After a short rest, Chu Xiyue asked Wu Yue and Ting Xue to accompany her. She needed someone she could trust to back her up as she searched for the true Demon Realm.
A few miles from where they had been staying, she suddenly felt her bloodline stir violently—an ancient force was calling to her. Guided by this sensation, she discovered an old formation and altar hidden deep in the mountains. She stood before them, her heart pounding. Was it these that were summoning me? And for what purpose?
Before she could think further, a mysterious force pulled her in. In the blink of an eye, she was trapped within an unknown dimension.
A deep, ancient voice echoed through the darkness.
"My descendant… your blood is pure. Undoubtedly, you are of the royal lineage. Now, I shall reveal to you the truth of the Demon Realm."
The space around her shifted. Darkness gave way to a wintry plain, snow swirling in the air. In this lonely land, a young lord appeared—he forged the Demon Realm with his own hands. Atop a towering ice mountain, he built a palace. Below it, his people, the demons, lived and flourished.
This young lord became the first ruler of the Demon Realm. A hundred years later, he passed his throne—and a sacred blade that symbolized authority—to his son. This tradition continued for generations.
But then came a man who called himself the embodiment of the Heavenly Dao. He refused to let the old bloodline rule. Instead, he installed his own disciple as the new ruler. Those who protested were slain. The Demon Realm split in two: the original bloodline and the so-called "new demons."
"So… this is the truth?" Chu Xiyue whispered.
"Yes," the voice replied. "The symbol of our rightful rule has been forgotten. But you must now reclaim it. The blade awaits—use your blood. It will recognize you as its master."
As the vision faded, Chu Xiyue stepped forward and took a deep breath. "I, Chu Xiyue, will reclaim my birthright and restore our realm."
She gripped the blade, which glowed with a dark crimson light. A feminine voice echoed from within.
"I am Fei Yue, spirit of the blade. I recognize you as my master. I will assist you. But know this—your journey will be filled with thorns. Yet I believe you have the power to surpass even your ancestor."
Fei Yue gave her directions, then faded back into the blade.
Chu Xiyue followed the path, and soon she reached a small village nestled in the snow. A group of young demon children—no older than five or six—approached her, their eyes wide with curiosity.
"Pretty sister, who are you? You feel familiar, but we've never seen you before! Come, let's take you to see Great-Granny. She might know who you are!"
They led her through the snow-covered hills. After about fifteen miles, they reached a modest house. A familiar voice called from within.
"Come in."
Her heart trembled—it was the voice from her dreams.
Inside, an old woman with a hunched back and a walking stick waited. Tears filled Chu Xiyue's eyes.
"Are you… my great-grandmother?"
The old woman gently touched her head.
"Yes, child. Welcome home. These are your cousins."
That day, Chu Xiyue found her family—and her place—alongside the spirit of the blade.
Meanwhile…
Ye Mingzhi was still brooding over Zi Ling's words.
"She's right… I've been cruel to her. I'm a bastard."
He went to the river to fetch water and clear his head. But as he crouched by the stream, a squad of killers appeared—sent by the Heavenly Dao.
"Look at you now—former ruler of the Nine Heavens, reduced to a powerless mortal," one sneered. "Why did our lord waste so much effort on you? Let's end this!"
Ye Mingzhi's eyes turned cold as steel. In one swift motion, he drew his sword and attacked. With a single strike, most of the assassins were thrown back—but one remained unscathed.
"So you can only defeat the weak," the survivor mocked.
That one strike had drained Ye Mingzhi of half his strength. His movements slowed; his sword lost its edge. Surrounded, bloodied, and worn, he heard a voice echo inside his soul.
"Tsk, my dear disciple, how pitiful. Do I have to save you myself?" It was Lao Xuan's voice, teasing as ever.
"Where are the sword techniques I taught you? Forgotten already, little rascal? Let me remind you—pay attention. And don't forget, you must learn proper meditation. Otherwise, your body will break under your power."
Tears filled Ye Mingzhi's eyes. "Master…"
"Don't cry yet. We'll meet again—once you reclaim your power, or rise even higher than before. Now, watch closely."
A spiritual image of Lao Xuan appeared before him. The techniques he demonstrated flowed like a mountain—firm, unshakable—and yet as light as a drifting cloud.
The assassins charged.
"Still playing tricks? Die already!"
But Ye Mingzhi had changed.
In that moment, he radiated a silent, ethereal aura—like an immortal reborn.
With a single strike, the remaining enemies collapsed.
His power had begun to return, slowly, with the guidance of his master's lingering spirit.