Mirror Dream Tree-V.4.164. Saint King Tribulation.
Merin stands beneath the tribulation clouds, expression calm, eyes clear.
The first stage descends without warning.
Eighty-one bolts of five-element lightning tear through the sky.
Metal screams.
Wood twists.
Water drowns.
Fire incinerates.
Earth crushes.
Each bolt carries a complete cycle of generation and destruction, striking in relentless succession, turning the city below into molten ruin.
Merin raises a hand.
“Chess Field—expand.”
The world restructures.
Black-and-white grids unfold beneath his feet, extending upward into the clouds themselves.
The five-element lightning crashes down—
And disperses.
Each bolt is redirected, divided, neutralised, and its laws dismantled the instant it touches the grid.
Eighty-one strikes fall.
Eighty-one vanish.
The clouds churn violently.
The second stage follows.
Twelve shapes condense from lightning.
Supreme Weapon Tribulation.
Blades.
Halberds.
Seals.
Bells.
Bows.
Each carries the will of a Supreme Weapon, striking with killing intent refined over eras.
Together, they descend like judgment.
Merin steps forward.
Within the Chess Field, the weapons slow, their trajectories rewritten.
One freezes mid-strike.
Another turns aside.
A third collapses into pure energy.
Merin reaches out.
The grid tightens.
All twelve Supreme Weapon phantoms shatter simultaneously, reduced to harmless sparks.
The clouds go silent.
Then they roar.
The final tribulation forms.
Twelve figures emerge from lightning—
The past images of the Supremes, manifesting as Saint Kings, each radiating unmatched authority.
They stand in a circle around Merin, robes and armour forged from lightning itself, their presence pressing down like the weight of eras.
These are not illusions.
They are the distilled will of the Supremes at their peak foundations.
Their gazes lock onto Merin.
In the same instant, they move.
Twelve Dao Fields unfold.
Fire scorches space.
Water drowns reality.
Metal sharpens the void.
Wood spreads endlessly.
Earth locks everything into stillness.
On top of that, supreme intent overlaps, stacking pressure layer by layer until even heaven groans.
Merin’s Chess Field trembles.
Not from instability—
But from pressure.
Merin does not move.
He lets the Chess Field contract inward, compressing from an all-encompassing domain into a tight, absolute core around his body.
The twelve figures strike.
Blades fall.
Seals descend.
Palms shatter space.
Lightning fists tear through dimensions.
Merin finally raises his hand.
“Material Rebound.”
Five-element light flows outward, but it does not attack.
Fire forms elasticity.
Water becomes flow.
Metal creates reflection.
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Wood absorbs force.
Earth stabilises the structure.
Space folds inward, binding the five elements into a single defensive law.
The first attack lands—
And rebounds.
Not reflected.
Not negated.
Reinterpreted.
The force is converted, redirected, and returned along a different spatial axis, smashing into the attacker’s weakest point.
The first lightning Saint King staggers.
Before it can recover, the Chess Field shifts.
The grid overlays its Dao Field, exposing a flaw—a discontinuity between intent and execution.
Merin steps once.
The Saint King collapses into sparks.
Eleven remain.
They adapt instantly, changing attack patterns, synchronising their Dao Fields to erase rebound angles.
Merin remains still.
Material Rebound evolves.
Water absorbs thunder.
Fire consumes metal.
Wood erodes earth.
Earth suppresses fire.
Metal cuts space itself.
Each attack feeds the next counter.
The second Saint King is crushed when his own gravity is folded back onto his core.
The third is erased when space collapses between his feet and his Dao source.
The fourth lasts longer, pushing Merin back a step—
And that is enough.
The Chess Field tightens.
A line appears beneath the Saint King’s feet.
Checkmate.
Lightning disperses.
The remaining figures hesitate.
For the first time, something like confusion crosses their faces.
They increase output.
Fields roar.
Heaven shakes.
Merin exhales slowly.
His Dao completes its analysis.
Their weakness is not power—
But rigidity.
They are past images.
Perfect.
And unable to change.
Material Rebound shifts again.
This time, it does not wait for impact.
It reshapes reality around them.
Attacks land on empty space.
Fields overlap incorrectly.
Their coordination fractures.
One by one, they fall.
Six.
Five.
Four.
Each erased cleanly, without spectacle.
When only one remains, the final Saint King charges with everything left.
Merin looks at him.
The Chess Field contracts to a single square.
The lightning figure steps forward—
And vanishes.
Silence returns.
The tribulation clouds dissolve.
Merin stands alone.
Unmoving.
Unharmed.
Heaven has tested him.
And failed.
A stunned silence grips the city for a heartbeat—
Then the human race erupts.
Cheers thunder across the shattered plaza, voices hoarse, unrestrained, filled with disbelief and rising hope.
Some shout Merin’s name.
Others shout nothing at all, simply screaming their release.
On the opposite terraces, faces darken.
Spirit Dragon elders narrow their eyes.
Ancient God Clan representatives stiffen.
Races that have long held enmity toward humanity feel a chill creep into their Dao hearts.
Even the neutral factions frown.
This is no longer speculation.
Merin is proving himself a true contender for the Supreme throne.
Spirit transmissions ripple silently among the higher-ups.
The patriarch of the Corpse Fly Race speaks first, his voice cold and measured.
“The Dao field is not from a weapon,” he transmits.
“It is his own.”
Silence answers him.
Among those present, every Quasi-Supreme domain has been anchored by a former Quasi-Supreme Weapon.
Not one of them has forged a field through pure comprehension.
The Corpse Fly patriarch continues, his gaze drifting across the city, settling briefly on Silan and Mengui standing on the far side, guarded by human cultivators.
“Even with Quasi-Supreme Weapons, we cannot stop him from escaping,” he says.
“And we’ve already lost our leverage.”
Another patriarch responds grimly.
“If conflict breaks out now, our lives are also at risk.”
Some hesitate.
Some consider retreat.
Then a new voice enters the transmission.
Deep.
Steady.
Absolute.
“Do not worry,” says the patriarch of the Ancient God Clan.
“He will not be able to leave.”
Attention shifts instantly.
One of the patriarchs transmits sharply, “Are you planning to use your clan’s Supreme Weapon?”
“If that’s the case, I’m out.”
Several others echo the sentiment.
Supreme Weapons mean total war.
Decisions of that magnitude are not theirs to make—not while Supremes still live, even if asleep.
The Ancient God patriarch answers calmly.
“No.”
A pause.
“My grandfather is nearby.”
The channel goes still.
Before anyone can ask further—
Thunder rumbles.
Not distant.
Not fading.
Heavy.
Persistent.
One cultivator transmits urgently, “His tribulation hasn’t ended.”
Another replies, voice tight, “Fourth stage—the Dao Thunder Tribulation.”
“If he passes this… there’s more than a seventy per cent chance he becomes the next Supreme.”
A third cuts in, cold and decisive.
“He must die.”
“Send word back. Prepare the Supreme Weapons.”
This time, no one objects.
Fear of all-out war fades in the face of something worse.
A new human Supreme.
Above the city, Merin lifts his gaze.
The tribulation clouds have not dispersed.
They have thickened.
Darkness coils within them, layered with pure Dao intent, heavier than any lightning before.
Merin exhales slowly.
His Chess Field contracts further, no longer spreading across the city, no longer asserting dominance.
It condenses into a small, precise shield above his head.
Perfect.
Absolute.
The clouds split.
Dao descends—
not as raw lightning—
—but as judgment.
The sky darkens further, the tribulation clouds compressing into a single rotating mass heavy enough to bend space itself.
Dao intent condenses within it, pure and merciless.
The first Dao thunder falls.
It is silent.
A single bolt descends, carrying the weight of law rather than destruction.
It strikes Merin’s condensed Dao shield—and disperses harmlessly.
Merin does not move.
The second thunder follows immediately.
Twice the power.
The Dao shield trembles, fine cracks spreading across its surface like shattered glass.
Fragments of Dao thunder slip through, landing on Merin’s body.
Pain erupts.
Different laws conflict violently within his flesh, tearing at meridians and bones.
He grits his teeth and stabilises himself, forcing the Chess Field to re-balance.
The third thunder descends.
Heavier.
Denser.
The shield fractures further.
More thunder pours through.
Merin’s skin chars and splits as Dao energy carves into him directly, destroying muscle and rupturing organs before regeneration barely keeps pace.
Blood evaporates before it can fall.
The fourth thunder arrives.
The shield is barely holding now, vibrating violently as if on the verge of collapse.
Thunder floods through, smashing into his torso and limbs.
His left arm shatters completely.
His chest caves inward.
Merin forces his Dao to reconstruct him mid-strike, rebuilding bone and flesh while being destroyed again.
The fifth thunder strikes.
The shield is now mostly cracks and fragments.
Thunder washes over him like a tide.
Half his internal organs are annihilated.
His vision blurs.
He tastes iron and lightning.
Still, he stands.
The sixth thunder descends without pause.
The Dao shield screams.
Then—
It collapses.
The seventh thunder follows immediately, unrestrained.
It crashes directly onto Merin.
There is no defence.
His body is obliterated.
More than half of him vanishes into nothingness, erased by Dao lightning.
Only fragments remain—charred bone, flickering essence, shattered will.
The crowd gasps.
Human cultivators cry out.
But Merin does not fall.
Within the storm, his Dao activates on instinct.
The Chess Field reconstructs him square by square.
Bone reforms.
Flesh regrows.
Meridians reconnect.
He stands again, naked of defence, barely whole.
The eighth thunder descends.
Stronger still.
It smashes into his newly formed body, tearing him apart a second time, shredding him to the brink of nonexistence.
Merin rebuilds again.
Slower.
More costly.
His Saint Essence drains catastrophically.
The ninth thunder forms.
The sky seems to collapse inward as all remaining Dao energy condenses into a single bolt.
When it falls, it is absolute.
It strikes Merin—and his body bursts.
Not shatters.
Bursts.
Essence scatters like dust.
For a moment, there is nothing.
Silence.
Then—
Slowly—
Essence gathers.
Months pass in an instant.
Merin’s body reforms inch by inch, consuming every last drop of Saint Essence he possesses.
When he finally stands again, he is pale, exhausted, barely conscious.
Dead tired.
On the verge of collapse.
Below, the human race exhales as one.
Relief spreads like a wave.
The tribulation clouds begin to disperse.
Heaven and earth energy surge downward, pouring into Merin, nourishing him, stabilising him, acknowledging his survival.
He has passed.
Then—
A black lightning strikes.
It does not come from the tribulation clouds.
It comes from elsewhere.
It pierces Merin instantly.
He feels something enter his body.
A black needle.
Cold.
Ancient.
Malicious.
His pupils shrink.
Before consciousness slips away, he hears a furious voice echo within his soul—
“You dare.”
Darkness takes him.
V.4.164. Saint King Tribulation.
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