Three days later, Zong Shou was sweating profusely, walking atop a surging, tide-ridden expanse of emerald sea.

The seventh layer was named the Spirit Sea Death Prison; looking out, one saw only azure seawater stretching to the horizon.

It was a sight that broadened the heart, yet within that deep, pure blue water lay virulent poison. Beyond that, this world seemed to distort every principle of the Great Dao imaginable.

Walking on this sea surface subjected one to elemental magnetic forces thousands, even tens of thousands, of times stronger than normal. It wasn't just the body that had to endure pressure amplified by a factor of a thousand or more; even the contents sealed within the Qiankun Pouch were not exempt. This meant constant, lethal danger of plunging into the sea, with absolutely nowhere to rest or find footing.

The forbidden arts here were different from the previous layers. It was wind—a bone-scraping gale, ceaseless and unrelenting. It not only whipped the emerald sea into towering waves but also carried innumerable sinister energies that bored straight into the marrow of one's bones. This brought a pain comparable to the Ice Wheel Torture, and if resisted inadequately, it would utterly corrupt and crush one’s vital energy and essence, plundering lifespan.

Just a day prior, Zong Shou had personally witnessed a cultivator at the Immortal Realm mid-stage lose the strength to endure the ferocious winds and waves, plunging into the water. In merely sixty breaths, the body vanished without a trace, not even blood remaining. He couldn't fathom what kind of toxin saturated this water that even an Immortal-grade cultivator could offer no resistance.

Zong Shou, too, was utterly exhausted, drenched in sweat. Every hundred li required a stop to gasp for breath. This ceaseless, chilling wind caused his internal qi and blood to flow in reverse, a torment that never ceased. He had no idea how long he could sustain it before it ended.

Everything disposable in the Qiankun Pouch had already been discarded. Yet, his body felt as if it were filled with lead, impossibly heavy. Though he managed to keep going, he desperately wished he could just fall into the sea and embrace death immediately.

While using the Azure Fire Mystic Turtle for transport would have been much easier, the necessity of constant instantaneous spatial shifts made it inconvenient, ironically adding to his burden.

In contrast, Lu Wubing beside him fared significantly better. His qi flowed smoothly, and the mask concealed his expression, yet a hint of distress shadowed his eyes. Perhaps sensing Zong Shou was genuinely nearing his limit, he spoke: “My Lord, why endure this? Xuan Yan Saint Venerable likely already perceives our presence. Rushing further now would be fruitless. The dangers of the eighth layer—perhaps we should pause, recover slightly, and then reconsider—”

Zong Shou let out a cold chuckle, his expression impassive. How could he not know what Lu Wubing said was true? At this precise moment, a force so potent it conjured the impulse to bow and yield surged through his soul. It was a divine pressure that felt even more crushing than the elemental magnetic forces of this world.

It was Xuan Yan! Somewhere within this Death Prison, or perhaps even beyond the Nine Ultimate Death Prisons, the entity was looking down, observing them with an undisguised gaze. Yet, it was only the oppressive weight of this sliver of spiritual thought that Zong Shou found almost unbearable.

The being seemed unwilling to attack him directly, preferring to hover loftily with an air of mocking disdain. The sensation was akin to an incomparably noble monarch watching a mouse scurry past—a mouse that held a flicker of his interest. There was no intent to kill, but neither was the spiritual pressure withdrawn. It pressed down with a chill that reached the very marrow of his bones, nearly crushing him under the weight.

Perhaps this entity was simply waiting to see when Zong Shou would finally collapse, plunging into the sea like the one before him, his bones and soul utterly dissolved. Moreover, there was a subtle coercion, a demand for him to prostrate himself in submission. The intent seemed to convey that if Zong Shou would only admit fault, he might be spared.

“It matters not!”

Taking a deep breath, Zong Shou let out a brilliant, unrestrained laugh. Perhaps he had become accustomed to it, or perhaps he was distracted, but the pain of the Marrow-Burning Blood Spirit Curse and the reversal of his vital qi could no longer disturb his mind. Under this oppression, an unprecedented surge of defiance swelled in his chest. He couldn't explain why, but he absolutely refused to disgrace himself, yield, or become a spectacle for this person. He had never realized how inherently stubborn he was—stubbornness that could be called tenacity and resolve, or foolishly courting death. But now, trapped in this desperate situation, why should he bow to this being?

As if sensing Zong Shou's thoughts, that supreme-level spiritual thought abruptly intensified. Zong Shou’s body immediately swayed, his footing faltering, nearly tumbling beneath the waves. After a long moment, he managed to stand firm.

Lu Wubing beside him noticed nothing, his eyes wide with astonishment. How could it come to this? At this point, he knew Zong Shou’s internal state was abnormal, likely due to the Marrow-Burning Blood Spirit Curse. But given Zong Shou’s profound reserves, how could he be on the verge of collapse?

Zong Shou ignored him. The instant the divine pressure slammed down, his bones cracked violently, and his soul felt on the verge of being pulverized, yet he forcibly held on. Then, bearing this immense pressure, he took another step forward.

The world before him shifted again. His gaze swept toward the distance, where in the void of the clouds, a colossal, churning vortex spanned thousands of li. The surroundings were swept by violent storms, with countless bolts of lightning constantly flashing within the tempest.

“Is this the Gate of the Nether Prison you spoke of?”

The seventh layer, the Spirit Sea Death Prison, had two entry points. But the passage to the eighth layer, the Abyss of Space-Time, had only one location, and it no longer moved. It was situated exactly in the center of the Spirit Sea, directly overhead. Even with Zong Shou’s Star Dao Seed and its instantaneous shift capability, it took him more than three days to reach this spot. Just as he felt he could hold on no longer, he finally saw the entrance that led to the eighth layer.

Lu Wubing did not reply, though his expression was clouded with sorrow. Zong Shou understood; he was mourning the loss of his parents. After a moment of contemplation, Zong Shou said calmly, “You may remain here and need not follow! If I am unfortunate enough to perish, you must find your own way to survive. If I manage to escape this predicament, I will certainly exert all my effort to facilitate your rescue!”

With that, he tossed a jade plate into the distance. This was a spatial artifact they had seized in the Azure Spirit Realm that day. It was only marginally superior to the Spirit Mustard Ring and far inferior to the Celestial Treasure Juntian Palace taken from the God-Realm cultivator. However, this spatial artifact now contained over a hundred Immortal-grade experts, temporarily sealed within the jade plate. The cultivators inside required constant suppression; once he entered the eighth layer, Zong Shou might not be able to provide adequate protection. It was better to entrust the plate to Lu Wubing, whose near-God-Realm cultivation should be able to keep them safe.

Lu Wubing paused, seemingly realizing that his own insufficient cultivation would only make him a burden if he followed forcefully. Thus, he did not refuse and accepted the jade plate.

“Your subject understands! I shall not fail the trust placed in me by Your Majesty!”