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If Braydon Neal could endure for ten days, the odds would even out!

Pushing through for fifteen days would tilt the odds to one to three.

Twenty days in, the odds would lean further to one to five.

A thirty-day perseverance would tip the scales to one to ten.

…

And if he could endure for a year, the odds would soar to one to a hundred!

In the otherwise mundane lives within the Frost Prison, this became an intriguing spectacle.

Each level had its timekeeping method.

For instance, on the fifteenth level, there was a device akin to an hourglass, its white sand trickling down to mark a day.

However, this apparatus had been neglected by the elder inhabitants of the fifteenth floor, now encased in a thick layer of ice.

Yet, it was dusted off once more.

Since the day Braydon first assaulted the black door, he had persisted for thirteen days already!

Resting only twice during this time, his relentless assault became monotonous.

Yet, Braydon remained unperturbed, growing calmer with each strike against the iron door.

Such relentless attacks persisted until the nineteenth day, when an unforeseen event unfolded.

Braydon collapsed to the ground in agony, his body contorting, muscles twitching uncontrollably.

It was as though invisible forces were wreaking havoc within him, leaving the barefooted old man and others baffled, unsure of what was transpiring.

Braydon’s bloodshot eyes mirrored his agony as he writhed on the ground, unleashing a guttural roar.

His gaze brimmed with a murderous intensity, fueled by the anguish gripping his soul and seeping into his very bones. What could be causing this?

A startled voice echoed from the sixteenth floor, “Why aren’t they attacking the black door up there?”

“It looks like he’s dying!” the barefooted old man retorted.

“Are we in danger?” someone fretted, “Should we seize this chance and strike?”

“No,” the old man clarified, “He was focused on the iron door. Suddenly, he collapsed and convulsed, muscles spasming uncontrollably.”

Below, murmurs filled the air, tinged with gloom.

“Could it be the backlash of his own force, leading to his demise?”

“No,” another countered, “Backlash typically results in internal injuries, not this… contorted state.”

“Is he a physique cultivator?” someone speculated, incredulity coloring their tone.

From the sixteenth level onward, prisoners were predominantly warlock emperors—no fools, but rather ruthless individuals.

The old man, stunned, had no chance to respond before a deep rumble reverberated throughout the Frost Prison—a true emperor’s pressure.

It swept through with a fierce aura, reminiscent of a dormant beast suddenly awakened after millennia.

Amidst this upheaval, Braydon rose from his curled position, his frail form now exuding an ominous pressure.

Each movement seemed to impose an invisible weight, shedding a layer of skin from where he had lain.

The culmination of his body refinement efforts was finally at hand!

After nineteen days of unwavering persistence, Braydon broke through the barriers, unleashing the full potential of his physique.

Deep within him, the lingering potency of the pills he consumed lay dormant, waiting to be coaxed out and refined to perfection.

With every ounce of determination, he purged them from his system, achieving the coveted emperor level of physical prowess.

Now, his punches could shatter emperor-level weapons—a feat he had long aimed for.

Donned in a pristine white robe adorned with a gilded Qilin on its back, Braydon seemed transformed.

The Qilin, depicted stepping on clouds with a furious roar, appeared almost lifelike, its aura noble yet terrifying.

In this moment, Braydon felt a surge of familiarity, memories from long ago flooding his mind.

Recollections of combat techniques tied to the Qilin Art filled his thoughts.

The Qilin Combat Technique—a martial art honed by the esteemed Qilin Lords of the past—now beckoned to him with newfound clarity.

He realized that to master this art to its peak, his physique had to attain the emperor Level.

It was a realization that dawned upon him: without reaching the emperor level, the true potency of the Qilin Combat Technique would remain beyond his grasp.

With resolve, Braydon closed his eyes, turned, and took a decisive step forward.

As he did, his aura transformed, embodying the spirit of the Qilin itself.

A golden Qilin force surged around him, and Braydon turned into a Qilin.

And in that moment, as he shut his eyes, a transformation began.

“The Roar of the Qilin, Nine Strikes of the Son of Heaven, Heaven-Splitting Forbidden Technique!”

Braydon’s thin lips parted, uttering the words of ancient techniques passed down by his forebears.

Combining these three deadly techniques into one, Braydon’s intent was clear—to eliminate his foe.

With a mere thought, Braydon’s form multiplied into nine, each embodiment launching an attack.

Before the imposing black door, Braydon awaited the return of the nine forms into one.

Grasping the black spear from the ground, Braydon made his move.

The spear missed its mark initially but swiftly shot forth, accompanied by the resounding howl of the Qilin.

With a deafening bang, the spear tip found its mark, piercing through the meter-thick door with explosive force.

In stunned silence, the ancient residents of the fifteenth floor of the Frost Prison beheld the impossible.

The once unbreakable barrier lay shattered before them, leaving the entire Frost Prison in eerie silence.

Moments ago, they anticipated the familiar thud of fists against iron, but instead, a different sound echoed—a sound that defied their expectations.

Was it an illusion?

“The door… it’s broken!” exclaimed the barefoot old man, his voice tinged with madness.

“What?”

The revelation sent shockwaves through the Frost Prison, stirring disbelief among its inhabitants.

After a millennium of existence, the Frost Prison stood breached.

Someone was indeed about to break free.

“Hey fellow cultivator, lend me a hand breaking this black door! Help me escape, and I’ll cut you in on half of the Divine Emptiness Realm!” A booming voice echoed from the 16th level of the Prison of Ice.

“Friend, I beg of you! Assist me in my escape, and I’ll owe you a debt of gratitude beyond measure!”

“Fellow Daoist, please wait!”

…

The commotion spread like wildfire throughout the Frost Prison.

Everyone yearned for freedom, but would Braydon be their savior?

Merely based on their words?

Did they think Braydon to be so naive, like a child easily swayed by empty promises?

“Fellow Daoist,” a hoarse voice croaked from the eighteenth level of the Frost Prison, “Break the black door and free me from these shackles. I promise you a grand reward.”

Locked away on the eighteenth floor was a figure presumed dead for three centuries—a being many had believed to have long departed this world.

Yet, to their astonishment, the ancient being still drew breath.

Ignoring the plea, Braydon pressed forward, stepping resolutely toward freedom.

“What is it you seek?” questioned the ancient prisoner, his tone betraying a hint of desperation.

“You cannot grant my desires,” Braydon retorted coolly.

“Unless you try, how can you be so certain?” The old monster’s voice steadied.

“I desire dominion over these ruins,” Braydon stated plainly.

“I can aid you in this,” the old being proclaimed without hesitation.

“You’re imprisoned here. How could you possibly assist me?” Braydon smirked, already moving away.

“Braydon, wait! Don’t venture outside!” Xetsa Yeza’s urgent cry rang out from the sixteenth floor. “There’s a great-success emperor guarding the grounds!”