In the long river of time, thirty years was truly nothing — yet for a human being, thirty years could hold enough change to transform an entire life.

Throughout these years, beneath the sixteen-foot Bodhi tree, people awakened one after another. The Qilin immortal herb’s Life Essence drifted and flowed, carrying its gentle fragrance, and kept the hearts of Ye Fan, Pang Bo, Ji Ziyue, and all the others serene and steady. The resonance of the Dao and their techniques grew ever more natural, and the sounds of ancient scriptures rang out at intervals.

Over these thirty years, Long Ma finally refined the divine crystal left by its ancestors, receiving the inheritance. Dragon energy surged across its body, and the sound of scarlet dragon scales rang out like iron. It had awakened several times, and each time it went alone to face the heavenly tribulation.

By now, Long Ma had absolute confidence that it could look down upon all who walked the Ancient Stellar Path. Born as the exclusive mount of an ancient Great Emperor, it held limitless potential within it. After awakening, it merged the Dao with technique and refined the crystallized inheritance of its ancient ancestor — reaching an extreme pinnacle of power.

After thirty years of meditative seclusion, it had reached the eighth level of the Saint King realm — and this was the result of placing great care on consolidating its Dao foundation. Otherwise it might have been even stronger. Without question, Long Ma was one of the greatest beneficiaries among all of them.

The path of a cultivator grew narrower the further one walked. Every small step forward demanded a price far harsher and greater than the last. Many could not advance even a single level in thirty years, let alone three.

The most dazzling figure in history, Du Mu — a powerful supreme of the Divine Race — had used a hundred years to cultivate to the peak of the Great Saint realm, shaking the entire cosmos of stars.

Yet throughout all of history, there had only ever been one such person.

And Du Mu never made another inch of progress for the rest of his life — he remained frozen at that level until his death. He was a legend, and also the greatest tragedy — for everyone had been certain he would become an Emperor.

A legend is a legend precisely because it cannot be replicated. It is the greatest miracle the world has to offer. Most people spend over a thousand years — or even several thousand — before they can become a Saint King. By the measure of Long Ma’s cultivation speed, it was already astonishing. There was naturally no comparing it to the one and only Du Mu in all of history — but it would stun many of the gifted prodigies walking the Ancient Path.

Having set foot on the Stellar Path for a hundred and some tens of years and reaching this level was, without question, among the fastest to have ever done so.

During this time, Ji Haoyue awakened once. It took him thirty years, and he climbed two levels — reaching the eighth level of the Saint King realm. His Divine King tribulation was extraordinary and terrifying: lightning blazed and thunder boomed, divine beings and demons wailed — enough to send even Long Ma leaping in fright.

By now, the Ji Family’s Divine King truly possessed a great and formidable authority — looking down upon heaven and earth, as if he had transcended the scope of an ordinary human being entirely and become the divine king of the celestial realm.

His black hair was dense and full, his locks hanging loose. From his eyes, fine threads of divine essence seeped outward in a blazing, fierce brilliance that one could not look at directly. He was authoritative without anger.

Clearly he was holding himself in check — because after so many years of rapid advancement, he had no desire to let his stride grow too large.

During this period, two tragedies also occurred. One of the Twelve Saints — a powerful figure from the Radiant Race — suffered a mishap while in meditative comprehension and was reduced to ash on the spot. There was nothing anyone could do to stop or help. And a woman from the Feathered Race lost her mental stability during her heavenly tribulation — her Dao heart faltering. She descended into madness, her Primordial Spirit leaving her body, recklessly absorbing the lightning of the Five Elements, and meeting an unfortunate end. She perished here.

It was deeply saddening. These were the finest of their generation, and yet their paths of cultivation still held such moments of tragedy. One could only imagine how much harder and more dangerous the road was for ordinary people.

Someone had once said: to simply remain alive is the greatest victory of all. What matters at the end of an era is not who is strongest, but who has lived the longest.

In quiet sorrow, thirty-five petals of white flowers drifted through the air. Long Ma, the Green Luan, and those who still lived sent off their fallen companions — all they could do was mound a little earth and erect a cenotaph to mark their memory.

Among the Twelve Saints who had survived, this meditative comprehension beneath the light of Bodhi wisdom had illuminated the depths of their hearts, allowing them to grasp the true meaning of the Dao, temper their soul and bone, and make great progress across the board.

The most powerful among them — the Nine-Tailed Crocodile Dragon and the Golden Lion — had reached the sixth level of the Saint King realm. It was not that they lacked strength — it was simply that compared to someone like Long Ma or Ji Haoyue, with their defiance-of-heaven aptitude, they appeared somewhat weaker. But measured against their former selves, their true Dao harvest was genuinely remarkable.

And catching up over time was simply not a problem. For the ninth level of the Saint King realm was certain to be the greatest barrier of all — one that would stop many of the most gifted prodigies. It was the threshold between where they were and the Great Saint level.

Throughout history, more gifted people than could be counted had reached the ninth level of the Saint King realm too early — only to spend the rest of their lives trying to break through that gate, never managing even a single step further into the realm of the Great Saint.

This was a dividing line. Those with extraordinary gifts who arrived here too soon did not necessarily manage to cross that threshold. And those who came later were not necessarily destined to be blocked there either.

For many cultivators, breaking through from Saint King to become a Great Saint was like a carp leaping through the dragon gate — the greatest rebirth and renewal of an entire life. That was precisely why the Great Saint stood so far above all other Saints, able to look down on them without a second glance. It was a fundamental, essential difference.

Only after crossing that threshold did one belong to the same category. Before crossing it — even if standing at the very peak of the ninth level of the Saint King realm, only a hair’s breadth away — one was still subordinate, still outside the same domain entirely.

Lightning flashed and thunder rolled. A golden figure surged upward. The Little One — the Lightning Phoenix Bird — though suppressing her own realm and having no desire to break through, found in the end that she could hold it back no longer, and climbed another small level.

Her cultivation speed was simply too fast. The Demon God Flower was one of the three supreme divine flowers in all the world, possessing the extraordinary ability to seize the fortune of heaven and earth — allowing her soul and bone to ring like iron, driving her to advance whether she wished to or not.

In the end, she reached the seventh level of the Saint King realm — and this was the result of heavy self-suppression. Without it, she might have surpassed both Long Ma and Ji Haoyue.

The group had considered sealing her, letting her temper herself for a few more decades — for fear that if she surged too fast, her mind and heart could not keep pace, leading to problems later on. But now, the Dao had actively merged with her, and she had been compelled to advance. What would come next was harder to say — so everyone urged her in unison: restrain yourself. Do not advance again.

Then came Ji Ziyue’s heavenly tribulation. The phenomenon was vast and extraordinary — a vision of ascending immortals, ten suns hanging simultaneously across the sky — scenes beyond all comprehension.

The Yuan Spiritual Constitution was unlike any other — fused with the most primal substance of heaven and earth. Even her tribulation reflected this: primordial immortal light and primordial chaos fog descended at intervals, wrapping around her.

Yet Ji Ziyue climbed only a single level — reaching the seventh level of the Saint King realm — before the heavenly tribulation ended.

This too was the result of deliberate self-control. For her divine demon liquid had never been used to its best effect. The Divine King Ji Haoyue, Ye Fan, Pang Bo, and the others had helped her deduce the optimal path. As a Yuan Spiritual Constitution, her approach to breaking through should not follow the ordinary course. The divine demon liquid contained the most fundamental mysteries of three thousand divine beings and ancient demons — it needed to be studied, deduced, and explored. Perhaps those mysteries could be refined and pushed to an extreme, melted into one, and made fully her own.

For this reason, Ji Ziyue was not rushing her cultivation. She was instead contemplating the fusion of herself with the Dao — spending all these years immersed in comprehension of its principles, preparing to one day bring herself to the highest possible state.

At the point they had all reached, advancing within a minor level was no longer the most pressing concern. What they needed to consider was their own Dao — and how high it could ultimately reach.

For almost everyone would be stopped before the gate of the Great Saint. Minor level advancements, given enough time, could be ground through — they were not the true difficulty. The real question was the Dao itself.

By now, all those with ambitions on the Emperor’s path were concentrating primarily on the question of combat power — how to become the strongest among peers. That was the foremost concern.

In the distant sky, wind roared and thunder surged, demonic energy shot into the heavens — Pang Bo was roaring against his heavenly tribulation, his manner like that of a ten-thousand-year ancient demon sovereign. With a lift of his hand, it seemed as if he could strike down the nine layers of heaven.

His eyes blazed with a divine brilliance. Within the heavenly tribulation he gave form to his own technique, perfecting his own Dao. His roar shook the skies. When the surge of blood energy reached its peak, he reached into his robe with a crack, produced a plank of coffin wood, and bit down on it in large, crunching pieces, refining it into vital energy — his expression growing even more fierce and formidable.

“This fellow is beyond saving. He loathes that coffin board so deeply that he gnaws on it even while enduring a heavenly tribulation — just to vent his feelings,” Long Ma said lazily.

Over these years, Ji Ziyue, Pang Bo, and the others had each brought out their divine demon liquid and coffin board divine medicine to share with those gathered. Everyone had tasted both. The latter’s flavor was, in all honesty, not particularly impressive.

When the tribulation lightning subsided, Pang Bo had climbed two levels — reaching the eighth level of the Saint King realm. In his every movement and gesture, a rolling demonic energy surged outward, like dark clouds pressing down from above, emanating a vast and overwhelming presence.

“Stick two horns on him and he’d look a good deal like the Bull Demon King,” Ji Ziyue said with a laugh.

Pang Bo’s frame really was enormous now — and he had grown still taller by half a head. His muscles were swollen and tensed, like a great monument of a man. His bronze-toned body stood over ten feet tall, and simply looking at him was enough to make one uneasy.

“Heh heh. Seems it is still this noble one who gains the most — advancing three levels. Who can rival me?” Long Ma surveyed everyone with a sweeping, arrogant gaze, bearing the air of someone who had reached the summit and sought no more opponents.

“Forget everyone else — if the Little One were to make a serious attempt at advancing, she would crush you thoroughly,” Pang Bo said with contempt.

Thirty years had passed, and much had happened in the outside world. Over the past several years, as one person after another awakened and faced their tribulations, the Green Luan and the Black Bear Saint had gone out to gather news, and had learned of quite a few developments.

The other shore was filled with a killing atmosphere. Over these many years, many had died — blood had stained the heavens and earth crimson. Yet the divine domain held firm like an iron fortress, never once being breached.

During this time, the ancient imperial weapon — the Ten Thousand Dragon Bell — had sounded at the gates more than once. But the killing formation diagram of the Spiritual Treasure Heavenly Venerable had drawn upon the power of four divine killing swords, repelling every assault — sending the Ten Thousand Dragon Bell hurtling out of the other shore, with Great Saints falling in the process.

Over these years, the divine domain’s reputation had grown more and more fearsome. The several divine elders stood like the sun at its zenith — no matter which wind blew from which direction, they remained immovable.

“Something feels off. I refuse to believe the Great Saints from beyond the domain will just accept this. I suspect a great and devastating storm may be approaching — one that could shatter the heavens and crack the earth at any moment.” Ji Haoyue said in a heavy voice.

Everyone reflected on it. Perhaps a great upheaval was indeed on its way.

“Ye Fan has still not awakened. What Dao and technique could he possibly be comprehending?”

Beneath the Bodhi tree, Ye Fan was perfectly still — sitting cross-legged there like a divine idol, solemn and serene, not moving a single inch from beginning to end.

All these years, everyone else had awakened in turn, faced tribulations in turn. He alone had remained unchanged from first to last — as if he had passed into stillness there. Were it not for the fact that a vast and vigorous ocean of energy still lay dormant within him, the others would have gone up to shake him awake long since. To sit unmoving for decades at a time at this level of cultivation was something almost unheard of throughout the ages.

Twenty-some days later, beneath the Bodhi tree, Ye Fan’s eyes snapped open in an instant. He rose to his feet, and a boundless wave of blood energy surged outward.

“He’s awake — and now he’s going to face his tribulation!” Long Ma said — it couldn’t help but feel a measure of awe. To sit for thirty years — that required a truly extraordinary force of will.

Yet Ye Fan did not go to face his tribulation. He stood beneath the Bodhi tree, opened his stride, spread his arms wide, and began to give form to a terrifying Dao and technique. At the very first movement — the very first form — the heavens and earth let out a long moan of lament.

“What technique is this?” Everyone was puzzled.

But they all understood clearly: at the point Ye Fan had reached, what he pursued was no longer merely an advance in realm. What he cared about most was the path of the invincible — comprehending a technique without equal in the world, so that among peers, he would have no opponent.

Clearly, these thirty years had brought him something. He was beginning to create his own secret techniques and methods of the Dao.

The completion of the Four Extremes Secret Realm was a necessity — but his own Dao lineage also required protecting arts and a path of the Dao. The road he walked now was exactly that — and this was the very foundation of the path of the invincible: he had to have his own substantial and true great techniques.