The Empire’s war machine roared like a celestial comet within the span of a month, sweeping through the New World with unstoppable force.
As Song Zining had foresightfully anticipated, upon the Empire’s sudden advance into its core regions, the bloodlines from the dark realms grew anxious. They hurriedly summoned massive battalions from adjacent territories, desperate to seal every opening.
Yet Song Zining again showed unparalleled genius in both artes of Celestial Divination and battlefield strategy—his command unmatched, his maneuvers divine, twisting the superior legions of the dark kin into disarray like whirlwind eddies before fire, slicing them apart unit by unit.
Zhang Jun Du pursued a contrastingly resolute style—commanding with stony, irresistible momentum pushing steadily inward. No stratagem from opponents resisting his iron front remained undefeated. Many once-elite regiments of the dark kin saw total annihilation, entire lineages with glorious ancestral annals utterly erased before his unyielding advance upon the field.
On the battlefield Jun Du led ceaselessly amidst the very eye of the fight. Of course the dark lords did everything in their might seeking that crucial kill—for all knew how he suffered long-standing injuries, his base weakened. To them he seemed now merely a ghost of his former self, a legend that might shatter if pierced fully. Slaying him would cripple imperial morale entirely, hence every elite among the dark bloodlines clamored in pursuit to stake a name for themselves as the slayer of the once-foremost prodigy of the Empire.
Yet amid countless ambushes that turned deadly for Jun Du, even he could not watch every side, his body soon lashed raw across with bleeding wounds. But he seemed unfeeling toward pain—his attacks, cold and swift, suffered no compromise, sacrificing small flesh for their lives; for each blow from him meant another life claimed before him.
Thus despite numerous attempts surrounding him by darkness’ brood, their momentary triumphs dissolved swiftly to dread in return—each time they were sure victory’s breath was upon them, they would instead find themselves the prey in bloodied downfall. Even when Jun Du wavered upon wounded feet soaked crimson and looked like to topple down and fall—several times yet have fallen devils swooped greedily in, seeking the kill; only for every one to find death waiting instead.
When the dark armies resolved with unity to eliminate him once and for all, Song Zi Ning—ever the obstacle in prophecy and plan—appeared at key turns against them as fate itself conspired against; be it crushing both fronts from behind in pincers, delaying reinforcements through strategic blockades… every ploy from darkness turned naught but wasted ambition, paid with heaps of blood and bitter loss to their name.
As this blaze burned in fields and mountains across, so grew the Empire’s steadfast determination. The high war command deployed waves of floating war galleons into the New World—whenever Song Zi Ning called for. Fresh divisions marched alongside supplies, the nation’s resources stretched with no reservation spared.
Seven short days the aerial craft would remain airborne at capacity beyond which cost sky-rocket—nevertheless even darker kin found themselves in deeper strain as their own crafts were already failing beyond even the four-day marker plagued constantly by deadly plunges. Yet retreating entirely below ground was unthinkable as high generals—be they baron or marquis—all balked at the disgraceful crawl that entailed.
Having already found Song Zi Ning a constant menace in maneuver, the slow-down choked battlefield tempo became a nightmare of total paralysis they might never escape—thus despite continuous catastrophic losses the dark kin had no choice but grit their teeth maintaining those sky transports however they could.
One demon-prince, frustrated past his limit, mustered a league of formidable Seers in a bid for retribution upon other planes—seeking a contest beyond the physical. Yet Song Zi Ning, cloaked utterly as if he had disappeared among cosmic void, vanished in sight whenever traced. But even the moment their vigil lapsed, each one found themselves targeted again under his celestial counters: leaving none left undead or unbroken among their number.
Half of those masters of divination perished or turned raving mad in mere days—an outcome that saw the last survivors fleeing in fear without a second thought, evading summons at any expense; higher sages upon that native soil pretended deaf ears to any reply demanded by their frantic appeals.
Throughout these perilous days, none of it disrupted Song Zi Ning’s relentless rhythm as general; his stratagems unfolded unfazed amidst the chaos—another marquis’s life added alongside the former as tribute, carved cleanly in death upon the very field of battle by his blade.
It was then too—even that demon-prince saw clearly into Song Zi Ning’s celestial arts mastery unlike all else before—remorse burned bright within recalling the age of Lin Xutang: none dare challenge Lin when he commanded art and prophecy together; merely setting traps, the elders of Eternal Night would be left trembling from counterstroke alone during war games long since past his days.
With this triumph came the birth of echoes of past glory carried upon Song Zi Ning in the way Lin’s shadow lingered once upon history’s horizon as myth reborn.
With relentless march forward the Empire shattered into these heartlands, a land of jagged ridges and chaotic currents—an ever twisting realm plagued by furious ambient fluxes known as primal winds raging wild.
This merciless realm where nature itself defied man, the perfect theatre for ambush and shadow strike— Song Zi Ning relished as home ground, where one famed commander upon the dark side fell after another to his traps with each passing day.
Reaching these lands Jun Du realized this was his long sought terrain where true martial brilliance could shine; thus he relinquished control outright to hand down full command authority to Song Zi Ning—as per agreement he returned fully to frontlines to strike where summoned without question.
Nowhere before now had this central battleground of darkness’ design been truly revealed—hidden ahead in these treacherously fortified strongholds set to secure an undiscovered treasure in these lands. Yet with the realm’s corrosive energy turning steel frames to rust so swift, darkness could only turn to stonework built using the native quarried stone available from the land in crude desperation—an agonization to construct and yet a necessity for endurance they could not escape despite all efforts.
Yet Song Zi Ning granted them no breathing respite and in mere days laid waste across fort after primitive fort as fire upon dry brush—as any hard-earned stronghold they built crumbled overnight into ruinous debris—each lost battle stripping darkness’ once solid gains away until but whispers remained.
And through study of their fortifications across these treacherous grounds, he sent forth his covert missives to headquarters, reporting this central area to likely contain precisely what darkness sought—while from current failures to achieve their aim, Song Zi Ning inferred they themselves remain as frustrated yet in their search.
Back in the Empire’s capital, his urgent intelligence bore grave importance—the high war committee spared not a single resource as entire provinces shifted toward support with all their might poured behind this effort, the whole land turning to fuel this advance alone.
In sight of such extraordinary successes once mere rumors upon the battlefield and rival claims had faded with dust in wake—there grew talk too between some of courtiers of the duality Song and Zhang might form in a new era together; although while the legend surrounding Jun Du remained unparalleled in scope even in recent bloodshed and fame both still bore weight of legacy and precedent before being compared truly to elder legends like Zhang Beiqian or the legendary master himself, Lin Xutang.
Through one full month of brutal battle the imperial forces found their feet secured upon that center ground— Song Zi Ning too finally commanded absolute loyalty unbroken in field. Commanded now with a company that numbered five great Lords among them—each with egos of their years shaped in proud experience and bold autonomy, such as Yuan Guanggong who constantly criticized Song Zi Ning’s every decision of maneuver from their council debates.
Song remained silent at the barbs in meetings but at conclusion would often challenge Guanggong to “discuss” further beyond tent doors after session ended.
Though their dispute hinged upon the matter of warcraft—Song quite plainly desired settlement not of words but force—and yet a general upon battlefield stood proud equal in rank with none; thus none among the elite would consider stepping back before witnessing whose strength might prevail at hand. Under countless pairs of keen eyes Yuan Guanggong let only a bitter scoff escape his jaw before his words sliced cold: “This marquis indulges you this folly.”
Thus arose murmurs throughout their assembled company urging them both towards reason—though their words were hollow, known for their meaning not their impact. Thus these two went about that rear-yard dispute while none among the peers failed to predict the end before seeing their return.
But what did strike them all like hail from clear sky—was their swift conclusion: scarce a breath past minutes before both returned once again into meeting tent as if they had scarcely stepped across the doorway threshold at all.
Guanggong bore a grim and silent visage frozen deep in shadow and Song Zi Ning carried laughter clear across the room—the outcome already made plain. All assumed had a proper duel broken into mortal conflict, the result still inevitable given Song Zi Ning’s mastery—but none anticipated this result so swift and absolute a crushing without even prolonged parries; it implied barely three rounds passed when Guanggong broke entirely—left not even time for his skill to properly assert itself. And yet they well knew Guanggong could not have thrown victory so easily either for face alone—he could afford only to delay matters until Song Zi Ning felt it best to disengage. That it ended so swiftly then suggested not even this minimum goal achieved.
Yuan hailed from a humble lineage, with a youth of inadequate fundamentals; though having crossed into the realm he had proven deadly in battle despite plateaued powers. None of the gathered Lords doubted among their ranks only a balanced match might result should such encounters occurred between them.
This revelation now weighed silent upon the assembly as each realized—if one as skilled as Yuan Guanggong fell utterly in but moments… how might they themselves faring if faced in confrontation with the peerless Song?
With such understanding settled among lords’ faces that bore false joy in their newfound civility now directed toward Song—thus without protest they guided him willingly and humbly toward taking command’s central seat.
With his gaze sweeping those gathered noble commanders around the circle, Song Zining began, lips curved in his ever-pleasant smile, “It’s no secret how when Qian Ye first shattered heavens and ascended into the realm, he proclaimed dominion unrivaled among all beneath the sky within his order—a truth all still echo.”
Eyes turned upward in silent agreement, though not entirely free of discomfort among a few others particularly among the clan bearing Bai’s noble blood whose scowling expressions bore signs of unease most noticeable.
Qian Ye once emerged from obscurity riding the fame upon Bai’s house—an outcome still bitter upon them to accept. His rising name came forged in an early clash wherein Bai’s high general at time yielded rather than confront him, retreating with life but wounded pride intact as Qian Ye escaped unscathed. His name grew solid thereafter through slaying aristarchs of darkness and taming entire millions of savage hounds upon the wastes of Yong Lu.
From the Bai standpoint—greater and greater Qian Ye’s legacy became, the better—so perhaps one day enough would have been done for old wounds to heal somewhat.
After a pause that let his words sink amongst gathered leaders, Song continued, “Now, it is but plain how average I appear, placing no higher than Empire’s distant third ranking. Yet beneath divine throne tiers—if except Qian Ye Jun Du, there remains none among lesser immortals in rank not already fated to meet defeat before mine arms extended. Thus I strongly urge everyone, better to avoid idle distractions such as those unproductive quarrels. Whoever doubts, however, I’ll surely offer such personal guidance in ‘discusses.’ If reputation gets lost along such path—you mustn’t place the blame upon my shoulders afterward.”
These words were scarcely concealed threats, spoken in so blunt a manner that even the most obtuse couldn’t miss the message.
Each among generals bore titles as regional kings commanding respect across their own spheres—treasure more revered than life for most of them. Though all recognized now Song’s advantage they still harbored a difference of pride that separated those actually engaging in duel from those never meeting challenge, each reluctant to step into that light. The case between Yuan Guanggung and the young scions of noble lineages—was a wound destined kept raw in discussions long carried across parlors for generations.
Remaining defiant, a certain general of the Bai family softly interjected, “Might nineteen-tier strength not also qualify one of the lower deities as you defined it?” implying another step upward that might yet threaten宋’s claims as even extra crystal formed signifying deeper power.
Nineteen meant having another core ignited, even if this next smaller then its predecessor—yet the implication of its added power was real in combat.
With his same tranquil grin unshaken, Song responded: “When referring to this Lower God-tier, naturally my statements include those nineteen ranked among them.”
There lay in this reply the essence of sheer unmasked over confidence—dripping with brazen assertion.
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