Chapter Forty-Seven: The Prison of Heavenly Sorrow

A reek of blood and rot.

The stench here was thicker than the blood lake at the Burial Abyss of the Immortals, a blend of decay, iron, and a nauseatingly sweet pollen that clung relentlessly to mouth and nose. Each breath Lin Mo took felt like swallowing putrid sludge. Dragging his left arm, with every step, his ankle sank deep into a cold, viscous, dark brown mire that sucked at him with a sound that made his teeth ache. Rotting roots and shards of bone jabbed at the soles of his feet.

In his left palm, a shadowy sword-nail bit deep into the flesh, pinning down the chaotic Dao Seed buried within. Each faint throb of the Dao Seed tugged at the heavy, icy vortex of void in his dantian, stirring the newly awakened, sinister power of annihilation in his left arm’s meridians like a venomous serpent. The twisted sword-shaped brand on his wrist burned hot, searing his skin like a piece of iron fresh from the forge.

A leaden sky pressed low overhead; the dead, withered forest stood like countless ribs stabbed into the corpse of the earth. He pressed onward toward the distant, broken silhouette. As it drew near, it became clear—it was not a ruined city but a vast, collapsed ring-shaped bulwark. The shattered walls, built from massive, dull stones riddled with honeycomb-like holes, oozed black-green slime from their cracks, filling the air with a stench of rotting vegetation. At the bulwark’s center gaped a bottomless black pit, like the earth’s festering throat, ceaselessly belching out cold, iron-scented air.

The Prison of Remorse.

The name crashed cold and certain into his consciousness, as though the dead land itself bore that inscription.

In the bulwark’s shadow, the mire darkened, nearly congealed into black blood. A few gigantic beast skeletons, little more than bone, lay half-buried in the muck, hollow eye sockets wordlessly gazing at the sky.

Lin Mo stepped onto a patch of cracked, dry black earth—

A sudden splatter!

Barely ten steps ahead, the mire exploded! A squat, stocky figure, wrapped in reeking sludge, shot skyward. Rags clung to him, revealing only a pair of muddied, yellow, mindless eyes. In his hands, no weapon—only claws, nails black and long as a beast’s, tearing at the air with a shrill scream, lunging straight at Lin Mo’s face!

Fierce—pure animalistic instinct for the kill!

Lin Mo’s pupils shrank. His right arm’s sword-mark lay dormant; the void vortex in his dantian was heavy and sluggish. Only the sinister, annihilating power in his left surged wildly under threat of death! Driven by instinct, he raised his sword-nailed left hand, spreading his fingers, and thrust it hard toward the mad assailant!

No technique—only a cold, chaotic torrent of devouring power burst forth from his left arm’s meridians, surging from the shadowy sword-nail at his palm—

A low hum.

A dense, pure black beam, as if swallowing all light, pierced through space in an instant!

The mad figure froze mid-lunge! A gaping hole, the width of a bowl, appeared dead center in his chest. Not a drop of blood spilled; the edges of the wound were charred and blackened as if seared through by an infernal blaze. The madness in those cloudy eyes solidified; his body, still in mid-pounce, crashed at Lin Mo’s feet, splattering foul mire.

Dead. Swift and absolute.

Lin Mo panted, staring at his sword-nailed left hand. The dark point of the sword at his palm slowly drew back the last wisps of black mist. A faint, blood-tinged “warmth” flowed in reverse along the sword-nail, back through the left arm’s meridians, bringing a strange sense of fullness that for a moment dulled the rending pain in his dantian’s void vortex.

This was... devouring? Using the sword-nail as a medium to consume the very essence of life?

His stomach churned—not from the kill, but from the cold, sinister nature of this power itself, coiling through his left arm like a serpent.

A ragged, hoarse wheeze.

“Flesh... fresh flesh...”

From the shadows of the dead, silent forest, more covetous, muddied whispers arose. Cloudy, bloodshot eyes glimmered behind rotting trunks, half-buried heaps of bone—a dozen or more! Most were ragged, emaciated, their bodies marred by wounds or festering tumors, eyes left only with primal hunger and madness. The scent of blood and death had ignited their feeding frenzy.

Lin Mo straightened slowly, sword-nailed left hand hanging at his side, its palm still shrouded in darkness. His crimson eyes swept over the shambling, corpse-like wretches crawling from the shadows—no fear in them, only the cold dead calm that follows torment and rage.

Kill his way out, or be devoured.

No other path.

A towering wretch, half his face missing, dragging rotten entrails, was first to howl and charge with a rusted iron shard. Like a spark to a powder keg, dozens of crazed figures erupted from every corner, howling, the stench of death surging with them.

Lin Mo moved.

No longer clumsy, no more awkward thrusting of his palm.

His left arm snapped, the sword-shaped brand on his wrist blazing with ghostly light! The sword-nail in his palm gave a deep, resonant hum—a surge of black sword energy, dense as poison, instantly coiled around his entire left arm!

He pivoted, left arm whipping out, the sword energy swirling like a venomous dragon, sweeping across the path of the half-faced wretch—

A searing hiss—no clash of metal, only the sound of red-hot iron slicing rotten wood!

The wretch and the two shadows behind him vanished in the blink of an eye, torn apart by an unseen force! Their upper bodies disintegrated, reduced to a fine, black powder that drifted through the air; lower halves, still rushing forward, spurted sticky black blood and toppled into the mire.

One stroke—three reduced to ash!

The carnage did not deter the rest. If anything, it fanned their savagery. More hurled themselves forward, trampling their comrades’ remains, claws, rusted blades, and jagged bone spikes stabbing at Lin Mo from every direction!

His figure blurred amidst the frenzied assault, no longer striving for a single killing blow. The black sword energy coiling his left arm became the deadliest serpent—every sweep, block, and thrust rent flesh and bone, leaving only seared fragments and carbonized remains flying across the mire. Sticky black blood and bits of viscera spattered his tattered clothes, plastered half his face.

He was a tireless engine of slaughter, weaving through the carnage. With every swing, his left arm tore, carbonized, and devoured with precision! The blood-tinged warmth surging back through the sword-nail grew stronger, constantly replenishing him, even suppressing the agony of the void vortex and his wounds.

The more he killed, the hotter his left arm burned; the more alive the sinister power of annihilation became! The sword-shaped brand on his wrist seemed to writhe, gleaming with a hungry light!

At the very moment his left arm swept out, cutting three more wretches in half in a spray of black powder and blood—

A piercing, metallic shriek split the air from the direction of the Prison of Remorse’s bulwark—so fast it defied sight!

A spiral force, cold and sharp, locked onto Lin Mo’s back in an instant. The threat of death made his hair stand on end!

He twisted, raising his sword-nailed left hand to shield his chest—

A deafening clang!

A devastating force smashed into his sword-wreathed arm, sending Lin Mo hurtling backward like a cannonball. He crashed into the reeking mire, sending up a wave of filthy mud as high as a man.

The black sword energy around his left arm shattered; the sword-nail in his palm pulsed with agony, its light dimmed. An icy, tyrannical, spiral force drilled along his left arm’s meridians, boring furiously toward his dantian’s void vortex.

Blood, thick with bits of viscera, gushed from his throat. Struggling up from the mire, his blood-streaked face and crimson eyes stared daggers at the source of the attack.

Atop the ruined ring of the Prison of Remorse, a figure stood silent and motionless.

Clad in dark blue scale armor, the plates gleamed coldly beneath the leaden sky, metal barbs jutting from the joints. His entire face was covered by a mask, only a pair of eyes exposed—emotionless, cold as frozen lakes. In his left hand he held a monstrous arm-mounted crossbow, like something forged from living metal. Spirals along its limbs slowly ceased spinning, a wisp of hot smoke curling from the groove.

That deadly strike—fired from this crossbow—a spiral bolt.

Guihai Thirteen!

Those icy eyes, cutting through the stench and blood, locked precisely onto Lin Mo’s struggling form as if he were already a corpse with a label.

“Guihai Sequence. Execute the traitor.” The voice, cold as steel, rang through the mask, utterly devoid of feeling. “Hand over the key, and your corpse will remain whole.”