Inside the sprawling Royal Headquarters the Great Exodus was not a mere boarding of a ship; it was a decade-long transformation. Crul had calculated that the World Dome would reach its point of total collapse in ten years. Therefore, the 100,000 survivors were being hammered like raw steel into weapons for a new world.

The selection process had been surgical. Crul had divided the populace into balanced units: 50,000 men and 50,000 women, primarily in their youth. Single individuals were paired immediately, forced to undergo life-or-death survival challenges to forge bonds that transcended mere attraction. By the fifth year of training, every couple was solidified.

There was one absolute rule: no pregnancies. They were allowed—even encouraged—to engage in unfettered intimacy to maintain morale, but childbirth would be a liability during the crossing. Instead, every woman was put on a strict regimen of pre-natal supplements and spiritual vitamins. The goal was clear: the moment they touched down in the new world, every couple was expected to conceive within the first trimester to rebuild their civilization.

The children selected at the start were now between seven and ten years old. By the time the beacon was lit, they would be teenagers, hardened by a decade of discipline, ready to face a world that wanted them dead.

Among the trainees was Ryan, a man who had earned his place through raw valor during the Union conflicts. His bravery had secured two slots—one for him, and one for his wife.

The change in their social standing was absolute. Ryan’s mother-in-law, a woman who had spent years despising him and attempting to dismantle his marriage, now visited their barracks daily. She would kneel on the cold floor, weeping, begging for three additional slots: one for herself, one for her son, and one for a grandson.

Ryan never admitted it to his wife, but watching the woman who once treated him like dirt crawl at his feet felt better than any medal.

"Please, Ryan! You’re a captain! Just say the word!" she wailed, her pride long since evaporated.

"The answer is no," Ryan said, his voice as cold as the blade at his hip.

When he refused, she would lose her mind, cursing him and calling him a beast for abandoning his elders. Ryan would simply look at her with a hollow smile. "Why don’t you go ask your ’preferred’ son-in-law? The one you tried to give my wife to? Where is he now, by the way? Is he still hiding in the ruins of the old city?"

The woman could only sob. She begged her daughter, weaponizing guilt to try and break Ryan’s resolve, but Ryan remained a wall of granite. "The slots were granted by the God-King Ethan himself. The 100,000 are already chosen and locked into the system. There is nothing I can do, even if I wanted to."

It was the truth. Every day was a grueling cycle of survival. They were dropped into artificial wildernesses, forced to identify lethal flora and fauna, and trained in brutal hand-to-hand combat. Their laser rifles—the peak of human technology—now felt like toys. They were being taught the old ways.

Ethan had distributed the weapon stockpiles recovered from the worm queen’s lair and the recent Crimson Sect incursions. However, there weren’t enough for everyone. Only the elite, those who mastered the spear, the sword, the mace, or the bow, would receive a genuine spiritual weapon.

The realization that their high-tech lasers would be ineffective in the high-density energy of the outer world had sent a wave of terror through the ranks. They trained as if their lives were on the line because they were.

Ryan proved to be a prodigy. Crul had promoted him to Captain of a ten-person squad—five men and five women. He had chosen the sword as his primary tool. After five years of constant sparring against the most advanced combat simulations Crul could devise, Ryan could now deflect bullets with a flick of his wrist. He moved so fast that his peers often found themselves eating dirt before they even realized the match had started.

Ryan exhaled a ragged cloud of steam into the cold morning air as he sheathed his practice sword. Behind him, his wife, lowered her stance, her fingers still twitching near the hilts of her dual daggers. She hadn’t made the cut for a spiritual weapon, but her Cold Steel blades were honed to a razor’s edge. She had become his shadow; while Ryan provided the thunderous frontline assault, she was the silent serpent that struck the moment an enemy overextended.

"Well done, team," Ryan said, his voice carrying the authority of a natural leader. "We’ve taken first place in our barracks. Globally, we’re ranked 301. We’ve climbed thirty-three spots since the last evaluation. Rest up. We have five years left—don’t let your spirit waver now!"

His squad shouted in unison, their hands meeting in the center of a tight circle. As a former administrative manager, Ryan knew exactly how to stoke the fires of morale.

As the squad dispersed, an elderly man with hands like gnarled oak roots approached Ryan. He was a former Patriarch of a minor sect that had been absorbed by Royal years ago. The instructors were the "Leftovers"—the elite survivors who were too old or too broken to be part of the 100,000, but whose knowledge was indispensable. They weren’t allowed to train their own kin, but because their children and grandchildren were in other squads, they taught with a desperate, frantic passion. Every drop of sweat they squeezed out of Ryan was a layer of armor for their own blood.

"You’re getting faster, Captain," the old man grunted, his eyes showing a rare glimmer of respect. "Tomorrow, we head into the deep ruins for wilderness survival. If you can’t track a shadow in the dark, you won’t survive the first night in the—"

The old man’s words were drowned out by a sound that tore through the atmosphere.

It wasn’t the standard red alert of a training drill or a localized breach. High above the training grounds, the massive holographic displays flickered. The familiar crimson warnings were replaced by a pulsing, oppressive Purple.

The silence that followed was deafening. Thousands of soldiers froze in their tracks, their faces draining of color.

Purple.

In the hierarchy of Royal’s emergency protocols, there was only one thing that triggered the Purple Alarm. It wasn’t a riot, it wasn’t a tsunami, and it wasn’t a system failure.

It was a World Barrier Breach.

The 10-year countdown had just been forcibly accelerated. The Outsiders had found a way to kick the door down early.

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From this moment forward, to avoid confusion regarding cultivation ranks, I will include this footer with the current established levels.

Note: These are only the ranks mentioned so far to avoid spoilers.

Body Refinement Realm

Skin Refinement / Bone Refinement / Organ Refinement

Spiritual Gathering Realm

Spiritual Perception / Spiritual Mist / Spiritual Condensation

Spiritual Core Realm

Core Solidification / Core Awakening / Spiritual Collapse (Half-step Spiritual Core)

Spiritual Soul Realm

Spiritual Soul Awakening / Soul Nourishing / Soul-Core Fusion

Golden Core Realm

Prime Fusion / Core Perfection / Core Destruction

Spiritual Sea Realm

Stage 1 ?? / Stage 2 ?? / Stage 3 ??

Dao Manifestation Realm

Stage 1 ?? / Stage 2 ?? / Stage 3 ??

Spiritual Transcendence

Stage 1 ?? / Stage 2 ?? / Stage 3 ??