Chapter Twelve: The Emperor-Level Trial

As he approached the ancient and desolate trial hall, which seemed to have existed since time immemorial, Wang Fan was overwhelmed by a profound sense of history—a sensation unlike any he had ever known.

His curiosity only grew stronger.

Driven by this mounting curiosity, he pushed open the heavy doors and entered the hall. Once inside, he finally tossed aside his explosion-proof shield, letting it fall to the ground. He looked around the vast chamber and immediately noticed that within this trial hall, there were several grand entrances to choose from: the Primary Trial, Intermediate Trial, Advanced Trial, King’s Trial, Supreme Trial, Emperor's Trial, and a final entrance marked only by question marks.

The door for the highest level of trial bore no name at all.

Wang Fan only glanced at that nameless door, but in that instant, it filled him with an overwhelming sense of peril—an endless, ominous threat. None of the other doors inspired such instinctive dread.

As Wang Fan pondered which door to challenge, a weary voice suddenly sounded in his ear, "Hey, did you get in here with a pass too?"

Wang Fan looked up toward the source of the voice and saw Zhao Fan emerging from the Intermediate Trial entrance. The contrast with the Zhao Fan he’d seen before was striking: once impeccably dressed in designer clothes, Zhao Fan now wore nothing but rags, his fine garments all torn and ruined, his chest stained with fresh blood. Yet, in his hand, he clutched a wild ginseng root, radiating powerful energy—a century-old treasure.

"Young master Zhao Fan of the Zhao Group!"

A glint flashed in Wang Fan’s eyes as he raised his brow and said, "It looks like you succeeded in your trial, young master Zhao Fan."

"I was lucky to pass the Intermediate Trial with my Xuan-rank legacy—the Changshan Zhao Zilong inheritance," Zhao Fan replied, then glanced at Wang Fan’s own shredded clothes and empty hands. Assuming Wang Fan had failed his trial, Zhao Fan offered words of encouragement: "Don’t be disheartened. Even if you fail, you can always start over!"

With that bit of comfort, Zhao Fan, weary but grinning, made his way toward the exit. Despite his exhaustion, his face shone with joy; he was certain this century-old wild ginseng would dramatically shorten his cultivation time. He remembered those cultivators from noon, whose trials had been much easier—merely the primary level.

In Zhao Fan’s eyes, here in Z City, he was among the strongest practitioners.

With this confidence, Zhao Fan left the hall. As he closed the doors behind him, he caught sight of the supposed trial failure walking toward the advanced inheritance. Zhao Fan paused in surprise—could it be that man hadn’t attempted a trial yet?

He considered the thought, then shook his head. If he hadn’t done a trial, why would his clothes be in tatters?

…

What Zhao Fan did not realize was that what he had glimpsed before shutting the doors was indeed the truth. Wang Fan was heading not just for the advanced trial, but for one hundreds of times more formidable—the Emperor’s Trial, second only to the mysterious, nameless challenge.

Wang Fan believed he had already obtained the Emperor-level inheritance and had cultivated the ruthless Emperor’s Devouring Sky Demonic Art to its peak, achieving perfection in the Sea of Bitterness realm. It was time to face the Emperor’s Trial.

With this in mind, Wang Fan pushed open the ancient doors to the Emperor’s Trial. Moss covered their surface. Placing both palms against the door, he channeled the energy of his Sea of Bitterness into them, infusing his hands with unending strength until he finally managed to push the massive doors open.

With a resonant creak, the doors yielded. Beyond them lay a path—an endless road of white bones, stretching across the land like snow. The sight shook Wang Fan to the core, filling him with awe and dread.

Was this the Emperor’s Trial?

Even as he pondered, the doors behind him slammed shut. Special stones embedded in the walls—shining stones—emitted a bright, blood-red glow, illuminating the way ahead like electric lamps.

Before him stood an ancient stone stele, moss-covered and inscribed with several characters, each etched in dark red blood:

Eternal struggle—youth’s imperial path!

These eight words burned themselves into Wang Fan’s eyes. Staring at them, he involuntarily drew a sharp breath. He understood now: this road of bones was the path a young emperor had once walked, a trail of bloodshed and slaughter in his youth.

The imperial path of youth.

Wang Fan could not guess what trial awaited at the end of this bone-strewn road, but he was certain it would be arduous.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he relaxed his tense spirit and stepped forward onto the endless imperial path of bones. Though the crunch of bones underfoot unsettled him, his stride never faltered, each step resolute and unwavering toward the future.

The road to emperorship admits no retreat. To prove oneself, to become an emperor—this was Wang Fan’s pursuit and dream now. Having set foot on the Emperor’s Trial, he could not even imagine turning back.

He walked on and on, for nearly half an hour, traversing the endless road of bones once trod by a young emperor. By the time he reached the end, Wang Fan felt as if his very soul had been honed and tempered. From those endless remains, he understood the hardships of the emperor’s journey, the trials and tribulations required to reach such a height.

If, before stepping onto this path, Wang Fan had still hesitated to kill or retained some awe for the authorities, now, after passing the imperial road of youth, his heart had undergone a profound transformation. Now, he was ready to slay any who blocked his path to emperorship. Should anyone dare to stand in his way, he would show no mercy.

Had he possessed such resolve before, Wang Fan might never have forged a fake pass or played the part of a weakling to slip by—he would have charged straight through, for the trial hall belonged to all beings, not to the state.

A shift in spirit, a change in heart!

Now, Wang Fan’s mind and will were far stronger, much more mature than before.

At the end of the road, he found a platform: a towering arena ninety-nine steps high, symbolizing the emperor’s ninety-ninefold supreme throne.

Glancing up at the lofty stage, Wang Fan clenched his fists and set foot upon the path, ascending the ninety-nine tiers.

But as he began to climb, he discovered each step grew heavier than the last.

Was this also part of the trial?

Wang Fan wondered silently as he gazed up at the remaining ninety-eight steps towering above him.