.

Erased from existence.

Silence fell.

In the Inquisition, no one moved.

Not the knights. Not the archbishops. All stood frozen, petrified.

Their wide eyes reflected the doomsday scene in the mirror.

A Sequence Three demi-god—one who had lived for millennia—was completely wiped out.

This surpassed their understanding of power.

And worse yet, it wasn’t Lu Yan. It wasn’t even the Emperor.

It was a being named the Ten Yama Kings.

Which meant… the Underworld’s depth far exceeded what they’d imagined.

Then, the blurry figure within the decree slowly raised its head.

Its gaze pierced the mirror—as if it saw them directly within the Inquisition.

A voice echoed deep within their souls:

“What… are you all looking at?”

(End of Chapter)