Wilsar and Molor swallowed hard, pebbles dropping into a dry throat. They hurried over and bowed, respect settling like frost on a blade. When they saw the Origin Realm captive, both flinched like pricked hawks.

What torture could be so monstrous? To twist a sovereign of the Origin Realm into this ghostly husk—hair crawled, cold sweat fell like rain down their backs.

A “mummified” figure was bound tight by thousands of iron chains etched with arcane sigils, a black vine net over stone. His hair was chalk-white, his frame skin and bone, still as winter rock.

If not for the faint tremor in his eyes, they’d have thought him long dead, and that thick Primordial Source aura a lingering storm after the corpse.

Heh. Does this ghastly shape crack the stained-glass image of the Origin Realm in your minds?

After a long silence, he spoke with self-mockery, voice grinding like a rusted gear.

No, sir, you misunderstand! It’s our first time this close to a great Origin Realm being. We’re overwhelmed, minds stumbling like newborn foals.

At those words, Wilsar tugged Molor and offered sincere apologies, palms on cold stone. Then, without prompting, he explained who they were, why they came, and Xiyue’s latest moves.

He finished and bowed deeper, holding the pose, barely breathing like a deer before thunder. The old man seemed near his last breath, life’s thread thin as mist.

Origin Realm is a mountain; however frail, it’s a peak they can’t shove. Why did Xiyue send them here—was it to free him? They could barely guard themselves, and this prison caged even Origin Realm beings; two small Law Realm gnats could do nothing.

…My name is Wanxin.

After a long stretch, Wanxin spoke, words slow as a dripping cave: So Lady Xiyue still hasn’t given up. If you can, persuade her to let go.

Why? The question slipped out like a fish in a net. Wilsar still kept his head down, heart thudding like a drum under cloth.

He knew Xiyue had bent storms and rivers to return to the Prime Realm; to risk his neck to dissuade her felt like stepping into fire.

Nothing more than hoping Lady Xiyue lives her own life, and stops poking a sleeping dragon by angering Sir Xino.

Wanxin fell to this state because of Xiyue, yet after countless inhuman torments, grudges and hatreds wore thin like weathered stone. For a saved life’s debt, he still hoped she wouldn’t repeat the tragedy.

Lady Xiyue now stands at the Pinnacle of Origin Realm, a supreme peak. Isn’t she fit to challenge Sir Xino, mountain against mountain?

Far from enough. Do you know why Lady Xiyue broke through to the Pinnacle of Origin Realm?

Because of Sir Xino? Wilsar caught the hint like smoke over coals.

At the beginning, Sir Xino and Lady Xiyue were close, almost sisters, a bridge built over bright water. One day, clashing creeds burned that bridge. Before the split, Sir Xino taught Lady Xiyue much.

He’d been caged too long; with Wilsar and Molor here at last, words spilled like loosened rain. Lady Xiyue reached the Pinnacle for a simple reason—she fully digested the knowledge Sir Xino once gave her.

Wanxin paused, then asked, voice like a finger on a scale: In the old struggle for control, was the field one-sided or evenly matched?

One-sided, Molor answered at once, a hammer drop on iron.

…Evenly matched? Wilsar spoke after a dazed beat, like fog drifting over fields.

Lady Xiyue at upper Origin Realm plus me at mid Origin Realm versus Sir Xino at the Pinnacle—how could that be even? It was utterly one-sided; Sir Xino won without lifting a finger, wind snuffing a candle.

She’d already been at the Pinnacle back then?! Old stars were already nailed high.

No wonder Wanxin doubts Xiyue. Wilsar was stunned, a bell struck in a quiet hall. Xiyue rose to the Pinnacle only in the last two centuries; Xino stood there eons ago—no comparison, a stream against the sea.

Right. You know the Origin Realm has innate and acquired, yes?

A bit.

The Pinnacle splits that way too. Sir Xino is the only innate Pinnacle—sun among lanterns. Not just power; her knowledge and vision dwarf Lady Xiyue’s.

Besides, Xiyue was taught by Xinuo, ink drawn from the same well. Students surpassing masters happens, but not here. In the Origin Realm, acquired never outstrips innate—especially at the Pinnacle.

Then… what should we do? Wilsar stared at the crystal sphere in his palm, headache blooming like thorns. They had clawed through Xiyue’s task to get here, only to find another dead knot.

Simple—stop opposing Sir Xino. From someone who’s been there, pressing on is a road of bones.

Of all people, Lady Xiyue knows Sir Xino’s strength best. Why hasn’t she given up? Molor, careful to a fault, let the question slip like a bird from the hand.

It’s unwillingness. Maybe Lady Xiyue keeps probing Sir Xino’s bottom line, a drawn blade in the sand.

Bottom line?

Right. If you don’t touch her line, she won’t get serious. Early in that control war, we kept our noise small, sparrows hopping under eaves. Later, Lady Xiyue courted death in piles, and we collapsed in a blink, a sandcastle under tide.

Wanxin blames no one for his ruin; he blames the side he chose, a ship taking the wrong wind.

Huh? Wanxin seemed to sense something, a ripple in still water. The little hunters sent after you are almost here. I’ll say it again—if you value life, let go. Find a hidden place, and live.

…Too late. He sighed, head drooping like a wilted reed. As Wilsar was about to bolt, the crystal flared with soft light, dawn on glass.

He blinked, and lines of script surfaced—clearly Xiyue’s new orders, ink rising like steam.

Lord Wanxin, if we can free you, will you come with us? After reading the task, Wilsar asked, expression knotted like twine.

I will. Wanxin answered without a blink, a blade leaving its sheath.