The Path of Power (The Emperor Trials)

Chapter 82: Supreme body

Philip lay on the scorched obsidian ground, broken and bloodied. His breath was shallow. His limbs barely twitched.

Time passed without mercy.

For hours, he didn't move.

His body, however, did.

Bit by bit, his cells regenerated. His bones realigned. Torn muscles stitched themselves together, drawing on the lingering essence of the demigod realm he had briefly accessed.

But as his healing progressed, he felt it

The slow retreat of power.

His mana core, once bloated with divine authority, shrank.

The demigod spark dimmed, fading into a familiar rhythm.

Monarch level. That's where he landed.

He exhaled shakily.

His mana veins throbbed overused, stretched far beyond their natural capacity.

Every breath sent a wave of dull pain across his ribs. He welcomed the sleep pulling him down.

And so he gave in.

Darkness claimed him.

Unseen, the gem on his forehead began to shine.

A gentle pulse of platinum light beat like a heart against his skull.

The river of gold the one that carved through this accursed realm like molten thunder suddenly changed course.

It surged.

Rushed toward him.

The liquid shimmered unnaturally, curling like serpents of light. It wasn't just blood it was essence.

T'zaruun's blood essence.

And it was not done fighting.

T'zaruun, even bound, even broken, still had control. His consciousness lurked in the blood fragments of will, of intent, carried by each drop.

This had always been his plan.

If he could not kill Philip,

If he could not escape…

Then he would become him.

The blood slithered into Philip's wounds. It forced itself through his skin, into his mana network, threading through muscle and bone.

Philip stirred

Eyes still shut.

But something deep within him rejected the intrusion.

The gem on his head blazed hot, defiant.

It scanned the foreign essence and struck.

A blinding pulse of light exploded outward.

Every piece of T'zaruun's mind every trace of his soul was burned clean.

What remained was raw energy. Unfathomable power.

And now it was Philip's to bear.

His eyes snapped open.

He screamed.

His veins glowed gold. His flesh swelled unnaturally, like his body was a balloon filled past the point of bursting.

His injuries were vanishing in real time. Torn flesh sealed. Cracked bones healed in seconds.

But the power wasn't stopping.

It kept pouring in.

Kept rising.

Kept pushing.

He was going to explode.

"No, no " he gasped, rising to his knees.

He didn't have time to think. Instinct kicked in.

He looked down at his right hand the Emperor's Mark inked into his palm. A tattoo woven of divine law and spatial command.

He activated it.

The mark pulsed weakly.

At first, nothing.

But then space responded.

The prison realm hesitated.

And recognized him.

The descendant. The inheritor. The heir.

It granted him passage.

Space folded inward. A tunnel opened.

He collapsed through it, vision fading, blood boiling.

When he opened his eyes again, he stood at the base of the Temple of Threads, the Emperor's lost sanctuary. Columns of silver and obsidian stretched toward a starless sky.

He didn't wait.

He staggered inside, fighting the trembling in his bones. The blood inside him had weight it coiled and churned like a living thing.

He summoned the interface of the Emperor's Library, willing it to appear.

Glyphs danced before him.

Thousands of categories history, conquest, technique, law, godhood flashed by in a blur.

Body Refinement.

He lunged toward it with his mind.

A thousand techniques. A million pathways.

But only one would work in time.

His skin cracked. Gold leaked from his pores. His nails split.

One minute left.

He filtered faster discarding techniques that required tools, rituals, divine herbs.

Then he found it.

"Supreme Body

High-risk. Incomplete. The emperor found it in his younger days but couldn't cultivate since you needed to be mortal to cultivate. The emperor put it in high regard

Perfect.

He triggered it.

A circle of black flame rose around him. Threads of platinum light spun through the air, weaving themselves into a cocoon.

His bones liquefied and reforged in real time.

His organs shimmered, turning crystalline and then back to flesh.

Every drop of T'zaruun's blood was pulled into a ritual furnace within his soul.

He screamed. It felt like dying backwards.

But he held on.

In the ruined prison realm, T'zaruun's chained form laughed hoarsely.

"Go on, boy," he whispered to no one.

"If I can't take your body…"

The chains tightened around him.

"…then burst from the inside."

He smiled as he faded again into death.

But his smile faltered.

Because the blood…

was stabilizing.

Philip wasn't dying.

He was adapting.

T'zaruun felt fear.