The heavy palace doors creaked open slowly, allowing sunlight to penetrate the long-sealed hall for the first time.
A thick, musty odor assaulted Su Mo’s nostrils, triggering an immediate coughing fit that left his eyes and nose streaming.
Damn, this is basically chemical warfare.
After what felt like ages, Su Mo finally regained his composure and scanned the cavernous interior. The palace was staggeringly vast—easily the size of a soccer field—with an imperial court layout reminiscent of historical dramas, yet far more magnificent. Every detail awed him: the pillars, the floor tiles, the walls, and especially the distant throne that radiated such authority it felt blinding.
Step by cautious step, he approached the throne, stopping five meters short. There, seated on the dragon throne, was a figure clad in black imperial robes. Time had eroded the man’s features to near-skeletal ruin, yet the faint rise and fall of his chest confirmed he was—impossibly—still alive.
Alive?!
Su Mo held his breath, terrified that the slightest sound might provoke an attack. He began retreating with featherlight steps, making no noise whatsoever.
Then—hiss—an icy sensation prickled his neck.
Looking down, he saw a rusted blade hovering at his throat, its edge barely kissing his skin. The telltale itch meant it had already drawn blood.
Gulping silently, Su Mo remained frozen, waiting to see if death would claim him. After an eternity, he whispered, “If you’re not gonna kill me… I’ll just leave now, okay?”
When no strike came, he exhaled in relief. Not my time yet.
Backing away until he was safely out of sword range, he whirled around to face his would-be executioner—a corpse-like soldier whose ornate armor marked him as a general among the undead.
The difference between a foot soldier and a commander.
“Curious why he spared you?” A voice like crumbling parchment echoed from the throne. Su Mo turned to see the robed figure now standing, advancing toward him with jerky steps. The dragon robes themselves showed no signs of decay, unlike the mummified flesh beneath.
“You controlled him?” Su Mo subtly shifted his stance, readying for combat even against impossible odds. Surrender wasn’t in his nature.
“Who else?” The man’s grotesque grin turned Su Mo’s stomach. He circled Su Mo with appraising eyes. “Such a fine vessel… wasted on you.”
Taking the rusted blade from the general, the emperor sighed. “Three millennia is too long. Even you’ve deteriorated.”
Then, with sudden melancholy: “Girl, I’ve waited three thousand years for you.”
Su Mo blinked. “Why?”
“All in good time.” The emperor extended a skeletal hand. A ghostly green flame bloomed in his palm, swelling brighter.
So he commands the eerie fires—the undead emperor himself. The black dragon robes confirmed it.
“Does this feel familiar?” the emperor pressed.
Su Mo feigned recognition—after all, he’d slaughtered plenty of these creatures. “Mhm.”
Pleased, the emperor revealed a second flame in his other palm: a feeble, bluish flicker no larger than an alcohol lamp’s flame.
Wait… that looks exactly like the fire I once awakened.
“Surprised?” The emperor’s laughter rang hollow. “I derived my life’s work—the Netherflame—from just a wisp of your Yin Fire. Yet you, despite inheriting a god’s legacy, died young. Even reborn, you’re merely… adequate.”
Su Mo wondered if three thousand years of solitude had unhinged the man. “Elder… could you explain properly? I’m lost.”
The emperor frowned. “What is this… mengbi you speak of?”
Right—ancient vocabulary. “‘Mengbi’ means confused. I seek clarification.”
Flattered by the deference, the emperor obliged: “Your past life was my sworn elder brother. Chosen by the gods, you became one of history’s mightiest warriors. Together, we forged an empire.” He caressed the rusted blade. “This was your gift to me.”
Su Mo struggled to process. “So my past self died young, childless, leaving you the throne… and a fragment of divine power. But how can you be sure I’m—”
“You prophesied your return in three thousand years,” the emperor interrupted. “The timeline matches. You passed my trials—the staircase’s mental corrosion only resistible by Yin Fire. What further proof is needed?”
Before Su Mo could protest, a bony finger touched his forehead. A surge of energy pierced his mind, stirring something dormant.
Within his consciousness, a bluish ember flared to life—the same vanished flame he’d once wielded. It now hovered weakly before him, mirroring the emperor’s.
“Convinced now?”
Su Mo stared. However improbable, the evidence was undeniable. The flame’s resurgence, the historical accounts—it all fit.
Damn my absurd life. Why does the bizarre always find me?