Pantheon’s Domain

"Angel's Purgatory—open."

With a quiet incantation, Vanmuir activated the Angel's Purgatory. As expected, a faint ripple of arcane energy surged across the summit of the Throne of Zeus. Without hesitation, he ascended into the sky, soaring effortlessly toward the mountaintop. He did not linger upon the Throne of Zeus; instead, he strode directly into the mist-shrouded abyss beside it—a place that, to any ordinary onlooker, would appear to be a sheer and endless chasm.

In the blink of an eye, Vanmuir found himself utterly stunned by the sight before him.

Heaven above…

Mountains stretched endlessly across the horizon, their peaks piercing the clouds. Majestic creatures—birds of prey and beasts of legend—roamed freely among the surreal landscape. Jagged rock formations rose in strange and marvelous shapes, crystal-clear lakes shimmered under the sunlight, and waterfalls cascaded down in dazzling torrents. Precious medicinal herbs and rare spiritual plants flourished in abundance, as if this realm was untouched by mortal hands.

So this was the true Pantheon Divine Realm—not merely a fabled legend, but a hidden reality.

The Pantheon… truly lived up to its reputation as the world's foremost power. To think that they had concealed hundreds of kilometers of mountainous terrain within a supreme illusionary formation—such mastery was beyond belief.

At the entrance to the Pantheon Divine Realm, two warriors stood guard, positioned symmetrically on either side. Each was clad in a Toga, its fabric shimmering faintly with embedded arcane energy. Their mere presence exuded an aura of power—one was at the War God - Primary Rank, while the other had reached the War God - Intermediate Rank.

Vanmuir sighed inwardly once more at the sheer strength of the Pantheon.

Had it not been for his own intervention, the strongest member of the Alessandro Clan, Andrea Alessandro, would have barely reached the Martial Sovereign - Intermediate Rank, while their patriarch, Caesar Alessandro, was at most a Martial Sovereign - Primary Rank—a staggering gap below these two gatekeepers.

And yet, these men were merely gatekeepers.

Even more infuriatingly, they wore Togas—the Pantheon's enchanted robes of protection—an artifact Vanmuir himself did not possess.

The guards took one look at him and immediately sneered, their expressions laced with condescension.

The arrogance was palpable.

Judging by Vanmuir's demeanor, it was clear to them that he was nothing more than a provincial bumpkin gawking at the grandeur of the city. And since he was merely a War God-ranked cultivator, their contempt deepened. One of them, unable to contain his impatience, asked coldly:

"Who are you? Which sect do you belong to? What business do you have in the Pantheon Divine Realm?"

Their dismissive attitude irritated Vanmuir greatly.

A Blood Angel of the Blood Clan, belittled by mere gatekeepers?

If it weren't for the fact that he had acquired the Leviathan Sea Dragon's Essence Blood and was hoping to scout the Pantheon for a suitable alchemist, he would have left without a second thought.

Suppressing his displeasure, Vanmuir maintained a calm expression and gave a respectful bow.

"I am Vanmuir of the Alessandro Clan. I have come to the Mysteries of the Divine for a trade."

At the mention of the Alessandro Clan, the two guards' expressions grew even colder.

They had long known that the Alessandro Clan of the Alps had no particularly outstanding disciples. And yet, this man—a mere Alessandro—dared to speak with such cold indifference before them, the Pantheon's own elite disciples?

Had it not been for strict orders from their elders to treat all visitors to the Mysteries of the Divine with civility, they would have long since thrown him out like a stray dog.

With a disdainful snort, the guard on the left jabbed a finger westward, offering no further words.

Vanmuir did not bother to ask further.

Without so much as a glance back, he turned and strode away.

In the Divine Realm of the Pantheon, flight over Mount Olympus was strictly forbidden for visitors. Fanmuir had no choice but to rely on his martial technique, the Art of Soaring Steps, to traverse the terrain. There was no helping it—after all, the Pantheon stood at the pinnacle of the cultivation world. Even more so, he dared not employ spatial magic in this place, lest he draw unwanted attention from the Pantheon's overseers.

Since time was not an issue, Fanmuir opted for the most primitive method—walking. The Divine Realm of the Pantheon truly lived up to its legendary reputation as the most exalted of all sacred lands. Glimmers of treasure light flickered amidst the mountain forests; the Tower of Prismatic Vermilion, the Thousand-Year Fragrant Tree, and the Ten-Thousand-Year Worry-Free Flower could be seen everywhere. However, many of these aged spiritual herbs were veiled in a faint, shimmering light—obvious signs of protective enchantments designed to prevent their harvest by wild beasts or opportunistic cultivators. The scenery was nothing short of breathtaking: emerald peaks, towering silver mountains, sheer cliffs, and cascading waterfalls that caught the sunlight, refracting a dazzling spectrum of colors.

Along the way, Fanmuir frequently spotted figures in the sky, clad in gold-embroidered togas, their presence radiating the unmistakable aura of illusionary deity-level power or higher. They stood aloft in midair, moving effortlessly toward the western expanse, their brilliant energy trails streaking across the heavens. Those who were still struggling to fly at lower altitudes could only gaze upon them with envy. This was the difference between power and mediocrity, between status and insignificance.

The occasional appearance of true deity-level powerhouses shook Fanmuir to his core. It was a stark reminder that there were still countless formidable cultivators in this world—he had been nothing more than a frog at the bottom of a well. At the same time, a heavy burden settled upon his shoulders. His parents had entrusted him with the future of the Alessandro clan, making it an inescapable responsibility.

Though the Alessandro clan was considered a second- or third-tier family in the cultivation world, in the secular realm, they had wielded such immense influence that Fanmuir had once fallen into the illusion that his clan was far stronger than it truly was. But today's experience shattered that illusion completely. Even the lowly gatekeepers of the Pantheon were stronger than the greatest cultivators of the Alessandro clan. The realization hit Fanmuir like a thunderbolt—his clan was pitifully weak.

Yet, he did not succumb to despair. On the contrary, witnessing the power of the Pantheon, enduring the arrogance of its sentries, and sensing the overwhelming presence of these mighty beings only ignited a deeper resolve within him.

"My parents built the Alessandro clan from nothing. Then I will see it rise to greatness. One day, the Alessandro clan shall stand tall, gazing down upon the cultivation world just as the Pantheon does today."

Determination etched itself onto Fanmuir's face, his eyes burning with an unshakable conviction.

However, he understood the immense challenge ahead. He was but a lone cultivator, barely qualifying as a strong warrior, surrounded by clan members still struggling in the realms of Martial Lord and War God. To dream of elevating the Alessandro clan into a first-tier powerhouse was nothing short of wishful thinking—if not outright impossible.

But Fanmuir was not one to waver in the face of adversity. It was this very unwavering resolve that had allowed him, at merely fifteen hundred years old, to rise to the rank of a Blood Clan Prince. Now, he had ascended even further, becoming a Blood Angel, a true deity-level powerhouse. Without relentless effort and perseverance, such achievements would have been nothing more than a fantasy.

Having resolved to elevate the Alessandro clan to greatness, Fanmuir no longer had the mind to admire the scenery along his path. Just as he was about to activate the Art of Soaring Steps and head for the Mysteries of the Gods—eager to deepen his understanding of alchemy—a rich and intoxicating aroma of fine wine drifted through the air. The scent was unmistakable—aged grape wine, centuries old.

Intrigued, Fanmuir couldn't help but wonder—who else in the Divine Realm of the Pantheon would be so at ease, indulging in leisure, even stopping to drink?

Following the fragrance through a thicket, he emerged onto a clearing. There, a slovenly warrior sat, drinking alone in utter contentment. The man was broad-shouldered and imposing, his features rugged yet exuding an air of wisdom—his body sturdy like a tortoise, his bones refined like a crane's. Large, round eyes gleamed beneath his thick, spear-like beard. He clutched a greasy chicken leg in one hand, tearing off generous bites between hearty gulps of wine. His beard was slick with oil and liquor, yet he paid it no mind, occasionally wiping his mouth against his sleeve in an absentminded gesture.

Fanmuir's feet moved of their own accord, drawn toward the drinking warrior.

"Ah, so you're a man who appreciates good wine as well, young one!" The warrior's voice boomed like a great bell as he tossed his gourd of wine toward Fanmuir, utterly unconcerned with the greasy fingerprints on its surface or the trace of his own saliva lingering at the rim.

"Thank you!" Fanmuir caught the gourd with ease, paying no heed to the grime or the remnants of the man's lips upon it. Without a second thought, he tipped his head back and took a bold swig.

At once, the deep, mellow fragrance of centuries-old grape wine flooded his senses. The intoxicating warmth coursed through his veins, surging through his body in waves of soothing heat.

The slovenly warrior's eyes gleamed with approval at Fanmuir's unrestrained demeanor. It was rare to encounter a fellow cultivator who not only appreciated fine wine but also cared nothing for his rough manners. A wave of goodwill surged in the warrior's gaze as he regarded Fanmuir with growing fondness. With a hearty laugh, he tore another piece from his chicken leg before casually tossing it to Fanmuir.

"Haha! What's fine wine without good food? Here, little brother, have a taste of my personally roasted chicken leg."

Had it been anyone else flinging over a half-eaten drumstick, Fanmuir would have instinctively dodged it. But somehow, coming from this unkempt warrior, the gesture felt oddly familiar, even endearing. Without hesitation, he caught the chicken leg midair, flashed a smile, and bit into it without a second thought.

"Much obliged, Sir," he said between bites.

The warrior's admiration deepened, his gaze settling on Fanmuir with growing appreciation. The more he looked, the more he liked what he saw. Why don't I have a disciple like this? he mused bitterly. Look at this young man—so straightforward, so unpretentious. Unlike those ungrateful brats back home who call me 'Master, Master' when they want to learn my skills but scatter like frightened rabbits the moment I pour them a drink.

His respect for Fanmuir solidified. Clapping his grease-slicked hands together, he beamed.

"Not bad, eh? I've been roasting chicken for over two thousand years—you're lucky to get a taste!" he declared with immense pride.

Fanmuir nearly choked. This… this is what he calls a roasted chicken leg? Even the simplest tavern fare would likely taste better. Two thousand years of experience, and this is the result?! His brows twitched as he forced himself to chew, but seeing the old man watching him so intently, anticipation written all over his face, he realized that spitting it out would be unthinkably cruel. Oh, damn it… Swallowing with quiet resignation, he resigned himself to his fate.

Seeing Fanmuir gulp down the bite, the warrior let out a triumphant, belly-deep laugh, slapping Fanmuir heartily on the shoulder with his oil-slicked hand.

"From this day forward, you're my brother! If anyone dares to mess with you, just say the word, and I'll handle it for you. But come on, brother, don't stop—eat, drink!"

Drinking was one thing. But finishing the chicken leg? That was asking too much. Yet Fanmuir couldn't bring himself to outright refuse this peculiar yet oddly endearing elder. There was even a faint trace of respect growing within him. Taking another swig of wine, he casually turned the situation around.

"Sir, this drumstick is far too small for the both of us. Why don't you go ahead and enjoy it? I happen to know a few cooking techniques myself—allow me to prepare a few dishes to pair with the wine."