The Almighty Dominance novel Chapter 623

Alex sat alone in the sect master’s office, the vast chamber silent except for the faint creak of ancient wooden beams overhead. Sunlight slanted through paper windows, catching dust motes that drifted like lazy spirits.

The room was empty. Every elder and senior disciple who might have challenged his authority had already come and gone, each one slipping away with a handful of the precise movements he had demonstrated.

They had taken what they needed and vanished into closed-door cultivation, sealing themselves away for months or years.

Even the proudest among them had bowed their heads when he spoke, because they all knew the truth: he was ranked number one across all peaks and had only a five-year contract as the sect master. Now, one felt threatened by him.

He leaned back in the heavy carved chair and his small fingers drummed once against the armrest. The silence felt like victory, but it also felt heavy.

Alex let his gaze wander across the room—the faded scrolls on the walls, the ceremonial swords mounted like relics, the low table still holding the remains of a tea ceremony no one had bothered to clear. Everything here whispered of centuries unchanged.

Xia was a country wrapped in iron tradition. Its people had turned cultivation into the only language that mattered, the only currency, the only future. They had closed their borders to the outside world so tightly that even the wind from foreign shores seemed suspect.

Progress? Technology? Those words were almost profane. Alex had seen the disdain in their eyes sneered at the sleek machines and scientific wonders they refused to understand.

They called it foreign poison. They warned eveyone, in hushed voices over rice wine, that bringing such things here would brand him a traitor to Xia itself.

He knew they were right. The moment he tried to lift Wudang out of its medieval slumber, they would brand him a heretic.

But Alex also knew something else, something that burned quietly inside his chest like a pilot light: he could change them.

It would take years of grinding patience, of proving himself move by move, miracle by miracle. Hard work. Long work. He was willing to bleed for it.

On the tenth day of his succession, the heavy doors to the inner courtyard swung open with a groan.

Li Qingxue stepped through, robes whispering against the stone floor, the legendary spatial ring glinting on her finger like captured starlight.

“What is inside the ring?” Li Qingxue asked. “You accepted it with such… joy.”

Alex felt a slow, unstoppable grin spread across his face. He lifted the ring, turning it so the afternoon light sparked across its surface.

“Inside this ring?” His voice was soft, almost reverent. “You will never believe it.”

He paused, letting the moment stretch, savoring the flicker of curiosity that crossed the woman’s usually impassive features.

“Whatever is stored inside belonged to the King of Estoria,” Alex whispered, “and to the richest man in all of Prussia. With what’s in here, I could build ten Wudang sects—each one grander than this—and still have enough left over to smile while I did it.”

Li Qingxue’s eyebrows lifted a fraction, the closest thing to shock the woman ever allowed herself.

Alex stood. Without another word he crossed the room, the ring now warm against his skin like a living thing. He stepped into the sect master’s private building—the one that now belonged to him alone—and closed the tall doors behind him with a decisive click.

Then he did something no one in Wudang had ever seen.

He ordered every servant, every attendant, every lingering elder out.

“Leave,” he said simply. “All of you. Now.”

They obeyed. Footsteps hurried across polished floors. Doors slammed in the distance. When the last echo faded, silence wrapped the building like a cloak.

Only then did Alex raise the ring and pour his qi into it.

A low, powerful thrum filled the air. Space itself seemed to bend. From the ring’s storage dimension rolled out something that did not belong in this world of swords and spirit energy—a sleek, midnight-black supercar, low and predatory, its lines so sharp they looked like they could cut the light.

Chrome accents caught the lantern glow and threw it back like liquid silver. The emblem on the hood gleamed: VOXEN LUCIFER.

His car.

Alex rested a small hand on the warm hood, feeling the faint vibration of dormant power beneath the carbon-fiber skin.

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