Level 1 to Infinity: My Bloodline Is the Ultimate Cheat!-Chapter 873: Guns at the Edge of the Vale

All the teams converging on the pole avoided taking to the air. No one glided, no one flew, no one dared to rise above the frozen earth for more than a heartbeat. They advanced the old-fashioned way, boots crunching over ice and wind-scoured stone, step by careful step. The polar cold here was not the sort an ordinary Energy User could grit their teeth and endure. It gnawed at the marrow, crept into the lungs, stiffened blood itself.

Ethan and Blackie were exceptions.

Ethan wore only light gear, the Sacred Body Essence within him radiating a steady, quiet warmth that pushed the cold back like an unseen hearth. Blackie, meanwhile, had always been at home in extremes. Heat, frost, crushing pressure, biting winds, he treated them all with the same casual indifference. For the others, though, attempting to glide through this air would have been suicide. The higher they rose, the more vicious the cold became, until even reinforced flesh and circulating energy would fail. A few breaths in that sky and they would freeze from the inside out, shattering like brittle glass when they hit the ground.

Among the converging forces, one team drew more than a few uneasy glances.

Six figures, cloaked in snow-white mantles that snapped sharply in the wind. Beneath the shifting fabric, glimpses of luminous armor flashed, polished surfaces glowing faintly as though lit from within. To anyone unfamiliar with the deeper workings of cultivation, they would have looked absurd, wearing metal in a frozen wasteland as if begging to become human icicles. Yet they walked with easy strides, unhurried, unbothered, their posture relaxed as though they were touring a scenic overlook rather than approaching one of the most dangerous places on earth.

They were the last to enter the polar region and kept deliberately to the rear, never rushing, never jostling for position. Their calm carried a certain weight. It was the composure of people who either knew something others did not, or feared nothing at all.

Far ahead of them, Ethan and Blackie descended.

From the sky, the landscape below looked surreal. At the very apex of the world, where endless ice should have reigned, there lay something impossibly green. They dropped lower until the ground came into sharp focus, then touched down lightly.

The air was warm.

Not merely survivable, but gentle. Damp with the scent of leaves and rich soil. Birds called somewhere in the distance. The light filtering through the canopy was soft and golden. It felt like stepping into a tropical rainforest hidden inside the bones of winter. If Ethan had not crossed the polar wasteland himself, he would never have believed such a place could exist here, cradled at the top of the world.

He reached into his storage and withdrew the bone plaque.

Only now did he fully understand why Xakier had placed it in his hands.

The wolf Patriarch had called it a clan heirloom, a map of the Forbidden Vale passed down through generations. He had admitted, with a wry smile, that no one could swear to its accuracy. No one from their clan had dared carry it inside before. The risk of losing it had always outweighed the temptation. The plaque was more than carved bone; it represented the Moonfrost Direwolf clan’s accumulated knowledge, its pride, its future. If Ethan failed to bring it back, that legacy might vanish with him. Their lineage, already thinning with each passing generation, could be cut off entirely.

When Xakier had handed it over, the other elders had stared in open shock.

He had only smiled, though there was nothing light in it. "We are shackled to this place," he had said quietly. "Where would we even go? And who can say when the next Mythic Age will return? It is not just my clan. All of ours are rotting in the same boat. Our bloodlines thin year after year. Will we even survive long enough to see that Age? So I am placing a wager. If he wins, we break free. If he loses, then we were finished here anyway."

No one had argued after that. The truth in his words had pressed down like a mountain.

After a long silence, the Cloudfang elder had risen with a weary sigh. "Longen, old friend, I have looked down on you for years," he admitted, voice stripped of pride. "Do you know why? Because I did not have your courage. That is my shame." He extended his hand. "Let me see the plaque. I have been inside. If it is genuine, I might recognize something. At the very least, I can mark the places where death waits."

They had gathered around him as he studied it. His aged fingers traced the etched lines with practiced care, and almost immediately his expression shifted. He found the route he himself had taken three centuries ago. The plaque marked danger zones with distinct symbols, some faint from age, others carved deeper as warnings. As he followed the path, he kept muttering under his breath, each word heavy with regret. If only he had possessed this map back then.

At last, his finger stopped over a red circle.

"Here," he said softly. "This is where Nightclaw saved me."

He did not use the name others whispered behind the cat-eared elder’s back. He did not say "Kitten." But everyone knew.

"This is where he lost everything," the elder continued. "His Energy shattered. His bloodline broken. Without him, I would have died there."

A somber silence had settled over the group.

For three hundred years, the Cloudfang elder had cared for Nightclaw, nurturing him as one would guard a fragile ember in a storm. It was said he had rebuilt the younger man’s bloodline from nothing. Only a decade ago had Nightclaw regained human form, the faint feline traits still lingering in his features. No one dared underestimate him. Not because of the elder’s protection, but because of the speed of his recovery. Three centuries to return from ruin, and with a bloodline purer than before.

Most assumed rare treasures had been consumed in unimaginable quantities. Only the Cloudfang elder knew the truth. What he had done was not rebuild, but protect. Inside the Vale, Nightclaw had been forced back to his primal form, yet in that regression something extraordinary had occurred. His bloodline had been stripped of its impurities, leaving only its essence behind. The elder had kept that secret locked in his heart, fearing others would charge blindly into the Vale seeking the same "fortune," never realizing how close it had come to becoming a grave.

He did not speak of this in front of the others.

But just before Ethan departed, he had drawn him aside and whispered the truth, along with a warning that carried more weight than anything else he had said.

"Follow the path marked on the map," he had insisted. "Do not stray. If you deviate, even by a little, the map becomes meaningless."

Standing now on the forest floor of the Forbidden Vale, Ethan finally understood.

His Soul Sense, normally capable of sweeping across vast distances, was crushed flat. It extended barely beyond his own body, as though the world itself rejected probing awareness. There would be no convenient detection, no wide-area scanning to confirm his position. Without the plaque, he would be walking blind. Fortunately, he had not let pride steer him elsewhere. He had entered from the same starting point the elder once had.

Holding the bone plaque steady, Ethan adjusted his orientation, aligning landmarks with the etched symbols. As he began moving, he felt that familiar pull deep within him, a subtle tug guiding him toward something ahead. The direction matched the route on the map perfectly. For once, instinct and instruction were in harmony.

They had not gone more than a hundred meters when Blackie froze.

Ethan halted half a second later.

Blackie’s ears twitched, angled forward. Ethan listened carefully and caught it too. A faint rustling. Then the low murmur of voices.

’Voices.’

’Here.’

They looked at each other, disbelief written plainly across both faces.

"Boss," Blackie whispered, his usual bravado nowhere to be found, "tell me this place is not haunted."

Ethan shot him a flat look. "Haunted? With your level of strength? Get a grip. Let’s see who it is." Even as he spoke, he remained wary. With his senses suppressed, he could not tell how many people were ahead or how strong they might be. The sounds were close, just beyond a dense wall of foliage.

Blackie muttered something about horror movies and famous last words, but he followed.

They advanced carefully, parting branches and stepping over thick roots. After a dozen more meters, Ethan reached the final curtain of leaves and pushed it aside.

The murmuring stopped instantly.

On the other side lay a small clearing carved out of the undergrowth. A makeshift camp had been established there, crude but functional. Supplies stacked neatly. A portable stove still giving off faint heat. Footprints pressed deep into the damp soil.

Three men stood within the clearing.

They wore modern tactical gear, the kind designed for arctic operations rather than mystical jungles hidden at the world’s peak. In their hands were compact submachine guns, black metal dull under the filtered light.

All three barrels were aimed directly at Ethan and Blackie.