From the first clash, Saint Cole pressed Wilsar like a mountain’s shadow, and Wilsar fought on the back foot, the power gap a yawning gorge.

He only held out by burning a borrowed flame: an Origin Realm subordinate of Xiyue had given him a booster elixir that ignored the Prime Realm’s cap on outsiders, spiking him for a short span to the Zenith of Law Realm.

Borrowed strength is a paper shield against Saint Cole’s tempered steel, so lasting this long was already wrestling a storm with bare hands.

Trading blows with Saint Cole, Wilsar reached a grim verdict: the Inner World may be a forest teeming with tall trees, with far more experts above the Law Realm, but the wood’s quality in the Prime Realm feels harder, denser.

Worse, Molor’s plight was a sinking boat in deeper waters—Yugong Sacred Sound had fully roused a Semi Origin Artifact, and awakened two artifact spirits at the Zenith of Law Realm. With that sky of blades overhead, Molor wasn’t just outmatched; even with Wilsar added, there was only one path—run.

This won’t do. Panic washed up like tidewater. We need a retreat, fast. Basiloth Empire won’t hold. Cut losses and fall back to the old base.

But retreat is a thorn thicket. Escaping Saint Cole is one snare; Yugong Sacred Sound’s lineup is another maw. Saving Molor felt like trying to fish the moon’s reflection from a black lake.

I knew too little about the Mizumi Clan. The thought was a bitter wind. I thought I’d read them well; in truth, I’d underestimated them like mist hiding a cliff.

You can’t judge the Mizumi Clan by common sense. If Wilsar had known Yugong Sacred Sound could fully unleash a Semi Origin Artifact and wake two spirits at the Zenith of Law Realm, he’d have fled like leaves before a storm, not brought Molor here to make waves.

There’s no medicine for regret, no “if only” sold in this market; spilled water doesn’t climb back into the cup.

Are all Mizumi scions this outrageous? Last time, that youth called Yumigawa Sumeragi had mid-tier Law Realm strength in his teens. His Origin Artifact screamed a close tie to an Origin Realm patron behind the clan. And now, even scarier: a thirty-something Law Realm wielder, swinging a staff at Semi Origin Artifact level like lightning coiled in his palm.

The thought stung like smoke in the eyes. Wilsar had clawed his way up through knives and frost, survived a hundred births and deaths, and only broke into the Law Realm at a hundred and thirty. His top-grade divine artifact-class katana cost him everything, coin and blood poured into one blade.

Then look at the Mizumi Clan: they barely glance at top-grade artifacts; they pull Semi Origin Artifacts like stars from a sleeve, and throw around Supreme Divine Spirit Medicine and elixirs as if they were spring water. Same human skin, a gulf like river and sky.

In this world, no matter your talent or your grit, you can’t touch the highest peak if your roots are shallow. Birth decides the horizon—Mizumi children are born on the summit, and those not of the Mizumi? They might as well pack it in and sleep.

Even without an Origin Realm patron, the Mizumi Clan is a dragon hard to spear. Unless the opposing force has its own Origin Realm, the next moves aren’t mine to call. It’ll come down to how Sir Xiyue steers this storm.

He sighed, slipped past a crushing blow from Saint Cole like a fish cutting through whitewater, and his eyes hardened like ice. A transparent, crystalline rhomboid gem glimmered into his hand.

Before Wilsar came to the Prime Realm, an Origin Realm subordinate under Xiyue had handed him this, a talisman ember meant to save his life at the cliff’s edge, lest years of set-up turn to ash.

That gem held Primordial Source. Crush it, and the light pours out for ten minutes, a violet spring in a steel desert.

In other words, unless you provoke an Origin Realm existence, even if a hundred foes at the Zenith of Law Realm surround you, you can walk out under that halo like a man in the eye of a storm.

To Wilsar, this was a second life, a lone raft on a black river—his most precious thing. Not at death’s door… no, even at death’s door he’d hesitate to spend it.

If it were Mizumi hands, this would barely count as trinket. The laugh he let slip tasted of salt.

He crushed the rhomboid gem. Crack. A pale violet glow surged out—Primordial Source light like dawn over cold stone—washing Saint Cole’s attacks to nothing and shoving him back hundreds of meters like a tide sweeping a pier.

That’s… Primordial Source? Saint Cole’s shock rolled like thunder in his chest. No wonder these two felt off. They’re pawns of an Origin Realm existence. That turns the board into a nest of wasps.

Wilsar seized the opening, split Yugong Sacred Sound’s spatial lock like an axe through frozen river, and threw himself between Molor and that sky of magic fire. He became a shield in a rainstorm.

“Wilsar, what—?!”

“Later. Priority’s retreat.”

He grabbed the temporarily paralyzed Molor, ignored his shock, and unleashed teleportation. Whoosh. In an eye-blink, they slipped from Yugong Sacred Sound’s sight like two streaks fading into fog.

“What just happened?!” Yugong Sacred Sound stood stunned, the world ringing like a bell, and only slowly found her breath.

“Ah, so that guy had Primordial Source protection,” Wansheng said, voice steady as a stone in a stream. “Looks like his background’s not simple.”

“Mhm. That glow was definitely Primordial Source,” Wanling added, calm as autumn water. “Didn’t expect to meet it right after waking. Sacred Sound, what kind of enemy did you stir up?”

“No. They poked us first.” Her tone cut like a frost edge. “The one who saved Molor felt like he came from the Inner World. Maybe that’s the thread.”

“Inner World? Hard to be sure,” Wansheng mused. “But it’s best not to rouse an Origin Realm existence.”

“Right. Even if the Mizumi Clan is this world’s hegemon, poking an Origin Realm is waking a sleeping dragon.”

“On that point, rest easy.” Saint Cole stepped over, his presence like a walking cliff. “Sir Xino guards the Worldgate. Origin Realm beings from the Inner World can’t enter our world. And even if we did annoy one, the Mizumi Clan has Sir Xino at its back.”

“Sir Xino… the one in the chronicles?” Yugong Sacred Sound’s eyes widened, old ink stirring on forgotten pages. “The existence who nurtured our ancestor and became the clan’s patron?”

“That’s right. Sir Xino.” Saint Cole nodded, then grimaced. “Apologies. I failed to stop Wilsar, and he pulled Molor out from under us.”

“It’s fine.” She drew a slow breath, remembering that Primordial Source light. Even tasting a hint of it left her feeling the ocean press from ten thousand fathoms down.

“Chasing them now isn’t realistic. Let’s head to the Basiloth Empire and check the situation,” Saint Cole suggested, wind shifting the course.

“Alright.”

They spent half a day combing the Basiloth Empire, turning stones and lifting curtains, and found a husk: Wilsar’s people had already withdrawn, stripped the imperial treasury to bare boards, and marched off with every elite unit.

To do all that so fast… no, the ropes and boats were prepped before the raid. The retreat route was set long before the storm.

Basiloth’s overall strength had plunged like a cliff face crumbling. With Wilsar’s faction gone, give it a little time and vultures—every noble family—will circle and dive for power.

The Basiloth Empire’s order and society began to crack and tremble, a field of dry reeds in high wind.

“Uncle Saint Cole, this doesn’t sit right. How about letting your Dragon Kin manage Basiloth? It’ll keep this mess from repeating.”

“Mm… you have a point. There’s a real need for that.”