Somewhere in the Desolate Realm, a desert spanning millions of miles lay on the vast horizon. The desert sand was composed of golden obsidian cores, radiating a faint golden light that illuminated the desert majestically, complemented by the blazing sun's dazzling light. Hundreds of thousands of dunes could be seen all over the desert, some as high as Mount Everest. And at other locations, countless quicksand spirals into sinkholes. Each sinkhole has its own gravitational pull that devours anything within a hundred miles of it.

Amid the chaotic desert, unstable, uncontrollable windstorms filled the background, making the desert a sea of swirling sands everywhere. But despite the chaotic scenery, a male figure steadily strode through the desert storms and collapsing quicksands. Due to the ravaging windstorms, it was hard to discern the person's facial features; all one could see was that the male figure had silver hair. And that he walked through the desert with ease, unbothered and unaffected by anything.

As the male figure walked through a chaotic desert dust storm, he emerged into the sunlight, completely free of any consequential effects of the desert's chaotic powers. And revealed from the windstorm, stood Patrick Alexander King.

Emerging from the chaotic storm, Patrick continued walking, his steps steady and unhurried with arms behind him. His cape gently fluttered behind him, his black and gold suit silently but majestically brimming with godly omni essence and aura. Faced with the sun, Patrick's chocolate-like skin glowed like a golden brass bell, his absolute-infinity golden eyes making his godly ambiance even more heavenly. Basically, bro is fine as fuck.

"Grace, status report," Patrick said as he walked, but strangely, every step took him hundreds of miles ahead, as if the view was being zoomed before him.

"We are currently at 26%, totaling 12,694,374,577,932,321,616,613,102 (Septillions) conquered universes, timelines, dimensions, and realms. And this is not including exterminated realms. And as for the Desolate Realm, we are merely at 0.002%." Grace replied, Patrick scoffing at the last sentence and rolling his eyes.

"Did you have to add the Desolate Realm? You know we can conquer the entire Desolate Realm in an instant if we so wish, right?" Patrick lamented; his thoughts only reflected on himself.

"That doesn't change the fact that we are still only at 0.002%, Master."

Sigh! "I can't believe I'm pissing myself off."

"Nothing else can, so why not?" Grace expressed.

"Haha, and that's what I call humor." Patrick chuckled, his mood elevated.

But not long after, as if his social battery had been reached, Patrick's mood fell into default mode, becoming impassive and unbothered. He then suddenly halted, a massive gush of sand splashing away from him, as if the instant stop of an object traveling millions of miles per step.

The scene fell into silence after the massive splug of sand settled. But then, Voooom! The void trembled vigorously, followed by a pressuring descent of an unknown but ancient force. The heavy descent of the ancient force caused a gigantic dent in the desert sand, driving it hundreds of miles into the deep earth and triggering additional sinkholes.

Patrick stood in the center of the collapsing desert, his figure withstanding the pressure without the slightest thought of struggle. He still maintained his auralist posture, arms behind him, with eyes bored to death.

Followed by the domineering pressure, a being clad in ancient monk robes suddenly glitched in the sky above Patrick. The male monk wore robes that crossed over his left shoulder, his earlobes large and long, reaching even his shoulders. The monk resembled someone in their early fifties, but knowing the Cultivation Multiverse, his true age is far from the hundreds, even tens of thousands, let alone mere fifties.

Floating around the monk's neck were twelve medium-sized monk beads, each bead radiating immense power of laws and Daos combined. With closed eyes, an expression of extreme calm, and both hands clasped together as if in prayer, none would dare underestimate the monk's unknown power. His presence alone caused constant glitches in space-time, with over twelve laws and Daos around his neck, calling the monk formidable would be an understatement.

"Amitabha! What must have brought the kind stranger to such a desolate location? If you are lost, I would be kind to escort you to a safer domain instead, as this domain is barren and destitute."

The monk spoke, his voice calm and serene, as if he would never hurt a fly. His words also carried hints of laws within, some form of Dharmic law.

Listening to the Buddhist monk, Patrick remained impassive, pretending to spectate the surroundings. He spoke, his words calm and collected.

"We both know I am no stranger, and neither am I lost. So why don't you skip to the part where we aren't making small talk?"

Listening to the unknown silver-haired man below him, the monk's face couldn't help but twitch. His head turned slightly as his closed eyes opened even so slightly. His reaction out of curiosity. But closing his eyes again, the monk assumed his tranquil posture and continued.

"Amitabha! Then you know that your presence here is unwelcomed, Desolate God Demon."

The monk spoke, this time opening his eyes as he stared at Patrick with an impassive and malicious expression.

"I see my reputation precedes me, already reaching the Sutra Desolate Domain. You must also know this won't end well for you. So save yourself the trouble and let me in."

Listening to the silver-haired young man, the monk's face twitched again, but this time, he steadily descended and stood not far from Patrick. A calculative look on his face as he spoke.

"Our Sutra Desolate Domain has been here for eons, and only two people have been able to locate its exact location, you being the second person, Desolate God Demon. But, like the first person, if it's conquering you seek for our domain, then you will fail, as the visiting predecessor did."

"..."

Silence reigned over the scene. Patrick, not responding to the monk, side-glanced the scene left to right as if trying to see who the monk was talking to. Then, focusing again on the monk, Patrick's face went dead-bored as he spoke.

"I don't think you know who you are talking to baldie, but let me enlighten you."

As Patrick finished speaking, he balled his right fist. Simultaneously, an overwhelming suction force formed between him and the monk. The accumulating suction force formed into the size of a black hole, pulling the monk in uncontrollably.

Seeing this, the monk's face lit cautiously, his calm eyes widening with a sense of danger this time, as he immediately summoned his prayer beads, which glowed with various Daos and Laws, trying to defend himself against the imminent attack. But ignoring the monk's efforts, the force sucked him in, yanking him over to Patrick with force.

But as the monk drew in, Patrick unfolded his fist, curling his middle finger into a flicking motion, then,

~Flick~ Boom! Poosh!

Patrick flicked his finger, and like the instant launch of a jet at Mach 1,000 speed, an obliterating force blasted the monk away. Like an unstoppable object, the monk's body shattered through the countless space barriers, time glitching ceaselessly as the monk drifted through the void.

Constantly shattering through countless void barriers, the monk's face tensed up as he clasped his arms together, uttering, "Ancient Dharmic Dao, Divine Reversal."

As the monk spoke, his body suddenly halted mid-launch. An unknown wave of divine golden energy suddenly surged from within him as his body steadily regained control again. Then, with a thought, the beads on the monk's neck suddenly detached and began to revolve around him, spinning fast as they exuded a golden dew that enveloped the monk entirely.

Then, with a thought, the monk glitched out of the void, leaving a physical silhouette in his wake. This revelation annotating the monk's absolute speed.

---

At the scene, Patrick stood with his arms behind him, staring into the distance, as if patiently waiting for someone. And as expected, the next instant, the void trembled again as the monk emerged from it, his appearance unscathed, and his demeanor unperturbed.

"Amitabha! Ancient Dharmic Dao, Divine Desert Temple, Soul Bridge."

Not even sparing a second, the monk's voice reverberated throughout the scene as the entire desert trembled violently,

Golden light erupted from his revolving prayer beads, each one a condensed nexus of twelve supreme Daos—Karma, Samsara, Emptiness, Void Suppression, and more. The desert itself answered his call. Dunes, the height of Mount Everest, exploded upward in a tsunami of obsidian-gold particles, forming colossal, ethereal structures: pagodas, temples, and mandalas that stretched into the heavens. Space-time fractured visibly around him, cracks in the iridescent void leaking raw, chaotic energy.

"Amitabha! Divine Desert Temple: Extermination of the Heretic!" the monk roared, his serene facade shattering into righteous fury. His eyes blazed with lethal intent. This was no probe. From the first breath of combat, he unleashed everything.

Twelve beams of pure Dharmic light lanced toward Patrick like judgment from the heavens themselves. Each beam carried the weight of eons of accumulated Buddhist merit, capable of erasing concepts, severing karmic threads, and collapsing entire timelines into nothingness. The ground beneath Patrick liquefied into a vortex of devouring quicksand amplified by the monk's laws, while overhead, illusory Buddha hands the size of continents descended with crushing finality.

Patrick's face remained impassive, not phased by the monk's abilities the least.

He didn't move. Not a single supernatural ability flared from his being. No golden eyes glowing brighter, no cape billowing with omni-essence. Just raw, unadulterated physicality.

BOOM!

He stepped forward once. The simple motion generated a shockwave that pulverized the incoming Dharmic beams into glittering dust. The continent-sized Buddha hands shattered like glass upon contact with the displaced air. The quicksand vortex reversed violently, blasting upward in a geyser that swallowed three of the monk's own floating pagodas.

Then, Patrick blurred. Not through speed techniques or spatial laws, but by pure muscular propulsion. The desert floor caved in a thousand-mile crater where he had stood. In the next instant, his fist connected with the monk's midsection.

The impact was biblical.

The monk's protective golden dew exploded outward in a spherical detonation. His ancient robes tore at the seams as his body rocketed backward like a meteor, carving a trench through the desert that stretched for thousands of miles. Sinkholes erupted in his wake, their gravitational pulls warping further under the transmitted force. Space barriers shattered audibly—crack-crack-CRACK—as the monk's trajectory pierced dimension after dimension.

But on the other side of the scene, Patrick was already there, waiting.

He appeared in the monk's path with arms still casually behind his back, then drove an elbow down into the monk's spine. The sound was wet and sickening. Vertebrae that had withstood the birth and death of stars splintered. The monk coughed blood—pristine golden ichor that burned holes through reality itself upon contact.

"Insolent—!" the monk gasped, spinning mid-air. His prayer beads detonated into a storm of razor-sharp Dao constructs. Thousands of golden relics slashed at Patrick from every vector, each carrying the intent to sever existence.

Patrick scoffed once—low, bored—and swatted them aside with the back of his hand. The relics disintegrated. He grabbed the monk by the throat with one hand, lifted him effortlessly, and slammed him downward into a dune.

KRRRAAAABOOOOM!

The entire Desolate Realm quaked. Dunes across millions of miles flattened in a propagating ripple. Quicksand spirals reversed into explosive geysers. Time itself stuttered; pockets of slowed and accelerated temporal flow bled into one another, creating zones where sand fell upward or ancient fossils reformed and dissolved in seconds.

The monk retaliated with desperate fury. He chanted ancient sutras that summoned the phantoms of ten thousand Arhats, each phantom wielding weapons forged from condensed karmic merit. They descended upon Patrick in a holy deluge.

Despite being an entity with eons of experience and capability, to Patrick, it was merely someone to be toyed with.

He moved through the Arhat army like a wolf among lambs, his fists and open palms delivering casual, almost lazy strikes. Each blow sent an Arhat exploding into motes of light. One phantom he backhanded so lazily that its upper body disintegrated while its legs kept running across the scene. Another, he kicked upward, using its body as a springboard to launch himself at the real monk.

Gruesome cracks and wet thuds filled the air as Patrick dismantled the monk's defenses. He broke arms, shattered knees, and caved in ribs. The monk's left earlobes, symbols of his wisdom accumulation, were torn away by a grazing strike. Blood—both physical and conceptual—painted the golden obsidian sand.

Yet the monk refused to fall easily. "Sutra of Unyielding Nirvana!" he bellowed. His body ignited with white flames of self-immolation rebirth. Wounds healed instantly as he traded his lifespan for explosive power. He met Patrick's next punch head-on with a palm strike infused with the full essence of Emptiness.

The collision created a sphere of annihilating silence. For a brief moment, sound, light, and law itself vanished within a thousand-mile radius. When reality reasserted itself, the desert had a perfectly circular scar, melted into glass.

Patrick emerged unscathed, silver hair barely ruffled. He grabbed the monk by the head and drove him face-first through three consecutive mountain-sized dunes before hurling him skyward.

The thrashing continued for what felt like centuries to the monk but mere minutes to the fabric of the Desolate Realm. Patrick was merciless, yet playful in his cruelty—flicking the monk across horizons, using his body to smash through his own summoned temples, stepping on his chest as the monk struggled beneath the weight of a casual foot with infinite density.

Finally, Patrick stood over the broken form. The monk lay in a crater, robes in tatters, prayer beads cracked and dim. His breathing was ragged, one eye swollen shut, golden blood pooling beneath him. Patrick raised his hand, middle finger and thumb positioned for a final, casual flick that would erase the monk from all timelines.

"Enough games," Patrick murmured, eyes cold.

At that exact moment, a voice echoed across the void—ancient, resonant, carrying the weight of innumerable kalpas.

"Young friend... spare my disciple. For this old monk's sake."

The voice was warm yet carried the karmic authority of the legendary Buddha himself. Golden lotuses bloomed in the air. The pressure of supreme enlightenment pressed down, trying to soothe the violence.

Patrick paused, finger still cocked.

"I don't take orders," he stated. "Your Buddha's sake means nothing to me."

The elderly voice sighed, heavy with karmic threads. An unseen force activated—a gentle yet irresistible pulling void opened behind the monk, attempting to whisk him to safety within the hidden Sutra Desolate Domain.

Patrick's eyes narrowed. With a mere thought, he clamped down. The pulling force shattered like brittle glass. "You guys are making it quite easy for me to conquer your Sutra Desolate Domain. At this point, I might as well wipe it from existence," Patrick spoke, his words sending a chilling message to the unknown voice.

Silence fell. The elderly voice seemed to consider for a long moment.

"...You are an interesting young man. Very well. Enter our Sutra Desolate Domain as a guest. This old one would enjoy sharing tea and discussing the principles of reality and the Daos with you."

Patrick scoffed. He lowered his hand, releasing the lethal intent toward the monk. With a casual wave, he lifted the invisible restriction holding the monk in place. The broken cultivator gasped, barely conscious.

But Patrick wasn't done.

He grabbed the monk by the collar with his right hand, lifting the battered figure like a rag doll. With his left hand, he reached out and tore the space-time-reality barrier shielding the Sutra Desolate Domain. The supposedly impenetrable veil—woven from countless Buddhist formations and hidden for eons—ripped open with a sound like reality screaming. Brilliant light from an entirely different realm spilled through: serene mountains, floating temples, rivers of merit, and skies filled with chanting sutras.

Patrick glanced once toward the source of the elderly voice, a clear message in his absolute-infinity golden eyes stating: "I never needed your invitation. I just didn't want to."

Then, without another word, he stepped through the torn barrier, dragging the half-dead monk behind him like a trophy. The rift sealed violently in his wake, leaving the Desolate Realm trembling in stunned silence.

The interior of the Sutra Desolate Domain was a paradise of cultivation wonder. Lush spiritual mountains floated on clouds of auspicious energy. Temples of white jade and gold hovered gracefully. Countless monks and nuns meditated in perfect harmony, their combined auras forming a protective blanket over the domain.

Yet the moment Patrick entered, everything froze.

Disciples gasped. Elders shot to their feet. Ancient formations that had stood for millions of years flickered uncertainly in his presence.

At the highest floating temple, an elderly monk with skin like dried parchment and eyes containing the birth of universes sat upon a simple mat. He was the source of the voice. The true master of this domain.

Patrick dropped the injured monk unceremoniously at the entrance steps. The silver-haired conqueror stood tall, cape fluttering gently, black-and-gold suit immaculate despite the earlier carnage. He looked directly at the elderly Buddha-like figure and smiled without warmth.

"Tea sounds nice," Patrick said. "But let's skip the pleasantries. Convince me why I shouldn't just obliterate your Sutra Desolate Domain, instead of conquering it?"

The elderly man's eyes widened slightly, a mix of wariness, curiosity, and perhaps the faintest trace of excitement flickering within those ancient orbs. A pleased smile appeared across his face as he spoke, his words calm and serene.

"Amitabha! An exciting young man indeed!"