The battlefield grows harsher with every heartbeat, the desert torn into craters and blackened glass by the collision of Dao techniques.

Merin’s Destruction Fist cracks through a lightning claw, only for the serpent to coil around his waist, dragging him down. He rips free with Devouring Fire, burning the shadow coils to ash, but the effort leaves his guard open. A crimson arrow pierces his shoulder, spinning him back just as blood fire explodes against his chest.

His body shudders, scorched, battered, one arm trembling from the force of the impact, yet the wounds vanish as they’re swallowed into the illusion space. But his breathing grows heavy—because the healing is not free. His spiritual pressure wavers, his control stretched thin under their relentless rhythm.

Again, he tries to break through the formation, and again he’s forced back, the four locking him in tighter and tighter. Each step forward costs him more strength than it buys.

Merin’s mind races. If this continues, they’ll grind me into the sand piece by piece.

His gaze sharpens, but inside, a darker thought rises, one he’s resisted for years.

The Devil Saint spiritual body.

The path no one else dared take, a method that begins in corruption before reaching transcendence. To practice it fully, one must first become a devil, surrendering to madness, before attempting to climb back into the light. That was why he avoided it, why he only touched the surface of its form.

Because once released, the inner devil would surge to the forefront, a tide of rage and hunger difficult to leash again.

Yet here, surrounded by four peak Great Dao Lords, every breath another storm of blades and fire, his choices dwindle.

If I stay in control, I die.

The serpent lunges again, lightning claws rake across his chest, arrows rain down, and fire consumes the ground beneath his feet.

Merin roars, and the decision tears through him.

Devil energy bursts out from his body, a tide of black mist threaded with crimson light. The pressure alone hurls the four Dark Blood cultivators backwards through the air, their Dao shields fracturing under the force.

The desert howls, as if the earth itself fears what has been unleashed.

The devil energy erupts from his body, twisting him as he grows taller, his hands elongating into claws, bat wings sprouting from his back, a dark mask forming on his face, horns spiralling from his head, and golden chest armour blooming across his torso, eyes blazing red.

The Dark Blood cultivators stagger, shouting, “He is a devil.” “Is he from the Holy Devil Gate?” “Does it matter? Kill him, he killed Zed.” “Yes, kill him.”

They charge again, but now their attacks strike a form that is no longer human, a storm of devil energy made flesh.

Merin lashes out, claws slicing through the air, tearing at one of the Dark Blood cultivators, blood spraying as the man staggers back, grievously wounded.

His body moves with unrestrained ferocity, muscles and reflexes honed to perfection by years of cultivation, each strike carrying the raw, unbridled force of his devil energy.

The other three dark blood cultivators hesitate, their attacks faltering under the sheer destructive aura radiating from him.

Inside, Merin struggles with his inner demon, clawing to control the chaos within, every heartbeat a battle against being consumed by his own power.

Simultaneously, his consciousness sinks into the illusion space, drawing back the souls he had granted it, feeding them into the core, each soul igniting the formation, strengthening the laws that govern the ninja world.

With each claw swipe, each roar of devil energy, the illusion space pulses and stabilises, the laws of fantasy and five elements flowing more powerfully through it, fueled by the stolen souls.

Even as he fights the Dark Blood cultivators with raw power alone, the foundations of his creation grow stronger, each second in battle doubling as a meditation in destruction and creation.

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Merin’s claws tear through the sand and rock, each strike a hurricane of raw power, but his mind is fixed, his intent sharpened—these four must die, their knowledge of his devil nature leaving no room for mercy.

He lashes out, mixing raw ferocity with calculated strikes, trying to channel the Destruction Fist technique through his devil energy, the aura around him warping and burning the desert air.

His first five moves flow smoothly, hammering the Dark Blood cultivators back, but as he reaches the sixth, the Destruction Fist surges, energy coiling around his body, claws and fists fusing with the Law of Destruction.

A pulse erupts from him, stronger than the peak of a Great Tao Lord, forcing the four to stagger, shields and attacks barely holding against the sheer destructive force.

The final seventh move, the Space Shatter Fist, hovers at the edge of his control, the combination of devil energy and perfected destruction energy nearly tearing his body apart from within.

Yet the inner devil remains suppressed, tamed by the illusion of space, letting him wield this ultimate technique without succumbing to madness.

With a roar, he launches forward, each strike of the Destruction Fist leaving cracks in the ground and burns in the air, targeting the injured one first, tearing flesh and spirit simultaneously.

The other three falter, seeing their companion fall, yet continue their attacks, desperate and furious, but each blow is met with calculated devastation, claws and fists intertwining with destruction energy, a storm no mere mortal could withstand.

Merin’s form blurs between devil and technique, each movement feeding the destruction within, and each strike brings him closer to ending the fight and asserting the dominance of his wrath.

Merin’s eyes burn crimson, devil energy coiling like serpents around his body, and he fixes on the next target, the anger and pain from his earlier losses fueling every movement.

The Dark Blood cultivator moves to strike, but Merin’s claws shred through the air, faster than thought, rending the enemy’s guard and tearing through muscle and bone in one brutal swipe.

A roar of agony echoes as the second cultivator crashes into the desert, blood and sand mixing in a storm of destruction.

The remaining two hesitate for a fraction, sensing the inevitability of their fate, but Merin advances without pause, his Destruction Fist merging with the raw force of his devil energy, each punch a hammer of annihilation.

He absorbs every attack they throw, every slash, every conjured blade, twisting his body with impossible agility, letting the illusion space suppress the inner devil while still feeding the destructive energy into his fists.

Another step, another strike, and he drives his claws through the third, his aura crushing the ground beneath them, the Law of Destruction roaring through the desert as the cultivator collapses, screaming in both pain and disbelief.

Merin’s breathing is heavy, his body unscathed by the injuries that would have felled a lesser being, every movement precise yet savage, a perfect blend of instinct and wrath.

The last one glares, hatred and fear mingling in their eyes, but Merin does not pause, does not hesitate, as he channels all his fury, all his devil energy, into the final, devastating strike that will end the battle.

The last Dark Blood cultivator tries to flee, but Merin pursues relentlessly, channelling his devil energy into a devastating punch that shatters the air and sends the enemy hurtling across the desert.

The cultivator crashes into the sand, groaning, as Merin descends and hovers above, his crimson eyes cold and unwavering.

Hatred drips from the cultivator’s gaze. “Please… spare me,” he pleads.

“I don’t think so,” Merin replies, landing firmly on the ground.

The cultivator glares, voice trembling with fury, “Then I will be waiting for you!”

Without warning, his aura destabilises, his body swelling grotesquely. Merin’s eyes widen in alarm as he tries to retreat, but before he can gain distance, the enemy detonates in an explosion.

Flames and force lash out, and Merin’s flight fails him—the blast catches up, throwing him across the desert.

When the smoke finally clears, Merin’s injuries surge, forcing him back into his true form, panting and battered.

His gaze falls on his wrist, where a dark crimson teardrop symbol now burns into his skin.

He closes his eyes, presses his spirit to the mark, and frowns when he cannot erase it.

He moves toward the blast site, scanning the cracked sand and shattered bones, finding nothing left of the detonated man but a blackened crater.

He returns to the four fallen Dark Blood cultivators, and one by one, he lays them in a circle and burns their bodies with Devouring Fire until only four dark-crimson pills remain.

He tucks the pills and the severed head of the Nine‑Colored Deer into his space ring, seals them away, and lifts off from the desert in a blur.

While climbing into the sky, he reaches into the hidden core of the illusion and slips the souls back into their waiting shells for a heartbeat—then withdraws them again, and the frozen instant in the ninja world that held them snaps back into motion.

For a moment, the Naruto-world continues as if nothing had happened, townsfolk moving, children playing, the saint‑rank array humming its slow, patient intelligence.

Merin watches the small scene through the veil of the ring and thinks of Jinji City—its markets, its living crowds, the thousand auras he could harvest to feed the core of his world.

Souls are not merely fuel; they are belief, they are actors who will give weight to his creation, and without them, his fabricated villages will remain paper-thin.

He coils his will inward and measures the scale of what he needs: numbers enough to seed dozens of villages, enough noise of life to drown memory and build consensus.

A plan takes shape in the hollow where the devil mark pulses—he will make Jinji bleed belief into his illusion, one way or another.

He tastes the cold calculus of it and feels the last threads of hesitation snap; for now, soul is the only true currency that matters.

With the shadowed pills safe and the deer’s brilliance locked away, he sets his course south toward the city, wings beating the air like a coming storm.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep