“Situhai, I challenge you, here and now.”
Right after those words, the legendary duel that shook the universe began. The match was incredibly one-sided. On one side stood Situhai, the renowned wandering swordsman, feared by every swordsman in the galaxy. On the other was Yang Hao, an unknown, up-and-coming nobody.
But after this battle, Yang Hao was no longer just a nobody. Even the Senate and the Emperor of the Empire paid close attention to him, as everyone wanted to know who this young man daring enough to challenge a supreme master could be. Did he possess extraordinary courage, or did he have some world-shaking secret technique?
At the time, however, things didn’t seem that way. To everyone present, Yang Hao appeared to be throwing his life away. He could have lived peacefully, but for the sake of his friend and a single word from Long Yun, he willingly accepted death beneath Situhai’s blade.
Especially after Situhai slashed his sword through the sky, people were terrified, certain that Yang Hao would have to retreat—there was no choice but to retreat.
But Yang Hao struck back.
The first strike was Aurora. Yang Hao unsheathed his treasured sword in a reverse grip, channeling his inner energy into it. Though this was a lightsaber technique, Yang Hao wielded it as if he had mastered it for decades.
A brilliant, dazzling light erupted from the tip of his sword, breaking into countless tiny beams that shot toward Situhai. These beams were as fine as cow hairs, yet they penetrated everything, each carrying immense power. Anyone struck by them would be grievously wounded, if not outright killed.
But Aurora could not harm Situhai. Yang Hao had tried it before. However, the real brilliance of this strike wasn’t aimed at Situhai himself. The scattered beams covered everyone on Situhai’s side, including Luo Dongjie, Ning Zhiyan, and the severely wounded members of the Mingse group. Even if Situhai could dodge, those people—especially Luo Dongjie—would be pierced by countless beams.
A single strike with a double purpose.
“Bravo!” Situhai actually smiled. He looked like a parched sponge that had suddenly been soaked in water, his whole body revitalized.
Situhai neither retreated nor dodged. With a flick of his wrist, he spun his rusted sword into a circle. It seemed like a casual motion, but it unleashed tremendous energy. The surrounding air and force fields were drawn in, creating a whirlwind. At the tip of Situhai’s sword, it was as if a black hole had formed, sucking in all the beams from Yang Hao’s Aurora.
“Situ Hai, I challenge you—right here, right now.”
The duel that shook the universe began with those words. The two opponents were vastly mismatched: one was Situ Hai, the legendary wandering swordsman whose name alone struck fear into the hearts of warriors across the cosmos. The other was Yang Hao, a nobody who had only just begun to make a name for himself.
But after this battle, Yang Hao was no longer a nobody. Even the Imperial Senate and the Emperor himself took notice, eager to learn what kind of young man would dare challenge a supreme master. Did he possess boundless courage? Or did he wield some earth-shattering technique?
At the time, however, it seemed like sheer folly. To everyone watching, Yang Hao was marching to his death. He could have lived comfortably, yet for the sake of his friends—for a single promise to Long Yun—he was willing to die by Situ Hai’s blade.
Especially when Situ Hai’s sword split the heavens with a single strike, the onlookers trembled, certain that Yang Hao would retreat—that he *had* to retreat.
But he drew his sword instead.
His first move was **Polaris**. Yang Hao unsheathed his treasured blade in a reverse grip, channeling his qi into it. Though this was a signature technique of the Light Sword School, Yang Hao executed it as if he had mastered it for decades.
A brilliant, dazzling radiance erupted from the tip of his sword, fracturing into countless needle-thin beams that shot toward Situ Hai. Each strand of light carried immense destructive force—enough to maim or kill even the strongest warriors.
Yet Polaris could not harm Situ Hai. Yang Hao had already tested that before. The true danger of this strike wasn’t aimed at Situ Hai himself, but at the people behind him—Luo Dongjie, Ning Ziyan, and the wounded members of the Twilight Sect. Even if Situ Hai dodged, those behind him, especially Luo Dongjie, would be skewered by a thousand piercing lights.
A single stroke to kill two birds.
“Excellent!” Situ Hai’s face lit up with delight, as if he were a parched sponge suddenly drenched in water, swelling with renewed vigor.
He neither retreated nor dodged. With a flick of his wrist, his rusted sword traced a perfect circle in the air. A seemingly casual motion, yet it unleashed a tremendous force, warping the surrounding air and energy fields. The circle became a vortex, a black hole that devoured Yang Hao’s Polaris beams whole.
**”Circular Error.”** The defensive stance of Situ Hai’s *Ten Errors of the Sword*.
But before the words even left his lips, Yang Hao vanished. Polaris had been a feint—its true purpose was to force Situ Hai to act. The moment he did, he had already lost the initiative.
Yang Hao employed the **Flying Petal Phantom Step**, moving so fast that he seemed to dissolve into the air itself, his very breath disappearing.
Even Situ Hai, with his peerless swordsmanship, felt a tremor of shock. It hadn’t been long since their last encounter, yet Yang Hao’s growth was unprecedented. Closing his eyes, Situ Hai extended his rusted blade slightly, relying on spiritual sense to track Yang Hao’s movements.
Suddenly, Yang Hao materialized behind Situ Hai, leaping high into the air. In his hand, the Flame Sword roared with fury, five fiery dragons coiling around its edge before unleashing an overwhelming slash.
**”Five Dragon Slash!”** Yang Hao roared. An unstoppable wave of scorching destruction descended upon Situ Hai’s head—a strike capable of slaying gods and demons alike, as if nothing in this world could withstand it.
Evolved from the Dan Ding Sect’s *Slashing Principle*, the Five Dragon Slash was a perfect match for the Flame Sword. The first time Yang Hao had used it, he had cleaved through a starship of the Three Crystal Seas—proof of its devastating power.
Situ Hai remained with his back turned, his sword still lowered. He could feel the searing heat behind him, the kind that could incinerate everything. By all appearances, he couldn’t block it—nor did he seem to try.
The five dragons converged into a single inferno, poised to engulf Situ Hai completely.
Luo Dongjie’s face turned ashen. He had always believed Situ Hai to be the universe’s greatest swordsman, invincible in combat. Never had he imagined a technique as fearsome as the Five Dragon Slash. The seemingly frail Yang Hao harbored such monstrous strength—enough to potentially defeat Situ Hai himself.
Would Situ Hai truly be defeated?
His sword answered.
Without even turning, Situ Hai casually thrust his blade backward—a strike so ordinary it bordered on absurdity. It lacked power, precision, even intent. A three-year-old with a wooden sword could have delivered a stronger, steadier blow.
Yet Yang Hao was on the verge of death.
When Situ Hai’s sword moved, the entire chamber seemed to bloom with warmth. His strike was no longer a sword—it was a sentiment, an aura, a whisper of inevitability. It was the arrogance of a god standing above the clouds, gazing down upon mortals.
The tip of his sword pierced the *reverse scale* of the five dragons. Though Yang Hao’s fiery serpents were not true dragons, every technique had its weakness—its fatal flaw. Situ Hai’s effortless slash had struck the Five Dragon Slash’s very core.
Yang Hao’s technique shattered. His momentum died. His flames withered.
And Yang Hao himself was about to perish.
Situ Hai’s swordplay didn’t end there. Like a scorched plain revitalized by spring winds, his motion transformed, evolving into something new.
Turning at last, Situ Hai’s eyes gleamed, his rusted sword now radiant as heaven itself. This blade, steeped in the blood of countless warriors and victories over countless masters, had awakened to battle. Without even looking at Yang Hao, Situ Hai casually completed his strike—slanting sideways, leisurely, as if playing.
To outsiders, it seemed like child’s play. But in Situ Hai’s hands, it was anything but.
Yang Hao’s face twisted in agony. His organs, his limbs—everything felt ensnared by an invisible web of swordlight. Though the blade hadn’t touched him, escape was impossible.
What was swordsmanship? What was the most unfathomable sword art in the universe? What was true power?
Yang Hao finally understood. If the gods of the divine realm relied on innate strength to dominate, then Situ Hai had transcended force entirely. His swordsmanship required no power—only control. A single thrust no longer sought to wound or kill, but to dictate fate itself. Advance, retreat, dodge, or strike—none could escape the sword that ruled over all.
**The Eleventh Sword**—Situ Hai’s proudest, most formidable technique.
When he first conceived it, someone might have countered it. But now, after further enlightenment, his sword had ascended beyond mortal comprehension.
Every swordsman spent their life pursuing the essence of the blade. Situ Hai had achieved fame and mastery in his youth, standing unrivaled for decades. But after a great calamity, he abandoned all he had learned, creating instead the *Ten Errors of the Sword*—no longer mere techniques, but reflections of his life, his regrets, his penance.
And now, with the Eleventh Sword, even that era had ended.
This was a realm beyond. Ordinary men used swords to kill. Situ Hai had once wielded his blade to atone. But now?
In the Eleventh Sword, the sword *was* control. The sword *was* the world. The sword *was* life itself.
Situ Hai was the god who dictated all—sunrise and moonset, life and death. And Yang Hao was trapped within that dominion, like a prisoner in a tiny room, watching an executioner’s blade descend upon him. Unable to block, unable to flee, he could only wait for death.
Yang Hao was a lamb for slaughter. He dropped his sword, but surrender wouldn’t spare him.
Situ Hai knew better than anyone that Yang Hao was spent—incapable of resistance, frozen in a state between life and death, awaiting the final thrust. When the rusted blade pierced his heart, when blood sprayed into the air, when the crowd gasped in shock—Situ Hai would only be adding another scar to his own soul.
Yet he would strike regardless.
In Situ Hai’s eyes, Yang Hao was already a corpse—breathing, but with a life forfeit at any moment.
He raised his wrist and drove the sword forward, plain and unadorned.
Then Yang Hao moved.
It was the most baffling moment of the night. Situ Hai was certain—no one could escape the Eleventh Sword’s grasp. Movement should have been impossible; even breathing was a struggle.
Yet Yang Hao moved.
But it wasn’t just Yang Hao. The sight was so surreal that even witnesses stood frozen in disbelief.
Because now, there were **two Yang Haos**.
In this world, there was only one Yang Hao.
But sometimes, there could be two.
And that was why he had dared to challenge Situ Hai.
One Yang Hao remained solid, rooted in place. The other was dimmer, more ethereal—a shadow that peeled away from the original, darting aside with impossible speed.
But before his words had even faded, Yang Hao had vanished. Aurora was merely a feint, meant to provoke Situhai into attacking. Once Situhai had committed, he had already fallen behind.
Yang Hao activated his Feihua Mirage Step, moving so fast that he became invisible. It was as if he had disappeared from the air itself, his breath gone.
Even Situhai, with all his swordsmanship, could not suppress a slight tremor in his heart. It hadn’t been long since he last saw Yang Hao, but the young man’s progress was truly rare in this world. Situhai focused, even closing his eyes, his rusted sword slightly raised, sensing Yang Hao’s presence through his spiritual awareness.
Suddenly, Yang Hao appeared behind Situhai, leaping high into the air. In his hand, the Flame Sword roared with fury, five fire dragons swirling upward, dragging out an extremely long blade trail in an instant.
“Five Dragon Slash!” Yang Hao roared, unleashing a fiery attack that seemed unstoppable, capable of slaying gods and demons alike. It was as if nothing in this world could stand in its way.
The Five Dragon Slash was evolved from the slashing techniques of the Dan Ding Sect, and when combined with the Flame Sword, it became a perfect match. When Yang Hao first used it, he had sliced through the spaceships of the Sanjing Sea, demonstrating its immense power.
At this moment, Situhai still had his back to Yang Hao, not even raising his sword. He could only feel the searing heat from above, but it seemed he could neither block nor evade.
The five dragons converged into a ball of hellish flame, ready to engulf Situhai.
Luo Dongjie turned pale watching this. He had always believed Situhai was the ultimate swordsman in the universe, unbeatable. He had never seen such a powerful sword technique as the Five Dragon Slash. He never imagined that Yang Hao, who seemed so frail on the outside, could harbor such immense power—power enough even to defeat Situhai.
Was Situhai really going to be defeated?
He answered with his sword.
Without even turning around, Situhai casually thrust a single sword strike behind his head. It was an utterly ordinary strike, so mundane that it almost seemed strange for a supreme swordsman to deliver such a weak, unstable, and drifting blow. Even a three-year-old wielding a wooden sword could have delivered a more forceful and steady strike.
But Yang Hao was on the brink of death.
As Situhai’s sword thrust forward—so ordinary, so weak, so drifting—it was as if a warm flower had bloomed in the entire cabin. What Situhai had delivered was not a sword strike, but a gesture, a demeanor, a touch of sorrow.
“Si Tu Hai, I challenge you, right here, right now.”
The duel that shocked the universe began with these words. The two opponents were vastly mismatched—one was Si Tu Hai, the infamous first wandering swordsman whose name alone struck fear into the hearts of swordsmen across the cosmos. The other was Yang Hao, a nobody who had only just begun to make a name for himself.
But after this battle, Yang Hao was no longer a nobody. Even the Senate and the Emperor of the Empire turned their attention to him, for everyone wanted to know—what kind of young man would dare challenge a supreme master? Did he possess unparalleled courage, or did he harbor some world-shaking secret technique?
At the time, however, the situation seemed hopeless. To everyone watching, Yang Hao was marching to his death. He could have lived a peaceful life, but for the sake of his friend, for a single promise to Long Yun, he was willing to die beneath Si Tu Hai’s blade.
Especially when Si Tu Hai’s sword pierced the heavens, the onlookers trembled in fear, certain that Yang Hao would retreat—that he had no choice but to retreat.
But he drew his sword.
His first strike was *Polaris*. Yang Hao unsheathed his treasured blade in a reverse grip, channeling his qi into it. Though this was a signature technique of the Light Sword School, Yang Hao executed it as if he had mastered it for decades.
A brilliant, dazzling light erupted from the tip of his sword, fracturing into countless needle-thin rays that shot toward Si Tu Hai. Each strand was as fine as a hair yet unstoppable, carrying immense power. A single hit would mean severe injury, if not death.
But *Polaris* could not harm Si Tu Hai—Yang Hao had already tested that before. The true danger of this strike was not aimed at Si Tu Hai himself, but at the scattered sword rays that enveloped everyone on his side—Luo Dongjie, Ning Ziyan, and the severely wounded members of the Twilight Faction. Even if Si Tu Hai dodged, those behind him, especially Luo Dongjie, would be skewered by ten thousand blades.
A single strike to kill two birds.
“Well done!” Si Tu Hai’s face lit up with delight, as if he were a parched sponge suddenly drenched in water, swelling with renewed vigor.
He neither retreated nor dodged. With a flick of his wrist, his rusted sword traced a perfect circle—a seemingly casual motion that unleashed tremendous force. The surrounding air and energy fields twisted violently, howling as they were sucked into the vortex at the tip of his blade. Like a black hole, it devoured every last ray of Yang Hao’s *Polaris*.
“*Circle of Errors*”—the defensive stance from Si Tu Hai’s *Ten Forms of Errant Swordsmanship*.
But before the words even left his lips, Yang Hao vanished. *Polaris* had been a feint, meant to force Si Tu Hai to strike—and the moment he did, he had already lost the upper hand.
Yang Hao activated *Flying Petals and Phantom Steps*, moving so fast that he seemed to disappear from existence. Not a trace of his breath remained.
Even Si Tu Hai, for all his mastery, felt a tremor in his heart. It hadn’t been long since he last saw Yang Hao, yet the young man’s progress was staggering. Si Tu Hai focused, even closing his eyes, his rusted sword held forward as he sensed Yang Hao’s movements with his spiritual awareness.
Yang Hao abruptly reappeared behind Si Tu Hai, leaping high into the air. In his hand, the *Flame Sword* roared with fury, five fiery dragons coiling around its blade before erupting into an overwhelming sword beam.
“*Five Dragon Slash!*” Yang Hao bellowed, unleashing an unstoppable, blazing strike aimed straight for Si Tu Hai’s head. This attack could slay gods and buddhas alike—as if nothing in this world could withstand it.
Derived from the *Slashing Principle* of the Alchemy Sword Sect, *Five Dragon Slash* was a perfect match for the *Flame Sword*. The first time Yang Hao had used it, he had cleaved through a starship of the Three Crystals Sea—proof of its devastating power.
Si Tu Hai stood with his back turned, his sword still lowered. He could feel the scorching heat behind him, the kind that could incinerate everything—yet he seemed unable to block it, or perhaps he simply wouldn’t.
The five dragons converged into a single inferno, poised to engulf Si Tu Hai whole.
The sight turned Luo Dongjie’s face ashen. He had always believed Si Tu Hai to be the universe’s greatest swordsman, invincible in every way. Never had he imagined a technique as terrifying as *Five Dragon Slash*. He had underestimated Yang Hao—this seemingly frail youth harbored power so immense it could topple even Si Tu Hai.
Would Si Tu Hai truly be defeated?
His sword answered.
Without turning, Si Tu Hai casually thrust his blade backward, aiming for the space behind his head. The motion was so ordinary, so unremarkable, that it bordered on absurdity—hardly the strike of a supreme master. Even a three-year-old with a wooden sword could have delivered a stronger, steadier thrust.
Yet Yang Hao was on the verge of death.
When Si Tu Hai’s sword moved—so plain, so weak, so drifting—the entire ship’s cabin seemed to bloom with warmth. What he wielded was no longer a sword, but a sentiment, an essence, a mere whisper of a scar.
It was *melancholy*, standing atop the clouds, gazing down upon the mortal world with unshakable arrogance. This was no longer a sword—it was the strike of a god, the embodiment of the Sword God himself, casually unleashing the essence of ten thousand blades.
The tip of his sword struck the *reverse scale* of the five dragons. Of course, Yang Hao’s fiery dragons were not real, and thus had no reverse scales—but every sword technique had its weakness, its fatal flaw. And Si Tu Hai’s backward thrust had found it.
Yang Hao’s technique died, shattered, extinguished.
And Yang Hao himself was about to die.
Si Tu Hai’s sword did not stop after breaking *Five Dragon Slash*. Instead, it transformed, like a scorched wasteland revitalized by the spring breeze, brimming with newfound vitality.
Si Tu Hai turned, his eyes gleaming, his rusted sword shining like heaven itself. This blade, which had drunk the blood of countless warriors and bested innumerable masters, was now fully awakened with battle intent. He did not aim directly at Yang Hao—instead, he tilted his sword slightly to the side, delivering the second half of his strike with effortless grace.
To an outsider, this motion would seem like child’s play—weak, unimpressive. But in Si Tu Hai’s hands, it was anything but.
Yang Hao’s face twisted in agony. His organs, his limbs—everything felt ensnared by an invisible web of sword light. Though the blade itself remained distant, no matter how he moved or reacted, he could not escape its killing intent.
What was swordsmanship? What was the most unfathomable sword art in the universe? What was true power?
Yang Hao finally understood. If the gods of the divine realm relied on their innate talents to overpower others, then Si Tu Hai’s current state transcended the need for strength altogether. His swordsmanship required no force—it was pure *control*. A single thrust no longer sought to wound or kill, but to dominate. Whether advancing or retreating, dodging or attacking, none could escape the sword that reigned supreme above all.
The *Eleventh Sword*—Si Tu Hai’s proudest, most formidable technique.
When he first conceived it, perhaps someone could have countered it. But now, after further enlightenment, Si Tu Hai had changed—and so had his sword.
Every swordsman spent their life pursuing the truth of the blade. Si Tu Hai had achieved fame and mastery at a young age, his skill so peerless that few in the world could rival him. For a long time afterward, his swordsmanship stagnated—until disaster struck. Abandoning all he had learned, he created the *Ten Forms of Errant Swordsmanship*, which was no longer mere technique, but a reflection of his life, his regrets, his repentance.
But all of that ended with the birth of the *Eleventh Sword*.
This was a realm beyond. Ordinary men used swords to kill. Later, Si Tu Hai used swords to *err*. But now? In the *Eleventh Sword*, the sword was *control*. The sword was a *world*. The sword was a *life*.
Si Tu Hai was the god who ruled over all—he commanded the sun to rise, the moon to set, life to flourish, death to descend. And Yang Hao was trapped within this sword’s dominion. He stood in a cramped chamber, staring at the colossal blade suspended above him—unable to block, unable to dodge. The only thing left was to wait for it to fall and claim his life.
Yang Hao was a lamb awaiting slaughter. He dropped his sword, but surrender would not grant him even a moment’s reprieve.
Si Tu Hai knew better than anyone—Yang Hao could no longer fight. He couldn’t even move. He was suspended in a state of neither advancing nor retreating, neither living nor dying, waiting only for the rusted sword to pierce his heart. When the blade tore through his flesh, when his blood sprayed into the air, when the crowd gasped in shock—Si Tu Hai would merely add another scar to his own life.
Yet no matter what, this sword *would* strike.
In Si Tu Hai’s eyes, Yang Hao was already a corpse—breathing, but with a life that could be snatched away at any moment.
He raised his wrist and thrust forward, devoid of any flourish.
But Yang Hao moved.
This was the most bizarre event of the night. Si Tu Hai was certain—no one could escape the *Eleventh Sword*. Yang Hao shouldn’t have been able to twitch, let alone breathe.
Yet move he did—though not entirely. The sight was so shocking that even those witnessing it firsthand were stunned into silence, unable to react for what felt like an eternity.
Because now, there were *two* Yang Haos.
In this world, there was only one Yang Hao—but sometimes, there could be two. And *this* was the reason he dared challenge Si Tu Hai without fear.
The two Yang Haos appeared identical at a glance—one more solid, remaining in place, while the other was slightly translucent, moving with unnatural agility as if it had peeled away from the original body, darting to the side in an instant.
“Situ Hai, I challenge you, right here, right now.”
The duel that shocked the universe began with these words. The two opponents were vastly mismatched—one was Situ Hai, the legendary rogue swordsman whose name alone struck fear into the hearts of warriors across the cosmos. The other was Yang Hao, an unknown upstart who had only just begun to make a name for himself.
But after this battle, Yang Hao was no longer a nobody. Even the Senate and the Emperor of the Empire turned their attention to him, for everyone wanted to know—what kind of man would dare challenge a supreme master? Did he possess boundless courage, or was he hiding some unparalleled technique?
At the time, however, it seemed like sheer folly. To onlookers, Yang Hao was courting death. He could have lived a peaceful life, yet for the sake of his friend, for a single promise to Long Yun, he was willing to die beneath Situ Hai’s blade.
Especially when Situ Hai’s sword pierced the heavens, the onlookers trembled, certain that Yang Hao would retreat—that he *had* to retreat.
But he drew his sword.
His first strike was *Polaris*. Yang Hao unsheathed his treasured blade in a reverse grip, channeling his qi into it. Though this was a signature technique of the Light Sword School, Yang Hao wielded it as if he had mastered it for decades.
A brilliant, dazzling radiance erupted from the sword’s tip, fracturing into countless needle-thin beams that shot toward Situ Hai. Each strand was as fine as a hair yet unstoppable, carrying devastating force—a single hit could cripple or kill.
But *Polaris* could not harm Situ Hai. Yang Hao had already tested that before. The true danger of this strike was not aimed at Situ Hai himself, but at the scattered beams that enveloped everyone on his side—Luo Dongjie, Ning Ziyan, and the wounded members of the Twilight Faction. Even if Situ Hai dodged, those behind him, especially Luo Dongjie, would be skewered by a thousand blades.
A single stroke to kill two birds.
“Good move!” Situ Hai actually grinned, like a parched sponge suddenly soaked in water, revitalized and brimming with energy.
He neither retreated nor dodged. With a flick of his wrist, his rusted sword traced a circle—a seemingly casual motion that unleashed tremendous force. The surrounding air and energy fields twisted violently, howling as they were sucked into the vortex at his blade’s tip. The circle became a black hole, swallowing Yang Hao’s *Polaris* whole.
“*Circular Error*,” Situ Hai murmured—the defensive stance of his *Ten Errors Swordplay*.
But before his words faded, Yang Hao vanished. *Polaris* had been a feint, meant to force Situ Hai to act. The moment he struck, he had already lost the initiative.
Yang Hao employed the *Flying Petals Phantom Steps*, moving so fast he became invisible—as if he had dissolved into the air, his very breath erased.
Even Situ Hai, with his peerless swordsmanship, felt a tremor of shock. It hadn’t been long since their last encounter, yet Yang Hao’s growth was unprecedented. Closing his eyes, Situ Hai extended his rusted sword slightly, relying on spiritual sense to track his opponent.
Yang Hao reappeared behind Situ Hai, leaping high with his *Flame Sword* roaring in his grip. Five fiery dragons coiled around the blade, their elongated arcs slashing downward in an unstoppable inferno.
“*Five Dragons’ Slash!*” Yang Hao roared. The attack, wreathed in searing flames, descended upon Situ Hai’s head with god-slaying, Buddha-smiting force—as if nothing in existence could withstand it.
Evolved from the *Dantian Sect’s* “Slash” technique and perfectly synergized with the *Flame Sword*, this move had once cleaved through a starship of the Three Crystals Sea—proof of its devastating power.
Situ Hai remained with his back turned, his sword still lowered. He only sensed the scorching heat above him, the kind that could incinerate all things. By all appearances, he couldn’t block it—nor did he try.
The five dragons merged into a single hellish blaze, poised to engulf Situ Hai entirely.
The sight drained Luo Dongjie’s face of color. He had always believed Situ Hai to be the universe’s greatest swordsman, invincible. Never had he imagined a technique as ferocious as *Five Dragons’ Slash*. He never would have guessed that the seemingly frail Yang Hao harbored such monstrous strength—enough to potentially defeat Situ Hai.
Would Situ Hai truly be defeated?
He answered with his sword.
Without turning, Situ Hai casually thrust backward—a stroke so ordinary it bordered on absurdity. It lacked power, precision, even intent. A three-year-old with a wooden sword could have delivered a stronger, steadier strike.
Yet Yang Hao was on the verge of death.
When Situ Hai’s blade moved, the entire chamber seemed to bloom with warmth. His sword was no longer a weapon but an emotion, a presence, a whisper of sorrow. It was not a strike of force but of *control*—a divine stroke, as if the Sword God himself had descended to wield it.
The tip pierced the *Five Dragons’ Slash* at its weakest point—the “scales” that were not scales, but the flaw inherent in every technique. With that single motion, Yang Hao’s attack shattered, its power extinguished.
Yang Hao was as good as dead.
Situ Hai’s swordplay did not end there. Like a scorched plain revived by spring winds, his momentum shifted, renewed. Turning at last, his eyes gleamed, his rusted sword shining like paradise itself—a blade that had drunk the blood of countless masters, now awakened to battle.
He did not aim at Yang Hao directly. Instead, he tilted his sword slightly, lazily, as if playing a child’s game. Yet in Situ Hai’s hands, even the most effortless motion carried lethal intent.
Yang Hao’s face twisted in agony. His organs, his limbs—all felt ensnared by an invisible net of swordlight. No matter how he moved, escape was impossible.
What was swordsmanship? What was the most unfathomable blade-work in the universe? What was true power?
Yang Hao finally understood. If the gods of the divine realm relied on innate strength to dominate, then Situ Hai had transcended force entirely. His swordsmanship required no power—only *control*. A single stroke dictated life and death, advance and retreat, attack and evasion. None could escape the sword that reigned supreme.
The *Eleventh Sword*—Situ Hai’s proudest, most formidable technique.
When he first conceived it, perhaps someone could have countered it. But now, after years of refinement, it was unstoppable. Every swordsman spent their life seeking the truth of the blade. Situ Hai had achieved fame young, his skill unrivaled for decades—until catastrophe struck. He abandoned all he had learned, creating instead the *Ten Errors Swordplay*, a reflection of his regrets and repentance.
But with the *Eleventh Sword*, even that ended.
This was a realm beyond. Ordinary men used swords to kill. Situ Hai had once wielded his to atone. Now? The sword *was* control. The sword *was* the world. The sword *was* life itself.
Situ Hai was a god commanding all things—sunrise, moonset, life, death. And Yang Hao was trapped within his strike, like a man in a tiny room staring at an impending executioner’s blade. He could not block. He could not dodge. All he could do was wait for death.
Yang Hao was a lamb for slaughter. He dropped his sword, but surrender would not spare him.
Situ Hai knew better than anyone that Yang Hao was spent—unable to move, trapped in a state of neither life nor death, awaiting the final thrust. When the rusted blade pierced his heart, when blood sprayed into the air, when the crowd gasped in shock—Situ Hai would only add another scar to his soul.
Yet he would strike regardless.
In Situ Hai’s eyes, Yang Hao was already a corpse—breathing, but doomed.
He raised his wrist and drove the sword forward, plain and unadorned.
Then Yang Hao moved.
It was the most bizarre moment of the night. Situ Hai was certain—no one could escape the *Eleventh Sword*. Movement should have been impossible; even breathing was a struggle.
Yet Yang Hao *did* move. Or rather, *something* moved. The sight was so surreal that witnesses stood frozen, unable to process it.
Because suddenly, there were *two* Yang Haos.
In this world, there was only one Yang Hao. But at times, a second could appear. *This* was his true trump card—the reason he dared challenge Situ Hai.
One Yang Hao remained in place, solid and real. The other was dimmer, more ethereal, darting away with unnatural speed—as if splitting from the original, evading death itself.
Yang Hao’s sword technique died, shattered, drained.
Yang Hao himself was also dying.
Situhai’s sword pierced through the Five Dragon Slash, but the momentum did not end there. Instead, it transformed, like a burnt wasteland that, after the spring breeze, bursts into new life.
Situhai turned around. His eyes were bright, and his rusted sword gleamed like heaven itself. This blade, which had drunk the blood of countless warriors and bested countless sword masters, had now awakened to the battle.
Situhai did not aim directly at Yang Hao. Instead, with a relaxed and effortless motion, he continued the second half of his strike toward one side.
To outsiders, this strike seemed as weak and playful as a child’s game. But coming from Situhai, it was entirely different.
Yang Hao’s face twisted in pain. His internal organs and limbs felt as if they had been enveloped by the sword’s light. Although the blade still hovered at a distance, no matter how he moved or reacted, he could not escape its killing intent.
What is swordsmanship? What is the most incredible sword technique in the universe? What is true power?
Now, Yang Hao understood. If gods in the divine realm relied on their innate talents to overpower others, then Situhai’s current realm required no strength at all. His swordsmanship no longer relied on force; it was about control. When a sword was thrust forward, it was no longer about injuring or killing—it was about domination. Whether advancing or retreating, dodging or attacking, none could escape the sword’s overwhelming supremacy.
The Eleventh Strike was the most accomplished and powerful sword move of Situhai’s life.
When he first conceived this move, there might still have been those who could counter it. But now, it was different. Situhai had gained a new understanding. He was no longer the same, and neither was his sword.
“Situ Hai, I challenge you, right here, right now.”
The duel that shocked the universe began with these words. The two opponents were vastly mismatched—one was Situ Hai, the renowned first wandering swordsman whose name alone struck fear into the hearts of swordsmen across the cosmos. The other was Yang Hao, a nobody who had only just begun to make a name for himself.
But after this battle, Yang Hao was no longer a nobody. Even the Senate and the Emperor of the Empire turned their attention to him, for everyone wanted to know: What kind of young man would dare challenge a supreme master? Did he possess unparalleled courage, or was he hiding some extraordinary skill?
At the time, however, the situation seemed anything but favorable. To everyone watching, Yang Hao was practically courting death. He could have lived a comfortable life, yet for the sake of his friend and a single promise to Long Yun, he was willing to die by Situ Hai’s sword.
Especially when Situ Hai’s blade pierced the heavens, the onlookers trembled in fear, certain that Yang Hao would retreat—that he had no choice but to retreat.
But he drew his sword.
His first strike was *Polaris*. Yang Hao unsheathed his treasured blade in a reverse grip, channeling his energy into it. Though this was a signature technique of the Light Sword School, Yang Hao wielded it as if he had mastered it for decades.
A brilliant, dazzling light erupted from the tip of his sword, fracturing into countless needle-thin rays that shot toward Situ Hai. Each beam was as fine as a strand of hair, yet unstoppable, carrying immense power. A single hit could cripple or kill.
But *Polaris* couldn’t harm Situ Hai—Yang Hao had already tried before. The true danger of this strike wasn’t aimed at Situ Hai himself, but at the scattered beams that also enveloped everyone on his side—Luo Dongjie, Ning Ziyan, and the severely wounded members of the Twilight Sect. Even if Situ Hai dodged, those behind him, especially Luo Dongjie, would be skewered by a thousand blades.
A single strike to kill two birds.
“Good move!” Situ Hai’s face lit up with delight, as if he were a parched sponge suddenly drenched in water, swelling with renewed vigor.
He neither retreated nor dodged. With a flick of his wrist, his rusted sword traced a circle in the air—a seemingly casual motion that unleashed tremendous force. The surrounding air and energy fields twisted violently, howling as they were sucked into the vortex at the tip of his blade, like a black hole devouring Yang Hao’s *Polaris*.
“*Circle of Errors*!”—the defensive stance from Situ Hai’s *Ten Errors Swordplay*.
But before the words left his lips, Yang Hao vanished. *Polaris* had been a feint, meant to force Situ Hai into action. The moment he struck, he had already lost the initiative.
Yang Hao employed the *Flying Petals Phantom Steps*, moving so fast that he seemed to disappear from existence—no trace, not even a breath remained.
Despite his mastery, Situ Hai couldn’t help but feel a tremor in his heart. It hadn’t been long since he last saw Yang Hao, yet the young man’s progress was staggering. Situ Hai focused, even closing his eyes, his rusted sword held forward as he sensed Yang Hao’s movements with his spirit.
Suddenly, Yang Hao materialized behind Situ Hai, leaping high into the air. In his hand, the *Flame Sword* roared with fury, five fiery dragons spiraling upward, their blazing trails extending into an overwhelming sword aura.
“*Five Dragons’ Slash*!” Yang Hao bellowed, unleashing an unstoppable, inferno-wreathed strike aimed straight for Situ Hai’s head. This attack could slay gods and demons alike—as if nothing in this world could withstand it.
Evolved from the *Execution* technique of the Alchemy Sword Sect and perfectly synergized with the *Flame Sword*, this move had once cleaved through a starship of the Three Crystals Sea—proof of its devastating power.
Situ Hai stood with his back turned, his sword still lowered. He could feel the scorching heat behind him, the kind that could incinerate everything. By all appearances, he couldn’t block it—nor could he withstand it.
The five dragons converged into a single hellish blaze, poised to consume Situ Hai whole.
The sight turned Luo Dongjie’s face ashen. He had always believed Situ Hai to be the universe’s greatest swordsman—invincible. Never had he imagined a technique as fearsome as *Five Dragons’ Slash*. He never thought the seemingly frail Yang Hao could harbor such overwhelming power—enough to potentially defeat Situ Hai.
Would Situ Hai truly be defeated?
His sword answered.
Without even turning, Situ Hai casually thrust his blade backward—a strike so ordinary it was baffling. It lacked any semblance of a master’s technique; even a three-year-old with a wooden sword could deliver a stronger, steadier blow.
Yet, Yang Hao was on the verge of death.
When Situ Hai’s sword moved—so plain, so weak, so drifting—the entire chamber seemed to bloom with warmth. His strike wasn’t a sword’s thrust, but a whisper of emotion, a stroke of elegance, a fleeting scar.
It was sorrow, and the arrogance of standing above the clouds, gazing down upon the mortal world. This was no longer a sword—it was the strike of a god, the embodiment of the Sword God himself, a single stroke representing ten thousand blades.
The tip of his sword struck the *reverse scale* of the five dragons. Yang Hao’s fiery dragons weren’t real, so they had no reverse scales—but every sword technique had its weakness, its fatal flaw. Situ Hai’s backward thrust had found the flaw in *Five Dragons’ Slash*.
Yang Hao’s technique died, shattered, extinguished.
And Yang Hao was about to die.
Situ Hai’s sword didn’t stop after breaking *Five Dragons’ Slash*. Instead, it transformed—like a scorched wasteland revitalized by spring winds, brimming with renewed life.
Turning around, Situ Hai’s eyes gleamed, his rusted sword shining like heaven itself. This blade, which had drunk the blood of countless warriors and defeated innumerable masters, was now awakened with battle intent. He didn’t aim at Yang Hao directly—instead, he tilted his sword slightly, delivering the second half of his strike with effortless grace.
To outsiders, this motion seemed as weak as a child’s play, but in Situ Hai’s hands, it was anything but.
Yang Hao’s face twisted in agony. His organs and limbs felt ensnared by an invisible web of swordlight. Though the blade hadn’t touched him, no matter how he moved or reacted, he couldn’t escape its killing intent.
What was swordsmanship? What was the most unfathomable sword art in the universe? What was true power?
Yang Hao finally understood. If the gods of the divine realm relied on their innate talents to overpower others, then Situ Hai’s current state transcended strength altogether. His swordsmanship didn’t rely on force—it was pure control. A single strike no longer sought to wound or kill, but to dominate. Whether advancing or retreating, dodging or attacking, nothing could escape the sword that reigned above all.
The *Eleventh Sword*—Situ Hai’s proudest, most formidable technique.
When he first conceived this move, it might have been breakable. But now, after new revelations, he had changed—and so had his sword.
Every swordsman spent their life pursuing the essence of the blade. Situ Hai had achieved fame and mastery at a young age, with few rivals in the world. For a long time afterward, his skills stagnated—until calamity struck. Abandoning all he had learned, he created the *Ten Errors Swordplay*, which was no longer mere technique but a reflection of his life, his regrets, his repentance.
But all of that ended with the *Eleventh Sword*.
This was a realm beyond. Ordinary men used swords to kill. Situ Hai had once used them to atone. Now? In the *Eleventh Sword*, the sword was control. The sword was a world. The sword was life itself.
Situ Hai was the god who governed all—he commanded the sun to rise, the moon to set, life to flourish, and death to descend. And Yang Hao was trapped within this sword’s domain. He stood in a confined space, watching the colossal blade suspended above him—unable to block, unable to dodge. His only option was to wait for it to fall and claim his life.
Yang Hao was a lamb awaiting slaughter. He dropped his sword, but surrender wouldn’t buy him even a moment’s reprieve.
Situ Hai knew better than anyone that Yang Hao had no strength left to fight—he couldn’t even move. He was suspended in a state of neither advance nor retreat, neither life nor death, waiting only for the rusted sword to pierce his heart. When the blade struck and blood sprayed into the air, the stunned gazes of the onlookers would merely add another scar to Situ Hai’s life.
Yet no matter what, this strike would land.
In Situ Hai’s eyes, Yang Hao was already a corpse—breathing, but with death mere seconds away.
He raised his wrist and thrust forward—no flourish, no hesitation.
Then Yang Hao moved.
This was the most bizarre moment of the night. Situ Hai was certain—no one could escape the *Eleventh Sword*. Movement was impossible; even breathing was harder than scaling the heavens.
But Yang Hao did move—though not entirely. The scene was so surreal that even those witnessing it were stunned into silence, unable to react for what felt like an eternity.
Because now, there were two Yang Haos.
In this world, there was only one Yang Hao—but sometimes, there could be two. And this was the true reason he dared challenge Situ Hai without fear.
The two Yang Haos appeared side by side—one more solid, still standing in place, while the other was dimmer, flickering with agility as if splitting from the original body, darting away in an instant.
But all of that ended with the Eleventh Strike.
That was an entirely different realm. Ordinary swordsmen wielded swords to kill. Later, Situhai wielded swords to reflect his mistakes. Now, in the Eleventh Strike, the sword was control, the sword was a world, the sword was a life.
Situhai was the god of control, able to command the sun to rise and the moon to fall, to grant life or death at will. Yang Hao was caught in this strike, as if trapped in a small room with a great sword hanging above him. He could neither block nor dodge. The only thing left was to wait for it to fall and take his life.
Yang Hao was like a lamb awaiting slaughter. He dropped his sword, but even that wouldn’t grant him a moment longer to live.
Situhai knew better than anyone that Yang Hao could no longer fight. He could not even move. He was trapped in a state of neither advancing nor retreating, neither living nor dying, waiting only for Situhai’s rusted sword to pierce him. When the blade pierced Yang Hao’s heart and blood sprayed into the air, drawing astonished gazes from the crowd, Situhai could only add another scar to his life.
But regardless, he had to deliver that final strike.
In Situhai’s eyes, Yang Hao was already a corpse—still breathing, but with life ready to be taken at any moment.
He raised his wrist and thrust forward his sword, simple and unadorned.
But Yang Hao moved.
It was the most bizarre thing of the night. Situhai was absolutely certain that no one could escape his Eleventh Strike. Yang Hao shouldn’t even be able to breathe, let alone move.
Yet Yang Hao did move—but not entirely on his own. Such a situation was so shocking that even those who witnessed it could hardly react for half the night.
Because at that moment, there were two Yang Haos.
There was only one Yang Hao in this world, but sometimes, there could be two. This was the secret strength that gave him the confidence to challenge Situhai.
At first glance, one of them seemed more like a real body, still standing in place, while the other was dimmer and more agile, as if it had split from Yang Hao’s original form, shifting slightly and dodging to the side.
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