Chapter 473: This World is Fake

Time flew by, and fifty years passed in the blink of an eye.

It had been fifty years since the fall of the Divine Eagle Empire. Many people still hadn’t grown accustomed to the change, or perhaps they still spoke of the empire’s former glory out of habit. Still, some shifts occurred over these decades—the once-obscure Snow Wolf Empire gained recognition, and the founding Aige family was reinstated as the imperial household.

As for the remnants of the Divine Eagle Empire’s bloodline, Valen didn’t wipe them out completely—even if he wanted to, he couldn’t. The ancestor who’d placed him on the throne had vanished without a trace. Valen’s years in the palace had been grueling; though he sat as emperor, few truly obeyed him. Thankfully, the ancestor’s lingering authority shielded him. Through fifty years of unseen power struggles—clashes where enemies often wore hidden faces—Valen slowly clawed his way to genuine influence. The outcome, at least, proved tolerable.

Two years prior, Great Emperor Valen struck a compromise with the Divine Eagle nobles. The lifelong bachelor suddenly acquired three wives: a queen from the Divine Eagle royalty, and two others tied to the empire’s grand dukes and the old Sword Saint faction.

Zuo Meng had subdued the three Sword Saints back then but spared their lives—to him, so-called Sword Saints were mere insects.

This uneasy balance birthed a new power structure. Valen shed his youthful clumsiness, growing shrewd through relentless politicking. This was perhaps the sole boon Zuo Meng left his descendant. As the ancestor’s only heir, Valen survived countless fatal blunders during these struggles, maturing into the ruler he was today.

“Thirteen tasks done.”

In the royal mountains, Zuo Meng stared at the furnace in his hands and sighed.

He hadn’t idled these fifty years. While Valen wrestled with court schemes, Zuo Meng completed system tasks. His original ten-year lifespan now stretched to 150 years. His strength remained frozen at Morning Star level—whether due to the world’s constraints or his own limits, decades of effort yielded no progress.

Abandoning cultivation, he focused entirely on system missions.

“Let’s see the fourteenth task.”

After claiming his lifespan reward, Zuo Meng opened the task panel:

Find the Floating City!

The Floating City?

Zuo Meng scowled. What idiot designed this system? If the Floating City were easy to locate, would he have scraped by on the ground for centuries? Every ruler in history had hunted for it, yet it remained myth.

“Need another approach.”

Giving up wasn’t an option—the system’s tasks held purpose.

“Start with that friend from before ‘Aige’ died.”

In Aige’s memories, his last living friend had been an Arcane Master. For decades, Zuo Meng had tried every ancient communication method—no response. The man might be dead.

“His last known location was Solorasha City.”

Zuo Meng set out personally this time. Previous messengers had failed, but with centuries to spare, he could afford the trip.

Solorasha City lay in the empire’s arid northwest—a sand-blasted wasteland where crops withered and survival bred desperation. Here, desert bandits ruled. Unlike common thieves, they stole only essentials, redistributing goods through gray markets that kept the region alive. Everyone knew the bandits’ leader was Solorasha’s own city lord.

Bandits intercepted Zuo Meng in the dunes.

But these weren’t fools—any lone desert traveler meant trouble. They let him pass, even giving directions. The city lord never expected to find that same stranger waiting in his chambers that night.

“I require your service.”

Zuo Meng dispensed with pleasantries. His domain flared, freezing every bandit in place.

“Find a man named Aks who lived twelve hundred years ago. This was his mark.”

He sketched a symbol from ancient memory and tossed it to them. Local networks could aid where his own efforts faltered.

“Your will be done.”

City Lord Clementi knelt instantly. He recognized true power when he saw it—this stranger could erase Solorasha with a thought.

For weeks, Zuo Meng combed the sands while the bandits mobilized. Clementi posted exorbitant bounties, stirring the entire region. More searchers meant more clues.

Two months later, a sand-caked Clementi burst in clutching a frayed sheepskin scroll.

“Milord, we’ve found a lead.”

The ancient scroll’s edges crumbled, but its center held. Zuo Meng sensed lingering Arcane energy—no forgery. He tossed Clementi a Sword Saint-level cultivation manual as dismissal.

Alone, Zuo Meng laid the scroll on his desk.

Arcane script swirled across the parchment—meaningless doodles to ordinary eyes. But Aige’s memories held the key. Channeling energy, Zuo Meng’s hands glowed pale as the script reshaped into words:

This world is fake! — Arcane Master Aks