Chapter Thirteen: The Blueprint of Atlantis

So this is... the burning of divine blood... I, Heracles... have single-handedly suppressed forbidden domains, there is nothing I have not witnessed. If I could truly possess a thousand years, what is the burning of divine blood but a trifle!

Heracles roared.

The celestial beetle blood ignited, enveloping Heracles’ entire body. The dazzling, shadowy radiance emanated waves of power. Though others felt not the slightest warmth, in an instant, the flames burned away patches of necrotic flesh, giving rise to fresh new buds of life.

This was a dual process.

Destruction and rebirth coexisted.

It was an act of both creation and annihilation.

To burn divine blood required not only a robust physique but also an indomitable will beyond compare; both were indispensable. Lacking either, one could never pass through the ordeal.

“Oh? He actually survived.”

Fang Zhuowei’s gaze was fixed on Heracles. In his sight, the dark, shadowy flames on Heracles’ body, after a blazing eruption, suddenly began to wane, finally plunging completely into his flesh.

The burning of the celestial beetle blood had ceased. This meant that the little fellow, who, to Fang Zhuowei, seemed insignificant, had fully absorbed the genome of the celestial beetle’s blood.

A second evolution of the bloodline, a near-death ordeal, yet the other had truly succeeded.

“What a delightful little fellow,” Fang Zhuowei smiled faintly, unable to restrain another murmur of admiration.

As a creator, he understood well the agony of secondary bloodline evolution and burning blood. The pain came from the very soul, akin to being sliced to death. Those who survived, who endured, all possessed both unyielding minds and formidable bodies—truly heaven’s chosen.

At the bottom of the aquarium.

Once the celestial beetle blood was absorbed, Heracles’ body began to change.

First.

His shattered body began to regenerate at a pace visible to the naked eye. His limbs were clad in thick armor, marked by black-and-white patterns.

Most striking was the edge of Heracles’ arms, where a dense, saw-like ridge had grown, glinting with a chilling sharpness under the faint light, leaving no doubt as to their lethality.

Additionally, Heracles’ physique enlarged, swelling to three times the size of an ordinary primordial tribesman. Across his abdomen, lines like flowing water appeared, reminiscent of a sculpted torso, brimming with a terrifying sense of explosive strength.

While Fang Zhuowei observed Heracles, Heracles was likewise examining himself.

His mouth, lined with sharp teeth, hung slightly open; his wide eyes shone with shock and disbelief.

That towering giant had not deceived him. After fusing with the divine blood, he not only recovered from all his wounds, but also possessed an immense strength he had never before known or even imagined.

Heracles had a keen sense that with his current power, he would not fear a single fierce beast or wild fish in combat—indeed, even two at once would not daunt him.

Of course.

Most important was the vast vitality now surging within him once more.

He had been reborn; his days, once numbered, were now greatly extended.

“Where did that voice come from?”

Amid his joy, a grave and awestruck look crept across Heracles’ face.

No one can remain unchanged as time flows on; none can withstand the power of time.

Yet today, Heracles felt his own vision had been short-sighted, shallow.

There must exist in this world truly eternal, ancient beings. The owner of that voice, for example, was so majestic, terrifying, and powerful that just a single drop of blood bestowed upon him centuries of life in an instant.

To that colossal shadow, a millennium seemed but the blink of an eye.

Such power filled him with dread. Even after successfully burning divine blood, he could not fathom it. Indeed, by fusing with the divine blood, he understood all the more the terror that lay behind that voice.

The gulf between them could never be bridged, never closed, not even imagined.

“That voice said what he gave me was divine blood…” Heracles muttered, looking around as if pondering. “Then, from this day forth, there are no more emperors in this world—only gods!”

He spoke aloud, his eyes shining with brilliant light, like a sovereign who gazed down upon all creation.

...

...

Fang Zhuowei no longer watched Heracles. Once the other survived the burning of the celestial beetle blood, he decisively turned his attention to the spores in the aquarium that had just fused with golden monkey cells.

Over a hundred golden monkey cell spores floated upon the water’s surface. At ten thousand times acceleration, they changed almost visibly before his eyes.

“The higher the grade of the parasitized cell, the faster the spore organism evolves—the two are directly proportional.”

Within that ten-thousandfold acceleration, within moments, the surface of the spore organisms began to split, as if a snake were shedding its skin.

With the pale surface sloughing away, the forms of these spore creatures that had fused with golden monkey cells gradually began to change.

By nightfall, these second-generation spores had already evolved basic structures like limbs and a rudimentary torso.

To ensure the survival of this group of spores, Fang Zhuowei had specially prepared some cooked rice, ground it into powder late into the night, and sprinkled it around the spores.

“You are truly the chosen children of heaven. I’ve given you food and water—whether you thrive as a species and found a new nation is entirely up to your own fortune.”

So Fang Zhuowei murmured in his heart.

By the time all was done, it was past one in the morning.

A wave of exhaustion washed over him, but Fang Zhuowei did not immediately go to bed.

“Isn’t it a bit too plain to just have a few rocks?” he mused, rubbing his sore neck. His eyes swept across the aquarium, and the more he looked, the more he felt that a few big stones alone seemed rather odd.

They stood out too starkly.

If civilization is to prosper, aside from the species themselves, the natural environment is just as vital. Clearly, barren stone is not a nurturing setting.

Fang Zhuowei decided to refine the stones. He went out to fetch some rich black soil, mixed it with a little water to make a layer four or five millimeters thick, and laid these blocks neatly atop the flat surfaces of the rocks.

Afterward, he gathered moss and snow lingzhi, arranging them in neat rows atop the black earth.

“A continent composed purely of rich black soil—the land should be more than fertile enough.”

Dusting the soil from his hands, Fang Zhuowei nodded in satisfaction at his handiwork.