bullyxtreme V.4.119. Angry Clone (1) <3700+words>
V.4.119. Angry Clone (1) <3700+words>
Tianci’s eyes narrow as he watches the thrash against two figures in the distance, its shadowed body tearing the forest apart with every strike. For a moment, the scene ignites a long-buried fire in him—If those two can distract it, he might reach the unnoticed. Perhaps, just perhaps, fate has granted him an opening.
Without hesitation, he rises from the treetop, his robes fluttering in the cold wind, and
But halfway through the air—
A descends.
It is not the force of a Demigod, nor the divine might of a god, but something beyond both— bending upon him.
The sky darkens. The world goes still.
His body seizes in midair as if the heavens themselves have caught him by the throat. Blood leaks from his nose, his meridians tremble, and his spiritual power falters.
Then—he
Crashing into the forest floor, he gasps for breath, every bone humming with terror. When he looks up again, the sight before him is utterly transformed.
The that had covered the mountain like a living shadow—
is
Not dispersed. Not scattered.
As if the world has rejected its existence altogether.
Moments later, and descend beside him, their faces pale, their spiritual auras trembling from the lingering pressure.
Meikou’s voice breaks, soft and terrified.
“”
Her body shakes, eyes wide with dawning realisation. She has felt that kind of might only once before—reading ancient records of the
A being that can bend laws, command creation, and extinguish existence with thought alone.
Jinhou, his voice unsteady, can barely form words.
“”
His eyes dart toward the mountain where the Black Mist once stood. “If we stay, we’ll die! That’s no human up there—no mortal cultivator!”
Tianci, lying half-upright against a broken tree trunk, wipes the blood from his lips.
His eyes remain fixed on the silent mountain peak.
If a cultivator truly resides there, running is useless. To flee without understanding the being’s temperament could very well invite .
He shakes his head slowly, resolute despite the fear burning in his chest.
“”
The air hums faintly around them—calm, but unnatural.
Above the mountain, something vast , and the world itself seems to hold its breath in answer.
Inside the mountain, the once-crimson lies still, its waters drained of every drop of energy. The metallic stench of blood remains, but the power that once pulsed through it has vanished—devoured, refined, and transformed.
At its centre, sits cross-legged above the faint reflection of the lake’s surface, his body motionless, his aura faintly flickering between deathly stillness and radiant life.
He has just , not through his own strength alone, but by borrowing a fragment of .
When Jingxuan had opened their , the link between them deepened beyond spirit and soul. Yet after the battle’s end, the Dream Space itself was —its luminous landscapes reduced to , scattered with drifting wisps of and shards of .
But even broken, the Dream Space became something new—
a .
It connects Lin Yi’s consciousness to , intertwining their perceptions, memories, and comprehension.
Through this link, he sees what his other selves see.
From the and , he learns of their ongoing war: they are locked in battle with a , a being who has bait to lure Lin Yi into the trap.
Even with their combined might, his two clones cannot overpower the Blood Demigod. Their laws clash violently—Life against Blood, Shadow against Vitality—but the longer they fight, the more they lose ground. Their , while the Blood Demigod’s regeneration feeds endlessly on his own blood essence.
Lin Yi can sense their despair, their silent understanding that the moment the fight drags on, it will attract the attention of other Demigods—and then, there will be .
But before that moment arrives, the two clones act.
They call upon the lingering connection to Jingxuan—
and through the broken Dream Space, they
A sliver of divine energy descends, silent and absolute.
The Blood Demigod, roaring in disbelief, is struck down in a single instant. His blood explodes into mist; his divine core collapses into dust.
The onlookers scatter in terror, their souls trembling from the residual divine fluctuation.
The two clones waste no time. They , tearing through the blood sigils, and free her from her chains.
When the battle ends, the link remains open just long enough for Lin Yi to
From his , he inherits the deepened understanding of the and , both having reached the , forming the foundation of balance within his spirit.
From his , the comprehension is greater still—
The at the , now branching into two new laws: the and the , each revealing the structure and pulse of existence itself.
As these understandings merge into his own, his surges, its light rising toward divinity, teetering on the verge of forming a
But Lin Yi suppresses it.
He knows—his path is not yet complete.
Instead, he channels the comprehension of and into his body, refining every bone, every cell, every thread of flesh and soul.
The transformation ripples through him, invisible yet boundless.
Something inside him —not in destruction, but in transcendence.
The final shackle that tied his mortal body to the limits of life and death
A divine hum fills the mountain as his flesh turns radiant, his bones luminous, and his blood glows with silver-crimson light.
When the stillness settles, Lin Yi opens his eyes—
and the air itself trembles.
He has broken through.
His has ascended into the
As the divine pulse settles through his veins, Lin Yi’s awareness expands beyond his body—reaching through the broken Dream Space until it brushes against another mind.
His
The connection flares like a struck spark, and Lin Yi immediately senses the difference. That clone is still mortal, still unawakened to its past life memories.
But the moment its consciousness touches the Dream Space, a flood of memory and insight surges through it. Lin Yi feels it—his clone’s soul trembling, awakening. Once those memories fully align, it will step onto the almost instantly.
But there’s no time to dwell on that.
The greater concern lies elsewhere—
Through their shared link, Lin Yi can feel Jingxuan’s shifting, merging deeper into the Yet the transformation is unstable.
If it continues unchecked, the Immortal Concept could , forcing Jingxuan back onto the .
That must not happen.
Once a cultivator enters the God Stage, their dominant laws suppress all others, sealing off weaker paths forever.
The chance to reshape an immortal foundation comes only now—while Jingxuan remains at the , his unfinished. There is still a window to act, but it narrows with every passing breath.
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Within the shared consciousness, Lin Yi and his four clones begin a new —to build upon and stabilise the Immortal Concept, and to chart the next realm beyond the Demigod Stage.
Their five minds merge like rivers converging into one current. Thought, memory, and law intertwine—refining, dismantling, rebuilding. The Immortal Concept glows faintly in the Dream Space, tempered by unity.
Meanwhile, Lin Yi splits a wisp of his consciousness to reawaken his body.
His eyes open.
Across the drained lake, stands motionless, staring at him. Confusion and unease shadow her face—her instincts screaming that the man before her no longer feels mortal.
Her voice trembles softly. “Are you… okay?”
Lin Yi rises from above the lake’s surface, landing lightly on the scarlet-stained bank.
“One of my clones,” he says quietly, “has recovered his cultivation at the ”
Amelie freezes, eyes wide. Shock steals her breath; such words are not spoken lightly.
Lin Yi turns away, walking toward the cavern mouth. The air shifts with each step, the remnants of divine energy bending faintly around him.
Emerging onto the , he halts—his gaze falling upon standing at the forest’s edge.
From their auras, he can tell immediately: humans.
The old man carries the power of a , while the young woman and man beside him radiate the steadier pulse of
Lin Yi sends a calm voice transmission.
“Come here.”
Behind him, Amelie steps into the open but stays silent, sensing his focus.
The three figures exchange wary glances, then rise into the air and land a few paces below the peak.
The old man bows deeply, hands clasped, voice steady though lined with reverence.
“Venerable… I am , and these two are my disciples.”
The young woman beside him bows deeply, her voice trembling yet reverent.
“Venerable, I am .”
The young man follows, lowering his head.
“I am , Venerable.”
Lin Yi studies them silently. Their manners, tone, even their breathing—refined but cautious. They are used to power, yet not to divinity.
He decides not to conceal what he is.
“In this world,” he asks evenly, “ are addressed as ?”
All three freeze for a heartbeat—shock flashing across their eyes. Yet their surprise fades quickly; it is not disbelief, but recognition.
Tianci answers first, his tone respectful but measured.
“Yes, Venerable. Cultivators who reach the —the realm that transcends mortality—are honoured by that title.”
Lin Yi nods, thoughtful. “Tell me about this place.”
Tianci straightens slightly, hands clasped.
“This world is known as the , born after the Cataclysm. We now stand on the —one of its surviving lands. The continent is ruled by seven great powers: , , , , , , and the . The nearest to this region is , held by the , a force under the authority of War City.”
Lin Yi listens, his expression unreadable. Minyi City—perhaps a place to gather information and resources. “I see.”
After a pause, he says quietly, “You three may leave.”
Tianci hesitates, then lowers himself again in a respectful bow.
“Venerable… may I ask a favour?”
Lin Yi inclines his head slightly. “Speak.”
Tianci glances at his disciples, then back at Lin Yi.
“Venerable, may I… use the ?”
Lin Yi’s gaze sharpens. “The Soul Well?”
Tianci nods, taking a careful breath.
“It is the —where the souls of the dead are drawn into the flow of the world and sent to their next life. A sacred place, and the foundation of all soul cultivation.”
The words stir something in Lin Yi.
A —a natural passage of rebirth. It explains how his and could have reincarnated after the fall of his world.
He steps forward slightly. “Where is it?”
Tianci pulls a small from his space ring. The aged surface is etched with shifting runes, its needle trembling faintly with every pulse of nearby energy.
Feeding his spiritual energy into it, Tianci says,
“This compass tracks the current of the Soul Well. It points downward—toward the ”
The needle glows faintly, rotating until it aligns perfectly with the slope beneath their feet.
Tianci looks up, waiting for approval. “Venerable… shall we proceed?”
Lin Yi studies him for a moment, feeling the faint emanating from deep below. Its rhythm is ancient, vast—far purer than any cultivated law.
A faint smile touches his lips. “Then lead the way.”
Tianci bows again and begins descending. Lin Yi follows behind, Amelie silent at his side, the two disciples trailing nervously after.
At the mountain’s base, Tianci kneels and takes several from his ring. He arranges them on the ground in a precise circle, channelling spiritual energy into each.
The air vibrates. Symbols light one by one, and a low hum ripples through the earth.
Moments later, the mountain shakes—deep, resonant, alive.
With a groan like the breath of a sleeping god, a opens in the rock face, spiralling downward into darkness. From within, Lin Yi feels it clearly now—, thick and ancient, pouring out like the exhale of the underworld itself.
Tianci stands, turning toward him with reverent eyes.
“Venerable… please.”
Lin Yi steps forward, his expression calm. The scent of eternity lingers in the air as he gazes into the tunnel.
Without hesitation, he descends.
The air grows colder with each step, the tunnel twisting like the throat of some ancient creature. The faint glow from Tianci’s array stones casts trembling shadows along the rough walls. At the end of the descent, the space widens—revealing the
A vast pit spirals downward into an abyss of mist and light. From within rises a silent current—an invisible pull that tugs not at flesh but at
Lin Yi feels it immediately. The attraction is primal, absolute; his soul trembles, yearning to leave his body and plunge into that infinite depth.
Behind him, he senses panic. Tianci’s two disciples have already lost control—eyes glazing over, their souls half-drawn from their shells.
Lin Yi snaps his fingers. Two faint silver sparks shoot forth, striking their foreheads. The resonance of his divine energy pulls their wandering spirits back.
The disciples collapse to their knees, gasping, colour returning to their faces.
Meikou blinks rapidly, still trembling. “W–what… happened?”
Tianci steps forward, voice grave. “Your cultivation isn’t deep enough to withstand the Soul Well’s pull. The power of reincarnation calls to all living souls.”
Lin Yi glances over his shoulder. “Then what do you need from it?”
Tianci bows slightly, clasping his hands. “For , Venerable. To break through to the , I must refine my pill using the energy of the Soul Well. Only then can I forge .”
Lin Yi nods faintly, his gaze returning to the luminous spiral. “You can do it.”
Then he turns away, his robes brushing softly against the stone. He has no time to linger. Jingxuan’s situation weighs on him like a pulse beneath the earth—fragile, burning, unstable. If Jingxuan fails to preserve the , the collapse of the will ripple through their shared essence, crippling both of their paths.
He and Amelie ascend in silence, the tunnel closing behind them like a sigh.
Back in the , the drained air carries only the faint echo of their footsteps. Lin Yi turns to her.
“Amelie,” he says quietly, “I know you have many questions. I’ll answer them later.”
She nods, uncertain but trusting.
He floats to the centre of the lake, crossing his legs above its still surface. Closing his eyes, he sinks his mind once more into the link, joining Jingxuan and his other selves in the deduction.
Only one is absent.
The
Still mortal, still bound to another world.
In this life, he is known as —a man of the modern age, living in a civilisation of steel and light not unlike twenty-first-century Earth.
Born an orphan, Doha had always wrestled with a storm inside him. Rage came easily; peace did not. As a child, he would lash out over the smallest things, breaking, burning, shouting—until one day, a weary teacher at the orphanage gave him a brush and a canvas.
“Paint it,” she had said. “Whatever you feel. Just paint it.”
And he did.
Years later, stands at the heart of a grand exhibition hall, walls lined with his work—vivid, chaotic, alive. Paintings that scream in silence. Faces twisted in colour and light. Worlds torn and mended by emotion.
Guests murmur praise around him. Critics and collectors smile, champagne glasses glittering in the light. Doha moves among them, offering faint smiles, speaking softly, yet his eyes betray distance—as though part of him is looking elsewhere.
He paints his anger still. He lives quietly, peacefully even.
But far beneath the calm brushstrokes, deep within the soul of —
A storm begins to stir.
He stands before one of his paintings, the vibrant scarlet streaks almost pulsing with a life of their own. His secretary, , lingers by the door, tablet in hand, ready to note any last requests.
“Rachel,” he says suddenly, his tone sharper than usual. “Can you close the exhibition early?”
She blinks, caught off guard. “Close it? Sir, is there any problem?”
Doha exhales, the weight in his chest tightening. He can feel something building beneath his calm facade—a pressure, an instinct, a whisper from another life calling him to awaken. He wants to leave, to go home, to , to begin cultivation again. But such things do not exist in this world—at least, not that anyone here can see.
He shakes his head lightly. “No. I just… don’t feel like continuing.”
Rachel hesitates, eyes flicking to the crowd of socialites still admiring the art. “There aren’t any important guests left. And Madam Seiko is on her way—you can leave with her once she arrives.”
Doha nods, resigned. “Alright.”
He moves through the exhibition, exchanging polite words and practised smiles with the guests. Cameras flash, glasses clink, and laughter hums through the air, but none of it touches him.
—his wife of two years—is the “Madam” Rachel mentioned. Their marriage is less a romance and more a contract built on trust and history. The had once run the orphanage where Doha grew up. He had met Merilyn there when he was just a boy with ink-stained hands and a restless temper.
He was a genius then—brilliant in studies, frighteningly talented with a brush. The Seikos had taken notice. They funded his education, displayed his early works, and even paraded him through charity galas as their prodigy.
When he came of age, Doha left for the to pursue painting on his own terms. For years, he built a name abroad—his art earning global acclaim, his presence requested in museums and media alike.
Then, two years ago, tragedy struck. Merilyn’s parents died in a , and the will they left behind held a condition:
For her to inherit her father’s share of , she had to be married.
Doha had returned for the funeral. When she asked him to marry her, her reasons were simple.
“I trust you,” she’d said. “You don’t want power or money. I need stability, and you need peace. Let’s give each other that.”
And so they married.
She was right—Doha had no interest in wealth. His joy was painting, nothing else. Every year, he donated nearly of his income to orphanages across the country, quietly funding the same kind of place that had once sheltered him.
Now, standing under the exhibition lights, he glances at his watch. It’s already past .
“She should have left her office by now,” he murmurs.
A faint unease pricks at the back of his mind. He takes out his phone, thumb hovering over her name before typing a short message.
He hits send, watching the screen light up and dim again.
Elsewhere, in the glowing upper floor of a glass-walled tower, sits at a round table surrounded by men and women in suits. The scent of wine and cologne hangs heavy in the air. Laughter rises, glasses clink, and deals are wrapped in smiles sharper than blades.
She lifts her glass, sips politely, and keeps her expression composed—professional, warm, and empty. Inside, she is bored.
This dinner, hosted under the pretence of “networking,” had long since drifted past its purpose. The had ended an hour ago, but leaving early when every powerful figure of the sits at the same table would be seen as an insult. So she stays—smiling, listening, pretending.
Her phone buzzes on her lap.
A message. One name on the screen—
She glances down.
Her eyes soften for a moment. She had promised to attend his exhibition tonight, his last day. And she had meant it. Doha never asks for much; his world is quiet, far from the chaos of boardrooms and negotiations. Remembering his gentle, distant face, she feels a flicker of guilt.
She looks for an exit. A chance.
Leaning slightly toward the man beside her, , the host of the dinner, she whispers, “Michael, I’ll be leaving now. Today’s the final day of my husband’s exhibition.”
Michael—an older man, sharp-eyed and courteous—glances at her, then nods. “Of course, President Seiko. Give him my congratulations.”
She smiles faintly, grateful. Standing, she addresses the table with effortless poise.
“Everyone, it was a pleasure meeting you. But I have an urgent personal matter to attend to. I hope you’ll excuse me.”
A few polite nods, a few murmurs of farewell. She turns and walks away, heels clicking softly against the marble floor.
Behind her, conversation resumes. But not everyone returns to their wine.
At the far end of the table, , one of the major business leaders of the Federation, leans toward Michael.
“She left so soon? The dinner’s not even over.”
Michael waves it off with a casual hand. “Her husband’s art exhibition ends tonight. She promised to go.”
Yota nods, unconcerned. “Ah, the painter husband. Makes sense.”
But another man at the table, , a younger businessman from the , raises an eyebrow. “She’s married?”
Michael gives him a curious glance. “Yes. To an artist—Kim Doha. Why?”
Long Zen only smiles faintly, his eyes narrowing with interest. He takes out his phone beneath the table and types a quick message to one of his aides.
The message sends. The phone screen dims.
Outside, Merilyn’s car glides into the city’s night traffic. Neon lights streak across her windows, reflections painting her face with red and gold.
She leans back against the seat, exhaling softly.