The wind howled a mournful dirge, a fitting accompaniment to the desolate landscape. Xylos, a serpentine coil of obsidian scales gleaming dully under the weak, pale sun, slid smoothly across the frozen terrain. Years had eroded the edges of his patience, each passing season a bitter reminder of his fruitless search. The ice crunched beneath him, a whisper against the silence that had become his constant companion.

His recent lightning tribulation, a bone-shaking test of his nascent power, had been an agony, yet a strange gift. It had pulsed through him, a raw, untamed energy that brought with it fragments of forgotten knowledge, of a time before his current incarnation. Vague impressions of a great ruin, shrouded in a power similar to his own, had lodged themselves in his mind. It was a maddening whisper, a siren call that drew him deeper into the unforgiving north.

Years he had spent, scouring the desolate wastes, his senses honed to razor sharpness. He had tracked the faintest scent of ancient magic, the subtle shifts in the ambient spiritual energy, all to no avail. The ruin remained elusive, a figment of his awakened ancestral memory.

Then, it happened. His keen senses, honed in the endless quiet, picked up the subtle vibrations of human footsteps. He paused, his forked tongue flicking out, tasting the air. Cultivators. Humans, reeking of the heady mix of herbs, sweat, and nascent spiritual energy. He followed the vibrations of their passage, his movements as fluid and silent as the ice itself.

He found them huddled near a jagged outcropping of ice, their vibrant robes a stark contrast to the monochromatic landscape. They were five in number, their voices carrying clearly in the frigid air.

"Did you feel that?" one, a woman with fiery red hair braided down her back, said, her breath clouding the air. "A pulse... it felt ancient, powerful."

"Indeed," a man with a wispy beard responded, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "It came from within that fissure. It must lead somewhere."

Xylos's cold heart gave a subtle, almost imperceptible thrum within his chest. A fissure? A secret realm? The fragments of memory that tormented him suddenly seemed to coalesce. This… this was it. This was the path.

He retreated deeper into the shadows, his form blending seamlessly with the darkness. He was a master of stealth, a predator perfectly adapted to this unforgiving environment. He waited patiently, his serpentine eyes burning with a cold intensity. He had no need to make his presence known. These humans, in their arrogance and blissful ignorance, were leading him.

The cultivators spoke of a "secret realm," of a place ripe with opportunity. They speculated about ancient treasures, forgotten techniques, and the possibility of immense advancement. Fools. They had no concept of what lay hidden within that fissure, no idea of the power they were about to stumble upon.

He watched them begin to pry open the fissure, their combined strength enough to shift the ancient ice. A faint, ethereal light began to seep from the newly created opening, a light that resonated deep within Xylos’s bones.

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His movements were economical, precise. He didn't rush, didn't betray his presence with so much as a rustle of the snow. He was the shadow in the background, the whisper in the wind. He was cold, calculating, and utterly patient.

They were his unwitting guides. They would break the seal, venture into the unknown, and lead him directly to the heart of his destiny. And when that inevitable moment came, when they had served his purpose, they would be nothing but fleeting memories in the long, cold eternity of Xylos's existence. The hunt had begun.

The humid air of the secret realm hung heavy, thick with the scent of ancient earth and potent spiritual herbs. Xylos, a creature of obsidian scales and eyes like chips of glacial ice, slithered through the undergrowth, a silent, deadly shadow. His nascent soul cultivation, granted him an unnerving awareness. He felt the subtle shifts in the earth's energy, the faintest tremors of magic, and the frantic, thrumming heartbeats of the human cultivators who dared to trespass.

He observed them, these fleeting, fragile beings, with an emotionless detachment. They were like ants scrambling over a discarded feast, their clumsy movements triggering ancient formations, their greed blinding them to the true nature of this place. They plucked at the withered husks of spiritual herbs, their eyes gleaming with avarice. Xylos's serpentine lips curled slightly, a barely perceptible sneer. Their efforts were meaningless, trinkets amidst the vastness of the realm.

He considered their fate with cold, clinical calculation. Should he let them continue their charade, allow them to stumble blindly into the heart of the ruin, unknowingly testing the defenses? Or should he simply crush them beneath his might, their pathetic cries echoing only in his memory? His scales rippled as he caught the faintest whisper of unease, a phantom echo of his bloodline's memory. Primordial power had once soaked this earth, a power that even his ancestors had only glimpsed in the terrifying flashes of tribulation. Caution, then. It was a prudent path, even for a creature as powerful as himself.

He allowed them their pathetic dance until they reached it – the heart of the realm, a colossal stone door etched with swirling patterns that seemed to writhe and shift in the dim light. Their efforts to breach its defenses were comical, their desperation palpable. He watched them curse and strategize, their faces flushed with frustration. They vowed to return, to unravel the secrets that held them at bay.

That…would not do. The thought was an icy shard in his mind. With effortless grace, Xylos unfurled his true power. The air crackled, the earth trembled. He moved like a blur, a whisper of death. Foundation stage cultivators, pathetic insects, crumbled beneath his immense power. One, arrogant enough to hide his true cultivation at core formation, was no match. Corrosive acid bloomed from Xylos's very being, melting flesh and bone into bubbling sludge. Others fared no better, their bones crushed by his monstrous strength, their screams cut short by the crushing finality of his attacks.

He left no survivors, only the scent of death and acid hanging in the air. Their ambitions, their greed, all reduced to nothing.

With a languid grace, Xylos slithered towards the door, his scales scraping against the ancient stone. Reaching out a clawed hand, he sliced into his own flesh, letting his dark, ichorous blood flow onto the surface. It dripped and smeared across the intricate carvings, and then the door reacted. A deep thrum resonated through the earth, a pulse that vibrated in Xylos's very bones. The stone rippled, the intricate carvings glowing with an inner light, and with it a door of what looks like solidified darkness opened slowly to a hall of the same colour.

The path was open. Now the true test would begin.