Chapter 112: The Mortal Emperor of This Realm Who Dreamed for Five Hundred Years

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Before dawn the next day, Yang Xin grabbed Wang Zhen, donned his nano-steel battle armor, and, amid Wang Zhen’s astonished shouts and cries, soared into the sky, heading straight for the Ming capital.

The steel armor allowed for incredible speed. Although it could have gone faster, Yang Xin feared that Wang Zhen, unprotected during such a high-altitude flight, might suffer fatal injuries or worse. So he deliberately slowed down. Even so, it took less than an hour to fly from Mount Hua to the Ming capital.

Yang Xin did not descend from the sky but used ninjutsu to gather sand into clouds, standing atop a celestial cloud. Though Yang Xin himself could fly, Wang Zhen could not, so he simply formed a cloud platform with his ninjutsu for them both to stand on.

The two stood firm atop the immortal cloud. Yang Xin stepped forward as various ninjutsu responded to his will; the surrounding mist and clouds began to shape under his command. Floating clouds stretched for miles, transformed into countless immortal palaces, cloud pavilions, true dragons, and phoenixes.

Yang Xin’s enormous figure appeared in the sky, blotting out the sun and sky. He unleashed his full aura. At this moment, his power was immense. According to Marvel’s scale, Yang Xin’s strength would be at the level of a celestial father. Simply put, he was a reincarnation of the Supreme Sorcerer, the Ancient One: everything the Ancient One knew, Yang Xin knew as well—and more.

No longer restraining himself, Yang Xin fully displayed his dominance. The pressure of a true master descended upon all below.

Dragons soared, phoenixes danced, immortal palaces towered, colossal divine manifestations appeared, and an immense aura spread—all unmistakable signs that this being was no ordinary man. If not human, then surely an immortal deity!

Thus, all the citizens in the capital dropped to their knees, praying fervently.

Such a grand spectacle naturally did not escape the notice of the Ming Emperor and his ministers within the Forbidden City, as Yang Xin was headed straight for them, directing his pressure primarily at their location. Inside the Forbidden City, the emperor and ministers were horrified, trembling and nearly fleeing.

If it weren’t for the eunuchs who had secretly mastered the deepest layers of the Sunflower Manual hiding within the palace, who quietly informed the emperor that the figure in the clouds was none other than Wang Zhen, the chief eunuch of the Ceremonial Department, the Ming emperor might have already knelt. As for fighting back—impossible. This was the martial world, not the realm of immortals. Though there were rumored innate masters, none had witnessed true celestial beings or Buddhas.

Yang Xin’s imposing display terrified everyone.

“Do not speak of monsters, magic, or chaos!” a minister shouted hysterically from the crowd.

Yang Xin cast him a glance, and the man suddenly spat a mouthful of blood, convulsed twice, and collapsed gasping on the ground.

Yang Xin’s gaze alone, wielding only a sliver of his mental power, had nearly killed the man outright.

“Where is the Son of Heaven of Ming?” a majestic celestial voice echoed.

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Moments before, the Ming Emperor Zhu Qizhen had witnessed the celestial figure in the clouds kill a minister with a mere glance. He was drenched in cold sweat, deeply understanding the phrase: “Divine grace is like the sea; divine might is like a prison!” While he had not seen divine grace, he had certainly felt divine might—but dared not utter a word.

Now, hearing the celestial voice, he nearly fell to the ground, barely able to stand with the help of palace attendants as he shakily exited the palace.

“Son of Heaven of the mortal realm, I pay respects to the celestial immortal above.” Though Zhu Qizhen was emperor of a nation, the supreme ruler, and carried the fierce bloodline of the founding emperor Zhu Yuanzhang, he steadied himself and did not bow fully, only offering a respectful salute.

“Swoosh! Swoosh! Swoosh!” Four figures flew swiftly from inside the palace, surrounding and firmly protecting Zhu Qizhen. These four were the only eunuchs who had mastered the deepest levels of the Sunflower Manual.

The immortal palace in the clouds extended tier upon tier of cloud stairs, gradually descending to just three feet before the Ming emperor.

Yang Xin wore flowing white robes, his clothes billowing, deliberately adopting the cold, commanding presence reminiscent of Nick Fury from the Marvel universe. His ethereal, transcendent aura forbade anyone to underestimate him.

Behind him, Wang Zhen, chief eunuch of the Ceremonial Department, looked extremely awkward—standing was improper, kneeling inappropriate—so he simply closed his eyes and feigned unconsciousness atop the cloud.

“You, so-called Son of Heaven, are but a worthless ruler!” Yang Xin suddenly shouted.

His words crashed like thunderclaps in everyone’s ears.

Zhu Qizhen staggered, suppressing his terror, biting down until his teeth cracked and blood filled his mouth, roaring, “How dare you, Immortal, insult me!”

Immediately, the emperor regretted his words, recalling vividly the cloud figure’s deadly glare. If that gaze was directed his way again, he dared not imagine the outcome.

Indeed, Yang Xin’s gaze came—not with lethal fury, but with a touch of admiration.

“Not bad, still some pride left. Ming, truly a righteous founding kingdom. From now on, stop calling yourself Son of Heaven. Call yourself the Sovereign of Men!”

“Why?!” Zhu Qizhen reflexively asked, though inwardly puzzled. Wasn’t Son of Heaven the same as Sovereign of Men? Both supreme rulers.

“Since Pangu separated Heaven and Earth, since Nüwa created humans, since the Three Sovereigns governed the world, the Five Emperors established order, Yao and Shun abdicated in turn, Yu controlled the floods, Xia was founded, Shang replaced Xia, King Wu defeated Zhou, and the Shang dynasty fell—since Emperor Xin, no one has been the Sovereign of Men. I, as master of humanity and lord of Heaven and Earth, how can I bow to immortals or Buddhas? Why should the true lineage of Pangu stoop to heresies and false paths?!” Yang Xin’s voice thundered again.

“Since Emperor Xin, no Sovereign of Men?…” Zhu Qizhen muttered, trembling along with his ministers. If it were anyone else, they would be mercilessly scorned for such a claim. What of Confucius and the sages? Yet now, the ministers simply pondered silently.

“Look at me!” Yang Xin stepped into the void three feet before Zhu Qizhen, extending a finger to point directly at the emperor’s brow.

The four eunuchs guarding the emperor moved to intervene but were blasted dozens of meters away by Yang Xin’s glance, their fates unknown.

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After blasting the four Sunflower Manual elders away, Yang Xin’s finger did not retreat but gently touched Zhu Qizhen’s forehead.

With that single touch, thousands of years of dreams stirred, time blurred.

This was an illusion technique from the Supreme Sorcerer lineage—an art of dream illusions. A single dream spanning a thousand years, purifying the mortal world. Anyone whose mental cultivation or spiritual strength did not surpass Yang Xin’s would be forcibly drawn into this illusion.

Those caught in this dream either held firm and endured countless reincarnations until they broke free by force, or they attained enlightenment and transcended the mortal world, or eventually, Yang Xin grew bored and released them.

Clearly, Zhu Qizhen did not meet the first two criteria, so he was trapped in endless cycles of the dream.

Yang Xin first dragged the emperor into a dream based on the Investiture of the Gods—a narrative centered on humanity, which did not demonize the Western teachings, i.e., Buddhism, enraging Zhu Qizhen.

Then Yang Xin created illusions based on Ming history, reenacting every event from the tenth year of the Xuande reign onward, especially the emperor’s greatest failure—the Tumu Crisis—forcing him to relive it repeatedly until exhausted. Following these were illusions of other bizarre Ming emperors in turn.

After the Ming history cycles, Yang Xin crafted dreams of Chinese history from the late Qing dynasty to modern times.

This was Yang Xin’s plan to reform the Ming dynasty: to let the emperor dream for five hundred years, continuously cycling through illusions, gradually changing his mindset, and imparting modern scientific knowledge. Now, Zhu Qizhen was no longer a native ruler of this world but a pseudo-time traveler who had crossed into the Ming emperor’s body with modern knowledge and ideas.

Time passed slowly. From midday to dusk, Zhu Qizhen finally opened his eyes, lifting his gaze to meet Yang Xin’s.

“Do you understand now?”