The Seven Sisters and Their Hidden King

A sorcerer!

A demogorgon!

Mr. Zack Lance shouted with a panic unlike anything he had ever shown before. His body trembled violently, betraying the sheer magnitude of the shock rippling through him.

"Mark Leonard! Take command of the mountain-protecting array! Prepare to annihilate the sorcerer! I'll go to the Cinnabar Tower!" Zack barked.

"Yes, sir!"

Mark swiftly retreated.

Zack looked up at the towering structure of the Cinnabar Tower, his expression grim and heavy with dread. His voice trembled as he muttered to himself.

"The sorcerer dares to devour the spiritual fire... How can I allow such sacrilege?"

With a shout, Zack charged up the steps of the Cinnabar Tower.

The second floor.

The third.

The fourth...

All the way up to the eleventh.

Zack's intent was clear—he would confront and kill John himself. Even if he failed, he could buy valuable time for Mark and the others to fully activate the mountain-protecting array.

But upon reaching the eleventh floor, Zack came to an abrupt halt.

John wasn't there.

Zack's eyes widened, confusion tightening his chest. He had not encountered John on his way up. That meant John hadn't descended... The only possibility was that he had gone up.

Above the eleventh floor...

Zack's gaze locked onto the staircase leading to the twelfth floor. A visible shudder ran through his body.

"How could a sorcerer reach the twelfth floor?" he whispered, appalled.

It was unthinkable. He couldn't believe it. The twelfth floor of the Cinnabar Tower was forbidden, sacred—off-limits to almost all. But if John hadn't stayed on the eleventh floor, where else could he be?

There weren't many places to hide in the tower.

Zack stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the entrance to the twelfth floor.

"He really is up there..." he murmured in disbelief.

The oppressive aura pressing down on him—dense, suffocating—was unmistakable. It was coming from above. That power... it had to be John.

But Zack couldn't enter the twelfth floor. It was against the ancient rules.

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He clenched his fists and made his decision: he would wait. Wait for John to descend.

Meanwhile, at the top of the Cinnabar Tower...

John stood with his right index finger glowing red like a molten iron rod, radiating terrifying heat.

It was the spiritual fire.

The moment John had captured the spiritual flame, an unfamiliar force within his body stirred, absorbing it entirely. That fire had condensed within his finger like a weapon forged in the heart of a volcano.

Even without using vital energy, John knew—with certainty—that this finger alone could obliterate a golden-crystal-stage cultivator in a single blow.

After devouring the spiritual fire, he had ascended without resistance to the twelfth floor of the tower.

But unlike the lower levels, this floor was utterly barren. No elixir tripods. No divine inscriptions. Nothing.

An unsettling emptiness.

John's restlessness grew. He gritted his teeth and let out a low roar as the vital energy inside him surged outward uncontrollably.

Boom!

Boom!

Boom!

The wild energy erupted in all directions.

Bang!

Suddenly, one of the stone walls exploded under the force, revealing something hidden beneath its surface—a pale mural.

Although John's body still hummed with fury, his attention snapped to the mural.

Depicted upon it was a solitary mountain surrounded by swirling clouds and ethereal mist. At its peak stood a lone figure, shrouded in distance and mystery—so small, it was impossible to discern any details.

John stepped closer.

The instant his gaze locked onto the mural, the world around him shifted.

The floor beneath him vanished. The air changed.

Suddenly, it felt as if he had been transported into another realm.

From all directions, a serene, cool aura surrounded him—peaceful, like drifting in a lucid dream.

John's eyes widened in shock.

A moment later, clarity returned to his mind.

"I lost control back there..." he muttered.

He remembered it all. The moment he stepped onto the eleventh floor, it was as if his mind had shut down completely—his thoughts clouded, his instincts primal. But now... he was himself again.

He raised his right hand and stared at the crimson-glowing finger, his thoughts racing.

"This finger... it's like a magic instrument. That means... my body can devour these fires and refine them?"

If just one flame could turn his finger into a weapon, what would happen if he absorbed more? Could his whole body become a magic instrument?

A wild idea struck him.

John's expression lit up with excitement. He instinctively glanced downward—toward his groin.

A magic instrument...?

No way.

He shook his head vigorously, rejecting the obscene thought.

It would be too hot for any woman to bear.

Sure, the finger was strong—hard as a magic artifact—but it was also scorching. It had been forged in fire, after all.

John quickly cast the dirty thought aside and consoled himself.

"It's enough now. Really... there's no need."

With a single thought, his finger reverted to its normal appearance, as if he were deactivating a magical weapon.

He looked around again, this time more cautiously.

He recalled the mural just before the shift. After gazing into it, he had suddenly arrived in this strange realm.

The world was blanketed in soft white, peaceful and silent.

"Did I enter... the world of the mural?"

Curiosity warred with anxiety as John stepped forward through the dreamlike expanse. Ahead, mist billowed and shimmered.

Soon, in the distance, he saw a familiar outline: a cluster of mountains rising from the fog, mirroring the image he had seen painted in the mural.

His heart dropped.

He had really entered the world inside the mural.

Panic surged.

Would he be trapped here forever?

Just as fear crept into his chest, a distant, ethereal voice echoed through the mist—soft and ancient.

"Boy, don't worry. You're only here in consciousness. Your body remains outside.

Think of this place as a dream. You will not die."

The moment the voice reached him, the mist began to fade away.

John squinted.

At the summit of the distant mountain, the illusory figure from the mural was approaching—fast.