Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Cloak rank in the Twilight Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young killers. The Twilight Assassins had long-standing traditions, but after the “Night of Twilight,” the group was nearly annihilated to protect the empire’s emperor. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the entire assassin hierarchy.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above Level 14 were Gray-Cloaks, those above Level 18 were Black-Cloaks, and those above Level 22 were Purple-Cloaks.
Now, the Twilight Assassins had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Cloaks, over a hundred Black-Cloaks, and even eighteen Purple-Cloaks.
In terms of strength, the Twilight Assassins were among the top even within the Ten Sword Schools. If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Cloaks, their combat prowess would have been even greater.
To prevent the Twilight Assassins from becoming too powerful, the Senate always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within. However, every leader inevitably clashed with the Purple-Cloaks, leading to internal strife and a decline in overall strength.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. With just a fleeting thought, he averted his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and focused on inspecting the hidden sentries.
There wasn’t much to inspect—the Twilight Assassins were highly disciplined, and their concealed sentries were flawless. Besides, in such a desolate place, no one would dare come seeking death.
Zeng Ran relaxed slightly, though an unsettling discomfort churned in his stomach.
Given his mastery of the Cold Qi, his body should have been icy and lifeless, like ancient frost. Yet now, it felt as if a fire burned inside him, dispersing even the Cold Qi he had cultivated.
“Tonight’s dinner must have been too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As an assassin, hot meals were rare. Only the leader’s return had granted them this luxury.
Approaching the last sentry, Zeng Ran saw his two Gray-Cloak subordinates blending into the massive star-rock like wisps of gray mist—a concealment technique unique to the Twilight Assassins. Even members of other sword schools would struggle to detect them.
“Truly, no one in the world could breach our defenses,” Zeng Ran mused proudly. Satisfied, he turned to leave and tend to his stomach.
But in that final glance, something strange happened—a phantom-like vision.
Two masked heads, belonging to his hidden subordinates, suddenly flew into the air.
It was surreal. The assassins had been one with the rock, yet now their severed heads hovered as if the stone itself had sprouted them.
Zeng Ran froze, scanning the area frantically. Seeing nothing, he rushed toward the star-rock to investigate.
Fate spared him. A chilling gust of wind sliced toward him from the front.
Reacting instantly, Zeng Ran twisted his body and collapsed like mud, narrowly avoiding the unseen threat. His bewildered subordinates barely registered his movement.
A scream erupted behind him. One Gray-Cloak was cleaved in half, blood and viscera spraying everywhere.
Amid the crimson rain, a bizarre crescent-shaped blade materialized, arcing gracefully before vanishing back toward a figure emerging from behind the star-rock.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery—clearly a high-ranking officer.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran demanded, drawing his sword.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled, hands clasped behind his back as he strolled forward. The blade—Shadowmoon—disappeared again, its icy wind surging toward Zeng Ran with his reply:
“I am the lord of the Divine Edict Dominion, future viscount of the empire.”
Though he couldn’t see the blade, Zeng Ran knew danger loomed. He acted swiftly:
Retreat!
Flick his sword!
Scatter powder!
The sequence was executed flawlessly. Zeng Ran fled toward the base without hesitation, abandoning his subordinates.
The sword’s resonant hum echoed across the camp—a unique alarm signaling imminent danger.
The powder was a Twilight Assassin staple: knockout dust, originally crafted by the Alchemy Sect but somehow acquired by the Senate. To Yang Hao, it was useless.
Shadowmoon missed Zeng Ran but claimed another subordinate’s head, its elegant arc deceptively slow yet irresistibly lethal.
The Gray-Cloak died silently, headless but still standing, blood gushing skyward.
Yang Hao advanced, impressed despite the ease of his kills. Having defeated elite groups like the Royal Swordsmen and Demon Bear Brigade, he found the Twilight Assassins far superior.
A sword school’s strength lay not just in individual skill but in discipline and coordination. Despite the ambush and lost sentries, Zeng Ran had remained composed, prioritizing warning the base over saving his men.
The assassins surged out instantly, battle-ready even in sleep—swords in hand, clothes untouched.
Yang Hao admired their might, wishing he commanded such a force to defy the Ten Sword Schools.
But admiration faded as danger mounted.
Regrouped, Zeng Ran glared confidently at Yang Hao. His confidence stemmed from their numbers: a hundred Gray-Cloaks, forty Black-Cloaks, and ten Purple-Cloaks—enough to crush an entire sword school, let alone one man.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly titled lord?”
“The very same.” Yang Hao grinned, pointing at himself as Shadowmoon vanished once more.
Zeng Ran tensed. Yang Hao’s reputation preceded him—a man who had repelled ten Black-Cloaks with a single strike, wielding a blade rumored to be divine.
Bowing respectfully—a gesture reserved for top-tier warriors—Zeng Ran asked, “As a noble, why oppose the Twilight Assassins?”
Yang Hao coughed, scrambling for an excuse. “Your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something important. I’ve come to reclaim it.”
Zeng Ran scoffed inwardly. Four dead Gray-Cloaks spoke louder than lies.
“For a decade, people have fled from us. None dared seek death.” Zeng Ran raised his sword, hundreds following suit. “Think carefully, my lord.”
Yang Hao didn’t hesitate. He lunged like a phantom, shattering their formation. Shadowmoon reappeared, its golden-edged blade claiming three more heads before vanishing again.
Returning to his spot, Yang Hao had already slain five, his movements fluid and lethal—a master’s touch.
Enraged, Zeng Ran had never seen such audacity. Assassins took lives; they weren’t meant to be slaughtered.
Yet the leader’s tent remained silent. The ten Purple-Cloaks, their trump card, were unresponsive.
“Kill!” Zeng Ran ordered, assuming command.
Four assassins materialized in black smoke, striking from all sides—a flawless pincer attack.
But Yang Hao was no easy prey. Summoning Shadowmoon, he parried all four blades, shattering them effortlessly.
With a graceful spin, Shadowmoon bisected two Black-Cloaks while Yang Hao drew his twin swords—Treasureblade and Gravity Edge—piercing the Gray-Cloaks’ hearts.
One move. The first variation of the Twilight Three-Kill Formation was broken.
Zeng Ran paled.
The Three-Kill Formation was a closely guarded secret, rarely used. Developed a decade ago, it transformed assassins into a cohesive battlefield force, blending stealth with open combat.
Yet Yang Hao had dismantled it effortlessly.
“Again!” Zeng Ran roared. “Cold Qi Flying Swords!”
A wave of frigid energy rose, chilling the very air.
Cold Qi, a unique cultivation method reserved for Senate-affiliated groups, allowed swords to fly like projectiles, decapitating foes from afar.
A hundred such blades would be unstoppable—controlled by will, striking from all angles.
But disaster struck. Two Gray-Cloaks burst into flames mid-technique, burning like human torches. Others followed, their bodies igniting from within.
Even Zeng Ran faltered. As he channeled Cold Qi, a sinister fire erupted in his dantian, surging through his meridians like a flood, threatening to tear him apart.
The assassins are divided into three levels based on their abilities. Those with a combat level above 14 are classified as Gray Robe level. Those with a combat level above 18 are classified as Black Robe level. Those with a combat level above 22 are classified as Purple Robe level.
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Cloak rank in the Nethershade Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young killers. The Nethershade Assassins had long-standing traditions, but after the “Night of Nethershade,” the group was nearly annihilated to protect the Emperor of the Empire. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the entire assassin system of the Nethershade Assassins.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above Level 14 were Gray-Cloak; those above Level 18 were Black-Cloak; and those above Level 22 were Purple-Cloak.
Now, the Nethershade Assassins had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Cloak assassins, over a hundred Black-Cloak assassins, and even eighteen Purple-Cloak assassins.
It could be said that the strength of the Nethershade Assassins was among the top even within the Ten Sword Schools.
If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Cloak team, the Nethershade’s combat power might have been even greater.
To prevent the Nethershade from becoming too powerful, the Senate had always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within the group. However, every leader inevitably clashed with the Purple-Cloak elites, leading to internal strife and a decline in the Nethershade’s overall strength.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. His thoughts flickered briefly before he withdrew his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and focused on inspecting the hidden sentries.
Truthfully, there wasn’t much to inspect. The Nethershade Assassins were highly disciplined, and their hidden sentries were flawless. Moreover, in such a desolate and frigid place, no one would dare come seeking death.
So Zeng Ran relaxed, though a discomfort in his stomach unsettled him slightly.
Given Zeng Ran’s mastery of the Netherfrost Qi, his entire body should have been icy and lifeless, like an ancient block of ice. Yet now, it felt as though a fire burned inside him, consuming and even dispersing some of his Netherfrost Qi.
“Tonight’s dinner must have been too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As an assassin, he rarely had the chance to eat a hot meal. Only the leader’s return had granted them this luxury.
Approaching the last hidden sentry, Zeng Ran saw his two Gray-Cloak subordinates blending into the massive starstone like wisps of gray mist. Such concealment was unique to the Nethershade—even members of other sword schools would struggle to detect them.
In all the world, no one capable of breaching the Nethershade’s defenses had yet been born.
Zeng Ran swelled with pride. After a final glance at the sentry, he turned to leave and tend to his stomach. But that glance revealed something surreal—a phantom-like vision.
To his horror, the heads of his two Gray-Cloak subordinates flew into the air.
It was an eerie sight. The two had been so perfectly merged with the starstone that they were nearly indistinguishable from it. Yet now, two masked heads had inexplicably risen from the stone, as if the rock itself had sprouted them.
Zeng Ran froze instinctively, scanning his surroundings but finding no trace of an intruder. He rushed toward the starstone to investigate.
Fate spared him. A chilling gust of wind swept toward him from the front.
Zeng Ran, a Black-Cloak leader for good reason, twisted his body and collapsed to the ground like wet mud. His reaction was so swift that his subordinates barely registered the danger.
As the icy wind passed, a scream erupted behind Zeng Ran. One of his Gray-Cloak subordinates had been cleanly bisected by an unseen force, blood and viscera spraying everywhere.
Amid the crimson rain, a bizarre crescent-shaped blade materialized, spinning gracefully before arcing back to a figure emerging from behind the starstone.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery at the collar and cuffs—the attire of a high-ranking officer.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran drew his sword and demanded.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled faintly, hands clasped behind his back as he strolled leisurely. Yet the crescent blade, Shadowmoon, vanished again into the air, and the frigid wind surged toward Zeng Ran once more, carrying Yang Hao’s voice:
“I am the Lord of the Divine Edict Autonomous Territory—soon to be a Viscount of the Empire.”
Though he couldn’t see Shadowmoon, Zeng Ran knew disaster loomed. Instinctively, he executed three actions:
Retreat.
Flick his sword!
Scatter powder!!!
The sequence was seamless, executed with breathtaking speed. Zeng Ran retreated decisively, abandoning his subordinates as he bolted toward the main camp.
The flick of his sword unleashed a resonant hum—a unique alarm signal that echoed through the Nethershade camp.
The powder he scattered was the Nethershade’s signature knockout drug, originally crafted by the Alchemy Sect but somehow acquired by the Senate. To Yang Hao, however, it was useless.
Shadowmoon missed Zeng Ran but effortlessly severed the necks of his subordinates. Its graceful arc, seemingly slow yet irresistibly alluring, carried a deadly enchantment—as if inviting victims to offer their throats willingly.
Another Gray-Cloak assassin fell without a sound, his head tumbling as blood fountained into the air.
Yang Hao advanced, impressed despite the ease of his kills. Having faced numerous martial groups—even defeating elite forces like the King’s Swordsmen and the Demon Bear Regiment—he found the Nethershade Assassins far superior.
A sword school’s strength lay not only in individual prowess but also in discipline and coordination. Despite the ambush and the swift elimination of their sentries, Zeng Ran had remained composed, prioritizing retreat and warning over his subordinates—a testament to the Nethershade’s extraordinary composure.
Upon receiving the alarm, the assassins surged forth instantly, fully armed and battle-ready even in sleep.
Yang Hao admired this formidable force, wishing he could command such a unit to defy the Ten Sword Schools.
But admiration aside, danger loomed.
Having rallied his forces, Zeng Ran now glared at Yang Hao with renewed confidence. His assurance stemmed from the Nethershade’s overwhelming numbers: a hundred Gray-Cloak assassins, forty Black-Cloak assassins, and even ten Purple-Cloak elites. Against such might, even an entire sword school would stand no chance.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly appointed Lord Yang Hao?”
“That’s me.” Yang Hao grinned, pointing at himself—though Shadowmoon had already vanished again.
Zeng Ran tensed. He’d heard of Yang Hao—how their leader and ten Black-Cloak assassins had been repelled without landing a single strike. Rumors spoke of a strange weapon with divine aura, capable of invisibility—a dream for any assassin.
Zeng Ran bowed slightly, a gesture reserved for the Empire’s top hundred warriors.
“Lord, as a noble of the Empire, why oppose the Nethershade?”
“Hmm…” Yang Hao coughed lightly, struggling for an answer. He couldn’t very well admit he was here to kidnap his child’s mother and steal a legendary sword. Thinking fast, he shifted blame:
“Your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something important from me. I’m here to reclaim it.”
Zeng Ran inwardly scoffed. Killing four Gray-Cloak assassins before even speaking was hardly the act of someone seeking justice.
“For a decade, people have only fled the Nethershade. None have dared seek death.” Zeng Ran’s expression darkened as he raised his sword. A hundred blades pointed at Yang Hao.
“Lord, reconsider.”
Reconsider? Yang Hao moved without hesitation, darting like a phantom into the assassins’ formation, shattering their sword array. Shadowmoon, swift and deadly, carved through three Gray-Cloak assassins before vanishing again.
By the time Yang Hao returned to his starting point, five lay dead.
Zeng Ran seethed. Never had the Nethershade’s honor been so brazenly defied.
Yet the leader’s tent remained ominously silent. Where were the ten Purple-Cloak elites?
“Kill!” Zeng Ran barked. Without the leader, he was in command.
Four assassins materialized in bursts of black mist, striking from all directions—a flawless pincer attack leaving no escape.
But Yang Hao was no easy prey. Summoning Shadowmoon, he parried all four strikes, shattering their blades effortlessly. With a flick, two Black-Cloak assassins fell bisected, while Yang Hao’s twin swords—Treasureblade and Gravityblade—pierced the Gray-Cloak assassins’ hearts.
One move. Just one. Yang Hao dismantled the first variation of the Nethershade’s Triple Kill Doctrine.
Zeng Ran trembled.
The Triple Kill Doctrine was a closely guarded secret, rarely used in the Nethershade’s history. Developed a decade ago, it transformed assassins from lone killers into a coordinated force capable of open combat.
Though Yang Hao had countered the first form, Zeng Ran remained undeterred.
“Kill! Netherfrost Flying Swords!”
A wave of chilling energy surged from the assassins, as if the world itself had frozen.
Netherfrost Qi, a unique cultivation method reserved for Senate-affiliated sword schools, allowed assassins to project their swords like flying blades, beheading foes from kilometers away.
A hundred such blades, controlled by will, striking from all angles—even Yang Hao’s defenses would falter.
But the horror never came.
As two Gray-Cloak assassins channeled their Netherfrost Qi, flames erupted from their cores, engulfing them in an instant. More followed, burning alive in inexplicable agony.
Even Zeng Ran felt it—a strange fire surging through his meridians, threatening to tear him apart from within.
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Clothed rank in the Dusk Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young killers. The Dusk Assassins had long-standing traditions, but after the “Night of Dusk,” the group was nearly annihilated to protect the Emperor. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the entire assassin hierarchy.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above Level 14 were Gray-Clothed, those above Level 18 were Black-Clothed, and those above Level 22 were Purple-Clothed.
Now, the Dusk Assassins had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Clothed killers, over a hundred Black-Clothed, and even eighteen Purple-Clothed assassins.
In terms of strength, the Dusk Assassins were among the top even within the Ten Sword Schools. If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Clothed group, their combat prowess could have been even greater.
To prevent the Dusk Assassins from becoming too powerful, the Senate always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within. However, every leader inevitably clashed with the Purple-Clothed elites, leading to internal strife and weakening the group’s overall strength.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. His thoughts flickered briefly before he withdrew his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and focused on inspecting the hidden sentries.
There wasn’t much to check. The Dusk Assassins operated with strict discipline, and the concealed sentries were flawless. Besides, in this desolate wasteland, no one would be foolish enough to come seeking death.
Zeng Ran relaxed slightly, though an uncomfortable sensation in his stomach unsettled him.
Given his mastery of the Cold Yin Qi, his body should have been icy and lifeless, like an ancient block of frozen stone. Yet now, it felt as though a fire burned inside him, consuming even the Cold Yin Qi he had cultivated.
“Tonight’s dinner must have been too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As an assassin, hot meals were rare. Only the leader’s return had granted them this luxury.
Approaching the last sentry post, Zeng Ran saw his two Gray-Clothed subordinates blending into the massive starstone like wisps of gray mist. This concealment technique was unique to the Dusk Assassins—even members of other sword schools would struggle to detect them.
“Surely, no one in the world could breach the Dusk Assassins’ defenses,” Zeng Ran thought smugly.
Just as he turned to leave, a bizarre illusion flickered before his eyes.
He saw the heads of his two Gray-Clothed subordinates rise from the starstone.
It was surreal. The two had been perfectly merged with the rock, yet now their masked heads floated eerily in the air, as if the stone itself had sprouted them.
Zeng Ran froze, scanning the surroundings—yet no one was in sight. He rushed toward the starstone to investigate.
Fate intervened. A chilling gust of wind brushed past his face.
Zeng Ran, a seasoned Black-Clothed leader, reacted instantly. He twisted his body and collapsed like mud, narrowly avoiding an unseen attack. His subordinates barely registered the movement.
A scream erupted behind him. One of his Gray-Clothed men had been cleanly bisected by an invisible force, blood and viscera splattering everywhere.
In the crimson rain, a crescent-shaped blade shimmered into view, carving a graceful arc before returning to a figure emerging from behind the starstone.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery—clearly a high-ranking officer.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran drew his sword, demanding an answer.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled, hands clasped behind his back. The crescent blade vanished again as his voice echoed, “I am the Lord of the Divine Dominion, soon-to-be Imperial Viscount.”
Though he couldn’t see the blade, Zeng Ran knew danger loomed. He acted swiftly—retreating, flicking his sword, and scattering powder—all in one fluid motion.
The sword’s resonant hum triggered an alarm across the Dusk Assassins’ camp. The powder was a potent knockout drug, though it had no effect on Yang Hao.
The crescent blade missed Zeng Ran but claimed another subordinate’s head, its eerie beauty making the kill almost hypnotic.
Yang Hao advanced, impressed by the Dusk Assassins’ discipline. Despite the ambush, Zeng Ran had prioritized retreating to warn the camp—a testament to their training.
Within moments, assassins poured out, fully armed and battle-ready.
Yang Hao admired their efficiency. If he had such a force, the Ten Sword Schools would pose no threat.
But now, he faced overwhelming odds.
Zeng Ran, regrouping with his forces, glared at Yang Hao with renewed confidence. Their numbers—a hundred Gray-Clothed, forty Black-Clothed, and ten Purple-Clothed—meant even an entire sword school would fall.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly appointed lord?”
“The very same.” Yang Hao grinned, though his blade remained unseen.
Zeng Ran tensed. Rumors spoke of Yang Hao defeating ten Black-Clothed assassins in a single strike. His weapon, rumored to be divine, was every assassin’s dream.
Bowing respectfully, Zeng Ran asked, “As an Imperial noble, why oppose the Dusk Assassins?”
Yang Hao hesitated. He couldn’t admit he was here to kidnap a woman and steal a sword. Instead, he lied, “Your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something from me. I’ve come to reclaim it.”
Zeng Ran scoffed. Killing four assassins before negotiations? This was clearly an attack.
“No one has dared challenge the Dusk Assassins in a decade,” Zeng Ran said coldly. “Think carefully, Lord.”
Yang Hao didn’t hesitate. He lunged, shattering their formation as his blade claimed five more lives.
Zeng Ran seethed. The Dusk Assassins took lives—they weren’t meant to be slaughtered.
Yet the leader and Purple-Clothed elites remained absent.
“Kill!” Zeng Ran ordered.
Four assassins materialized from black mist, striking from all angles.
Yang Hao countered, his crescent blade deflecting their swords before bisecting two Black-Clothed assassins. His twin swords—Treasure and Gravity—pierced the Gray-Clothed killers’ hearts.
One move dismantled the first stance of the Dusk Three-Kill Formation.
Zeng Ran paled. The formation, a secret technique combining assassination with open combat, had never been broken so easily.
“Again!” he roared. “Cold Yin Flying Swords!”
A wave of chilling energy rose, as if the world itself froze.
The Cold Yin Qi, a rare cultivation method, allowed swords to fly like immortals’ blades, striking from afar.
But before the attack launched, two Gray-Clothed assassins burst into flames, their bodies igniting from within. Others followed, screaming as fire consumed them.
Even Zeng Ran felt it—a sinister flame surging through his meridians, threatening to tear him apart.
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Cloak rank in the Dusk Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young killers. The Dusk Assassins had long-standing traditions, but after the “Night of Dusk,” the group was nearly annihilated to protect the Emperor. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the entire assassin hierarchy.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above Level 14 were Gray-Cloaks, those above Level 18 were Black-Cloaks, and those above Level 22 were Purple-Cloaks.
Now, the Dusk Assassins had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Cloaks, hundreds of Black-Cloaks, and even eighteen Purple-Cloaks.
In terms of strength, the Dusk Assassins were among the top even within the Ten Sword Schools.
If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Cloaks, the group’s combat power would have been even greater.
To prevent the Dusk Assassins from becoming too dominant, the Senate always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within. However, every leader inevitably clashed with the Purple-Cloaks, leading to internal strife that weakened the group.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. His thoughts flickered briefly before he turned his gaze away from the distant leader’s tent and focused on inspecting the hidden sentries.
There wasn’t much to check. The Dusk Assassins were highly disciplined, and their concealed sentries were flawless. Besides, in such a desolate place, no one would dare come seeking death.
Zeng Ran relaxed slightly, though an uncomfortable sensation in his stomach unsettled him.
Given his mastery of the Chilling Aura, his body should have been icy cold, lifeless as ancient frost to outsiders. Yet now, it felt as if a fire burned inside him, consuming even his Chilling Aura.
“Tonight’s dinner must have been too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As an assassin, hot meals were rare. Only the leader’s return had granted them this luxury.
Approaching the last sentry post, Zeng Ran saw two Gray-Cloak subordinates blending into the massive star-rock like wisps of gray mist. This concealment technique was unique to the Dusk Assassins—even members of other sword schools would struggle to detect them.
In all the world, no one could breach the Dusk Assassins’ defenses.
Zeng Ran swelled with pride. After a final glance at the sentry, he prepared to return and tend to his stomach. But that glance revealed something surreal—a phantom-like vision.
He saw the heads of his two Gray-Cloak subordinates rise into the air.
It was bizarre. The two had been one with the star-rock, indistinguishable from it. Yet now, two masked heads floated up as if the rock itself had sprouted them.
Zeng Ran froze instinctively. He scanned the surroundings but saw no one. Determined to investigate, he moved toward the star-rock.
Fate intervened. A chilling wind brushed past him from the front.
As a Black-Cloak leader, Zeng Ran reacted instantly. Without knowing the threat, he twisted his body and collapsed like mud. His reflexes were so swift that his subordinates barely registered the movement.
The chilling wind passed, followed by a scream. One of his Gray-Cloak subordinates had been sliced in half by an unseen force, blood and viscera spraying everywhere.
Amid the crimson rain, a peculiar crescent-shaped blade flickered into view, tracing an elegant arc before returning to a figure emerging from behind the star-rock.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery—clearly a high-ranking officer.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran drew his sword and demanded.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled, hands clasped behind his back as he strolled leisurely. Yet the crescent blade, Shadowmoon, vanished again, and the icy wind surged toward Zeng Ran with his words: “I am the Lord of the Divine Dominion, soon-to-be Imperial Viscount.”
Though he couldn’t see Shadowmoon, Zeng Ran knew danger loomed. He acted swiftly, executing three moves in succession:
Retreat!
Flick his sword!
Scatter powder!
The sequence was seamless. Zeng Ran retreated without hesitation, abandoning his subordinates as he bolted toward the base.
The flick of his sword produced a resonant hum—a unique alarm signal that echoed through the Dusk Assassins’ camp.
The powder he scattered was a potent knockout drug, originally crafted by the Alchemy Sect but somehow acquired by the Senate. To Yang Hao, it was useless.
Shadowmoon missed Zeng Ran but claimed another subordinate’s head. The blade’s graceful arc, deceptively slow, carried an eerie allure—as if inviting victims to offer their necks willingly.
The Gray-Cloak died without a sound, head severed, blood gushing as his body remained standing.
Yang Hao advanced, impressed despite the ease of his kills. Having faced elite combat groups like the Royal Swordsmen and the Demon Bear Regiment, he found the Dusk Assassins far superior.
A sword school’s strength lay not just in individual skill but in discipline and coordination. Despite the ambush and the swift elimination of their sentries, Zeng Ran had remained composed, prioritizing retreat to warn the base—a testament to their training.
Upon the alarm, assassins surged out instantly, fully armed and battle-ready even in sleep.
Yang Hao admired this formidable force, wishing he had such a unit to defy the Ten Sword Schools.
But admiration aside, danger loomed.
Zeng Ran, now regrouped, glared at Yang Hao with renewed confidence. This mission had deployed a hundred Gray-Cloaks, forty Black-Cloaks, and ten Purple-Cloaks—a concentrated force capable of annihilating even an entire sword school.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly appointed Lord?”
“That’s me.” Yang Hao grinned, pointing at himself as Shadowmoon disappeared again.
Zeng Ran tensed. He’d heard of Yang Hao—how their leader and ten Black-Cloaks had failed to land a single strike against him. And that strange weapon of his bore the glow of a divine artifact, the dream of every assassin.
Zeng Ran bowed slightly, a gesture reserved for top-tier warriors.
“Lord, as an Imperial noble, why oppose the Dusk Assassins?”
“Hmm…” Yang Hao coughed lightly. The truth—that he was here to reclaim his child’s mother and steal a sacred sword—wasn’t an option. Thinking fast, he shifted blame: “Your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something important from me. I’ve come to retrieve it.”
Zeng Ran scoffed inwardly. Killing four Gray-Cloaks before negotiations hardly suggested peaceful intentions.
“For a decade, people have fled from the Dusk Assassins. None dared seek death.” Zeng Ran’s expression darkened as hundreds of swords pointed at Yang Hao. “Think carefully, Lord.”
Think? Yang Hao moved instantly, a blur shattering the assassins’ formation. Shadowmoon, hidden in the wind, reaped five more lives before returning to his hand.
Zeng Ran seethed. No one had ever humiliated the Dusk Assassins like this.
Yet the leader’s tent remained silent. Where were the ten Purple-Cloaks?
“Kill!” Zeng Ran commanded.
Four assassins materialized in black mist, striking from all angles to trap Yang Hao.
But Yang Hao was no easy prey. Summoning Shadowmoon, he parried their attacks, shattering their swords and bisecting two Black-Cloaks while driving his own blades into the Gray-Cloaks’ hearts.
One move—just one—shattered the first stance of the Dusk Trinity Kill.
Zeng Ran trembled.
The Dusk Trinity Kill was a closely guarded secret, rarely used. It transformed assassins from lone hunters into a coordinated killing machine, elevating the Dusk Assassins into a renowned sword school.
Yet Yang Hao had dismantled its first form effortlessly.
“Again!” Zeng Ran roared. “Chilling Aura Flying Swords!”
A wave of icy energy rose from the assassins, chilling the very air.
Chilling Aura, a unique cultivation method, allowed swords to fly like projectiles, decapitating foes from afar. A single flying sword was manageable—but a hundred, controlled by will, attacking from all angles? Even Yang Hao’s defenses would falter.
But the horror never came.
Two Gray-Cloaks burst into flames mid-technique, burning like human torches. Others followed, their bodies igniting from within.
Even Zeng Ran felt it—a strange fire surging through his meridians, threatening to tear him apart.
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Clothed rank in the Dusk Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young assassins of his generation. The Dusk Assassins had long-standing traditions, but after the “Night of Dusk,” the group was nearly annihilated in their attempt to protect the Emperor. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the entire assassin hierarchy of the Dusk Assassins.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above Level 14 were Gray-Clothed, those above Level 18 were Black-Clothed, and those above Level 22 were Purple-Clothed.
Today, the Dusk Assassins had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Clothed assassins, over a hundred Black-Clothed, and even eighteen Purple-Clothed.
In terms of strength, the Dusk Assassins were among the top even within the Ten Sword Sects.
If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Clothed assassins, the group’s combat power could have been even greater.
To prevent the Dusk Assassins from becoming too powerful, the Senate had always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within. However, every leader had clashed with the Purple-Clothed elites, leading to internal strife and a decline in the group’s overall strength.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. His thoughts flickered briefly before he averted his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and focused on inspecting the hidden sentries.
There wasn’t much to check—the Dusk Assassins operated with strict hierarchy and discipline, and the concealed sentries were flawless. Besides, in such a desolate place, no one would dare come seeking death.
Zeng Ran relaxed slightly, though an uncomfortable sensation in his stomach unsettled him.
Given his mastery of the “Chill Qi,” his body should have been cold and lifeless, like an ancient block of ice. Yet now, it felt as if a fire burned inside him, consuming even some of his accumulated Chill Qi.
“Tonight’s dinner must have been too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As an assassin, hot meals were rare—today’s feast was only because the long-absent leader had returned.
Approaching the last sentry post, Zeng Ran saw his two Gray-Clothed subordinates blending into the massive star-rock like wisps of gray mist. This concealment technique was unique to the Dusk Assassins—even members of other sword sects would struggle to detect them.
In all the world, no one could breach the Dusk Assassins’ defenses.
Zeng Ran swelled with pride. After a final glance at the sentry, he turned to leave and deal with his stomach issue. But in that instant, his vision blurred as if a gray mist had appeared before him.
To his horror, he saw the heads of his two Gray-Clothed subordinates fly into the air.
It was a surreal sight—the two had been perfectly merged with the star-rock, indistinguishable from it. Yet now, two masked heads had inexplicably detached, as if the rock itself had sprouted them.
Zeng Ran froze instinctively. He scanned the surroundings but saw no trace of an intruder. He rushed toward the star-rock to investigate.
Fate spared him—Zeng Ran suddenly sensed a chilling wind slicing toward him from the front.
As a Black-Clothed leader, his reflexes were impeccable. Without knowing the source of the threat, he twisted his body and collapsed like mud to the ground. The move was so swift that his subordinates didn’t even realize what had happened.
As the icy wind passed, a bloodcurdling scream erupted behind Zeng Ran. One of his Gray-Clothed subordinates had been cleanly bisected by an unseen force, spraying blood and entrails everywhere.
Amid the crimson rain, a peculiar crescent-shaped blade flickered into view, tracing an elegant arc before returning to a figure emerging from behind the star-rock.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery at the collar and cuffs—clearly the attire of a high-ranking officer.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran drew his sword and demanded.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled faintly, hands clasped behind his back as he strolled forward. Yet his blade, Shadowmoon, vanished again into the air, the chilling wind surging toward Zeng Ran alongside his voice.
“I am the Lord of the Divine Mandate Autonomous Territory, soon-to-be Viscount of the Empire.”
Though he couldn’t see Shadowmoon, Zeng Ran knew disaster loomed. He acted swiftly, executing three moves in rapid succession:
Retreat!
Flick his sword!
Scatter poison!
The sequence was seamless—Zeng Ran retreated without hesitation, abandoning his subordinates as he bolted toward the main camp.
The flick of his sword produced a resonant hum that echoed across the camp—a unique distress signal of the Dusk Assassins.
The powder he scattered was their signature paralyzing agent, originally concocted by the Alchemy Sect before falling into the Senate’s hands. Of course, it had no effect on Yang Hao.
Shadowmoon missed Zeng Ran but effortlessly sliced through the neck of another Gray-Clothed assassin. The blade’s motion was hypnotically graceful, almost slow, yet irresistibly alluring—as if inviting its victims to offer their necks willingly.
The second assassin died without a sound, his headless body remaining upright as blood gushed skyward.
Yang Hao advanced, inwardly impressed by the Dusk Assassins’ prowess. He had fought many martial groups—even defeating elite forces like the King’s Blades and the Demon Bear Regiment—but the Dusk Assassins surpassed them all.
A sword sect’s strength lay not just in individual skill but in discipline and coordination. Despite the sudden ambush and the swift elimination of their sentries, Zeng Ran had remained composed, prioritizing retreat and warning the camp—a testament to their training.
Upon receiving the alert, the assassins surged out instantly, fully armed and battle-ready even in sleep.
Yang Hao couldn’t help but covet such a formidable force. With a group like this, he’d have nothing to fear from the Ten Sword Sects.
But admiration aside, danger loomed large.
Having regrouped his forces, Zeng Ran now glared at Yang Hao with renewed confidence. This time, the Dusk Assassins had deployed a hundred Gray-Clothed, forty Black-Clothed, and even ten Purple-Clothed elites—enough to annihilate an entire sword sect, let alone a single man.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly appointed Lord?”
“That’s me.” Yang Hao grinned, pointing at himself as Shadowmoon disappeared once more.
Zeng Ran tensed. He’d heard of Yang Hao—how their leader and ten Black-Clothed assassins had been repelled in a single move. Worse, Yang Hao’s bizarre weapon bore the aura of a divine artifact, capable of invisibility—every assassin’s dream.
Bowing slightly—a gesture reserved for top-tier warriors—Zeng Ran asked, “My Lord, as a noble of the Empire, why oppose the Dusk Assassins?”
Yang Hao coughed lightly. It was a tricky question—he couldn’t very well admit he was here to kidnap his child’s mother and steal a sect’s treasured sword. Thinking fast, he shifted blame:
“Your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something important from me. I’m here to reclaim it.”
Zeng Ran scoffed inwardly. Killing four Gray-Clothed assassins before even speaking was hardly the act of a man seeking justice—this was outright provocation.
“In the past decade, none have dared challenge the Dusk Assassins,” Zeng Ran said coldly, raising his sword as a hundred others followed suit. “Think carefully, my Lord.”
Yang Hao didn’t think—he moved.
Like a phantom, he tore through the assassins’ formation, shattering their sword array. Shadowmoon, invisible in the wind, carved through three more Gray-Clothed assassins before Yang Hao returned to his original spot.
Five dead in one strike—a master swordsman’s display.
Zeng Ran burned with rage. Never had anyone so brazenly humiliated the Dusk Assassins. Their honor lay in taking lives, not losing them.
Yet glancing back, he saw no movement from the leader’s tent. The ten Purple-Clothed elites should have responded to the alarm—their absence was troubling.
“Kill!” Zeng Ran barked, assuming command in their stead.
Four assassins—two Black-Clothed, two Gray-Clothed—materialized around Yang Hao in bursts of black mist, striking from all angles to seal his escape.
But Yang Hao was no easy prey. Summoning Shadowmoon, he unleashed a defensive technique that shattered their swords mid-air, leaving them weaponless.
With a cold snort, Shadowmoon arced gracefully, bisecting two Black-Clothed assassins while Yang Hao drew his Gravity Sword and Treasure Sword, impaling the Gray-Clothed duo.
One move—just one—and he dismantled the first variation of the Dusk Assassins’ “Triple Kill Doctrine.”
Zeng Ran trembled.
The Triple Kill Doctrine was a closely guarded secret, rarely used in the Dusk Assassins’ history. Traditionally, assassins worked alone, striking from shadows before vanishing.
But a decade ago, the elders devised this doctrine to transform the assassins into a cohesive fighting force—capable of open combat as well as covert kills.
It was this doctrine that elevated the Dusk Assassins from mere assassins to a renowned sword sect within the Ten Sword Sects.
Facing Yang Hao—a warrior ranked among the top hundred—Zeng Ran knew individual skill wouldn’t suffice. Only the Triple Kill Doctrine stood a chance.
Even if the first variation failed, there were others.
“Kill! Kill!” Zeng Ran roared. “Chill Qi Flying Swords!”
A wave of icy energy surged from the assassins, chilling the very air as if the world itself had frozen.
Chill Qi was the Dusk Assassins’ signature cultivation, a rare art permitted only under the Senate’s direct oversight. Channeled into swords, it allowed them to strike like flying blades, beheading foes from kilometers away.
A single flying sword was no threat—but a hundred, controlled by will, attacking from all angles? Even Yang Hao’s defenses would struggle.
Yet the horror never came.
As Zeng Ran shouted, two Gray-Clothed assassins suddenly burst into flames from within, burning like human torches. Others followed, their bodies igniting inexplicably, reducing them to charred husks in seconds.
Even Zeng Ran felt it—a strange fire erupting in his dantian, surging through his meridians like a flood, threatening to tear him apart from within.
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Cloak rank in the Dusk Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young killers of his generation. The Dusk Assassins had long-standing traditions, but after the “Night of Dusk,” the group was nearly annihilated in their mission to protect the Emperor. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the entire assassin hierarchy from scratch.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above Level 14 were Gray-Cloaks, those above Level 18 were Black-Cloaks, and those above Level 22 were Purple-Cloaks.
Now, the Dusk Assassins had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Cloaks, over a hundred Black-Cloaks, and even eighteen Purple-Cloaks.
In terms of strength, the Dusk Assassins were among the top factions even within the Ten Sword Sects.
If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Cloaks, the group’s combat prowess would have been even greater.
To prevent the Dusk Assassins from becoming too powerful, the Senate always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within. However, every leader inevitably clashed with the Purple-Cloaks, leading to internal strife that weakened the group.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. His thoughts flickered briefly before he averted his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and focused on inspecting the hidden sentries.
There wasn’t much to check—the Dusk Assassins operated with strict discipline, and their concealed sentries were flawless. Besides, in this desolate wasteland, no one would be foolish enough to come seeking death.
Zeng Ran relaxed slightly, though an uncomfortable sensation in his stomach unsettled him.
Given his mastery of the Chilling Aura, his body should have been icy cold, lifeless as ancient frost to outsiders. Yet now, it felt as if a fire burned inside him, consuming even the Chilling Aura he had cultivated.
*”Dinner must have been too spicy tonight,”* Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As an assassin, hot meals were rare, and tonight’s feast was only because the long-absent leader had returned.
Approaching the last sentry post, Zeng Ran saw his two Gray-Cloak subordinates blending into the massive star-rock like wisps of gray mist—a concealment technique unique to the Dusk Assassins. Even members of other sword sects would struggle to detect them.
*”No one in this world could breach the Dusk Assassins’ defenses,”* Zeng Ran thought smugly. After a final glance, he turned to leave and deal with his stomachache.
But that glance made him freeze.
An illusion?
He saw the heads of his two Gray-Cloak subordinates detach and float upward.
It was surreal—the two had been one with the star-rock, indistinguishable from it. Yet now, two masked heads rose from the stone as if it had sprouted them.
Instinctively, Zeng Ran scanned the surroundings but saw no one. He rushed toward the star-rock to investigate.
Fate spared him. A chilling gust swept past from the front.
Zeng Ran, a seasoned Black-Cloak leader, reacted instantly. He twisted his body and collapsed like mud, narrowly avoiding the unseen threat. His subordinates barely registered his movement before a scream echoed behind him.
One Gray-Cloak was split in half by an invisible force, blood and viscera spraying everywhere.
In the crimson rain, a bizarre crescent-shaped blade flickered into view, carving an elegant arc before returning to a figure emerging from behind the star-rock.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery—clearly a high-ranking officer.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran drew his sword, demanding an answer.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled, hands clasped behind his back as he strolled forward. The crescent blade vanished again, and the icy wind surged toward Zeng Ran with his words:
“I am the Lord of the Divine Edict Autonomous Territory, soon-to-be Imperial Viscount.”
Though he couldn’t see the blade, Zeng Ran knew danger loomed. He acted swiftly:
**Retreat!**
**Flick his sword!**
**Scatter powder!**
The sequence was executed flawlessly. Zeng Ran bolted toward the base without hesitation, abandoning his subordinates.
The sword flick reverberated across the camp—a unique Dusk Assassin distress signal.
The powder was their signature knockout drug, originally crafted by the Alchemy Sect but somehow acquired by the Senate. To Yang Hao, it was useless.
The crescent blade missed Zeng Ran but cleanly beheaded another Gray-Cloak, its graceful arc almost hypnotic, as if inviting victims to offer their necks willingly.
Yang Hao advanced, impressed despite the ease of his kills. He had faced elite warrior groups before—the Royal Swordsmen and the Demon Bear Sect—but the Dusk Assassins surpassed them all.
A sword sect’s strength lay not just in individual skill but in discipline and coordination. Despite the ambush and lost sentries, Zeng Ran had remained composed, prioritizing retreat to alert the base—a testament to their training.
The assassins emerged instantly, fully armed and battle-ready even in sleep.
Yang Hao admired their might, wishing he commanded such a force to defy the Ten Sword Sects.
But admiration didn’t dull the looming threat.
Regrouped, Zeng Ran glared at Yang Hao with newfound confidence. This detachment boasted a hundred Gray-Cloaks, forty Black-Cloaks, and ten Purple-Cloaks—enough to crush an entire sword sect, let alone one man.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly titled Lord?”
“The very same.” Yang Hao grinned, tapping his chest as the crescent blade dissolved into the wind.
Zeng Ran tensed. He’d heard of Yang Hao—how their leader and ten Black-Cloaks had failed to land a single strike against him. That strange weapon of his radiated divine energy, the dream of every assassin.
Bowing respectfully—a gesture reserved for top-tier warriors—Zeng Ran asked, “As an Imperial noble, why oppose the Dusk Assassins?”
Yang Hao coughed lightly. The truth—kidnapping a child’s mother and stealing a sect’s treasure sword—wasn’t an option. Thinking fast, he lied:
“Your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something precious from me. I’m here to reclaim it.”
Zeng Ran scoffed inwardly. Killing four Gray-Cloaks before negotiations? This was outright aggression.
“For a decade, people have fled the Dusk Assassins. None dared seek death.” Zeng Ran’s voice turned glacial as a hundred swords pointed at Yang Hao. “Think carefully, Lord.”
Yang Hao didn’t think—he moved.
A blur of motion shattered the assassins’ formation. The crescent blade reappeared, its golden-edged darkness claiming three more heads before vanishing again.
By the time Yang Hao returned to his starting point, five lay dead.
Zeng Ran seethed. No one disrespected the Dusk Assassins like this. Their honor was taking lives, not losing them.
Yet the leader’s tent remained silent. Where were the ten Purple-Cloaks?
“Kill!” Zeng Ran barked, assuming command.
Four assassins materialized in black mist, striking from all sides—a flawless pincer attack leaving no escape.
But Yang Hao was no easy prey. Summoning the crescent blade, he parried all four strikes, severing their swords mid-swing.
A cold smirk. The blade danced again, bisecting two Black-Cloaks while Yang Hao drew his twin swords—Treasure and Gravity—piercing the Gray-Cloaks’ hearts.
One move. The first variation of the Dusk Triple Kill was broken.
Zeng Ran paled.
The Dusk Triple Kill was a closely guarded secret, rarely used in the group’s history. Designed for coordinated assassination, it transformed stealth into open slaughter.
Created a decade ago, it elevated the Dusk Assassins from mere killers to a renowned sword sect—deadly in shadows and battle alike.
Against a top-tier warrior like Yang Hao, individual skill was futile. Only the Triple Kill stood a chance.
Losing the first variation meant little.
“Kill!” Zeng Ran roared. “Chilling Aura Flying Swords!”
A wave of glacial energy rose, chilling the air as if winter itself had descended.
Chilling Aura—a quasi-immortal cultivation technique exclusive to Senate-affiliated sects—allowed swords to fly like legends, beheading foes from kilometers away.
A hundred such blades homing from all angles? Even Yang Hao’s defenses would falter.
But the horror never came.
Two Gray-Cloaks burst into flames mid-technique, burning like human torches. Others followed, their bodies igniting from within.
Even Zeng Ran felt it—a sinister fire surging through his meridians, threatening to tear him apart.
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Cloak rank in the Nethershade Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young killers. The Nethershade Assassins had long-standing traditions, but after the “Night of Nethershade,” the group was nearly wiped out to protect the Emperor of the Empire. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the entire assassin hierarchy.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above Level 14 were Gray-Cloaks, those above Level 18 were Black-Cloaks, and those above Level 22 were Purple-Cloaks.
Now, the Nethershade had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Cloaks, over a hundred Black-Cloaks, and even eighteen Purple-Cloaks.
It could be said that the strength of the Nethershade Assassins was among the top even within the Ten Sword Schools.
If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Cloaks, the Nethershade’s combat power would have been even greater.
To prevent the Nethershade from becoming too powerful, the Senate had always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within the group. However, every leader inevitably clashed with the Purple-Cloaks, leading to internal strife and a decline in the Nethershade’s overall strength.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. With just a fleeting thought, he withdrew his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and focused on inspecting the hidden sentries scattered around.
There wasn’t much to inspect, really. The Nethershade Assassins operated with strict hierarchy and discipline, and the concealed sentries were flawless. Especially in this desolate, frigid wasteland—no one would be foolish enough to come here seeking death.
So Zeng Ran relaxed, though a discomfort in his stomach made him slightly uneasy.
Given Zeng Ran’s mastery of the Nether Qi, his entire body should have been icy and lifeless, like an ancient block of frozen stone. Yet now, it felt as if a fire burned inside him, consuming and dispersing some of his Nether Qi.
“Tonight’s dinner must have been too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As a Nethershade assassin, hot meals were rare. Only the leader’s return had granted them this luxury.
Approaching the last hidden sentry, Zeng Ran saw his two Gray-Cloak subordinates blending into the massive star-rock like wisps of gray mist. This level of concealment was unique to the Nethershade—even members of other sword schools would struggle to detect them.
In all the world, no one could breach the Nethershade’s defenses.
Zeng Ran swelled with pride. After a final glance at the sentry, he turned to leave and deal with his stomach issue. But that glance revealed something surreal—a phantom-like vision.
He saw the heads of his two Gray-Cloak subordinates rise from the star-rock.
It was a bizarre sight. The two had been so perfectly concealed within the rock that they seemed part of it. Yet now, two masked heads floated upward—as if the rock itself had sprouted them.
Instinctively, Zeng Ran froze. He scanned the surroundings but saw no one. Determined to investigate, he moved toward the star-rock.
Fate intervened. A chilling gust of wind swept toward him from the front.
Zeng Ran, a seasoned Black-Cloak leader, reacted instantly. Without knowing the threat, he twisted his body and collapsed like wet mud onto the ground. His reaction was so swift that his subordinates didn’t even realize what had happened.
As the icy wind passed, a scream erupted behind Zeng Ran. One of his Gray-Cloak subordinates had been cleanly bisected by an unseen force, blood and viscera spraying everywhere.
In the bloody aftermath, a peculiar crescent-shaped blade materialized midair, spun gracefully, and returned to a figure emerging from behind the star-rock.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery at the collar and cuffs—the attire of a high-ranking general.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran drew his sword and demanded.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled faintly, hands clasped behind his back as he strolled leisurely. Yet his blade, Shadowmoon, vanished again into the air, its frigid edge surging toward Zeng Ran alongside his words:
“I am the Lord of the Divine Dominion, the future Viscount of the Empire.”
Though he couldn’t see Shadowmoon, Zeng Ran knew disaster loomed. He acted swiftly, executing three moves in rapid succession:
Retreat!
Flick his sword!
Scatter powder!
The sequence was seamless—Zeng Ran retreated decisively, abandoning his subordinates as he bolted toward the main camp.
The flick of his sword produced a resonant hum, a signal that echoed through the Nethershade camp—a unique alarm for imminent danger.
The powder he scattered was the Nethershade’s signature knockout drug, originally crafted by the Alchemy Sect but somehow acquired by the Senate. Of course, it had no effect on Yang Hao.
Shadowmoon missed Zeng Ran but effortlessly severed the neck of another Gray-Cloak. The blade’s arc was mesmerizingly slow yet irresistibly lethal, as if compelling its victims to offer their throats willingly.
The second Gray-Cloak died without a sound, his headless body remaining upright as blood gushed meters high.
Yang Hao advanced, impressed despite the ease of his kills. He had fought many martial groups—even the elite Royal Swordsmen and Demon Bear Regiment had fallen to him. Yet the Nethershade surpassed them all, their strength staggering.
A sword school’s power wasn’t just in individual skill but in discipline and coordination. Despite the ambush and the swift elimination of their sentries, Zeng Ran—a Black-Cloak leader—remained composed, sacrificing subordinates to warn the main camp. Such composure was extraordinary.
Upon the alarm, assassins poured out instantly, fully armed and battle-ready even in sleep.
Yang Hao admired this formidable force, wishing he commanded such a regiment to defy the Ten Sword Schools.
But admiration aside, danger loomed large.
Having rallied his forces, Zeng Ran now glared at Yang Hao with renewed confidence. His assurance stemmed from their numbers: a hundred Gray-Cloaks, forty Black-Cloaks, and even ten Purple-Cloaks—the Nethershade’s elite. Against such might, even an entire sword regiment would perish, let alone a single man.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly appointed Lord?”
“That’s me.” Yang Hao grinned, pointing at himself as Shadowmoon vanished once more.
Zeng Ran tensed. He’d heard of Yang Hao—how their leader and ten Black-Cloaks had failed to land a single strike against him. Worse, Yang Hao’s bizarre weapon shimmered with the aura of a divine artifact, a dream for any assassin.
Zeng Ran bowed slightly, a gesture reserved for the Empire’s top hundred warriors.
“Lord, as a noble of the Empire, why oppose the Nethershade?”
“Hmm…” Yang Hao coughed lightly. Explaining that he was here to reclaim his child’s mother and steal a legendary sword wasn’t an option. Thinking fast, he shifted blame:
“Your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something precious from me. I’m here to take it back.”
Zeng Ran inwardly scoffed. Killing four Gray-Cloaks before even speaking? This was clearly an outright assault, no excuses needed.
“For a decade, people have fled the Nethershade. None dared seek death.” Zeng Ran’s expression darkened as a hundred swords pointed at Yang Hao. “Think carefully, Lord.”
Think? Yang Hao didn’t hesitate. He moved like a blur, shattering the assassins’ formation before they could react. Shadowmoon, invisible in the wind, claimed three more heads with golden-edged grace.
By the time Yang Hao returned to his starting position, five lay dead, Shadowmoon once again hidden in the frigid air.
The fluid, masterful display left Zeng Ran seething. Never had anyone so brazenly humiliated the Nethershade—a guild that took lives, not surrendered them.
Yet glancing back, Zeng Ran grew uneasy. The leader’s tent remained silent. The ten Purple-Cloaks could end Yang Hao instantly—why hadn’t they responded?
“Kill!” Zeng Ran barked, assuming command in their absence.
Four assassins—two Black, two Gray—materialized in bursts of dark mist, striking from all sides to leave Yang Hao no escape.
But Yang Hao was no sitting duck. Recalling Shadowmoon, he unleashed a defensive technique that sparked four clashes, severing the attackers’ blades mid-strike.
With a cold snort, Shadowmoon arced like a leaping fish, bisecting two Black-Cloaks while Yang Hao drew his Gravity and Treasure Swords, impaling the Gray-Cloaks through their hearts.
One move—just one—shattered the first variation of the Nethershade’s Triple Kill Doctrine.
Zeng Ran trembled.
The Triple Kill Doctrine was a closely guarded secret, rarely used in the Nethershade’s history. Most assassins worked alone, striking from shadows and vanishing regardless of success.
Developed a decade ago by the elders, this doctrine transformed assassination into open, coordinated slaughter, elevating the Nethershade into a renowned sword school with both covert and battlefield prowess.
Facing Yang Hao—a top hundred warrior who’d even defeated the Empire’s foremost rogue swordsman—Zeng Ran knew individual skill was futile. Only the Triple Kill Doctrine stood a chance.
Losing the first variation meant little.
“Kill! Nether Qi Flying Swords!” Zeng Ran commanded.
A wave of chilling energy surged from the assassins, as if the world itself had turned desolate and frozen.
Nether Qi, a quasi-immortal cultivation method exclusive to Senate-affiliated regiments under imperial suppression, could be channeled into swords, turning them into flying blades capable of beheading foes from kilometers away.
A hundred such blades, controlled telepathically with varying trajectories and force, would be nigh impossible to block—even with Yang Hao’s defensive techniques.
But the horror never came.
As two Gray-Cloaks channeled Nether Qi, flames erupted from their cores, engulfing them in infernos that turned them into human torches.
More assassins spontaneously combusted behind Zeng Ran, their bodies burning from within, reduced to charred husks in seconds.
Even Zeng Ran sensed danger. The moment he summoned Nether Qi, a strange fire surged from his dantian, raging through his meridians like floodwaters threatening to rupture his flesh.
So Zeng Ran relaxed a bit, but his stomach felt uneasy, causing him slight discomfort.
At Zeng Ran’s level of cultivation in the Qi of Stillness, his entire body should have been cold and icy, appearing lifeless to outsiders, like an ancient block of ice. Yet at this moment, his stomach felt as if a fire was burning inside, accumulating and even dispersing some of his Stillness Qi.
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Clothed rank in the Dusk Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young killers. The Dusk Assassins had long-standing traditions, but after the “Night of Dusk,” the group was nearly annihilated to protect the Emperor. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the entire assassin hierarchy.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above Level 14 were Gray-Clothed, those above Level 18 were Black-Clothed, and those above Level 22 were Purple-Clothed.
Now, the Dusk Assassins had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Clothed killers, over a hundred Black-Clothed, and even eighteen Purple-Clothed assassins.
In terms of strength, the Dusk Assassins were among the top even within the Ten Sword Schools.
If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Clothed assassins, the group’s combat prowess would have been even greater.
To prevent the Dusk Assassins from becoming too powerful, the Senate had always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within. However, every leader had clashed with the Purple-Clothed elites, leading to internal strife and a decline in the group’s overall strength.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. His thoughts flickered briefly before he withdrew his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and focused on inspecting the hidden sentries.
There wasn’t much to check—the Dusk Assassins were highly disciplined, and their concealed sentries were flawless. Besides, in such a desolate place, no one would dare come seeking death.
Zeng Ran relaxed slightly, though an uncomfortable sensation in his stomach unsettled him.
Given his mastery of the Cold Qi, his body should have been icy and lifeless, like an ancient block of ice. Yet now, it felt as though a fire burned inside him, consuming even some of his Cold Qi.
“Tonight’s dinner must have been too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As an assassin, hot meals were rare, and tonight’s feast was only because the long-absent leader had returned.
Approaching the last sentry post, Zeng Ran saw two Gray-Clothed subordinates blending into the massive starstone like wisps of gray mist—a concealment technique unique to the Dusk Assassins. Even members of other sword schools would struggle to detect them.
In all the world, no one capable of breaching the Dusk Assassins’ defenses had yet been born.
Zeng Ran swelled with pride. After a final glance at the sentry, he turned to leave and deal with his stomach issue. But in that instant, his vision blurred as if a gray mist had appeared before him.
To his horror, he saw the heads of his two Gray-Clothed subordinates fly into the air.
It was surreal—the two had been perfectly merged with the starstone, yet now their masked heads soared as if the rock itself had sprouted them.
Zeng Ran froze instinctively. He scanned the surroundings but saw no trace of an intruder. He rushed toward the starstone to investigate.
Fate intervened—Zeng Ran sensed a chilling wind slicing toward him from the front.
His Black-Clothed rank was no mere title. Without hesitation, he twisted his body and collapsed like mud onto the ground. His reaction was so swift that his subordinates barely registered what had happened.
As the icy wind passed, a scream erupted behind him. One of his Gray-Clothed subordinates had been cleanly bisected by an unseen force, blood and viscera spraying everywhere.
Amid the crimson rain, a bizarre crescent-shaped blade flickered into visibility, tracing an elegant arc before returning to the figure emerging from behind the starstone.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery—clearly a high-ranking officer.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran drew his sword and demanded.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled faintly, hands clasped behind his back as he strolled forward. Yet the crescent blade vanished again, and the chilling wind surged toward Zeng Ran alongside his voice:
“I am the Lord of the Divine Mandate Autonomous Territory, soon-to-be Imperial Viscount.”
Though he couldn’t see the blade, Zeng Ran knew disaster loomed. He acted swiftly, executing three moves in rapid succession:
Retreat!
Flick his sword!
Scatter poison!
The sequence was seamless—Zeng Ran retreated without hesitation, abandoning his subordinates as he bolted toward the main camp.
The flick of his sword unleashed a resonant hum that echoed across the camp—a unique alarm signal of the Dusk Assassins.
The powder he scattered was their signature knockout drug, originally crafted by the Alchemy Sect but somehow acquired by the Senate. To Yang Hao, however, it was useless.
Though Zeng Ran escaped, the crescent blade claimed another victim—a Gray-Clothed assassin whose head flew off before he could utter a sound, his body remaining eerily upright as blood gushed skyward.
Yang Hao advanced, impressed despite the ease of his kills. He had faced many warrior groups—even defeated elite forces like the King’s Swordsmen and the Demon Bear Regiment. Yet the Dusk Assassins surpassed them all.
A sword school’s strength lay not just in individual skill but in discipline and coordination. Despite the ambush and the swift elimination of their sentries, Zeng Ran had remained composed, prioritizing retreat and warning the camp—a testament to their training.
Within moments, assassins poured out of the main camp, fully armed and battle-ready even in sleep.
Yang Hao admired their might, wishing he commanded such a force to defy the Ten Sword Schools.
But admiration aside, danger loomed.
Zeng Ran, now regrouped, glared at Yang Hao with renewed confidence. This contingent included a hundred Gray-Clothed assassins, forty Black-Clothed, and even ten Purple-Clothed elites—enough to annihilate an entire sword school, let alone one man.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly appointed Lord?”
“That’s me.” Yang Hao grinned, pointing at himself as his crescent blade dissolved into the wind again.
Zeng Ran tensed. He had heard of Yang Hao—how their leader and ten Black-Clothed assassins had been repelled in a single move. Rumors spoke of a weapon imbued with divine power, capable of invisibility—a dream for any assassin.
Bowing slightly—a gesture reserved for top-tier warriors—Zeng Ran asked, “As an Imperial noble, why oppose the Dusk Assassins?”
Yang Hao coughed lightly. The truth—that he was here to reclaim his child’s mother and steal a sacred sword—was hardly diplomatic. Thinking fast, he shifted blame:
“Your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something important from me. I’ve come to take it back.”
Zeng Ran scoffed inwardly. Killing four assassins before negotiations was hardly the act of a man seeking justice.
“In the past decade, none have dared challenge the Dusk Assassins,” Zeng Ran said coldly, raising his sword as hundreds followed suit. “Think carefully, Lord.”
Yang Hao didn’t hesitate. He moved like a phantom, shattering their formation as his crescent blade reappeared, severing three more heads before vanishing again.
Returning to his starting point, Yang Hao had already slain five men—his fluid movements resembling a master swordsman’s.
Zeng Ran seethed. No one had ever humiliated the Dusk Assassins like this—their honor lay in taking lives, not losing them.
Yet the leader’s tent remained silent. Where were the ten Purple-Clothed elites?
“Kill!” Zeng Ran barked. Without the elites, he was in command.
Four assassins—two Black-Clothed, two Gray-Clothed—materialized around Yang Hao, their swords sealing all escape routes.
But Yang Hao was no easy prey. Summoning his crescent blade, he parried all four strikes, shattering their swords effortlessly. With a graceful spin, the blade cleaved two Black-Clothed assassins in half while Yang Hao drew his twin swords—Treasure and Gravity—piercing the Gray-Clothed assassins’ hearts.
One move—just one—had dismantled the first variation of the Dusk Assassins’ Three-Kill Doctrine.
Zeng Ran trembled.
The Three-Kill Doctrine was a closely guarded secret, rarely used in the group’s history. Developed a decade ago, it transformed assassins from lone killers into a coordinated force capable of open combat.
This doctrine had elevated the Dusk Assassins into a renowned sword school, blending stealth with battlefield prowess.
Yet Yang Hao had dismantled its first form effortlessly.
“Kill! Cold Qi Flying Swords!” Zeng Ran roared.
A wave of frigid energy rose from the assassins, chilling the air as if the world itself had frozen.
Cold Qi, a rare cultivation method permitted only under the Senate, allowed swords to fly like projectiles, beheading foes from kilometers away.
A hundred such blades would be unstoppable—each controlled by thought, attacking from all angles.
But the horror never came.
Two Gray-Clothed assassins burst into flames, their Cold Qi igniting from within, reducing them to human torches. Others followed, their bodies erupting in fire as if their very veins burned.
Even Zeng Ran felt it—a strange, searing force surging through his meridians, threatening to tear him apart.
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Clothed rank in the Nethershade Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young killers. The Nethershade Assassins had long-standing traditions, but after the “Night of Nethershade,” the group was nearly wiped out to protect the Emperor of the Empire. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the entire assassin system of the Nethershade Assassins.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above Level 14 were Gray-Clothed, those above Level 18 were Black-Clothed, and those above Level 22 were Purple-Clothed.
Now, the Nethershade Assassins had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Clothed assassins, hundreds of Black-Clothed, and even eighteen Purple-Clothed.
It could be said that the strength of the Nethershade Assassins was among the top even within the Ten Sword Schools.
If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Clothed group, the Nethershade Assassins’ combat power would have been even greater.
To prevent the Nethershade Assassins from becoming too powerful, the Senate had always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within the group. However, every leader had clashed with the Purple-Clothed elites, leading to internal strife and a decline in the group’s overall strength.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. His thoughts flickered briefly before he withdrew his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and focused on inspecting the hidden sentries.
In truth, there was little to inspect. The Nethershade Assassins operated with strict hierarchy and discipline, and the hidden sentries were flawless. Moreover, in such a desolate and frigid place, no one would dare come seeking death.
Thus, Zeng Ran relaxed, though an uncomfortable sensation in his stomach unsettled him slightly.
Given Zeng Ran’s mastery of the Nether Qi, his entire body should have been cold and lifeless, like an ancient block of ice. Yet now, it felt as though a fire burned inside him, consuming even some of his Nether Qi.
“Tonight’s dinner must have been too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As a Nethershade assassin, hot meals were rare. Only the leader’s return after a long absence had granted them this luxury.
Approaching the last hidden sentry, Zeng Ran saw his two Gray-Clothed subordinates blending into the massive star-rock like wisps of gray mist. This concealment technique was unique to the Nethershade Assassins—even members of other sword schools would struggle to detect them.
In all the world, no one capable of breaching the Nethershade’s defenses had yet been born.
Zeng Ran swelled with pride. After a final glance at the sentry, he turned to leave and tend to his stomach. But that glance revealed something surreal—a phantom-like vision.
To his horror, Zeng Ran saw the heads of his two Gray-Clothed subordinates rise into the air.
It was an eerie sight. The two had been perfectly merged with the star-rock, indistinguishable from it. Yet now, two masked heads floated upward as if the rock itself had sprouted them.
Instinctively, Zeng Ran froze. He scanned his surroundings but saw no one. Determined to investigate, he moved toward the star-rock.
Fate intervened. A chilling wind brushed past his front.
Zeng Ran, a Black-Clothed leader, was no fraud. Though he couldn’t see the threat, his body twisted reflexively, collapsing like mud to the ground. His reaction was so swift that his subordinates barely registered it.
As the cold wind passed, a scream erupted behind Zeng Ran. One of his Gray-Clothed subordinates had been cleaved in two by an unseen force, blood and viscera spraying everywhere.
Amid the crimson rain, a bizarre crescent-shaped blade flickered into view, tracing an elegant arc before returning to the figure emerging from behind the star-rock.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery at the collar and cuffs—the attire of a high-ranking general.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran drew his sword and demanded.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled faintly, hands clasped behind his back as he strolled leisurely. Yet his Shadowmoon Blade vanished again into the air, the icy wind surging toward Zeng Ran with his words: “I am the Lord of the Divine Mandate Autonomous Territory, the future Viscount of the Empire.”
Though he couldn’t see the blade, Zeng Ran knew disaster loomed. He acted swiftly, executing three moves in rapid succession:
Retreat!
Flick his sword!
Scatter poison!
The sequence was seamless, a breathtaking display of speed and precision. Zeng Ran retreated without hesitation, abandoning his subordinates as he bolted toward the main camp.
The flick of his sword unleashed a resonant hum—a unique Nethershade alarm that echoed through the camp.
The powder he scattered was the Nethershade’s signature knockout drug, originally crafted by the Alchemy Sect but somehow acquired by the Senate. To Yang Hao, however, it was useless.
Though Zeng Ran escaped, the Shadowmoon Blade claimed another victim—his remaining Gray-Clothed subordinate. The blade’s graceful arc seemed slow, almost mesmerizing, as if inviting its target to offer their neck willingly.
The second Gray-Clothed assassin died without a sound, his head severed, blood gushing skyward as his body remained standing.
Yang Hao advanced, impressed despite the ease of his kills. Having faced numerous martial groups—even defeating elite forces like the King’s Swordsmen and the Demon Bear Regiment—he found the Nethershade Assassins far superior.
A sword school’s strength lay not only in individual skill but also in discipline and coordination. Despite the sudden attack and the swift elimination of their sentries, Zeng Ran had remained composed, prioritizing retreat and warning over saving his men—a testament to the Nethershade’s training.
Upon receiving the alarm, the assassins surged from the camp, fully armed and battle-ready even in sleep.
Yang Hao admired this formidable force, wishing he commanded such a group to defy the Ten Sword Schools.
But admiration aside, danger loomed.
Having regrouped, Zeng Ran turned to face Yang Hao with renewed confidence. This confidence stemmed from the Nethershade’s assembled might: one hundred Gray-Clothed assassins, forty Black-Clothed, and even ten Purple-Clothed elites. Against such numbers, even an entire sword school would perish.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly appointed Lord Yang Hao?”
“The very same.” Yang Hao grinned, pointing at himself as the Shadowmoon Blade vanished once more.
Zeng Ran tensed. He’d heard of Yang Hao—how their leader and ten Black-Clothed assassins had failed to land a single blow against him. Moreover, Yang Hao’s bizarre weapon bore the aura of a divine artifact, capable of invisibility—a dream for any assassin.
Zeng Ran saluted Yang Hao, a gesture reserved for the Empire’s top hundred warriors:
“Lord, as a noble of the Empire, why oppose the Nethershade?”
“Hmm…” Yang Hao coughed lightly, struggling for an answer. He couldn’t very well admit he was here to kidnap a child’s mother and steal a sacred sword. Thinking fast, he shifted blame: “Your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something important from me. I’m here to reclaim it.”
Zeng Ran inwardly scoffed. Killing four Gray-Clothed assassins before even speaking was clearly an act of aggression, not reclamation.
“In the past decade, none have dared seek out the Nethershade—only fled from us.” Zeng Ran’s expression darkened as hundreds of swords pointed at Yang Hao. “Lord, reconsider.”
Reconsider? Yang Hao moved without hesitation, darting like a phantom into the assassins’ formation, shattering their sword array. The Shadowmoon Blade, hidden in the wind, gleamed darkly with golden light as it claimed three more Gray-Clothed heads.
By the time Yang Hao returned to his original position, the blade had slain five and vanished once more into the frigid air.
The fluid, masterful display left Zeng Ran seething. Never had anyone so brazenly defied the Nethershade Assassins—a group that took lives, not lost them.
Yet when Zeng Ran glanced back at the silent leader’s tent, unease crept in. The ten Purple-Clothed elites should have responded to the alarm by now, ensuring Yang Hao’s demise.
“Kill!” Zeng Ran hardened his resolve. With the leader and elites absent, he was in command.
At his order, four clouds of black mist exploded around Yang Hao—two Black-Clothed and two Gray-Clothed assassins striking from all sides, sealing his escape.
But Yang Hao was no sitting duck. Recalling the Shadowmoon Blade, he unleashed the “Guard” technique, sparks flying as four swords shattered mid-air, rendering the assassins helpless.
With a cold snort, Yang Hao guided the Shadowmoon in a graceful arc, bisecting two Black-Clothed assassins while drawing his Treasure Sword and Gravity Sword to pierce the Gray-Clothed assassins’ hearts.
One move—just one—shattered the first variation of the Nethershade’s Triple Kill Doctrine.
Zeng Ran trembled in fear.
The Triple Kill Doctrine was a closely guarded secret, rarely used in the Nethershade’s history. Most assassins worked alone, striking from shadows and retreating swiftly.
Developed a decade ago by the elders who rebuilt the Nethershade, the doctrine emphasized teamwork, transforming assassination into open, group combat.
It was this doctrine that elevated the Nethershade beyond mere assassins, earning them a place among the Ten Sword Schools—capable of both covert kills and open battle.
Facing Yang Hao, a top hundred warrior who’d even defeated the Empire’s top wandering swordsman, Zeng Ran knew individual skill was futile. Only the Triple Kill Doctrine stood a chance.
Even if Yang Hao broke the first variation, it mattered little.
“Kill! Kill!!” Zeng Ran roared. “Nether Qi Flying Swords!”
Yang Hao watched as a wave of Nether Qi surged from the assassins, chilling the very air, as if the world itself had turned desolate.
Nether Qi was a unique cultivation method, permitted only to Senate-affiliated groups under imperial decree. Infused into swords, it allowed them to fly like legendary blades, severing heads from a thousand meters away.
A few such swords posed no threat, but hundreds—each controlled by thought, striking from different angles with varying force—were terrifying. Even Yang Hao’s “Guard” technique might falter.
Yet the nightmare never came.
As Zeng Ran shouted, two Gray-Clothed assassins channeling Nether Qi suddenly burst into flames from within, becoming human torches.
More assassins combusted behind Zeng Ran, their bodies burning from the inside out in seconds.
Even Zeng Ran sensed danger. The moment he summoned Nether Qi, a strange fire erupted in his dantian, surging through his meridians like a flood, threatening to tear him apart.
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Cloak rank in the Nethershade Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young killers. The Nethershade Assassins had long-standing traditions, but after the “Night of Nethershade,” the group was nearly wiped out to protect the empire’s emperor. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the entire assassin system of the Nethershade Assassins.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above level 14 were Gray-Cloaks, those above level 18 were Black-Cloaks, and those above level 22 were Purple-Cloaks.
Now, the Nethershade Assassins had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Cloaks, hundreds of Black-Cloaks, and even eighteen Purple-Cloaks.
It could be said that the strength of the Nethershade Assassins was among the top even within the Ten Sword Schools.
If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Cloaks, the group’s combat power might have been even greater.
To prevent the Nethershade Assassins from becoming too powerful, the Senate always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within the group’s own ranks. However, every leader had clashed with the Purple-Cloaks, leading to internal strife and a decline in the group’s overall strength.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. His thoughts flickered briefly before he averted his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and focused on inspecting the hidden sentries.
In truth, there was little to inspect. The Nethershade Assassins were highly disciplined, and their hidden sentries were flawless. Moreover, in such a desolate and frigid place, no one would dare come seeking death.
Thus, Zeng Ran relaxed, though a discomfort in his stomach left him slightly unsettled.
Given Zeng Ran’s mastery of the Netherfrost Qi, his entire body should have been icy and lifeless, like an ancient block of ice. Yet, at this moment, it felt as though a fire was burning inside him, even dissipating some of his Netherfrost Qi.
“Tonight’s dinner must have been too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As an assassin, hot meals were rare, and today’s feast was only because the long-absent leader had returned.
Approaching the last hidden sentry, Zeng Ran saw his two Gray-Cloak subordinates blending into the massive star-rock like wisps of gray mist—a concealment technique unique to the Nethershade Assassins. Even members of other sword schools would struggle to detect them.
In all the world, no one capable of breaching the Nethershade’s defenses had yet been born.
Zeng Ran swelled with pride. After a final glance at the sentry, he turned to leave and tend to his stomach. But that glance revealed something surreal—a phantom-like vision.
To his horror, Zeng Ran saw the heads of his two Gray-Cloak subordinates fly into the air.
It was an eerie sight. The two had been perfectly merged with the star-rock, indistinguishable from it. Yet now, two masked heads had inexplicably risen from within. To an outsider, it would seem as though the rock itself had sprouted human heads.
Instinctively, Zeng Ran froze. He scanned the surroundings but saw no trace of an intruder. Determined to investigate, he moved toward the star-rock.
Fate, however, intervened. A chilling gust of wind brushed past him from the front.
As a Black-Cloak leader, Zeng Ran was no novice. Without hesitation, he twisted his body and collapsed to the ground like a lump of mud. His reaction was so swift that his subordinates barely registered what had happened.
As the icy wind passed, a bloodcurdling scream erupted behind Zeng Ran. One of his Gray-Cloak subordinates had been cleanly bisected by an unseen force, spraying blood and entrails everywhere.
Amid the crimson rain, a bizarre crescent-shaped blade flickered into visibility before gracefully arcing back to a figure emerging from behind the star-rock.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery at the collar and cuffs—clearly the attire of a high-ranking officer.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran demanded, drawing his sword.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled faintly, hands clasped behind his back as he strolled forward. Yet his blade, Shadowmoon, vanished into the air once more, its frigid edge surging toward Zeng Ran alongside his words: “I am the lord of the Divine Dominion, soon-to-be a viscount of the empire.”
Though he couldn’t see Shadowmoon, Zeng Ran knew disaster loomed. Instantly, he executed three actions:
Retreat.
Flick his sword!
Scatter powder!!!
The sequence was seamless, executed with breathtaking speed. Zeng Ran retreated without hesitation, abandoning his subordinates as he bolted toward the main camp.
The flick of his sword produced a resonant hum—a unique alarm signal that echoed through the Nethershade camp.
The powder he scattered was a potent paralytic agent, originally crafted by the Alchemy Sect but somehow acquired by the Senate. Yet it had no effect on Yang Hao.
Shadowmoon missed Zeng Ran but effortlessly severed the necks of his remaining subordinates. Its elegant arc, deceptively slow, carried an irresistible allure—as if inviting victims to offer their throats willingly.
Another Gray-Cloak fell silently, headless, his body standing eerily upright as blood gushed skyward.
Yang Hao advanced, impressed despite the ease of his kills. Having battled elite forces like the Royal Swordsmen and the Demon Bear Brigade, he found the Nethershade Assassins far superior—almost overwhelmingly so.
A sword school’s strength lay not only in individual prowess but also in discipline and coordination. Despite the sudden ambush and the swift elimination of their sentries, Zeng Ran had remained composed, prioritizing retreat to warn the main camp—a testament to the assassins’ extraordinary composure.
Upon receiving the alarm, the assassins surged forth instantly, fully armed and battle-ready even in sleep.
Yang Hao couldn’t help but covet such a formidable force. With an army like this, he’d fear no Ten Sword School.
But admiration aside, danger loomed large.
Having rallied his forces, Zeng Ran turned to face Yang Hao with renewed confidence. His assurance stemmed from their overwhelming numbers: a hundred Gray-Cloaks, forty Black-Cloaks, and even ten Purple-Cloaks—a concentrated force capable of annihilating an entire sword school, let alone a single man.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly titled Lord Yang Hao?”
“The very same.” Yang Hao grinned, tapping his chest. Shadowmoon vanished once more into the wind.
Zeng Ran tensed. He’d heard of Yang Hao—how their leader and ten Black-Cloaks had failed to land a single blow against him. Moreover, Yang Hao’s bizarre weapon bore the glow of a divine artifact, the kind every assassin dreamed of wielding.
Zeng Ran saluted Yang Hao—a gesture reserved for the empire’s top hundred warriors.
“Lord, as a noble of the empire, why oppose the Nethershade?”
“Hmm…” Yang Hao coughed lightly, struggling for an answer. He couldn’t very well admit he was here to kidnap his child’s mother and steal a legendary sword. Thinking fast, he shifted blame: “Your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something important from me. I’m here to reclaim it.”
Zeng Ran inwardly scoffed. Killing four Gray-Cloaks before even meeting was clearly an act of aggression, not retrieval.
“For a decade, people have fled the Nethershade. None dare seek death.” Zeng Ran’s expression darkened as he raised his sword. A hundred blades pointed at Yang Hao. “Lord, reconsider.”
Reconsider? Yang Hao moved without hesitation, darting like a phantom into the assassins’ formation, shattering their carefully arranged sword array. Shadowmoon, invisible in the wind, gleamed darkly with golden hues as it claimed three more Gray-Cloak heads.
By the time Yang Hao returned to his original position, Shadowmoon had claimed five lives before vanishing once more into the frigid air.
The fluid, lethal display was worthy of a swordmaster.
Zeng Ran burned with rage. Never had anyone so brazenly defied the Nethershade Assassins—a group that took lives, not surrendered them.
Yet glancing back at the silent leader’s tent, Zeng Ran grew uneasy. The ten Purple-Cloaks should have appeared by now to ensure Yang Hao’s demise. Their absence was troubling.
“Kill!” Zeng Ran hardened his resolve. With the leader and Purple-Cloaks absent, he was in command.
At his order, four clouds of black mist exploded around Yang Hao—two Black-Cloaks and two Gray-Cloaks striking simultaneously from all directions, sealing every escape route.
But Yang Hao was no helpless prey. Recalling Shadowmoon, he invoked the “Guard” technique, sparks erupting as four swords shattered mid-air, rendering the assassins weaponless.
With a cold snort, Shadowmoon curved gracefully like a fish leaping into the sea, bisecting two Black-Cloaks. Meanwhile, Yang Hao drew his Treasure Sword and Gravity Sword, piercing the Gray-Cloaks’ hearts.
One move—just one—shattered the first variation of the Nethershade Triple Kill Formation.
Zeng Ran trembled in fear.
The Nethershade Triple Kill Formation was a closely guarded secret, rarely used in the group’s history. Most assassins worked alone, striking from shadows before vanishing.
But a decade ago, the elders had devised this formation, transforming assassination into open, coordinated slaughter—elevating the Nethershade Assassins into a renowned sword school with both covert and overt prowess.
Facing Yang Hao, a top hundred warrior who’d even defeated the empire’s foremost wandering swordsman, Zeng Ran knew individual skill was futile. Only the Triple Kill Formation stood a chance.
Even if Yang Hao had broken the first variation, there was more to come.
“Kill! Kill!!” Zeng Ran roared. “Netherfrost Flying Swords!”
Yang Hao watched as a wave of Netherfrost Qi surged from the assassins, chilling the very air. This energy, unique to Senate-affiliated sword schools under imperial sanction, could turn blades into flying swords capable of beheading foes from kilometers away.
A single flying sword was no threat, but a hundred—each controlled by will, striking from different angles with varying force—would be terrifying. Even Yang Hao’s “Guard” technique might falter.
Yet the nightmare never materialized. As Zeng Ran bellowed, two Gray-Cloaks channeling Netherfrost Qi suddenly burst into flames from within, becoming human torches.
More assassins spontaneously combusted, their bodies erupting in fire that reduced them to charred husks in seconds.
Even Zeng Ran felt it—a strange, malevolent fire surging from his dantian, tearing through his meridians like a flood.
Zeng Ran felt a surge of pride. He glanced once more at the hidden outpost before preparing to return and address his stomach issue. But this very glance made him feel as if a gray mist clouded his vision, as though something illusory had appeared.
Zeng Ran saw the heads of the two Gray Robe level subordinates fly up from the outpost.
This was an extremely eerie sight. Those two had been hidden within the star rocks, almost becoming one with them, making it impossible to discern any human figures. Yet from within this unity, two masked heads flew up. If one didn’t know there was a hidden outpost there, one might think the star rocks had grown heads of their own.
Zeng Ran instinctively froze for a moment. He quickly looked around but saw no one, so he decided to rush to the star rocks to see what was happening.
It was as if fate had spared him, for Zeng Ran seemed to sense a sharp gust of wind coming straight at him.
Zeng Ran, as a Black Robe level leader, was no pretender. Although he didn’t know what it was, his body twisted instinctively, and he collapsed to the ground like a pile of mud. His reaction was so fast that even his subordinates were unaware of what had occurred.
As the sharp wind passed, a scream came from behind Zeng Ran. One of his Gray Robe level subordinates had been split in two by an unseen force, and the stench of blood and entrails sprayed everywhere.
When Zeng Ran looked again, amidst the blood rain, a crescent-shaped, peculiar flying blade appeared briefly, circled once, and then flew back in an elegant arc to the person emerging from behind the star rocks.
That person wore a long black coat, with golden ornate patterns on the collar and cuffs, clearly dressed as a high-ranking officer.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran drew his sword and demanded.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled slightly, his hands still behind his back, walking slowly forward. Yet the Shadow Moon disappeared into the air again, and that chilling wind once more rushed toward Zeng Ran, arriving alongside Yang Hao’s voice, “I am the Lord of the Shen Yu Autonomous Territory and the future Viscount of the Empire.”
Although Zeng Ran could not see Yang Hao’s Shadow Moon blade, he knew great danger was upon him. He immediately did three things.
He retreated.
He flicked his sword!
He threw powder!!!
This series of actions was executed in one swift, seamless motion, leaving one in awe. Zeng Ran retreated cleanly and decisively, not caring about the subordinates nearby, and swiftly shot off in the direction of the main camp.
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Cloak rank within the Obsidian Shadows, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young assassins of his generation. The Obsidian Assassins had once adhered to old traditions, but after the “Night of Obsidian,” nearly the entire order was wiped out to protect the Emperor. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the assassin system, restoring the Obsidian Shadows to their former glory.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above Level 14 were Gray-Cloaks, those above Level 18 were Black-Cloaks, and those above Level 22 were Purple-Cloaks.
Today, the Obsidian Shadows had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Cloaks, hundreds of Black-Cloaks, and even eighteen Purple-Cloaks.
In terms of strength, the Obsidian Assassins were among the top even within the Ten Sword Schools.
If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Cloaks, the Obsidian Shadows’ combat prowess would have been even greater.
To prevent the Obsidian Shadows from becoming too powerful, the Senate had always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within. However, every leader inevitably clashed with the Purple-Cloaks, leading to internal strife that weakened the order.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. His thoughts flickered briefly before he withdrew his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and turned his attention to inspecting the hidden sentries.
There was little to inspect. The Obsidian Assassins operated with strict hierarchy and discipline, and the concealed sentries were flawless. Moreover, in this desolate and frigid land, no one would dare approach to seek death.
Zeng Ran relaxed slightly, though an uncomfortable sensation in his stomach unsettled him.
Given his mastery of the Frost Qi, his body should have been cold and lifeless, like a block of ancient ice. Yet now, it felt as though a fire burned within him, consuming even some of his Frost Qi.
“The dinner tonight must have been too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As an assassin, hot meals were rare, and tonight’s feast had only been possible because the long-absent leader had returned.
Approaching the last hidden sentry, Zeng Ran saw his two Gray-Cloak subordinates blending into the massive starstone like wisps of gray mist. This concealment technique was unique to the Obsidian Shadows—even members of other sword schools would struggle to detect them.
In all the world, no one could breach the Obsidian Shadows’ defenses.
Zeng Ran swelled with pride. After a final glance at the sentry, he prepared to return and tend to his discomfort. But that glance revealed something surreal—two masked heads rising from the starstone.
For a moment, Zeng Ran froze. He scanned the surroundings but saw no intruders. Instinct drove him toward the starstone for a closer look.
Fate intervened. A chilling gust of wind swept toward him.
Zeng Ran, a seasoned Black-Cloak leader, reacted instantly, twisting his body and collapsing like wet mud. His reflexes were so swift that his subordinates barely registered the danger.
As the icy wind passed, a scream erupted behind him. One of his Gray-Cloak subordinates had been cleanly bisected by an unseen force, blood and viscera spraying everywhere.
Amid the crimson rain, a crescent-shaped blade flickered into view, tracing an elegant arc before vanishing back toward a figure emerging from behind the starstone.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery at the collar and cuffs—the attire of a high-ranking general.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran demanded, drawing his sword.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled, hands clasped behind his back as he strolled forward. The crescent blade, Shadowmoon, dissolved into the air once more, its chilling presence surging toward Zeng Ran alongside Yang Hao’s voice.
“I am the Lord of the Divine Covenant Autonomous Territory—soon to be an Imperial Viscount.”
Though Shadowmoon remained invisible, Zeng Ran knew death loomed. He acted swiftly, executing three maneuvers in rapid succession:
Retreat.
Flick his sword!
Scatter poison!!!
The sequence was flawless. Zeng Ran retreated without hesitation, abandoning his subordinates as he bolted toward the main camp.
The flick of his sword unleashed a resonant hum—a unique alarm that echoed through the Obsidian Shadows’ headquarters.
The poison he scattered was a potent sedative, originally crafted by the Alchemy Sect but later acquired by the Senate. Yet it had no effect on Yang Hao.
Shadowmoon missed Zeng Ran but claimed another Gray-Cloak’s head, its graceful arc almost hypnotic, as if inviting the victim to offer their neck willingly.
The second Gray-Cloak died without a sound, his decapitated body remaining upright as blood gushed skyward.
Yang Hao advanced, impressed despite the ease of his kills. He had faced elite warrior groups before—the Royal Swordsmen and the Demon Bear Corps—but the Obsidian Shadows surpassed them all.
A sword school’s strength lay not only in individual skill but also in discipline and coordination. Despite the ambush and the swift elimination of their sentries, Zeng Ran had remained composed, prioritizing retreat to alert the main camp.
The assassins responded instantly, emerging fully armed and battle-ready.
Yang Hao admired their efficiency, wishing he commanded such a force. But admiration aside, danger loomed.
Zeng Ran, now backed by reinforcements, glared at Yang Hao with renewed confidence. This detachment boasted a hundred Gray-Cloaks, forty Black-Cloaks, and ten Purple-Cloaks—enough to annihilate an entire sword school, let alone a single man.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly appointed Lord?”
“The very same.” Yang Hao grinned, pointing at himself as Shadowmoon vanished once more.
Zeng Ran tensed. He had heard of Yang Hao—how their leader and ten Black-Cloaks had been repelled in a single strike. Rumors spoke of a weapon imbued with divine light, a blade that could vanish at will—every assassin’s dream.
Bowing slightly, Zeng Ran offered the salute reserved for elite warriors.
“Lord, as an Imperial noble, why oppose the Obsidian Shadows?”
Yang Hao coughed lightly. Explaining that he was here to reclaim his child’s mother—and incidentally steal a legendary sword—wasn’t an option. He improvised.
“Your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something valuable from me. I’m here to take it back.”
Zeng Ran scoffed inwardly. Killing four Gray-Cloaks before negotiations hardly suggested a peaceful resolution.
“In the past decade, no one has dared challenge the Obsidian Shadows,” Zeng Ran said coldly, raising his sword. A hundred blades followed suit, aimed at Yang Hao. “Think carefully, Lord.”
Yang Hao didn’t hesitate. He moved like a phantom, shattering the assassins’ formation before they could react. Shadowmoon danced unseen, its golden-edged blade claiming three more heads before returning to Yang Hao’s side.
By the time Yang Hao retreated to his original position, five lay dead, and Shadowmoon had vanished once more.
The display was masterful—swift, precise, and lethal.
Zeng Ran seethed. No one had ever humiliated the Obsidian Shadows like this.
Yet his concern grew as the leader’s tent remained silent. The ten Purple-Cloaks should have responded to the alarm.
“Kill!” Zeng Ran barked, assuming command in their absence.
Four assassins materialized in bursts of black mist—two Black-Cloaks and two Gray-Cloaks—attacking from all sides, leaving Yang Hao no escape.
But Yang Hao was no easy prey. Recalling Shadowmoon, he unleashed the “Guard” technique, sparks erupting as four swords shattered mid-strike.
With a cold smirk, Shadowmoon carved through two Black-Cloaks while Yang Hao drew his Gravity Sword and Treasure Sword, impaling the Gray-Cloaks through their hearts.
One move—just one—had dismantled the first variation of the Obsidian Trinity Kill.
Zeng Ran trembled.
The Obsidian Trinity Kill was a closely guarded secret, rarely used. Traditionally, assassins worked alone, striking from the shadows before vanishing.
But a decade ago, the elders had devised this trio of coordinated techniques, transforming assassination into open combat. It was this innovation that elevated the Obsidian Shadows to prominence among the Ten Sword Schools.
Facing a warrior of Yang Hao’s caliber, Zeng Ran knew individual skill was futile. Only the Trinity Kill stood a chance.
Even if the first variation had failed, there were two more.
“Kill! Kill!!” Zeng Ran roared. “Frost Qi Flying Swords!”
A wave of icy energy surged from the assassins, chilling the air to the bone.
Frost Qi was a unique cultivation method, reserved for Senate-affiliated warriors. Channeled into blades, it allowed swords to fly like projectiles, severing heads from a thousand paces.
A single flying sword was manageable. A hundred, controlled with precision, spelled doom.
Yet the expected barrage never came.
Two Gray-Cloaks burst into flames mid-chant, their Frost Qi igniting from within. More followed, their bodies erupting in unnatural fire.
Even Zeng Ran felt it—a sinister flame surging through his meridians, threatening to consume him from the inside.
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Clothed rank in the Nethershade Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young killers. The Nethershade Assassins had long-standing traditions, but after the “Night of Nethershade,” the group was nearly annihilated to protect the Emperor. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the entire assassin hierarchy.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above Level 14 were Gray-Clothed, those above Level 18 were Black-Clothed, and those above Level 22 were Purple-Clothed.
Now, Nethershade had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Clothed assassins, hundreds of Black-Clothed, and even eighteen Purple-Clothed.
It could be said that Nethershade’s strength was among the top even within the Ten Sword Schools.
If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Clothed assassins, Nethershade’s combat power would have been even greater.
To prevent Nethershade from becoming too powerful, the Senate had always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within. However, every leader inevitably clashed with the Purple-Clothed assassins, leading to internal strife that weakened Nethershade’s overall strength.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. His thoughts flickered briefly before he averted his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and focused on inspecting the hidden sentries.
There wasn’t much to inspect. Nethershade’s hierarchy was strict, and every hidden sentry was flawless. Moreover, in such a desolate and frigid place, no one would dare come seeking death.
So Zeng Ran relaxed, though a discomfort in his stomach unsettled him slightly.
Given his mastery of the Nether Qi, his entire body should have been cold and lifeless, like an ancient block of ice. Yet now, it felt as if a fire burned inside him, consuming even some of his accumulated Nether Qi.
“Tonight’s dinner must have been too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As a Nethershade assassin, hot meals were rare. Only the leader’s return had granted them this luxury.
Approaching the last sentry, Zeng Ran saw his two Gray-Clothed subordinates blending into the massive star-rock like wisps of gray mist—a concealment technique unique to Nethershade. Even members of other sword schools would struggle to detect them.
In all the world, no one capable of breaching Nethershade’s defenses had yet been born.
Zeng Ran swelled with pride. After a final glance at the sentry, he turned to leave and tend to his stomach. But that glance revealed something surreal—a phantom-like vision.
He saw the heads of his two Gray-Clothed subordinates rise into the air.
It was a bizarre sight. The two had merged seamlessly with the star-rock, yet now two masked heads floated upward. If not for knowing the sentries were there, one might think the rock itself had sprouted heads.
Instinctively, Zeng Ran froze. He scanned the surroundings but saw no one. He rushed toward the star-rock to investigate.
Fate spared him. A chilling wind brushed past his front.
Zeng Ran, a Black-Clothed leader, was no fraud. Without knowing the source, he twisted his body and collapsed like mud to the ground—so swiftly that his subordinates didn’t even realize what had happened.
As the cold wind passed, a scream erupted behind him. One of his Gray-Clothed subordinates had been cleaved in two by an unseen force, blood and viscera spraying everywhere.
In the bloody mist, a peculiar crescent-shaped blade flickered into view, arced gracefully, and returned to a figure emerging from behind the star-rock.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery—clearly a high-ranking officer.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran drew his sword and demanded.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled faintly, hands clasped behind his back as he strolled leisurely. Yet his blade, Shadowmoon, vanished again into the air, its icy wind surging toward Zeng Ran with his words:
“I am the Lord of the Divine Edict Autonomous Territory, the future Viscount of the Empire.”
Though he couldn’t see Shadowmoon, Zeng Ran knew disaster loomed. He acted swiftly, executing three moves:
Retreat!
Flick his sword!
Scatter poison!
The sequence was seamless—Zeng Ran retreated cleanly, abandoning his subordinates as he bolted toward the base.
The flick of his sword unleashed a resonant hum, a signal that echoed through Nethershade’s camp—a unique alarm for imminent danger.
The powder he scattered was Nethershade’s signature knockout drug, originally crafted by the Alchemy Sect but somehow acquired by the Senate. To Yang Hao, it was useless.
Shadowmoon missed Zeng Ran but slit the throats of his subordinates. Its elegant arc, deceptively slow, carried an irresistible allure—as if inviting victims to offer their necks willingly.
Another Gray-Clothed assassin fell silently, headless, blood gushing a meter high as his body remained standing.
Yang Hao advanced, impressed despite the ease of his kills. He had faced elite combat groups before—the Royal Swordsmen and the Demon Bear Brigade—but Nethershade surpassed them all.
A sword school’s strength lay not just in individual skill but in discipline and coordination. Despite the ambush and the swift elimination of their sentries, Zeng Ran had remained composed, prioritizing retreat to warn the base—a testament to Nethershade’s training.
Upon the alarm, assassins surged from the base, fully armed and battle-ready even in sleep.
Yang Hao admired this formidable force, wishing he commanded such a unit to defy the Ten Sword Schools.
But admiration aside, danger loomed.
Zeng Ran, now rallied with reinforcements, glared at Yang Hao with renewed confidence. This time, Nethershade had deployed a hundred Gray-Clothed, forty Black-Clothed, and even ten Purple-Clothed assassins—a force capable of annihilating an entire sword school, let alone one man.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly appointed Lord?”
“That’s me.” Yang Hao grinned, pointing at himself as Shadowmoon disappeared again.
Zeng Ran tensed. He’d heard of Yang Hao—how their leader and ten Black-Clothed assassins had failed to land a single strike against him. And that bizarre weapon of his bore the glow of a divine artifact, the dream of every assassin.
Zeng Ran saluted—a gesture reserved for the Empire’s top hundred warriors.
“Lord, as a noble of the Empire, why oppose Nethershade?”
“Hmm…” Yang Hao coughed lightly. The truth—that he was here to reclaim his child’s mother and steal a sacred sword—wasn’t an option. Thinking fast, he shifted blame:
“Your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something important from me. I’ve come to take it back.”
Zeng Ran scoffed inwardly. Killing four Gray-Clothed assassins before even speaking was hardly the act of a man seeking justice.
“In the past decade, none have dared challenge Nethershade—only flee from us.” Zeng Ran’s expression darkened as a hundred swords pointed at Yang Hao. “Consider your next move carefully, Lord.”
Consider? Yang Hao moved instantly, a blur shattering the assassins’ formation. Shadowmoon, hidden in the wind, reemerged—its golden-edged blade claiming three more heads before vanishing again.
By the time Yang Hao returned to his starting point, five lay dead.
Zeng Ran seethed. Never had Nethershade been so disrespected—their honor built on taking lives, not losing them.
Yet the leader’s tent remained silent. Where were the ten Purple-Clothed elites?
“Kill!” Zeng Ran barked. Without the leader, he commanded.
Four assassins—two Black-Clothed, two Gray-Clothed—materialized in black mist, striking from all sides, sealing Yang Hao’s escape.
But Yang Hao was no easy prey. Recalling Shadowmoon, he parried with a “Deflect” technique, sparks flying as four swords shattered mid-air.
With a cold snort, Shadowmoon carved through two Black-Clothed assassins, while Yang Hao drew his Gravity Sword and Treasure Sword, piercing the Gray-Clothed killers’ hearts.
One move—just one—shattered Nethershade’s first killing formation.
Zeng Ran trembled.
The Three Killings Doctrine was Nethershade’s secret, rarely used. Most assassins worked alone, striking from shadows. But a decade ago, the elders devised this doctrine—transforming assassins into a coordinated, open-combat force.
It was this doctrine that elevated Nethershade among the Ten Sword Schools, blending stealth with battlefield prowess.
Against Yang Hao—a top hundred warrior who’d even defeated the Empire’s foremost wandering swordsman—individual skill was futile. Only the Three Killings Doctrine stood a chance.
Losing the first form meant little.
“Kill! Kill!” Zeng Ran roared. “Nether Qi Flying Swords!”
A wave of chilling energy rose from the assassins, as if the world itself had frozen.
Nether Qi, a cultivation method exclusive to Senate-affiliated groups under imperial decree, could imbue swords with lethal flight—capable of beheading targets kilometers away.
A hundred such swords, guided by will, attacking from all angles—even Yang Hao’s “Deflect” couldn’t fully counter.
But the horror never came.
Two Gray-Clothed assassins channeling Nether Qi suddenly burst into flames—human torches burning from within.
More followed, self-immolating in an instant.
Even Zeng Ran felt it—a strange, inverse fire surging from his dantian, tearing through his meridians like floodwaters.
Although the Shadow Moon missed Zeng Ran, it still slashed across the neck of his subordinate as it passed by. The blade moved in a soft, elegant arc, and even appeared to be moving at an unusually slow speed. Yet, this Shadow Moon seemed to possess a kind of magic, a beautiful enchantment, making it impossible to dodge. There was even an urge to offer one’s neck to be cut.
Another Gray Robe assassin didn’t even have time to utter a sound before his head rolled off, blood spurting over a meter high, and his body remained standing without falling.
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Cloak rank in the Dusk Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young killers. The Dusk Assassins had long-standing traditions, but after the “Night of Dusk,” the group was nearly annihilated to protect the Emperor. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the entire assassin hierarchy.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above Level 14 were Gray-Cloaks, those above Level 18 were Black-Cloaks, and those above Level 22 were Purple-Cloaks.
Now, the Dusk Assassins had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Cloaks, over a hundred Black-Cloaks, and even eighteen Purple-Cloaks.
In terms of strength, the Dusk Assassins were among the top factions even within the Ten Sword Sects.
If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Cloaks, the group’s combat prowess would have been even greater.
To prevent the Dusk Assassins from becoming too powerful, the Senate had always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within. However, every leader inevitably clashed with the Purple-Cloaks, leading to internal strife and a decline in the group’s overall strength.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. His thoughts flickered briefly before he withdrew his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and focused on inspecting the hidden sentries.
Truthfully, there wasn’t much to inspect. The Dusk Assassins operated with strict discipline, and their concealed sentries were flawless. Moreover, in this desolate and frigid land, no one would be foolish enough to come seeking death.
Relaxing slightly, Zeng Ran felt a discomfort in his stomach, which annoyed him.
Given his mastery of the “Chill Essence,” his body should have been icy and lifeless, like an ancient block of ice. Yet now, it felt as though a fire burned inside him, dispersing even the accumulated Chill Essence.
“Tonight’s dinner must have been too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As an assassin, hot meals were rare, and tonight’s feast had only been possible because the long-absent leader had returned.
Approaching the last sentry post, Zeng Ran saw his two Gray-Cloak subordinates blending into the massive star-rock like wisps of gray mist—a concealment technique unique to the Dusk Assassins. Even members of other sword sects would struggle to detect them.
In all the world, no one could breach the Dusk Assassins’ defenses.
Zeng Ran swelled with pride. After a final glance at the sentry, he turned to leave and deal with his stomach issue. But that glance made him freeze—something was wrong.
He saw the heads of his two Gray-Cloak subordinates suddenly fly into the air.
It was a bizarre sight. The two had been perfectly merged with the star-rock, indistinguishable from it. Yet now, two masked heads had inexplicably risen from the rock, as if the stone itself had sprouted them.
Instinctively, Zeng Ran hesitated. He scanned the surroundings but saw no trace of an intruder. Determined to investigate, he moved toward the star-rock.
Fate intervened. Zeng Ran sensed a chilling wind slicing toward him from the front.
As a Black-Cloak leader, his reflexes were impeccable. Without knowing the source of the threat, he twisted his body and collapsed like mud to the ground—so swiftly that his subordinates didn’t even realize what had happened.
The icy wind passed, and a scream erupted behind Zeng Ran. One of his Gray-Cloak subordinates had been cleanly bisected by an unseen force, blood and viscera spraying everywhere.
Amid the crimson rain, a peculiar crescent-shaped blade flickered into view, tracing an elegant arc before returning to the figure emerging from behind the star-rock.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery at the collar and cuffs—clearly a high-ranking officer.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran drew his sword and demanded.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled faintly, hands clasped behind his back as he strolled forward. The crescent blade vanished again, and the frigid wind surged toward Zeng Ran once more, carrying Yang Hao’s voice:
“I am the Lord of the Divine Dominion, soon-to-be Imperial Baron.”
Though he couldn’t see the blade, Zeng Ran knew disaster loomed. He acted swiftly, executing three moves in rapid succession:
Retreat!
Flick his sword!
Scatter poison!
The sequence was seamless—Zeng Ran retreated without hesitation, abandoning his subordinates as he bolted toward the main camp.
The flick of his sword produced a resonant hum, a signal that echoed throughout the Dusk Assassins’ base—a unique alarm for imminent danger.
The powder he scattered was the Dusk Assassins’ signature paralyzing toxin, originally crafted by the Alchemy Sect but somehow acquired by the Senate. Of course, it had no effect on Yang Hao.
Though Zeng Ran narrowly escaped, the crescent blade claimed another victim—his remaining subordinate’s head flew off in a graceful arc, blood gushing a meter high as the body remained standing.
Yang Hao advanced, impressed despite the ease of his kills. He had faced many warrior groups, including the elite Royal Swordsmen and the Demon Bear Sect, but the Dusk Assassins surpassed them all.
A sword sect’s strength lay not just in individual skill but in discipline and coordination. Despite the sudden attack and the swift elimination of their sentries, Zeng Ran had remained composed, prioritizing retreat and warning over saving his men—a testament to the group’s training.
Upon receiving the alarm, the assassins surged out instantly, fully armed and battle-ready even in sleep.
Yang Hao admired this formidable force, wishing he had such a swordsmen unit to defy the Ten Sword Sects.
But admiration aside, danger loomed.
Zeng Ran, now backed by his assembled forces, glared at Yang Hao with renewed confidence. This time, the Dusk Assassins had deployed a hundred Gray-Cloaks, forty Black-Cloaks, and even ten Purple-Cloaks—enough to crush an entire sword sect, let alone one man.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly appointed Lord?”
“That’s me.” Yang Hao grinned, pointing at himself as his crescent blade disappeared again.
Zeng Ran tensed. He had heard of Yang Hao—how their leader and ten Black-Cloaks had failed to land a single blow in their assassination attempt. Rumors spoke of a weapon with divine properties, capable of invisibility—a dream for any assassin.
Bowing slightly, Zeng Ran offered the customary salute to a top-tier warrior:
“Lord, as an Imperial noble, why oppose the Dusk Assassins?”
“Hmm…” Yang Hao coughed lightly, struggling for an answer. He couldn’t very well admit he was here to kidnap a child’s mother and steal a sacred sword. Thinking fast, he shifted blame:
“Your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something important from me. I’ve come to reclaim it.”
Zeng Ran scoffed inwardly. Killing four Gray-Cloaks before even speaking was hardly the act of a man seeking justice.
“For a decade, people have fled from the Dusk Assassins—none dared seek death.” Zeng Ran’s expression darkened as a hundred swords pointed at Yang Hao. “Think carefully, Lord.”
Yang Hao didn’t hesitate. He moved like a phantom, shattering the assassins’ formation in an instant. His crescent blade reappeared, its golden-edged arc claiming three more heads before vanishing again.
Returning to his original spot, Yang Hao had already killed five men—effortlessly dismantling the Dusk Assassins’ first killing formation.
Zeng Ran seethed. No one had ever humiliated the Dusk Assassins like this.
Yet glancing back, he noticed the leader’s tent remained silent. The ten Purple-Cloaks should have responded by now.
“Kill!” Zeng Ran barked, assuming command in their absence.
Four assassins—two Black-Cloaks and two Gray-Cloaks—materialized around Yang Hao in bursts of black mist, their swords sealing all escape routes.
But Yang Hao was no easy prey. Summoning his crescent blade, he deflected all four strikes, shattering their swords mid-air. With a flick, the blade bisected the Black-Cloaks, while Yang Hao drew his Gravity Sword and Treasure Sword, impaling the Gray-Cloaks through their hearts.
One move—just one—had dismantled the Dusk Assassins’ first killing technique.
Zeng Ran paled.
The “Three Killings Doctrine” was a closely guarded secret, rarely used because the Dusk Assassins typically operated alone. Developed a decade ago, it transformed assassins into a coordinated, open-combat force—elevating them to a renowned sword sect.
Facing Yang Hao, a top-tier warrior who had even defeated the First Wanderer Swordsman, Zeng Ran knew individual skill was futile. Only the Three Killings Doctrine stood a chance.
Losing the first technique was no disaster.
“Kill! Chill Essence Flying Swords!” Zeng Ran roared.
A wave of icy energy surged from the assassins, chilling the air as if the world itself had frozen.
Chill Essence was a unique cultivation method, reserved for Senate-affiliated warriors. Infused into swords, it allowed them to fly like immortal blades, beheading foes from kilometers away.
A hundred such swords, controlled by will, attacking from all angles—even Yang Hao’s defenses would falter.
But the horror never came.
Two Gray-Cloaks burst into flames mid-technique, their bodies igniting from within. More assassins followed, burning alive in seconds.
Even Zeng Ran felt it—a strange fire erupting in his dantian, tearing through his meridians like a flood.
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Clothed rank in the Nethershade Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young killers of his generation. The Nethershade Assassins had long-standing traditions, but after the “Night of Nethershade,” the group was nearly annihilated to protect the Emperor of the Empire. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the entire assassin system of the Nethershade Assassins.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above Level 14 were Gray-Clothed; those above Level 18 were Black-Clothed; and those above Level 22 were Purple-Clothed.
Today, the Nethershade Assassins had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Clothed assassins, hundreds of Black-Clothed, and even eighteen Purple-Clothed.
It could be said that the strength of the Nethershade Assassins was among the top even within the Ten Sword Schools.
If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Clothed assassins, the group’s combat power might have been even greater.
To prevent the Nethershade Assassins from becoming too powerful, the Senate had always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within the group. However, every leader had clashed with the Purple-Clothed assassins, leading to internal strife and a decline in the group’s overall strength.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. His thoughts flickered briefly before he withdrew his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and focused on inspecting the hidden sentries.
In truth, there was little to inspect. The Nethershade Assassins were highly disciplined, and their hidden sentries were flawless. Moreover, in such a desolate and frigid place, no one would dare come seeking death.
So Zeng Ran relaxed, though a discomfort in his stomach made him slightly uneasy.
Given Zeng Ran’s mastery of the Nether Qi, his entire body should have been cold and lifeless, like an ancient block of ice. Yet now, it felt as though a fire burned inside him, consuming even some of his Nether Qi.
“The dinner tonight was a bit too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As a Nethershade assassin, hot meals were rare. Only the leader’s return after a long absence had warranted such a treat.
Zeng Ran approached the last hidden sentry, where two Gray-Clothed subordinates blended into the massive star-rock like wisps of gray mist. This concealment technique was unique to the Nethershade Assassins—even members of other sword schools would struggle to detect them.
In all the world, no one capable of breaching the Nethershade’s defenses had yet been born.
Zeng Ran swelled with pride. After a final glance at the sentry, he turned to leave and deal with his stomach issue. But that glance revealed something strange—a phantom-like vision of gray mist.
To his shock, Zeng Ran saw the heads of his two Gray-Clothed subordinates fly into the air.
It was an eerie sight. The two had been perfectly concealed within the star-rock, nearly indistinguishable from it. Yet now, two masked heads had inexplicably risen from the rock, as if the stone itself had sprouted human heads.
Instinctively, Zeng Ran froze. He scanned the surroundings but saw no trace of anyone. He rushed toward the star-rock to investigate.
Fate intervened—Zeng Ran sensed a chilling wind slicing toward him from the front.
As a Black-Clothed leader, Zeng Ran was no fraud. Without knowing the source of the threat, he twisted his body and collapsed to the ground like a lump of mud. His reaction was so swift that his subordinates didn’t even realize what had happened.
As the cold wind passed, a scream erupted behind Zeng Ran. One of his Gray-Clothed subordinates had been cleanly bisected by an unseen force, spraying blood and entrails everywhere.
Amid the bloody rain, a bizarre crescent-shaped blade flickered into view, completing an elegant arc before returning to the figure emerging from behind the star-rock.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery at the collar and cuffs—clearly the attire of a high-ranking officer.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran drew his sword and demanded.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled faintly, hands clasped behind his back as he strolled forward. The crescent blade, Shadowmoon, vanished into the air again, its chilling wind surging toward Zeng Ran alongside Yang Hao’s voice:
“I am the Lord of the Divine Edict Autonomous Territory, the future Viscount of the Empire.”
Though he couldn’t see Shadowmoon, Zeng Ran knew disaster loomed. He acted swiftly, executing three moves in rapid succession:
Retreat!
Flick his sword!
Scatter poison!
The sequence was seamless, a breathtaking display of speed and precision. Zeng Ran retreated without hesitation, abandoning his subordinates as he bolted toward the main camp.
The flick of his sword produced a resonant hum—a unique Nethershade alarm that echoed through the camp.
The poison he scattered was a signature Nethershade knockout powder, originally crafted by the Alchemy Sect but somehow acquired by the Senate. Of course, it had no effect on Yang Hao.
Shadowmoon missed Zeng Ran but effortlessly slit the throats of his subordinates. Its graceful arc seemed slow, yet it carried an irresistible allure—a deadly beauty that made one almost want to offer their neck to its edge.
Another Gray-Clothed assassin fell without a sound, head severed, blood spurting over a meter high as his body remained standing.
Yang Hao continued forward, inwardly impressed by the Nethershade Assassins’ strength. He had fought many martial groups, defeating even the elite Royal Swordsmen and the Demon Bear Regiment. Yet the Nethershade Assassins surpassed them all—by a wide margin.
A sword school’s strength lay not only in individual skill but also in discipline and coordination. Despite the sudden attack and the swift elimination of their sentries, Zeng Ran remained composed, prioritizing retreat to warn the main camp—a testament to extraordinary calm.
Upon receiving the alarm, the assassins surged out instantly, fully armed and battle-ready even in sleep.
Yang Hao admired this formidable force, wishing he could command such a swordsmen group to defy the Ten Sword Schools.
But admiration aside, danger loomed large.
After regrouping, Zeng Ran turned to face Yang Hao with renewed confidence, born from familiarity with his side’s strength. This Nethershade detachment boasted a hundred Gray-Clothed assassins, forty Black-Clothed, and even ten Purple-Clothed elites—a concentrated force capable of annihilating an entire sword school, let alone a single man.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly appointed Lord Yang Hao?”
“The very same.” Yang Hao grinned, pointing at himself as Shadowmoon vanished again.
Zeng Ran tensed. He’d heard of Yang Hao—how their leader and ten Black-Clothed assassins had been repelled without landing a single strike. Rumors spoke of a strange weapon with divine aura, the kind every assassin dreamed of wielding.
Zeng Ran bowed slightly, a gesture reserved for top-tier warriors:
“Lord, as a noble of the Empire, why oppose the Nethershade?”
“Hmm…” Yang Hao coughed lightly, struggling for an answer. He couldn’t very well admit he was here to kidnap a child’s mother and steal a sacred sword. Thinking fast, he shifted blame:
“Your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something important from me. I’m here to reclaim it.”
Zeng Ran inwardly scoffed. Killing four Gray-Clothed assassins before even speaking was clearly an act of aggression—no justification needed.
“For a decade, people have fled the Nethershade—none dared seek death.” Zeng Ran’s face darkened as he raised his sword, joined by a hundred others pointing at Yang Hao. “Lord, reconsider.”
Reconsider? Yang Hao moved without hesitation, darting like a phantom into the assassins’ formation, shattering their sword array. Shadowmoon, swift and unseen, carved through three more Gray-Clothed assassins before Yang Hao returned to his original spot.
Five dead in one fluid motion—a master swordsman’s display.
Zeng Ran burned with rage. Never had anyone so brazenly defied the Nethershade Assassins. Their honor lay in taking lives, not being slaughtered.
Yet glancing back, Zeng Ran grew uneasy—the leader’s tent remained silent. The ten Purple-Clothed elites should have appeared by now to ensure Yang Hao’s demise.
“Kill!” Zeng Ran hardened his resolve. With the leader and elites absent, he was in command.
At his order, four plumes of black mist erupted around Yang Hao—two Black-Clothed and two Gray-Clothed assassins striking from all sides, sealing every escape route.
But Yang Hao was no easy prey. Recalling Shadowmoon, he unleashed the “Defense” technique, sparks flying as four swords shattered mid-air, rendering the assassins powerless.
With a cold snort, Shadowmoon arced gracefully, bisecting two Black-Clothed assassins while Yang Hao drew his twin blades—Treasure Sword and Gravity Sword—piercing the Gray-Clothed assassins’ hearts.
One move—just one—shattered the first variation of the Nethershade Triple Kill Formation.
Zeng Ran trembled in fear.
The Nethershade Triple Kill Formation was a closely guarded secret, rarely used in the group’s history. Most assassins operated alone, striking from shadows and retreating swiftly.
This formation, devised a decade ago by the elders, emphasized teamwork, transforming assassination into open combat and group slaughter. It was this very technique that elevated the Nethershade Assassins to prominence among the Ten Sword Schools, blending stealth with battlefield prowess.
Facing Yang Hao, a top-tier warrior who’d even defeated the Empire’s top wandering swordsman, Zeng Ran knew individual skill was futile. Only the Triple Kill Formation stood a chance.
Even if Yang Hao broke the first variation, so be it.
“Kill! Kill!!” Zeng Ran roared. “Nether Qi Flying Swords!”
Yang Hao watched as a wave of Nether Qi rose from the assassins, chilling the air, as if the world itself had turned desolate.
Nether Qi was a unique cultivation method, exclusive to Senate-affiliated swordsmen under imperial decree. Infused into blades, it allowed swords to fly like projectiles, beheading enemies from kilometers away.
A few such flying swords posed little threat, but a hundred—each controlled by will, striking from different angles with varying force—would be terrifying. Even Yang Hao’s “Defense” technique might falter.
Yet the horror never materialized. As Zeng Ran shouted, two Gray-Clothed assassins channeling Nether Qi suddenly burst into flames from within, burning like human torches.
More assassins spontaneously combusted, flames erupting from their bodies, reducing them to charred husks in moments.
Even Zeng Ran sensed danger—activating his Nether Qi, he felt a strange fire surge from his dantian, tearing through his meridians like a flood, threatening to rupture his flesh.
Upon receiving the report, the assassins in the main camp rushed out almost instantly. From their appearance, it was clear they had not removed their clothes or put down their swords even while sleeping, always maintaining a top combat readiness state.
Yang Hao inwardly admired this formidable armed force, thinking that if he could have such a sword group, he wouldn’t have to fear the Ten Sword Streams anymore.
However, thoughts aside, the current situation was already full of danger.
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Cloak rank in the Nethershade Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young killers. The Nethershade Assassins had long-standing traditions, but after the “Night of Nethershade,” nearly the entire group was wiped out to protect the Emperor. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the assassin hierarchy from scratch.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above Level 14 were Gray-Cloaks, those above Level 18 were Black-Cloaks, and those above Level 22 were Purple-Cloaks.
Now, Nethershade had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Cloaks, over a hundred Black-Cloaks, and even eighteen Purple-Cloaks.
It could be said that the strength of the Nethershade Assassins was among the top even within the Ten Sword Schools.
If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Cloaks, Nethershade’s combat power would have been even greater.
To prevent Nethershade from becoming too powerful, the Senate always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within. However, every leader inevitably clashed with the Purple-Cloaks, leading to internal strife that weakened Nethershade’s overall strength.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. His thoughts flickered briefly before he withdrew his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and focused on inspecting the hidden sentries.
There wasn’t much to check. The Nethershade Assassins operated with strict discipline, and the concealed sentries were flawless. Especially in this desolate, frigid wasteland—no one would be foolish enough to come here seeking death.
Zeng Ran relaxed slightly, though an uncomfortable sensation in his stomach unsettled him.
Given his mastery of the Nether Qi, his body should have been icy and lifeless, like an ancient block of ice. Yet now, it felt as if a fire burned inside him, consuming even some of his Nether Qi.
“Tonight’s dinner must have been too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As a Nethershade assassin, hot meals were rare. Only the leader’s return had granted them this luxury.
Approaching the last sentry, Zeng Ran saw his two Gray-Cloak subordinates blending into the massive starstone like wisps of gray mist. This concealment technique was unique to Nethershade—even members of other sword schools would struggle to detect them.
In all the world, no one could breach Nethershade’s defenses.
Zeng Ran swelled with pride. After a final glance at the sentry, he turned to leave and tend to his discomfort. But that glance revealed something surreal—a phantom-like vision.
He saw the heads of his two Gray-Cloak subordinates rise from the starstone.
It was a bizarre sight. The two had merged seamlessly with the rock, yet now their masked heads floated eerily, as if the stone itself had sprouted human heads.
Zeng Ran froze instinctively. He scanned the surroundings but saw no one. Determined to investigate, he moved toward the starstone.
Fate intervened. A chilling gust of wind brushed past his front.
Zeng Ran, a seasoned Black-Cloak leader, reacted instantly. Without knowing the threat, he twisted his body and collapsed like mud. His reflexes were so swift that his subordinates barely registered the movement.
As the icy wind passed, a scream erupted behind him. One of his Gray-Cloak subordinates had been bisected by an unseen force, blood and viscera spraying everywhere.
In the bloody aftermath, a peculiar crescent-shaped blade materialized, arcing gracefully before returning to a figure emerging from behind the starstone.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery—the attire of a high-ranking general.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran drew his sword, demanding an answer.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled, hands clasped behind his back as he strolled leisurely. The crescent blade vanished again, and the frigid wind surged toward Zeng Ran, carrying his voice: “I am the Lord of the Divine Dominion, the future Viscount of the Empire.”
Though he couldn’t see the blade, Zeng Ran knew disaster loomed. He acted swiftly, executing three moves in rapid succession:
Retreat!
Flick his sword!
Scatter powder!
The sequence was flawless. Zeng Ran retreated without hesitation, abandoning his subordinates as he bolted toward the base.
The flick of his sword produced a resonant hum—a unique Nethershade alarm that echoed through the camp.
The powder he scattered was a potent knockout drug, originally crafted by the Alchemy Sect but somehow acquired by the Senate. To Yang Hao, it was useless.
The crescent blade missed Zeng Ran but slit the throats of his subordinates. Its elegant arc, seemingly slow, carried an irresistible allure—as if inviting victims to offer their necks willingly.
Another Gray-Cloak fell silently, head severed, blood gushing skyward as his body remained standing.
Yang Hao advanced, impressed despite the ease of his kills. Having faced elite forces like the Royal Swordsmen and the Demon Bear Brigade, he found Nethershade far superior—almost overwhelmingly so.
A sword school’s strength lay not just in individual skill but in discipline and coordination. Despite the ambush and the swift elimination of their sentries, Zeng Ran had remained composed, prioritizing retreat and warning over futile resistance.
Upon the alarm, the assassins surged forth instantly—fully armed, ever-ready for battle.
Yang Hao admired this formidable force, wishing he commanded such a unit to defy the Ten Sword Schools.
But admiration aside, danger loomed large.
Regrouped, Zeng Ran glared at Yang Hao with renewed confidence. His assurance stemmed from Nethershade’s assembled might: a hundred Gray-Cloaks, forty Black-Cloaks, and ten Purple-Cloaks. Against such numbers, even an entire sword school would perish.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly appointed Lord?”
“The very same.” Yang Hao grinned, pointing at himself as the crescent blade disappeared once more.
Zeng Ran tensed. Yang Hao’s reputation preceded him—rumors told of ten Black-Cloaks failing to land a single strike against him. His strange weapon, rumored to be divine, embodied every assassin’s dream: invisibility.
Zeng Ran bowed slightly, a gesture reserved for top-tier warriors.
“Lord, as a noble of the Empire, why oppose Nethershade?”
“Hmm…” Yang Hao coughed lightly, stalling. He couldn’t admit he was here to kidnap a child’s mother and steal a sacred sword. Thinking fast, he shifted blame: “Your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something valuable from me. I’ve come to reclaim it.”
Zeng Ran scoffed inwardly. Killing four Gray-Cloaks before even speaking? This was clearly an outright attack, not a negotiation.
“In ten years, no one has dared challenge Nethershade,” Zeng Ran said coldly, raising his sword. Hundreds of blades pointed at Yang Hao. “Think carefully, Lord.”
Yang Hao didn’t think—he moved. Like a phantom, he shattered their formation, his crescent blade claiming five more lives before vanishing again.
Zeng Ran seethed. Never had Nethershade been so disrespected—their honor lay in taking lives, not losing them.
Yet the leader’s tent remained ominously still. Where were the ten Purple-Cloaks?
“Kill!” Zeng Ran ordered. Without the elites, he was in command.
Four assassins materialized in bursts of black mist, striking from all angles—a flawless pincer attack leaving no escape.
But Yang Hao was no easy prey. Summoning the crescent blade, he parried all four strikes, shattering their swords effortlessly. With a graceful spin, the blade bisected two Black-Cloaks while Yang Hao impaled the Gray-Cloaks with his twin swords.
One move—just one—and Nethershade’s first killing formation lay in ruins.
Zeng Ran trembled. The Three Killings Doctrine was Nethershade’s secret, rarely used because assassins typically worked alone. Developed a decade ago, it transformed covert killings into open, coordinated slaughter—elevating Nethershade into a renowned sword school.
Losing the first formation was no disaster.
“Kill! Kill!” Zeng Ran roared. “Nether Qi Flying Swords!”
A wave of chilling energy rose from the assassins, freezing the very air. Nether Qi, a quasi-immortal cultivation method exclusive to Senate-affiliated forces, could propel swords like guided missiles—lethal from kilometers away.
A hundred such flying swords, controlled telepathically from all angles, would be unstoppable.
But the horror never came.
Two Gray-Cloaks burst into flames mid-chant, burning like human torches. Others followed, their bodies igniting from within, reducing them to charred husks in seconds.
Even Zeng Ran faltered. As he channeled Nether Qi, a strange fire erupted in his dantian, surging through his meridians like a flood, threatening to tear him apart.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran showed some recognition. “The newly enfeoffed Lord Yang Hao?”
“That’s me.” Yang Hao smiled, pointing at himself with his finger, though the Shadow Moon blade had already vanished into the wind again.
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Cloak rank in the Dusk Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young killers of his generation. The Dusk Assassins had long adhered to their ancient traditions, but after the “Night of Dusk,” the group was nearly annihilated in their mission to protect the Emperor. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the entire assassin hierarchy of the Dusk Assassins.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above Level 14 were Gray-Cloaks, those above Level 18 were Black-Cloaks, and those above Level 22 were Purple-Cloaks.
Now, the Dusk Assassins had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Cloaks, hundreds of Black-Cloaks, and even eighteen Purple-Cloaks.
It could be said that the strength of the Dusk Assassins was among the top even within the Ten Sword Schools.
If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Cloaks, the Dusk Assassins’ combat prowess would have been even greater.
To prevent the Dusk Assassins from becoming too powerful, the Senate had always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within the group’s own ranks. However, every leader had clashed with the Purple-Cloaks, leading to internal strife and a decline in the group’s overall strength.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. With just a fleeting thought, he withdrew his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and focused on inspecting the hidden sentries.
Truth be told, there wasn’t much to inspect. The Dusk Assassins operated with strict hierarchy and discipline, and the hidden sentries were flawless. Moreover, in such a desolate and frigid place, no one would be foolish enough to come seeking death.
So Zeng Ran relaxed, though a discomfort in his stomach unsettled him slightly.
Given his mastery of the Frost Qi, Zeng Ran’s entire body should have been icy and lifeless, like an ancient block of frozen ice. Yet, at this moment, it felt as though a fire was burning inside him, even dissipating some of his Frost Qi.
“Tonight’s dinner must have been too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As an assassin, hot meals were rare, and today’s feast was only because the long-absent leader had returned.
Approaching the last hidden sentry, Zeng Ran saw his two Gray-Cloak subordinates blending into the massive star-rock like wisps of gray mist. This concealment technique was unique to the Dusk Assassins—even members of other sword schools would struggle to detect them.
In all the world, no one could breach the Dusk Assassins’ defenses.
Zeng Ran swelled with pride. After a final glance at the sentry, he turned to leave and deal with his stomach issue. But in that instant, his vision blurred as if shrouded in gray mist.
To his horror, he saw the heads of his two Gray-Cloak subordinates fly into the air.
It was an eerie sight—the two had been perfectly merged with the star-rock, indistinguishable from it. Yet now, two masked heads had inexplicably risen from within the rock, as if the stone itself had sprouted human heads.
Zeng Ran froze instinctively. He scanned the surroundings but saw no trace of an intruder. Determined to investigate, he moved toward the star-rock.
Fate intervened. A chilling gust of wind brushed past him from the front.
As a Black-Cloak leader, Zeng Ran was no fraud. Without hesitation, he twisted his body and collapsed to the ground like a lump of mud. His reaction was so swift that his subordinates barely registered what had happened.
As the cold wind passed, a bloodcurdling scream erupted behind Zeng Ran. One of his Gray-Cloak subordinates had been cleanly bisected by an unseen force, spraying blood and entrails everywhere.
Amid the crimson rain, a bizarre crescent-shaped blade flickered into view, tracing an elegant arc before returning to the figure emerging from behind the star-rock.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery at the collar and cuffs—clearly the attire of a high-ranking officer.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran drew his sword and demanded.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled faintly, hands clasped behind his back as he strolled forward. Yet, the crescent blade—Shadowmoon—vanished once more into the air. The icy wind surged toward Zeng Ran, carrying Yang Hao’s voice with it:
“I am the Lord of the Divine Covenant Dominion, and soon-to-be Imperial Viscount.”
Though he couldn’t see Shadowmoon, Zeng Ran knew disaster loomed. In an instant, he executed three actions:
Retreat.
Flick his sword!
Scatter poison!!!
The sequence was seamless, executed with breathtaking speed. Zeng Ran retreated without hesitation, abandoning his subordinates as he bolted toward the main camp.
The flick of his sword unleashed a resonant hum—a unique alarm signal that echoed through the Dusk Assassins’ headquarters.
The poison he scattered was a signature Dusk Assassin concoction, originally crafted by the Alchemy Sect but somehow acquired by the Senate. Yet, it had no effect on Yang Hao.
Shadowmoon missed Zeng Ran but effortlessly severed the necks of his subordinates. The blade moved with mesmerizing grace, almost deceptively slow, yet carrying an irresistible allure—as if inviting its victims to offer their throats willingly.
Another Gray-Cloak fell without a sound, his head tumbling as blood fountained into the air. His body remained standing, refusing to collapse.
Yang Hao advanced, impressed despite the ease of his kills. He had faced many warrior groups—even the elite Royal Swordsmen and the Demon Bear Regiment had fallen before him. But the Dusk Assassins surpassed them all, their strength on another level entirely.
A sword school’s prowess wasn’t just measured by individual skill but also by discipline and coordination. Despite the sudden ambush and the swift elimination of their sentries, Zeng Ran—the Black-Cloak leader—had remained composed, prioritizing retreat and warning over his subordinates’ lives. Such composure was extraordinary.
Upon receiving the alarm, the assassins in the main camp surged forth instantly. They slept fully armed, swords at the ready, maintaining peak combat readiness at all times.
Yang Hao couldn’t help but admire this formidable force. If he had such a sword school under his command, he’d fear nothing—not even the Ten Sword Schools.
But admiration aside, danger loomed large.
Having rallied his forces, Zeng Ran turned back with renewed confidence, his faith rooted in the Dusk Assassins’ overwhelming numbers: a hundred Gray-Cloaks, forty Black-Cloaks, and even ten Purple-Cloaks—the elite of the elite. Against such might, even an entire sword school would be annihilated, let alone a single man.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly appointed Lord Yang Hao?”
“The very same.” Yang Hao grinned, pointing at himself. Yet Shadowmoon had already vanished into the wind once more.
Zeng Ran tensed. He had heard of Yang Hao—how their leader and ten Black-Cloaks had been repelled in a single move during a recent assassination attempt. Moreover, Yang Hao’s strange weapon bore the faint glow of a divine artifact. A blade that could vanish was every assassin’s dream.
Zeng Ran bowed slightly—a gesture reserved for the top hundred warriors.
“Lord, as a noble of the Empire, why oppose the Dusk Assassins?”
“Hmm…” Yang Hao coughed lightly. The question was tricky—he couldn’t very well admit he was here to kidnap the mother of his child and steal a legendary sword. Thinking fast, he shifted the blame:
“Your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something important from me. I’m here to take it back.”
Zeng Ran inwardly scoffed. He didn’t buy Yang Hao’s excuse—killing four Gray-Cloaks before even speaking was clearly an act of aggression.
“In the past decade, people have only fled from the Dusk Assassins. None have dared seek death.” Zeng Ran’s expression darkened as he raised his sword. A hundred blades followed suit, all aimed at Yang Hao.
“Lord, reconsider.”
Reconsider? Yang Hao didn’t hesitate. He moved like a phantom, crashing into the assassins’ formation and shattering their carefully arranged sword array. Shadowmoon, hidden in the wind, struck faster—its dark, gold-tinged edge slicing through three Gray-Cloaks’ necks before they could react.
By the time Yang Hao returned to his original position, Shadowmoon had claimed five lives and vanished once more into the frigid air.
The sequence was fluid and precise, showcasing the finesse of a true swordmaster.
Zeng Ran burned with fury. No one had ever dared humiliate the Dusk Assassins like this. Assassins took lives—they weren’t meant to be slaughtered.
Yet, glancing back at the leader’s tent, Zeng Ran grew uneasy. The ten Purple-Cloaks should have appeared by now—their presence would ensure Yang Hao’s demise. But they remained absent, seemingly undisturbed by the alarm.
“Kill!” Zeng Ran steeled himself. With the leader and Purple-Cloaks absent, he was in command.
At his order, four clouds of black mist erupted around Yang Hao. Two Black-Cloaks and two Gray-Cloaks materialized, striking from all directions—sealing every escape route.
But Yang Hao was no sitting duck. Recalling Shadowmoon, he unleashed the “Guard” technique. Sparks exploded as four swords shattered mid-air, rendering the assassins helpless.
With a cold snort, Yang Hao sent Shadowmoon arcing like a leaping fish, cleaving two Black-Cloaks in half. Meanwhile, he drew his Treasure Sword and Gravity Sword, plunging them into the Gray-Cloaks’ hearts.
One move—just one—shattered the first variation of the Dusk Three-Kill Formation.
Zeng Ran trembled.
The Dusk Three-Kill Formation was a closely guarded secret, rarely used in the Dusk Assassins’ history. Most missions were solo, with assassins striking from the shadows before vanishing.
But a decade ago, the elders had devised this formation—transforming assassination into open, coordinated slaughter. It was this very technique that elevated the Dusk Assassins from mere killers to a renowned force among the Ten Sword Schools.
Facing Yang Hao—a warrior ranked among the top hundred—Zeng Ran knew individual skill wouldn’t suffice. Only the Dusk Three-Kill Formation stood a chance.
Even if Yang Hao had broken the first variation, there was more to come.
“Kill! Kill!!” Zeng Ran roared. “Frost Qi Flying Swords!”
Yang Hao watched as a wave of Frost Qi surged from the assassins’ ranks, chilling the very air. It felt as if the world itself had been encased in ice.
Frost Qi was the signature energy of the Dusk Assassins—a rare cultivation method permitted only under the Senate’s direct oversight. Infused into swords, it allowed them to fly like legendary blades, decapitating enemies from kilometers away.
A single flying sword was no threat. But a hundred, controlled by will, striking from all angles with varying force? Even Yang Hao’s “Guard” technique might falter.
Yet the terrifying onslaught never came.
As Zeng Ran bellowed, two Gray-Cloaks channeling Frost Qi suddenly burst into flames from within, burning like human torches.
More assassins ignited behind Zeng Ran, their bodies consumed by an inexplicable inner fire. In moments, they were reduced to charred husks.
Even Zeng Ran sensed danger. The moment he summoned Frost Qi, a strange, malevolent fire surged from his dantian, tearing through his meridians like a flood.
It felt as though his very veins were being ripped apart.
Zeng Ran bowed to Yang Hao, a special gesture reserved for top hundred martial artists:
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Cloak rank in the Nethershade Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young killers. The Nethershade Assassins originally adhered to old traditions, but after the “Night of Nethershade,” in order to protect the Emperor, the assassination squad was nearly wiped out. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the entire assassin system of the Nethershade Assassins.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above level fourteen were Gray-Cloak; those above level eighteen were Black-Cloak; and those above level twenty-two were Purple-Cloak.
Now, the Nethershade Assassins had grown into a formidable force. There were thousands of Gray-Cloak assassins, over a hundred Black-Cloak, and even eighteen Purple-Cloak assassins.
It could be said that the strength of the Nethershade Assassins was among the top even within the Ten Sword Sects.
If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Cloak squad, the Nethershade Assassins’ combat power might have been even stronger.
To prevent the Nethershade Assassins from becoming too powerful, the Senate had always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within their own ranks. However, every leader had clashed with the Purple-Cloak elites, leading to internal strife and a decline in the assassins’ overall strength.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. With just a fleeting thought, he averted his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and focused on inspecting the hidden sentries.
Truthfully, there wasn’t much to inspect. The Nethershade Assassins operated with strict hierarchy and discipline, and the hidden sentries were flawless. Moreover, in such a desolate and frigid place, no one would dare come seeking death.
Thus, Zeng Ran relaxed, though a discomfort in his stomach unsettled him slightly.
Given Zeng Ran’s mastery of the Netherfrost Qi, his entire body should have been icy and devoid of warmth—like an ancient block of lifeless ice. Yet now, it felt as though a fire burned inside him, consuming even some of his Netherfrost Qi.
“The dinner tonight was a bit too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As an assassin of Nethershade, a hot meal was a rare luxury. Only the leader’s return after a long absence had granted them this simple pleasure.
Approaching the last hidden sentry, Zeng Ran saw his two Gray-Cloak subordinates blending into the massive starstone like wisps of gray mist. This level of concealment was unique to Nethershade—even members of other sword sects would struggle to detect them.
In all the world, no one capable of breaching Nethershade’s defenses had yet been born.
Zeng Ran swelled with pride. After one last glance at the sentry, he turned to leave and tend to his stomach. But that glance made him see something surreal—as if a gray mist had clouded his vision.
To his shock, the heads of the two Gray-Cloak assassins flew into the air.
It was a bizarre sight. The two had been so perfectly merged with the starstone that they were nearly indistinguishable from it. Yet now, two masked heads had inexplicably risen from within the stone. To an outsider, it might have seemed as though the starstone itself had sprouted human heads.
Zeng Ran froze for a split second. He scanned the surroundings but saw no trace of an intruder. Determined to investigate, he moved toward the starstone.
Fate, however, had other plans. A chilling gust of wind suddenly swept toward him from the front.
As a Black-Cloak leader, Zeng Ran was no pushover. Without knowing the source of the threat, he twisted his body and collapsed to the ground like a sack of mud. His reaction was so swift that even his subordinates didn’t realize what had happened.
As the icy wind passed, a bloodcurdling scream erupted behind Zeng Ran. One of his Gray-Cloak subordinates had been cleanly bisected by an unseen force, spraying blood and entrails everywhere.
Amid the crimson rain, a peculiar crescent-shaped blade flickered into visibility before gracefully arcing back to a figure emerging from behind the starstone.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery at the collar and cuffs—clearly the attire of a high-ranking officer.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran drew his sword and demanded.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled faintly, his hands clasped behind his back as he strolled forward. Yet the crescent blade—Shadowmoon—vanished once more into the air, and the frigid wind surged toward Zeng Ran alongside Yang Hao’s voice.
“I am the Lord of the Divine Mandate Autonomous Territory, the future Viscount of the Empire.”
Though he couldn’t see Shadowmoon, Zeng Ran knew disaster loomed. Instinctively, he executed three actions in rapid succession:
Retreat.
Flick his sword!
Scatter poison!!!
The sequence was seamless, executed with breathtaking speed. Zeng Ran retreated without hesitation, abandoning his subordinates as he bolted toward the main camp.
With a flick of his sword, a resonant hum erupted—a signal unique to Nethershade, instantly triggering an identical hum throughout the camp. It was their emergency alarm.
The powder Zeng Ran scattered was a soporific agent commonly used by Nethershade, originally concocted by the Alchemy Sect before somehow falling into the Senate’s hands. But to Yang Hao, it was useless.
Shadowmoon’s strike missed Zeng Ran but effortlessly slit the throats of his subordinates. The blade’s arc was mesmerizingly slow yet irresistible, as if compelling its victims to offer their necks willingly.
Another Gray-Cloak assassin fell without a sound, his head severed, blood gushing a meter high as his body remained standing.
Yang Hao continued forward, inwardly impressed by the Nethershade Assassins’ prowess. He had faced many martial groups—even defeated elite squads like the King’s Blades and the Demon Bear Regiment. But Nethershade surpassed them all.
A sword sect’s strength wasn’t just in individual skill but in discipline and coordination. Despite the sudden ambush and the swift elimination of their sentries, Zeng Ran—the Black-Cloak leader—remained composed, prioritizing retreat to warn the main camp over saving his men.
Upon receiving the alarm, the assassins in the camp surged out instantly, fully armed and battle-ready even in their sleep.
Yang Hao couldn’t help but admire this formidable force. If he had such a squad, the Ten Sword Sects would hold no fear for him.
But admiration aside, danger now surrounded him.
Having rallied his forces, Zeng Ran turned back with renewed confidence, born from familiarity with his squad’s strength. This Nethershade detachment boasted a hundred Gray-Cloak assassins, forty Black-Cloak, and even ten Purple-Cloak elites—a concentrated force capable of annihilating an entire sword sect, let alone a single man.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly appointed Lord Yang Hao?”
“That’s me.” Yang Hao grinned, pointing at himself—though Shadowmoon had already vanished into the wind again.
Zeng Ran’s heart chilled. He had heard of Yang Hao—how their leader and ten Black-Cloak assassins had failed to land a single blow against him. Moreover, Yang Hao’s bizarre weapon bore the faint glow of a divine artifact. A blade that could vanish was every assassin’s dream.
Zeng Ran bowed slightly—a gesture reserved for the Empire’s top hundred warriors.
“Lord, as a noble of the Empire, why oppose Nethershade?”
“Hmm…” Yang Hao coughed lightly. It was a tricky question. He couldn’t very well admit he was here to kidnap the mother of his child and steal a sect’s treasured sword. Thinking fast, he shifted the blame.
“Well, your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something important from me. I’m just here to take it back.”
Zeng Ran inwardly scoffed. Killing four Gray-Cloak assassins before even speaking was clearly an act of aggression—no justification needed.
“For the past decade, people have only fled from Nethershade. None have dared seek death.” Zeng Ran’s expression darkened as he raised his sword. A hundred blades followed suit, aimed at Yang Hao.
“Lord, reconsider.”
Reconsider? Yang Hao didn’t hesitate. He moved like a blur, crashing into the assassins’ formation and shattering their sword array. Shadowmoon, hidden in the wind, moved even faster—its dark, gold-tinged edge elegantly claiming three more Gray-Cloak heads.
By the time Yang Hao returned to his original spot, Shadowmoon had claimed five lives before vanishing once more into the frigid air.
The entire sequence was fluid and precise, dismantling formations and reaping lives with the finesse of a swordmaster.
Zeng Ran’s fury ignited. Never had he witnessed such brazen disrespect toward Nethershade. An assassin squad’s honor lay in taking lives—not being slaughtered.
Yet when he glanced back, the leader’s tent remained eerily still. Zeng Ran knew that if the ten Purple-Cloak elites emerged, Yang Hao would be doomed. But they seemed undisturbed by the alarm.
“Kill!” Zeng Ran steeled himself. With the leader and elites absent, he was the highest authority.
At his command, four plumes of black smoke erupted around Yang Hao—two Black-Cloak and two Gray-Cloak assassins striking simultaneously from all directions, sealing every escape route.
But Yang Hao was no sitting duck. Recalling Shadowmoon, he invoked the “Defense” mantra. Sparks exploded as four swords shattered mid-air, rendering the assassins helpless.
With a cold snort, Shadowmoon curved like a fish leaping into the sea, cleaving two Black-Cloak assassins in half. Meanwhile, Yang Hao drew his Treasure Sword and Gravity Sword, piercing the hearts of the Gray-Cloak killers.
One move—just one—had dismantled the first variation of Nethershade’s Triple Kill Doctrine.
Zeng Ran trembled.
The Triple Kill Doctrine was a closely guarded secret, rarely used in Nethershade’s history. Most assassins operated alone, striking from shadows before vanishing.
But a decade ago, the elders had devised this doctrine—transforming assassination into open, coordinated slaughter, elevating Nethershade into a renowned force among the Ten Sword Sects.
Facing Yang Hao—a warrior ranked among the Empire’s top hundred—Zeng Ran knew individual skill wouldn’t suffice. Only the Triple Kill Doctrine stood a chance.
Even if Yang Hao had broken the first form, it mattered little.
“Kill! Kill!!” Zeng Ran roared. “Netherfrost Flying Swords!”
Yang Hao watched as an aura of chilling Netherfrost Qi rose from the assassins, engulfing the world in an icy grip.
Netherfrost Qi was a unique cultivation method reserved for Senate-affiliated sword sects under the Empire’s strict policies. Infused into blades, it allowed swords to fly like projectiles, beheading enemies from kilometers away.
A single flying sword was no threat, but a hundred—controlled by will, striking from all angles—was terrifying. Even Yang Hao’s “Defense” mantra might falter.
Yet the nightmare never came.
As Zeng Ran bellowed, two Gray-Cloak assassins channeled Netherfrost Qi—only for flames to erupt from their dantians, engulfing them in an inferno that reduced them to human torches.
More assassins spontaneously combusted, their bodies burning from within in an instant.
Even Zeng Ran sensed danger. The moment he summoned Netherfrost Qi, a strange fire surged from his dantian, tearing through his meridians like a flood.
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Clothed rank in the Twilight Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young killers. The Twilight Assassins had long-standing traditions, but after the “Night of Twilight,” the group was nearly wiped out to protect the Emperor. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the entire assassin hierarchy.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above Level 14 were Gray-Clothed, those above Level 18 were Black-Clothed, and those above Level 22 were Purple-Clothed.
Now, the Twilight Assassins had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Clothed killers, over a hundred Black-Clothed, and even eighteen Purple-Clothed assassins.
In terms of strength, the Twilight Assassins were among the top even within the Ten Sword Schools.
If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Clothed assassins, the group’s combat prowess would have been even greater.
To prevent the Twilight Assassins from becoming too powerful, the Senate had always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within. However, every leader inevitably clashed with the Purple-Clothed elites, leading to internal strife and a decline in overall strength.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. With just a fleeting thought, he withdrew his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and focused on inspecting the hidden sentries.
Truthfully, there wasn’t much to inspect. The Twilight Assassins operated with strict discipline, and their concealed sentries were flawless. Especially in this desolate, frozen wasteland—no one would be foolish enough to come here seeking death.
So Zeng Ran relaxed, though a discomfort in his stomach unsettled him slightly.
Given his mastery of the Cold Qi, his body should have been icy and lifeless, like an ancient block of ice. Yet now, it felt as if a fire burned inside him, consuming even some of his Cold Qi.
“Tonight’s dinner must have been too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As an assassin, hot meals were rare. Only the leader’s return had granted them this luxury.
Approaching the last sentry, Zeng Ran saw his two Gray-Clothed subordinates blending into the massive star rock like wisps of gray mist—a concealment technique unique to the Twilight Assassins. Even members of other sword schools would struggle to detect them.
“Under heaven, no one could breach the Twilight Assassins’ defenses,” Zeng Ran thought smugly.
But just as he turned to leave, something strange caught his eye—an illusion, perhaps?
To his horror, the heads of his two Gray-Clothed subordinates suddenly flew into the air.
The sight was surreal. The assassins had been one with the rock, yet now their masked heads soared as if the stone itself had sprouted them.
Zeng Ran froze, scanning the area but finding no trace of an intruder. He rushed toward the rock to investigate.
Fate spared him. A chilling gust of wind swept toward him.
Reacting instantly, Zeng Ran twisted his body and collapsed like mud. His reflexes were so sharp that his subordinates didn’t even realize what had happened.
As the wind passed, a scream erupted behind him. One of his Gray-Clothed men had been sliced in half by an unseen force, blood and viscera spraying everywhere.
In the crimson rain, a bizarre crescent-shaped blade flickered into view before arcing gracefully back to a figure emerging from behind the star rock.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery—clearly a high-ranking officer.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran demanded, drawing his sword.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled, hands behind his back, strolling leisurely. Yet the blade vanished again, and the icy wind surged toward Zeng Ran once more, carrying his voice:
“I am the Lord of the Divine Dominion, soon-to-be Imperial Viscount.”
Though he couldn’t see the blade, Zeng Ran knew danger loomed. He acted swiftly—retreating, flicking his sword, and scattering powder—all in one fluid motion.
His retreat was clean, abandoning his subordinates as he bolted toward the base. The sword flick sent a resonant hum echoing through the camp—a unique alarm signal of the Twilight Assassins.
The powder was a paralyzing agent, originally crafted by the Alchemy Sect but now in the Senate’s hands. Yet it had no effect on Yang Hao.
The crescent blade missed Zeng Ran but claimed another subordinate’s head, its graceful arc deceptively slow yet irresistibly lethal.
Yang Hao advanced, impressed despite the ease of his kills. He had faced elite forces like the Royal Swordsmen and the Demon Bear Regiment, but the Twilight Assassins surpassed them all.
A sword school’s strength lay not just in individual skill but in discipline and coordination. Despite the ambush and swift loss of sentries, Zeng Ran had remained composed, prioritizing warning the base—a testament to their training.
Within moments, assassins poured out, fully armed and battle-ready even in sleep.
Yang Hao admired their might, wishing he commanded such a force against the Ten Sword Schools.
But admiration gave way to urgency.
Zeng Ran, now backed by a hundred Gray-Clothed, forty Black-Clothed, and ten Purple-Clothed assassins, glared at Yang Hao with renewed confidence.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly titled Lord?”
“That’s me.” Yang Hao grinned, tapping his chest as the blade vanished again.
Zeng Ran tensed. Yang Hao’s reputation preceded him—his strange weapon rumored to be divine, capable of invisibility, every assassin’s dream.
Bowing respectfully, Zeng Ran addressed him with the honor reserved for top warriors:
“My Lord, as an Imperial noble, why oppose the Twilight Assassins?”
Yang Hao coughed lightly, scrambling for an answer. “Your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something important from me. I’ve come to reclaim it.”
Zeng Ran scoffed inwardly. Killing four assassins before even speaking left no room for negotiation.
“For a decade, people have fled from us. None dared seek death,” Zeng Ran said coldly, raising his sword as hundreds followed suit. “Think carefully, my Lord.”
Yang Hao didn’t hesitate. He moved like a blur, shattering their formation as his hidden blade claimed five more lives before returning to the wind.
Zeng Ran seethed. No one had ever humiliated the Twilight Assassins like this.
Yet the leader and Purple-Clothed elites remained absent, their tents silent.
“Kill!” Zeng Ran ordered.
Four assassins materialized in black mist, striking from all sides—a flawless pincer attack.
But Yang Hao summoned his blade, deflecting all four swords with sparks, then bisected two Black-Clothed assassins while stabbing the Gray-Clothed ones with his twin swords.
One move shattered the Twilight Assassins’ first killing formation.
Zeng Ran paled. The “Three Killings Doctrine” was their secret trump card, blending assassination with open combat. Few outside the group even knew of it.
Yet Yang Hao had dismantled it effortlessly.
“Again!” Zeng Ran roared. “Cold Qi Flying Swords!”
A wave of frigid energy rose, chilling the very air.
The Cold Qi, a unique cultivation method granted only to Senate-affiliated forces, could turn swords into flying blades capable of decapitating foes from kilometers away.
A hundred such swords would be unstoppable.
But the horror never came. Instead, two Gray-Clothed assassins burst into flames, burning alive. More followed, their bodies igniting from within.
Even Zeng Ran felt it—a strange fire surging through his meridians, threatening to consume him.
Zeng Ran felt bitter inside. Naturally, he didn’t believe Yang Hao’s nonsense. Four Gray Robe level assassins had already been killed before even meeting face to face. This was clearly someone coming to cause trouble, what reason was there to talk?
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Clothed rank in the Nethershade Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young killers. The Nethershade Assassins had long-standing traditions, but after the “Night of Nethershade,” the group was nearly annihilated to protect the Emperor of the Empire. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the entire assassin hierarchy of the Nethershade Assassins.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above Level 14 were Gray-Clothed; those above Level 18 were Black-Clothed; and those above Level 22 were Purple-Clothed.
Now, the Nethershade Assassins had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Clothed assassins, over a hundred Black-Clothed, and even eighteen Purple-Clothed.
It could be said that the strength of the Nethershade Assassins was among the top even within the Ten Sword Schools.
If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Clothed assassins, the group’s overall combat power would have been even greater.
To prevent the Nethershade Assassins from becoming too powerful, the Senate had always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within the group’s own ranks. However, every leader had clashed with the Purple-Clothed assassins, leading to internal strife and a decline in the group’s strength.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. His thoughts flickered briefly before he averted his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and focused on inspecting the hidden sentries.
There wasn’t much to check, really. The Nethershade Assassins were highly disciplined, and their hidden sentries were flawless. Moreover, in such a desolate and frigid place, no one would dare come seeking death.
So Zeng Ran relaxed, though an uncomfortable sensation in his stomach unsettled him slightly.
Given his mastery of the Netherfrost Qi, Zeng Ran’s body should have been icy cold—lifeless as an ancient block of ice to outsiders. Yet now, it felt as though a fire burned inside him, consuming even some of his Netherfrost Qi.
“Tonight’s dinner must have been too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As an assassin, a hot meal was a rare luxury. It was only because the long-absent leader had returned that they’d had one today.
Approaching the last hidden sentry, Zeng Ran saw his two Gray-Clothed subordinates blending into the massive star-rock like wisps of gray mist. This concealment technique was unique to the Nethershade Assassins—even members of other sword schools would struggle to detect them.
In all the world, no one capable of breaching the Nethershade’s defenses had yet been born.
Zeng Ran swelled with pride. After a final glance at the sentry, he turned to leave and deal with his stomach issue. But that glance made him see something strange—as if a gray mist had clouded his vision.
To his shock, the heads of his two Gray-Clothed subordinates flew into the air.
It was a bizarre sight. The two had been perfectly merged with the star-rock, indistinguishable from it. Yet now, two masked heads had inexplicably risen from the rock—as if the stone itself had sprouted them.
Zeng Ran froze instinctively. He scanned the surroundings but saw no one. Determined to investigate, he moved toward the star-rock.
Fate intervened. A chilling gust of wind brushed past his front.
As a Black-Clothed leader, Zeng Ran was no fraud. Without knowing the source of the danger, he twisted his body and collapsed to the ground like mud. His reaction was so swift that his subordinates didn’t even realize what had happened.
As the cold wind passed, a scream erupted behind Zeng Ran. One of his Gray-Clothed subordinates had been split in two by an unseen force, blood and viscera spraying everywhere.
Amid the bloody rain, a peculiar crescent-shaped blade flickered into view, tracing an elegant arc before returning to the figure emerging from behind the star-rock.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery at the collar and cuffs—clearly a high-ranking officer.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran drew his sword and demanded.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled faintly, hands clasped behind his back as he strolled leisurely. Yet the crescent blade vanished again into the air, and the icy wind surged toward Zeng Ran once more, carrying Yang Hao’s voice:
“I am the Lord of the Divine Mandate Autonomous Territory, the future Viscount of the Empire.”
Though he couldn’t see the blade, Zeng Ran knew disaster loomed. He acted swiftly, executing three moves in rapid succession:
Retreat!
Flick his sword!
Scatter poison!
The sequence was seamless—so fast it was breathtaking. Zeng Ran retreated without hesitation, abandoning his subordinates as he bolted toward the main camp.
The flick of his sword produced a resonant hum that echoed across the camp—a unique alarm signal of the Nethershade Assassins.
The powder he scattered was their signature knockout drug, originally created by the Alchemy Sect but somehow acquired by the Senate. Of course, it had no effect on Yang Hao.
Though Zeng Ran escaped, the crescent blade sliced through his subordinate’s neck in a graceful, almost hypnotic arc. The other Gray-Clothed assassin didn’t even have time to scream before his head rolled, blood spurting a meter high as his body remained standing.
Yang Hao advanced, impressed despite the ease of his kills. He had fought many martial groups before—even defeated elite forces like the King’s Swordsmen and the Demon Bear Regiment. But the Nethershade Assassins surpassed them all.
A sword school’s strength lay not just in individual skill but in discipline and coordination. Despite the sudden attack and the swift elimination of their sentries, Zeng Ran had remained composed, sacrificing subordinates to retreat and warn the camp—a testament to their training.
Upon receiving the alarm, the assassins surged out instantly, fully armed and battle-ready even in sleep.
Yang Hao couldn’t help but admire this formidable force. If he had such a sword school under his command, the Ten Sword Schools would hold no fear for him.
But admiration aside, danger loomed.
Having rallied his forces, Zeng Ran now glared at Yang Hao with renewed confidence. This confidence stemmed from their sheer numbers: a hundred Gray-Clothed assassins, forty Black-Clothed, and even ten Purple-Clothed elites. Against such a force, even an entire sword school would stand no chance—let alone a single man.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly appointed Lord?”
“The very same.” Yang Hao grinned, pointing at himself—just as his crescent blade vanished again.
Zeng Ran tensed. He’d heard of Yang Hao—how their leader and ten Black-Clothed assassins had failed to land a single blow against him. Rumors spoke of a weapon with the aura of a divine artifact, capable of invisibility—a dream for any assassin.
Zeng Ran bowed slightly, a gesture reserved for top-tier warriors.
“Lord, as a noble of the Empire, why oppose the Nethershade?”
“Hmm…” Yang Hao coughed lightly. Explaining that he was here to kidnap the mother of his child and steal a sacred sword wasn’t an option. Thinking fast, he shifted blame:
“Your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something important from me. I’ve come to take it back.”
Zeng Ran inwardly scoffed. Killing four Gray-Clothed assassins before even speaking made it clear Yang Hao was here for bloodshed, not negotiation.
“For a decade, people have fled the Nethershade—none dared seek death.” Zeng Ran’s expression darkened as a hundred swords pointed at Yang Hao. “Lord, reconsider.”
Reconsider? Yang Hao moved without hesitation, darting like a phantom into the assassins’ formation, shattering their sword array. His crescent blade reappeared, its golden-edged arc severing three more heads before vanishing again.
By the time Yang Hao returned to his original spot, five more lay dead.
The fluid, lethal precision of his movements was worthy of a swordmaster.
Zeng Ran burned with rage. No one had ever humiliated the Nethershade like this—their honor lay in taking lives, not losing them.
Yet when he glanced back, the leader’s tent remained silent. The ten Purple-Clothed elites should have emerged by now to ensure Yang Hao’s death—yet they remained absent.
“Kill!” Zeng Ran barked, assuming command in their absence.
Four bursts of black smoke erupted around Yang Hao as two Black-Clothed and two Gray-Clothed assassins struck from all sides, sealing his escape.
But Yang Hao was no easy prey. Summoning his crescent blade, he unleashed a defensive technique that shattered their swords mid-strike.
With a cold smirk, the blade arced gracefully, bisecting two Black-Clothed assassins while Yang Hao drew his twin swords—Treasure and Gravity—piercing the Gray-Clothed assassins’ hearts.
One move. Just one. And the first variation of the Nethershade’s Triple Kill Formation was broken.
Zeng Ran trembled.
The Triple Kill Formation was a closely guarded secret, rarely used in the Nethershade’s history. Most assassins worked alone, striking from shadows and retreating swiftly.
But a decade ago, the elders had devised this formation, transforming assassination into open combat—a synergy of individual strengths that elevated the Nethershade into a renowned sword school.
Against a warrior like Yang Hao, who had defeated even the Empire’s top duelist, the Triple Kill Formation was their only hope.
Even if the first variation failed, there was more.
“Kill! Netherfrost Flying Swords!” Zeng Ran commanded.
Yang Hao watched as a wave of Netherfrost Qi rose from the assassins, chilling the air like an encroaching void.
Netherfrost Qi was a unique cultivation method, reserved for the Senate’s elite. Channeled into swords, it allowed them to fly like legendary blades, decapitating foes from kilometers away.
A few such blades were manageable. A hundred? Deadly.
Yet the horror never came.
As two Gray-Clothed assassins summoned their Qi, flames erupted from their cores, engulfing them in an instant. More followed, burning alive in seconds.
Even Zeng Ran felt it—a strange, searing force surging through his meridians, threatening to tear him apart from within.
Zeng Ran’s face turned cold, and with a wave of his long sword, over a hundred swords pointed at Yang Hao. “Lord, you should consider this.”
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Cloak rank in the Twilight Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young assassins of his generation. The Twilight Assassins had long-standing traditions, but after the “Night of Twilight,” the group was nearly annihilated to protect the Emperor. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the entire assassin hierarchy of the Twilight Assassins.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above Level 14 were Gray-Cloaks, those above Level 18 were Black-Cloaks, and those above Level 22 were Purple-Cloaks.
Today, the Twilight Assassins had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Cloaks, hundreds of Black-Cloaks, and even eighteen Purple-Cloaks.
In terms of strength, the Twilight Assassins were among the top even within the Ten Sword Schools.
If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Cloaks, the group’s combat prowess would have been even greater.
To prevent the Twilight Assassins from becoming too powerful, the Senate had always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within. However, every leader had clashed with the Purple-Cloaks, leading to internal strife and a decline in the group’s overall strength.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. His thoughts flickered briefly before he averted his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and focused on inspecting the hidden sentries.
There wasn’t much to check. The Twilight Assassins operated with strict hierarchy and discipline, and the concealed sentries were flawless. Besides, in such a desolate place, no one would be foolish enough to come seeking death.
Zeng Ran relaxed slightly, though an uncomfortable sensation in his stomach unsettled him.
Given his mastery of the Frost Qi, his body should have been icy and lifeless, like an ancient block of ice. Yet now, it felt as though a fire was burning inside him, dispersing some of his Frost Qi.
“Tonight’s dinner must have been too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As an assassin, hot meals were rare. Only the leader’s return had granted them this luxury.
Approaching the last sentry post, Zeng Ran saw his two Gray-Cloak subordinates blending into the massive star-rock like wisps of gray mist—a concealment technique unique to the Twilight Assassins. Even members of other sword schools would struggle to detect them.
In all the world, no one could breach the Twilight Assassins’ defenses.
Zeng Ran swelled with pride. After a final glance at the sentry post, he turned to leave and deal with his stomach issue. But in that moment, something strange happened—his vision blurred as if shrouded in mist.
To his horror, he saw the heads of his two Gray-Cloak subordinates fly into the air.
It was surreal. The two had been perfectly merged with the star-rock, indistinguishable from it. Yet now, two masked heads had inexplicably risen from within. If not for knowing the sentries were there, one might think the rock itself had sprouted heads.
Zeng Ran froze instinctively. He scanned the surroundings but saw no one. Just as he moved to investigate, a chilling gust of wind swept toward him.
His instincts as a Black-Cloak leader kicked in. Without knowing the source of the threat, he twisted his body and collapsed to the ground like wet mud. His reaction was so swift that his subordinates barely registered what had happened.
As the cold wind passed, a scream erupted behind him. One of his Gray-Cloak subordinates had been cleanly bisected by an unseen force, blood and viscera spraying everywhere.
Amid the crimson rain, a peculiar crescent-shaped blade flickered into view, tracing an elegant arc before returning to a figure emerging from behind the star-rock.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery—clearly a high-ranking officer.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran drew his sword and demanded.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled faintly, hands clasped behind his back as he strolled forward. Yet his blade, Shadowmoon, vanished again into the air, and the icy wind surged toward Zeng Ran once more, carrying his words: “I am the Lord of the Divine Covenant Autonomous Territory, soon-to-be Imperial Viscount.”
Though he couldn’t see Shadowmoon, Zeng Ran knew disaster loomed. He acted swiftly, executing three moves in rapid succession:
Retreat!
Flick his sword!
Scatter poison!
His movements were seamless and breathtakingly fast. Zeng Ran retreated without hesitation, abandoning his subordinates as he bolted toward the main camp.
The flick of his sword unleashed a resonant hum that echoed across the camp—a unique alarm signal of the Twilight Assassins.
The powder he scattered was their signature knockout drug, originally crafted by the Alchemy Sect but somehow acquired by the Senate. Yet it had no effect on Yang Hao.
Shadowmoon missed Zeng Ran but effortlessly sliced through another subordinate’s neck, its graceful arc almost hypnotic in its lethality. The Gray-Cloak assassin collapsed without a sound, blood gushing skyward.
Yang Hao advanced, impressed despite the ease of his kills. He had faced many warrior groups—even defeated the elite Royal Swordsmen and the Demon Bear Regiment—but the Twilight Assassins surpassed them all.
A sword school’s strength lay not just in individual skill but in discipline and coordination. Despite the sudden ambush and the swift elimination of their sentries, Zeng Ran had remained composed, prioritizing retreat to warn the main camp—a testament to their training.
Upon the alarm, assassins poured out instantly, fully armed and battle-ready even in sleep.
Yang Hao admired their efficiency, wishing he had such a force to counter the Ten Sword Schools.
But admiration aside, danger loomed.
Zeng Ran, now rallied with reinforcements, glared at Yang Hao with renewed confidence. This time, the Twilight Assassins had deployed a hundred Gray-Cloaks, forty Black-Cloaks, and even ten Purple-Cloaks—enough to crush an entire sword school, let alone one man.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly appointed Lord?”
“That’s me.” Yang Hao grinned, pointing at himself as Shadowmoon disappeared again.
Zeng Ran tensed. He’d heard of Yang Hao—how their leader and ten Black-Cloaks had failed to land a single strike against him. Worse, Yang Hao’s bizarre weapon bore the aura of a divine artifact, the kind every assassin dreamed of wielding.
Zeng Ran bowed slightly—a gesture reserved for the top hundred warriors.
“My Lord, as an Imperial noble, why oppose the Twilight Assassins?”
Yang Hao coughed lightly, stalling. He couldn’t very well admit he was here to kidnap the mother of his child and steal a sacred sword. Thinking fast, he shifted blame:
“Your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something important from me. I’ve come to reclaim it.”
Zeng Ran scoffed inwardly. Killing four Gray-Cloaks before even speaking? This was clearly an outright attack, not a negotiation.
“In the past decade, no one has dared challenge the Twilight Assassins,” Zeng Ran said coldly, raising his sword as hundreds of blades turned toward Yang Hao. “Think carefully, my Lord.”
Yang Hao didn’t think—he moved.
Like a phantom, he lunged into the assassin formation, shattering their sword array before they could react. Shadowmoon, invisible in the wind, reaped three more heads with golden-edged elegance.
By the time Yang Hao returned to his starting point, five lay dead, and Shadowmoon had vanished once more.
The fluidity and precision of his strikes were masterful.
Zeng Ran burned with fury. No one had ever humiliated the Twilight Assassins like this—their honor lay in taking lives, not losing them.
Yet when he glanced back, the leader’s tent remained silent. The ten Purple-Cloaks, who could surely end Yang Hao, seemed oblivious to the alarm.
“Kill!” Zeng Ran barked, assuming command in their absence.
Four assassins—two Black-Cloaks, two Gray-Cloaks—materialized in clouds of black smoke, striking from all angles to seal Yang Hao’s escape.
But Yang Hao was no easy prey. Summoning Shadowmoon, he unleashed a defensive technique that shattered their swords mid-air, leaving them weaponless.
With a cold smirk, Shadowmoon carved through two Black-Cloaks while Yang Hao drew his Gravity Sword and Treasure Sword, impaling the Gray-Cloaks through their hearts.
One move—just one—and the first variation of the Twilight Three-Kill Formation was broken.
Zeng Ran paled.
The Twilight Three-Kill Formation was a closely guarded secret, rarely used because the assassins typically worked alone. Developed a decade ago, it transformed their covert tactics into open, coordinated slaughter, elevating them among the Ten Sword Schools.
Against a top-tier warrior like Yang Hao, individual skill was futile. Only the Three-Kill Formation stood a chance.
Even if the first variation failed, there were others.
“Kill! Kill!” Zeng Ran roared. “Frost Qi Flying Swords!”
A wave of chilling energy rose from the assassins, as if the world itself had frozen over.
Frost Qi, a rare cultivation method permitted only to Senate-affiliated groups, could empower swords to fly like legendary blades, decapitating foes from kilometers away.
A hundred such flying swords, controlled by thought and striking from all angles, would be terrifying.
But the horror never came.
As two Gray-Cloaks channeled Frost Qi, flames erupted from their cores, engulfing them in an instant. More assassins combusted behind Zeng Ran, their bodies burning from within.
Even Zeng Ran felt it—a sinister fire surging against his meridians, threatening to tear him apart.
When Yang Hao kicked through the sword formation and returned to his original position, the Shadow Moon blade had already killed five people and vanished once more into the silent cold wind.
This series of movements was smooth and swift, breaking the sword formation and harvesting lives in the blink of an eye, exuding the demeanor of a master swordsman.
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Cloak rank in the Nethershade Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young killers. The Nethershade Assassins had long-standing traditions, but after the “Night of Nethershade,” the group was nearly annihilated to protect the Emperor. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the entire assassin hierarchy.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above Level 14 were Gray-Cloaks, those above Level 18 were Black-Cloaks, and those above Level 22 were Purple-Cloaks.
Now, the Nethershade had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Cloaks, over a hundred Black-Cloaks, and even eighteen Purple-Cloaks.
It could be said that the strength of the Nethershade Assassins was among the top even within the Ten Sword Sects.
If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Cloaks, the Nethershade’s combat power would have been even greater.
To prevent the Nethershade from becoming too powerful, the Senate always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within. However, every leader inevitably clashed with the Purple-Cloaks, leading to internal strife and weakening the group’s overall strength.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. His thoughts flickered briefly before he averted his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and focused on inspecting the hidden sentries.
There wasn’t much to check—the Nethershade Assassins were highly disciplined, and their concealed sentries were flawless. Especially in this desolate wasteland, no one would dare come seeking death.
So Zeng Ran relaxed, though a discomfort in his stomach unsettled him slightly.
Given his mastery of the Netherfrost Qi, his body should have been icy and lifeless, like an ancient block of ice. Yet now, it felt as if a fire burned inside him, consuming even some of his Netherfrost Qi.
“Tonight’s dinner must have been too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As a Nethershade assassin, hot meals were rare. Only the leader’s return had granted them this luxury.
Approaching the last sentry, Zeng Ran saw his two Gray-Cloak subordinates blending into the massive starstone like wisps of gray mist—a concealment technique unique to the Nethershade. Even members of other sword sects would struggle to detect them.
In all the world, no one could breach the Nethershade’s defenses.
Zeng Ran swelled with pride. After a final glance at the sentry, he turned to leave and tend to his stomach. But that glance revealed something surreal—as if a gray mist had clouded his vision.
To his horror, the heads of the two Gray-Cloak assassins flew into the air.
It was a bizarre sight. The two had been one with the starstone, indistinguishable from it. Yet now, two masked heads had inexplicably risen from within. To an outsider, it might have seemed as if the starstone itself had sprouted heads.
Zeng Ran froze instinctively, scanning the surroundings but finding no trace of an intruder. He rushed toward the starstone to investigate.
Fate spared him. A chilling gust of wind swept toward him from the front.
As a Black-Cloak leader, Zeng Ran was no fraud. Without hesitation, he twisted his body and collapsed like mud to the ground—so swiftly that his subordinates barely registered the movement.
The icy wind passed, and a scream erupted behind him. One of his Gray-Cloak subordinates had been cleaved in two by an unseen force, blood and viscera spraying everywhere.
Amid the crimson rain, a peculiar crescent-shaped blade flickered into visibility, arcing gracefully before returning to a figure emerging from behind the starstone.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery at the collar and cuffs—the attire of a high-ranking general.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran drew his sword and demanded.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled faintly, hands clasped behind his back as he strolled leisurely. Yet the Shadowmoon Blade vanished again, and the frigid wind surged toward Zeng Ran once more, carrying Yang Hao’s voice:
“I am the Lord of the Divine Dominion, soon-to-be Viscount of the Empire.”
Though he couldn’t see the Shadowmoon Blade, Zeng Ran knew disaster loomed. He acted swiftly, executing three moves in rapid succession:
Retreat!
Flick his sword!
Scatter poison!
The sequence was seamless, a testament to his skill. Zeng Ran retreated without hesitation, abandoning his subordinates as he bolted toward the main camp.
The flick of his sword unleashed a resonant hum—a unique Nethershade alarm that echoed through the camp.
The poison he scattered was a soporific powder, originally crafted by the Alchemy Sect but somehow acquired by the Senate. Yet it had no effect on Yang Hao.
The Shadowmoon Blade missed Zeng Ran but slit the throat of another subordinate, its graceful arc deceptively slow yet irresistibly lethal, as if beckoning victims to offer their necks willingly.
The Gray-Cloak assassin died without a sound, head severed, blood gushing a meter high as his body remained standing.
Yang Hao advanced, impressed despite the ease of his kills. He had battled many martial groups—even the elite Royal Swordsmen and the Demon Bear Brigade had fallen to him. But the Nethershade surpassed them all, their discipline and coordination unmatched.
Even under sudden attack, Zeng Ran had remained composed, sacrificing subordinates to retreat and warn the camp—a display of remarkable calm.
Upon the alarm, assassins surged from the camp, fully armed and battle-ready even in sleep.
Yang Hao admired their prowess, wishing he commanded such a force to defy the Ten Sword Sects.
But admiration aside, danger loomed.
Zeng Ran, now rallied with reinforcements, glared at Yang Hao with renewed confidence. This contingent included a hundred Gray-Cloaks, forty Black-Cloaks, and even ten Purple-Cloaks—a formidable force capable of annihilating an entire sword sect, let alone a single man.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly appointed Lord?”
“The very one.” Yang Hao grinned, pointing at himself as the Shadowmoon Blade dissolved into the wind again.
Zeng Ran tensed. He’d heard of Yang Hao—how their leader and ten Black-Cloaks had failed to land a single blow against him. Rumors spoke of a weapon with divine aura, an assassin’s dream: an invisible blade.
Zeng Ran bowed slightly, a gesture reserved for the Empire’s top hundred warriors.
“Lord, as a noble of the Empire, why oppose the Nethershade?”
“Hmm…” Yang Hao coughed lightly, scrambling for an answer. He couldn’t very well admit he was here to kidnap a child’s mother and steal a sacred sword. Thinking fast, he shifted blame:
“Your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something precious from me. I’ve come to reclaim it.”
Zeng Ran scoffed inwardly. Killing four Gray-Cloaks before even speaking? This was clearly an outright assault, no justification needed.
“In ten years, none have dared challenge the Nethershade—only fled from us.” Zeng Ran’s voice turned icy as he raised his sword. A hundred blades pointed at Yang Hao.
“Lord, reconsider.”
Reconsider? Yang Hao moved instantly, a blur darting into the assassin formation, shattering their sword array. The Shadowmoon Blade flashed, severing three Gray-Cloak heads before vanishing again into the wind.
By the time Yang Hao returned to his starting point, five lay dead.
Zeng Ran seethed. Never had anyone so brazenly humiliated the Nethershade. A killer’s honor lay in taking lives, not being slaughtered.
Yet glancing back, he saw no movement from the leader’s tent. The ten Purple-Cloaks should have responded to the alarm—their absence was troubling.
“Kill!” Zeng Ran barked, assuming command in their stead.
Four assassins—two Black-Cloaks, two Gray-Cloaks—materialized around Yang Hao in bursts of black mist, striking from all angles to seal his escape.
But Yang Hao was no easy prey. Summoning the Shadowmoon Blade, he parried with a “Deflect” technique, sparks flying as four swords shattered mid-air.
With a cold snort, the Shadowmoon Blade carved an elegant arc, bisecting two Black-Cloaks. Yang Hao drew his Gravity Sword and Treasure Sword, piercing the Gray-Cloaks’ hearts.
One move—just one—shattered the first variation of the Nethershade’s Triple Kill Doctrine.
Zeng Ran paled.
The Triple Kill Doctrine was a closely guarded secret, rarely used in the Nethershade’s history. Most assassins worked alone, striking from shadows and retreating swiftly.
But a decade ago, the Senate’s elders devised this doctrine, transforming assassination into open combat through flawless teamwork. It was this doctrine that elevated the Nethershade to prominence among the Ten Sword Sects, granting them both stealth and battlefield prowess.
Facing Yang Hao—a top hundred warrior who’d even defeated the Empire’s foremost rogue swordsman—Zeng Ran knew individual skill was futile. Only the Triple Kill Doctrine stood a chance.
Even if the first variation failed, there were others.
“Kill! Kill!” Zeng Ran roared. “Netherfrost Flying Swords!”
A wave of chilling energy rose from the assassins, an aura so frigid it seemed to freeze the world itself.
Netherfrost Qi was the lifeblood of the Nethershade, a cultivation method exclusive to Senate-affiliated forces under imperial decree. Channeled into blades, it allowed swords to fly like projectiles, beheading foes from kilometers away.
A hundred such flying swords, controlled by will, attacking from all angles with varying force—even Yang Hao’s “Deflect” technique might falter.
But the nightmare never came.
As Zeng Ran shouted, two Gray-Cloaks convulsed, flames erupting from their cores, engulfing them in an instant. More assassins burst into spontaneous combustion, their bodies burning from within.
Even Zeng Ran felt it—a strange fire surging against his meridians, threatening to tear him apart.
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Clothed rank in the Dusk Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young killers. The Dusk Assassins originally had an old system, but after the “Night of Dusk,” the assassination group was nearly wiped out to protect the Emperor. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the entire assassin hierarchy of the Dusk Assassins.
Assassins were divided into three levels based on their abilities: those with combat power above Level 14 were Gray-Clothed; those above Level 18 were Black-Clothed; and those above Level 22 were Purple-Clothed.
Now, the Dusk Assassins had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Clothed assassins, over a hundred Black-Clothed ones, and even eighteen Purple-Clothed elites.
It could be said that the strength of the Dusk Assassins was among the top even within the Ten Sword Sects. If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Clothed group, their overall combat power might have been even stronger.
To prevent the Dusk Assassins from becoming too powerful, the Senate had always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within their own ranks. However, every leader had clashed with the Purple-Clothed elites, leading to internal strife and a decline in their overall strength.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. His thoughts flickered only briefly before he withdrew his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and turned his attention to inspecting the hidden sentries.
Truthfully, there wasn’t much to inspect. The Dusk Assassins operated with strict hierarchy and discipline, and the hidden sentries were flawless. Moreover, in such a desolate and frigid place, no one would dare come seeking death.
So Zeng Ran relaxed, though an uncomfortable sensation in his stomach made him slightly uneasy.
Given Zeng Ran’s mastery of the Chilling Qi, his entire body should have been icy and devoid of warmth—like an ancient block of lifeless ice in the eyes of outsiders. Yet now, it felt as though a fire was burning inside him, consuming even some of his Chilling Qi.
“The dinner tonight was a bit too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As an assassin of the Dusk Assassins, a hot meal was a rare luxury. Today, only because the long-absent leader had returned, had they been treated to one.
Zeng Ran approached the last hidden sentry and saw his two Gray-Clothed subordinates blending into the massive star rock like wisps of gray mist. This concealment technique was unique to the Dusk Assassins—even members of other sword sects would struggle to detect them.
In all the world, there was likely no one born yet who could breach the defenses of the Dusk Assassins.
Zeng Ran swelled with pride. After one last glance at the sentry, he prepared to return and deal with his stomach issue. But that glance made him feel as though a gray mist had clouded his vision—as if he were seeing an illusion.
To his shock, Zeng Ran saw the heads of his two Gray-Clothed subordinates fly up from the sentry.
It was an eerie sight. The two had been perfectly merged with the star rock, indistinguishable from it. Yet now, two masked heads had inexplicably risen from within. If one didn’t know there were sentries there, it would seem as though the rock itself had sprouted human heads.
Instinctively, Zeng Ran froze. He swiftly scanned his surroundings but saw no trace of anyone. He rushed toward the star rock to investigate.
Fate, however, had other plans. Zeng Ran suddenly sensed a chilling wind sweeping toward him from the front.
As a Black-Clothed leader, Zeng Ran was no fraud. Though he couldn’t see the threat, his body twisted reflexively, collapsing to the ground like a pile of mud. His reaction was so swift that even his subordinates had no idea what had happened.
By the time the chilling wind passed, a bloodcurdling scream erupted behind Zeng Ran. One of his Gray-Clothed subordinates had been cleanly bisected by an unseen force, spraying blood and entrails everywhere.
As Zeng Ran looked again, a strange crescent-shaped blade materialized amidst the bloody rain. After completing a graceful arc, it flew back toward a figure emerging from behind the star rock.
The man wore a long black coat with intricate golden embroidery at the collar and cuffs—clearly the attire of a high-ranking officer.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran drew his sword and demanded.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled faintly, his hands still behind his back as he strolled leisurely. Yet the Shadow Moon blade vanished into the air again, and the icy wind surged toward Zeng Ran once more, carrying Yang Hao’s voice with it:
“I am the Lord of the Divine Mandate Autonomous Territory, the future Viscount of the Empire.”
Though he couldn’t see the Shadow Moon blade, Zeng Ran knew disaster had struck. In that instant, he did three things:
Retreat.
Flick his sword!
Scatter poison!!!
The sequence of movements was executed flawlessly and at astonishing speed. Zeng Ran retreated decisively, abandoning his subordinates as he shot toward the main camp.
With a flick of his sword, a resonant hum erupted—a sound so prolonged that it triggered a synchronized response from swords within the Dusk Assassins’ camp. This was their unique alarm signal for imminent danger.
As for the powder Zeng Ran scattered, it was the Dusk Assassins’ signature knockout drug—originally created by the Alchemy Sect but somehow acquired by the Senate. Of course, it had no effect on Yang Hao.
Though Zeng Ran escaped the Shadow Moon’s strike, the blade effortlessly severed the necks of his remaining subordinates. Its motion was so graceful and seemingly slow that it almost seemed to beckon its victims to offer their necks willingly.
Another Gray-Clothed assassin fell without a sound, his head rolling as blood spurted a meter high, his body remaining eerily upright.
Yang Hao continued forward, impressed despite the ease of his kills. He had fought many martial groups before—even defeating elite forces like the King’s Swordsmen and the Demon Bear Regiment. But the Dusk Assassins surpassed them all, their strength on an entirely different level.
A sword sect’s strength wasn’t just measured by individual skill but also by discipline and coordination. Despite the sudden ambush and the swift elimination of their outer sentries, Zeng Ran, the Black-Clothed leader, remained composed. Sacrificing subordinates to retreat and warn the main camp demonstrated remarkable calm under pressure.
Upon receiving the alarm, the assassins in the main camp surged out almost instantly. They slept fully armed, swords at the ready, maintaining peak combat readiness at all times.
Yang Hao couldn’t help but admire this formidable force. If he had such a sword sect under his command, he wouldn’t need to fear the Ten Sword Sects.
But admiration aside, danger loomed large before him.
After regrouping his forces, Zeng Ran turned back with renewed confidence, his faith rooted in their overwhelming numbers. This contingent of the Dusk Assassins included a hundred Gray-Clothed assassins, forty Black-Clothed ones, and even ten of their strongest Purple-Clothed elites. Against such a force, even an entire sword sect would stand no chance—let alone a single man.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran, surprisingly well-informed, asked. “The newly appointed Lord Yang Hao?”
“That’s me.” Yang Hao grinned, pointing at himself—though the Shadow Moon blade had already vanished into the wind again.
Zeng Ran’s heart chilled. He had heard of Yang Hao. Days ago, the leader had taken ten Black-Clothed assassins to eliminate him, only to be repelled without even landing a single strike. Moreover, Yang Hao’s bizarre weapon bore the faint glow of a divine artifact—an invisible blade, the dream of every assassin.
Zeng Ran bowed slightly, a gesture reserved for the Empire’s top hundred warriors.
“Lord, as a noble of the Empire, why oppose the Dusk Assassins?”
“Hmm…” Yang Hao coughed lightly. It was a tricky question—he couldn’t very well admit he was here to kidnap the mother of his child and steal a sect’s treasured sword. Thinking fast, he shifted the blame:
“Well, your leader Ling Ziyan stole something important from me. I’m just here to take it back.”
Zeng Ran inwardly scoffed. He didn’t buy Yang Hao’s nonsense. Killing four Gray-Clothed assassins before even speaking was clearly an act of aggression—no justification needed.
“In the past decade, people have only fled from the Dusk Assassins. None have dared come seeking death.” Zeng Ran’s expression darkened as he raised his sword. A hundred blades followed suit, all aimed at Yang Hao.
“Lord, you might want to reconsider.”
Reconsider? Yang Hao didn’t hesitate. He moved like a blur, crashing into the assassins’ formation and shattering their carefully arranged sword array. The Shadow Moon, hidden in the wind, moved even faster—its dark, gold-tinged edge slicing elegantly through the air, sending three Gray-Clothed heads tumbling to the ground.
By the time Yang Hao broke through the formation and returned to his original spot, the Shadow Moon had claimed five lives before vanishing once more into the frigid air.
The entire sequence was seamless and lightning-fast, showcasing the finesse of a true swordmaster.
Zeng Ran’s fury burned. Never had he seen anyone dare insult the Dusk Assassins so brazenly. An assassin group’s honor lay in taking lives—not being slaughtered.
Yet when he glanced back and saw the leader’s tent still undisturbed, unease crept in. Zeng Ran knew that if the ten Purple-Clothed elites emerged, Yang Hao would be doomed. But they seemed oblivious to the alarm.
“Kill!” Zeng Ran steeled himself. With the leader and the elites absent, he was the highest authority here.
At his command, four bursts of black mist exploded around Yang Hao. Two Black-Clothed and two Gray-Clothed assassins materialized, striking from all four directions with precision—sealing every escape route.
But Yang Hao was no sitting duck. Recalling the Shadow Moon, he unleashed the “Deflection” technique. Four sparks erupted as the assassins’ swords shattered mid-strike, rendering them helpless.
With a cold snort, Yang Hao guided the Shadow Moon in another graceful arc—like a fish leaping into the sea—bisecting two Black-Clothed assassins. Meanwhile, he drew the Treasure Sword and the Gravity Sword from his back, plunging them into the hearts of the Gray-Clothed killers.
One move. Just one. Yang Hao had dismantled the first variation of the Dusk Assassins’ “Triple Kill Doctrine.”
Zeng Ran trembled in fear.
The Triple Kill Doctrine was unknown to outsiders because the Dusk Assassins had rarely needed it. Most of their kills were solitary, swift, and silent.
But a decade ago, the elders who rebuilt the sect had devised this doctrine—transforming assassination into open combat, leveraging teamwork to overwhelm foes.
It was this doctrine that elevated the Dusk Assassins beyond mere killers, earning them a place among the Ten Sword Sects. They excelled in both covert kills and open battle.
Facing Yang Hao—a warrior ranked among the Empire’s top hundred—Zeng Ran knew individual skill wouldn’t suffice. Even the First Wandering Swordsman had fallen to him. Only the Triple Kill Doctrine stood a chance.
Even if the first variation had been broken, there was still hope.
“Kill! Kill!!” Zeng Ran roared again. “Chilling Qi Flying Swords!”
Yang Hao watched as a wave of icy energy rose from the assassins’ ranks, chilling the very air. It felt as though the world itself had been enveloped in desolate cold.
Chilling Qi was the signature energy of the Dusk Assassins—a near-immortal cultivation method permitted only under the Senate’s strict oversight. Infused into swords, it allowed them to fly like legendary blades, beheading foes from kilometers away.
A single flying sword was no threat. But a hundred, controlled by will, attacking from all angles with varying force? Even Yang Hao’s “Deflection” technique would struggle to counter that.
Yet the terrifying scene never materialized.
As Zeng Ran shouted, two Gray-Clothed assassins channeled their Chilling Qi—only for flames to erupt from their dantians, engulfing them in an instant. They burned like human torches.
More assassins behind Zeng Ran spontaneously combusted, the fire seeming to blaze from within their bodies. In moments, they were reduced to charred husks.
Even Zeng Ran sensed danger. The moment he summoned his Chilling Qi, a strange, malevolent fire surged from his dantian, tearing through his meridians like a flood—threatening to burst from his flesh.
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Cloak rank in the Nethershade Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young killers. The Nethershade Assassins had long-standing traditions, but after the “Night of Nethershade,” the group was nearly wiped out to protect the Emperor. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the entire assassin hierarchy.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above Level 14 were Gray-Cloaks, those above Level 18 were Black-Cloaks, and those above Level 22 were Purple-Cloaks.
Now, Nethershade had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Cloak assassins, hundreds of Black-Cloaks, and even eighteen Purple-Cloaks.
It could be said that the strength of the Nethershade Assassins was among the top even within the Ten Sword Schools.
If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Cloak team, Nethershade’s combat power might have been even greater.
To prevent Nethershade from becoming too powerful, the Senate had always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within. However, every leader had clashed with the Purple-Cloak elites, leading to internal strife that weakened Nethershade’s overall strength.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. With just a fleeting thought, he averted his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and focused on inspecting the hidden sentries.
There wasn’t much to check—Nethershade’s hierarchy was strict, and every hidden sentry was flawless. Especially in this desolate, frozen wasteland, no one would dare come seeking death.
So Zeng Ran relaxed, though a discomfort in his stomach unsettled him slightly.
Given his mastery of the Netherfrost Qi, his body should have been icy cold, appearing lifeless to outsiders like an ancient block of ice. Yet now, it felt as if a fire burned inside him, consuming even some of his Netherfrost Qi.
“Tonight’s dinner must have been too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As a Nethershade assassin, hot meals were rare. Only the leader’s return had granted them this luxury.
Approaching the last sentry, Zeng Ran saw his two Gray-Cloak subordinates blending into the massive starstone like wisps of gray mist—a concealment technique unique to Nethershade. Even members of other sword schools would struggle to detect them.
“Under heaven, no one could breach Nethershade’s defenses,” Zeng Ran thought smugly. After a final glance, he turned to leave and tend to his stomach.
But that glance revealed something surreal—two masked heads rising from the starstone.
Zeng Ran froze. He scanned the area but saw no intruders. Just as he moved to investigate, an icy gust swept toward him.
Reacting instantly, Zeng Ran twisted his body and collapsed like wet mud. His reflexes were so sharp that his subordinates barely noticed anything amiss.
A scream followed—one of his Gray-Cloak men had been split in two by an unseen force, blood and viscera spraying everywhere.
Amid the crimson rain, a peculiar crescent-shaped blade flickered into view before arcing gracefully back to a figure emerging from behind the starstone.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery—clearly a high-ranking officer.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran demanded, drawing his sword.
“Me?” The man—Yang Hao—smiled, hands clasped behind his back. His blade, Shadowmoon, vanished again as a chilling wind surged toward Zeng Ran. His voice echoed alongside it:
“I am the Lord of the Divine Edict Dominion, future Viscount of the Empire.”
Though Shadowmoon remained invisible, Zeng Ran knew danger loomed. He acted swiftly:
Retreat!
Flick his sword!
Scatter powder!
His movements were seamless—a flawless retreat toward the base, disregarding his subordinates.
The sword flick sent a resonant hum echoing through Nethershade’s camp—a unique alarm signaling imminent danger.
The powder was Nethershade’s signature knockout drug, originally crafted by the Alchemy Sect but later acquired by the Senate. Yet it had no effect on Yang Hao.
Shadowmoon missed Zeng Ran but slit his subordinate’s throat in a graceful arc—so mesmerizing it seemed to beckon victims willingly.
Another Gray-Cloak fell silently, headless but still standing.
Yang Hao advanced, impressed despite the ease of his kills. He had battled elite forces like the Royal Swordsmen and the Demon Bear Brigade, but Nethershade surpassed them all.
A sword school’s strength lay not just in individual skill but in discipline and coordination. Despite the ambush and lost sentries, Zeng Ran had prioritized retreating to warn the base—a testament to Nethershade’s composure.
The assassins surged out instantly, fully armed and battle-ready even in sleep.
Yang Hao admired their might, wishing he commanded such a force to defy the Ten Sword Schools.
But admiration faded as danger mounted.
Zeng Ran, now backed by a hundred Gray-Cloaks, forty Black-Cloaks, and ten Purple-Cloaks, glared confidently.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly titled Lord?”
“The very same.” Yang Hao grinned, though Shadowmoon had vanished again.
Zeng Ran tensed. He’d heard of Yang Hao—how their leader and ten Black-Cloaks had been repelled in one strike. And that strange blade of his bore the glow of a divine artifact—a dream weapon for any assassin.
Bowing respectfully—a gesture reserved for top-tier warriors—Zeng Ran asked,
“My Lord, as a noble of the Empire, why oppose Nethershade?”
Yang Hao coughed lightly. Admitting he sought a stolen child and a sect’s treasured sword wouldn’t do. Thinking fast, he blamed their leader:
“Your Commander Ling Ziyan stole something precious. I’ve come to reclaim it.”
Zeng Ran scoffed inwardly. Four dead Gray-Cloaks spoke louder than excuses.
“For a decade, others fled Nethershade. None dared seek death,” Zeng Ran said coldly, raising his sword. A hundred blades mirrored the motion. “Think carefully, my Lord.”
Yang Hao didn’t hesitate. He lunged like a phantom, shattering their formation. Shadowmoon reappeared, its golden-edged blade claiming three more heads before vanishing again.
Returning to his spot, Yang Hao had slain five in one fluid motion—a master swordsman’s display.
Fury burned in Zeng Ran. No one had ever humiliated Nethershade so.
Yet the leader’s tent remained silent. Where were the ten Purple-Cloak elites?
“Kill!” Zeng Ran ordered.
Four assassins materialized in black mist, striking from all sides—a flawless pincer attack.
But Yang Hao summoned Shadowmoon. Sparks flew as four swords shattered mid-air.
With a cold snort, Shadowmoon carved two Black-Cloaks apart while Yang Hao drew two more blades—Treasure Sword and Gravity Sword—piercing the Gray-Cloaks’ hearts.
One move. One move shattered Nethershade’s first killing formation.
Zeng Ran trembled.
The Three Killings Doctrine was Nethershade’s secret—a coordinated assassination art blending stealth with open combat, elevating them among the Ten Sword Schools.
Yet Yang Hao had dismantled its first form effortlessly.
“Again!” Zeng Ran roared. “Netherfrost Flying Swords!”
A wave of chilling qi rose, freezing the very air.
Netherfrost Qi—a cultivation method exclusive to Senate-affiliated forces—could turn blades into flying swords, beheading foes from kilometers away.
A hundred such swords would be unstoppable.
But as the assassins channeled their qi, two Gray-Cloaks burst into flames—human torches screaming in agony.
More combusted spontaneously, their bodies erupting from within.
Even Zeng Ran felt it—a sinister fire surging through his meridians, threatening to tear him apart.
With Zeng Ran’s command, four bursts of black mist exploded around Yang Hao. Two Black Robe and two Gray Robe assassins appeared simultaneously, rushing at Yang Hao from four directions.
These four directions were chosen perfectly, sealing off all possible escape routes for Yang Hao, leaving him nowhere to retreat or hide, and only death awaited him at their swords.
But the current Yang Hao was no one to be cornered. He recalled the Shadow Moon, and with a single “Yu” technique, four sparks exploded around him. Not only did the four assassins’ attacks stop, but their four swords had already been cut into pieces by the Shadow Moon, leaving them completely unable to continue their assault.
Yang Hao snorted coldly. With another graceful turn of the Shadow Moon, it moved like a fish leaping into the sea, slicing two Black Robe assassins in half. Yang Hao then drew the Treasure Sword and the Gravity Sword from behind, piercing the hearts of the Gray Robe assassins.
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Cloak rank in the Twilight Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young killers. The Twilight Assassins had long-standing traditions, but after the “Night of Twilight,” the group was nearly wiped out to protect the Emperor. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the entire assassin hierarchy.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above Level 14 were Gray-Cloaks, those above Level 18 were Black-Cloaks, and those above Level 22 were Purple-Cloaks.
Now, the Twilight Assassins had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Cloaks, hundreds of Black-Cloaks, and even eighteen Purple-Cloaks.
In terms of strength, the Twilight Assassins were among the top factions even within the Ten Sword Sects.
If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Cloaks, the group’s combat prowess would have been even greater.
To prevent the Twilight Assassins from becoming too powerful, the Senate always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within. However, every leader inevitably clashed with the Purple-Cloaks, leading to internal strife and weakening the group’s overall strength.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. His thoughts flickered briefly before he withdrew his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and focused on inspecting the hidden sentries.
There wasn’t much to check—the Twilight Assassins operated with strict discipline, and their concealed sentries were flawless. Especially in this desolate, freezing wasteland, no one would be foolish enough to come here seeking death.
So Zeng Ran relaxed, though a discomfort in his stomach unsettled him slightly.
Given his mastery of the “Chill Qi,” his body should have been icy cold, lifeless as ancient ice to outsiders. Yet now, it felt as if a fire burned inside him, consuming even some of his Chill Qi.
“Tonight’s dinner must have been too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As an assassin, hot meals were rare. Only the leader’s return had granted them this luxury.
Approaching the last sentry post, Zeng Ran saw his two Gray-Cloak subordinates blending into the massive star-rock like wisps of gray mist—a concealment technique unique to the Twilight Assassins. Even members of other sword sects would struggle to detect them.
“Nobody in this world could breach the Twilight Assassins’ defenses,” Zeng Ran thought smugly.
But as he turned to leave, a bizarre illusion flickered before his eyes—the heads of his two Gray-Cloak subordinates suddenly flew into the air.
It was surreal. The two had been seamlessly merged with the star-rock, yet now their masked heads soared as if the rock itself had sprouted them.
Zeng Ran froze, scanning the surroundings but finding no trace of an intruder. He rushed toward the star-rock to investigate.
Fate spared him—a chilling gust of wind swept toward him from the front.
Reacting instantly, Zeng Ran twisted his body and collapsed like mud, narrowly avoiding the unseen threat. Behind him, a Gray-Cloak subordinate screamed as an invisible force cleaved him in two, splattering blood and entrails everywhere.
In the crimson rain, a strange crescent-shaped blade materialized, spinning gracefully before vanishing back toward a figure emerging from behind the star-rock.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery—clearly a high-ranking officer.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran demanded, drawing his sword.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled, hands clasped behind his back as he strolled leisurely. The crescent blade—Shadowmoon—disappeared again, its chilling wind surging toward Zeng Ran with his words:
“I am the Lord of the Divine Dominion, soon-to-be Viscount of the Empire.”
Though he couldn’t see Shadowmoon, Zeng Ran knew danger loomed. He acted swiftly—retreating, flicking his sword, and scattering powder—all in one fluid motion.
His retreat was swift, abandoning his subordinates as he fled toward the base. The flick of his sword sent a resonant hum echoing through the camp—a unique alarm signal of the Twilight Assassins.
The powder he scattered was a potent knockout drug, originally crafted by the Alchemy Sect but now in the Senate’s hands. Yet it had no effect on Yang Hao.
Shadowmoon missed Zeng Ran but claimed another Gray-Cloak’s head, its graceful arc almost hypnotic in its lethality.
Yang Hao advanced, impressed despite the ease of his kills. He had fought elite warrior groups before—the Royal Swordsmen and the Demon Bear Corps—but the Twilight Assassins surpassed them all.
A swordsman group’s strength lay not just in individual skill but in discipline and coordination. Despite the sudden attack and loss of sentries, Zeng Ran had remained composed, prioritizing warning the base over saving his men—a testament to the Twilight Assassins’ training.
Upon the alarm, assassins poured out instantly, fully armed and battle-ready even in sleep.
Yang Hao admired their efficiency, wishing he had such a force to counter the Ten Sword Sects.
But admiration aside, danger loomed.
Zeng Ran, now backed by a hundred Gray-Cloaks, forty Black-Cloaks, and ten Purple-Cloaks, glared at Yang Hao with renewed confidence.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly appointed Lord?”
“That’s me.” Yang Hao grinned, though Shadowmoon remained hidden.
Zeng Ran tensed. He’d heard of Yang Hao—how their leader and ten Black-Cloaks had failed to land a single blow against him. And that strange weapon of his bore the glow of a divine artifact—a dream for any assassin.
Bowing respectfully—a gesture reserved for top-tier warriors—Zeng Ran asked, “As a noble of the Empire, why oppose the Twilight Assassins?”
Yang Hao coughed lightly, scrambling for an excuse. “Your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something important from me. I’m here to take it back.”
Zeng Ran scoffed inwardly. Killing four Gray-Cloaks before even speaking? This was clearly an attack, not a negotiation.
“For a decade, people have only fled from the Twilight Assassins. None dared seek death.” Zeng Ran’s voice turned icy as a hundred swords pointed at Yang Hao. “Think carefully, Lord.”
Yang Hao didn’t think—he moved.
Like a phantom, he shattered their formation, Shadowmoon claiming three more heads before he returned to his spot.
Zeng Ran seethed. No one had ever humiliated the Twilight Assassins like this.
Yet the leader’s tent remained silent. Where were the ten Purple-Cloaks?
“Kill!” Zeng Ran ordered.
Four assassins—two Black-Cloaks, two Gray-Cloaks—materialized in black mist, striking from all sides.
But Yang Hao summoned Shadowmoon, deflecting all four blades in a shower of sparks before bisecting the Black-Cloaks and impaling the Gray-Cloaks with his twin swords—Gravity and Treasure.
One move—just one—shattered the first stance of the Twilight Three-Kill Doctrine.
Zeng Ran paled.
The Three-Kill Doctrine was a secret, rarely used technique—a fusion of assassination and open combat that had elevated the Twilight Assassins to fame.
Yet Yang Hao had dismantled it effortlessly.
“Again!” Zeng Ran roared. “Chill Qi Flying Swords!”
A wave of freezing energy surged from the assassins, as if the world itself had turned to ice.
Chill Qi—a rare cultivation method permitted only under the Senate—could turn swords into flying blades, capable of beheading foes from kilometers away.
A hundred such blades would be unstoppable.
But the horror never came.
Two Gray-Cloaks burst into flames, burning like human torches. Others followed, their bodies igniting from within.
Even Zeng Ran felt it—a strange fire surged from his dantian, threatening to tear his meridians apart.
This made Zeng Ran’s heart tremble with fear.
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Clothed rank in the Dusk Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young killers. The Dusk Assassins had long-standing traditions, but after the “Night of Dusk,” the group was nearly annihilated to protect the Emperor. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the entire assassin hierarchy.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above Level 14 were Gray-Clothed, those above Level 18 were Black-Clothed, and those above Level 22 were Purple-Clothed.
Today, the Dusk Assassins had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Clothed assassins, over a hundred Black-Clothed, and even eighteen Purple-Clothed.
In terms of strength, the Dusk Assassins were among the top even within the Ten Sword Schools.
If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Clothed group, their combat prowess could have been even greater.
To prevent the Dusk Assassins from becoming too powerful, the Senate always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within. However, every leader had clashed with the Purple-Clothed elites, leading to internal strife and a decline in overall strength.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. His thoughts flickered briefly before he withdrew his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and focused on inspecting the hidden sentries.
There wasn’t much to check—the Dusk Assassins operated with strict discipline, and their concealed sentries were flawless. Especially in this desolate, freezing wasteland, no one would be foolish enough to come seeking death.
Zeng Ran relaxed slightly, though an uncomfortable sensation in his stomach unsettled him.
Given his mastery of the Chilling Qi, his body should have been icy cold, lifeless as ancient frost to outsiders. Yet now, it felt as if a fire burned inside him, consuming even some of his Chilling Qi.
“Tonight’s dinner must have been too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As an assassin, hot meals were rare, and tonight’s feast was only because the long-absent leader had returned.
Approaching the last sentry post, Zeng Ran saw two Gray-Clothed subordinates blending into the massive star-rock like wisps of gray mist—a concealment technique unique to the Dusk Assassins. Even members of other sword schools would struggle to detect them.
In all the world, no one capable of breaching the Dusk Assassins’ defenses had yet been born.
Zeng Ran swelled with pride. After a final glance at the sentry, he turned to leave and deal with his stomach issue. But that glance revealed something surreal—a phantom-like vision.
He saw the heads of his two Gray-Clothed subordinates fly into the air.
It was a bizarre sight. The two had been perfectly merged with the star-rock, indistinguishable from it. Yet now, two masked heads had inexplicably risen from the rock, as if the stone itself had sprouted them.
Zeng Ran froze instinctively. He scanned the surroundings but saw no trace of an intruder. He rushed toward the star-rock to investigate.
Fate spared him. A chilling gust of wind brushed past his front.
Zeng Ran, a seasoned Black-Clothed leader, reacted instantly. Without knowing the source of the threat, he twisted his body and collapsed like mud to the ground. His reflexes were so swift that his subordinates barely registered what had happened.
As the cold wind passed, a scream erupted behind Zeng Ran. One of his Gray-Clothed subordinates had been cleanly bisected by an unseen force, blood and viscera spraying everywhere.
Amid the crimson rain, a peculiar crescent-shaped blade flickered into visibility, tracing an elegant arc before returning to the figure emerging from behind the star-rock.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery at the collar and cuffs—the attire of a high-ranking officer.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran drew his sword and demanded.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled faintly, hands clasped behind his back as he strolled forward. The crescent blade vanished again, and the icy wind surged toward Zeng Ran once more, carrying Yang Hao’s voice:
“I am the Lord of the Divine Mandate Autonomous Territory, soon-to-be Imperial Viscount.”
Though he couldn’t see the blade, Zeng Ran knew disaster loomed. He acted swiftly, executing three moves in rapid succession:
Retreat!
Flick his sword!
Scatter poison!
The sequence was seamless—Zeng Ran retreated without hesitation, abandoning his subordinates as he bolted toward the main camp.
The flick of his sword produced a resonant hum, a signal that echoed through the Dusk Assassins’ base—a unique alarm for imminent danger.
The powder he scattered was the Dusk Assassins’ signature knockout drug, originally crafted by the Alchemy Sect before falling into the Senate’s hands. But it was useless against Yang Hao.
Though Zeng Ran dodged the crescent blade, it effortlessly sliced through his subordinate’s neck. The blade’s graceful arc seemed slow, yet it carried an irresistible allure, as if inviting its victims to offer their throats willingly.
Another Gray-Clothed assassin fell without a sound, head severed, blood gushing a meter high as his body remained standing.
Yang Hao advanced, impressed despite the ease of his kills. He had faced many martial groups—even defeated elite forces like the King’s Swordsmen and the Demon Bear Regiment. But the Dusk Assassins surpassed them all.
A sword school’s strength lay not just in individual skill but in discipline and coordination. Despite the sudden attack and the loss of their sentries, Zeng Ran had remained composed, prioritizing retreat to alert the main camp—a testament to their training.
Upon receiving the alarm, the assassins surged out instantly, fully armed and battle-ready even in sleep.
Yang Hao admired this formidable force, wishing he had such a swordsmen group to defy the Ten Sword Schools.
But admiration aside, danger loomed.
Zeng Ran, now backed by reinforcements, glared at Yang Hao with renewed confidence. This mission had deployed a hundred Gray-Clothed, forty Black-Clothed, and even ten Purple-Clothed elites—enough to annihilate an entire sword school, let alone one man.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly appointed Lord?”
“That’s me.” Yang Hao grinned, pointing at himself as the crescent blade disappeared again.
Zeng Ran tensed. He’d heard of Yang Hao—how their leader and ten Black-Clothed assassins had been repelled without landing a single strike. Rumors spoke of a divine weapon, an assassin’s dream.
Bowing respectfully—a gesture reserved for top-tier warriors—Zeng Ran asked, “As an Imperial noble, why oppose the Dusk Assassins?”
Yang Hao coughed lightly, scrambling for an excuse. He couldn’t admit he was here to kidnap a woman and steal a sacred sword.
“Your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something important from me. I’m here to reclaim it.”
Zeng Ran scoffed inwardly. Killing four Gray-Clothed assassins before even speaking? This was clearly an attack, not a negotiation.
“For a decade, people have fled from the Dusk Assassins. None dare seek death.” Zeng Ran’s expression darkened as hundreds of swords pointed at Yang Hao. “Think carefully, Lord.”
Yang Hao didn’t hesitate. He moved like a blur, shattering the assassins’ formation. The crescent blade reappeared, its golden-edged darkness claiming three more heads before vanishing again.
Returning to his original spot, Yang Hao had already killed five men, his movements fluid and masterful.
Zeng Ran seethed. No one had ever humiliated the Dusk Assassins like this.
Yet the leader’s tent remained silent. Where were the ten Purple-Clothed elites?
“Kill!” Zeng Ran barked. Without the leader, he was in command.
Four assassins materialized around Yang Hao in bursts of black mist—two Gray-Clothed, two Black-Clothed—attacking from all angles, leaving no escape.
But Yang Hao was no easy prey. Summoning the crescent blade, he parried all four strikes, shattering their swords effortlessly.
With a cold smirk, the blade carved through two Black-Clothed assassins while Yang Hao drew his Gravity Sword and Treasure Sword, impaling the Gray-Clothed killers.
One move—just one—shattered the first stance of the Dusk Assassins’ Triple Kill Doctrine.
Zeng Ran trembled.
The Triple Kill Doctrine was a closely guarded secret, rarely used in the Dusk Assassins’ history. It transformed their covert assassinations into open, coordinated slaughter.
Developed a decade ago by the Senate’s elders, it was what elevated the Dusk Assassins to prominence among the Ten Sword Schools.
Against a warrior like Yang Hao, individual skill was futile. Only the Triple Kill Doctrine stood a chance.
Even if the first stance failed, there were two more.
“Kill! Chilling Qi Flying Swords!” Zeng Ran roared.
A wave of freezing energy rose from the assassins, chilling the air as if the world itself had turned desolate.
Chilling Qi was a unique cultivation method, exclusive to Senate-affiliated forces under Imperial decree. Infused into swords, it allowed them to fly like legendary blades, decapitating foes from kilometers away.
A single flying sword was manageable. A hundred? Deadly.
Yet the expected barrage never came.
Two Gray-Clothed assassins burst into flames mid-chant, their Chilling Qi igniting from within, reducing them to human torches.
More followed, their bodies erupting in fire as if their very veins burned.
Even Zeng Ran faltered. The moment he channeled Chilling Qi, a strange inferno surged from his dantian, threatening to tear his meridians apart.
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Cloak rank in the Twilight Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young killers. The Twilight Assassins had long-standing traditions, but after the “Night of Twilight,” the group was nearly annihilated to protect the Emperor. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the entire assassin hierarchy.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above Level 14 were Gray-Cloaks, those above Level 18 were Black-Cloaks, and those above Level 22 were Purple-Cloaks.
Today, the Twilight Assassins had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Cloaks, hundreds of Black-Cloaks, and even eighteen Purple-Cloaks.
In terms of strength, the Twilight Assassins were among the top-tier factions even within the Ten Sword Schools.
If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Cloaks, the group’s combat prowess would have been even greater.
To prevent the Twilight Assassins from becoming too powerful, the Senate always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within. However, every leader inevitably clashed with the Purple-Cloaks, leading to internal strife that weakened the group.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. His thoughts flickered briefly before he withdrew his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and focused on inspecting the hidden sentries.
There wasn’t much to check—the Twilight Assassins were highly disciplined, and their concealed sentries were flawless. Especially in this desolate wasteland, no one would dare come seeking death.
Zeng Ran relaxed slightly, though an uncomfortable sensation in his stomach unsettled him.
Given his mastery of the Cold Yin Qi, his body should have been icy and lifeless, like ancient frost. Yet now, it felt as though a fire burned inside him, consuming even his Cold Yin Qi.
“Tonight’s dinner must have been too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As an assassin, hot meals were rare. Only the leader’s return had granted them this luxury.
Approaching the last sentry post, Zeng Ran saw his two Gray-Cloak subordinates blending into the massive star-rock like wisps of gray mist—a concealment technique unique to the Twilight Assassins. Even members of other sword schools would struggle to detect them.
“Under heaven, no one could breach the Twilight Assassins’ defenses,” Zeng Ran thought smugly.
But as he turned to leave, something flickered in his vision—an illusion, perhaps.
Then, impossibly, the heads of the two hidden assassins flew into the air.
The sight was surreal. The assassins had merged seamlessly with the rock, yet now two masked heads soared upward as if the stone itself had sprouted them.
Zeng Ran froze, scanning the area but finding no trace of an intruder. He rushed toward the star-rock for answers.
Fate spared him. A chilling gust swept past his face.
Reacting instantly, Zeng Ran twisted his body and collapsed like mud. His reflexes were so sharp that his subordinates barely registered the danger.
Behind him, a scream erupted—one of his Gray-Cloak subordinates had been cleanly bisected by an unseen force, blood and viscera spraying everywhere.
Amid the crimson rain, a bizarre crescent-shaped blade materialized, arcing gracefully before vanishing back toward a figure emerging from behind the star-rock.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery—clearly a high-ranking officer.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran demanded, drawing his sword.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled, hands clasped behind his back as he strolled forward. The crescent blade—Shadowmoon—disappeared again, its icy wind surging toward Zeng Ran with his words:
“I am the Lord of the Divine Mandate Autonomous Territory, future Viscount of the Empire.”
Though he couldn’t see Shadowmoon, Zeng Ran knew disaster loomed. He acted swiftly:
Retreat!
Flick his sword!
Scatter powder!
The sequence was executed flawlessly. Zeng Ran abandoned his subordinates, darting toward the main camp.
The sword flick sent a resonant hum echoing through the air—a unique alarm that instantly triggered a synchronized response from the Twilight Assassins’ base.
The powder was a soporific agent, a creation of the Alchemy Sect that had somehow fallen into the Senate’s hands. But it had no effect on Yang Hao.
Shadowmoon missed Zeng Ran but effortlessly beheaded another subordinate, its graceful arc almost hypnotic—so beautiful that one might willingly offer their neck to its edge.
The Gray-Cloak died without a sound, his headless body standing eerily upright as blood gushed skyward.
Yang Hao advanced, impressed despite the ease of his kills. He had battled elite warrior groups before—the Royal Swordsmen and the Demon Bear Brigade—but the Twilight Assassins surpassed them all.
A sword faction’s strength lay not just in individual skill but in discipline and coordination. Despite the ambush and the swift elimination of their sentries, Zeng Ran had remained composed, prioritizing retreat to alert the main force.
Within moments, assassins poured from the camp, fully armed and battle-ready even in sleep.
Yang Hao admired their efficiency, wishing he commanded such a force. But admiration didn’t dull the imminent threat.
Regrouped, Zeng Ran glared at Yang Hao with renewed confidence. This contingent included a hundred Gray-Cloaks, forty Black-Cloaks, and ten Purple-Cloaks—enough to annihilate an entire sword faction, let alone one man.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly appointed Lord?”
“The very same.” Yang Hao grinned, tapping his chest as Shadowmoon vanished once more.
Zeng Ran tensed. Rumors spoke of Yang Hao defeating ten Black-Cloaks in a single strike. And that strange weapon of his—rumored to be divine—was every assassin’s dream.
Bowing respectfully—a gesture reserved for top-tier warriors—Zeng Ran asked, “My Lord, as a noble of the Empire, why oppose the Twilight Assassins?”
Yang Hao coughed lightly. The truth—that he was here to kidnap his child’s mother and steal a sacred sword—wasn’t an option. Thinking fast, he lied:
“Your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something precious from me. I’ve come to reclaim it.”
Zeng Ran scoffed inwardly. Four assassins lay dead before negotiations even began—this was clearly an attack, not a retrieval.
“In ten years, none have dared challenge the Twilight Assassins,” Zeng Ran said coldly, raising his sword. Hundreds of blades pointed at Yang Hao. “Consider your next move carefully, Lord.”
Consider? Yang Hao moved instantly, a blur crashing through the assassins’ formation. Shadowmoon reappeared, its golden-edged blade claiming three more heads before vanishing again.
By the time Yang Hao returned to his starting position, five lay dead.
Zeng Ran seethed. No one disrespected the Twilight Assassins like this.
Yet the leader’s tent remained ominously silent. Where were the ten Purple-Cloaks?
“Kill!” Zeng Ran barked. Without the elites, command fell to him.
Four assassins materialized in black mist, striking from all sides—a flawless pincer attack leaving no escape.
But Yang Hao was no easy prey. Summoning Shadowmoon, he parried all four strikes, shattering their swords. A second slash bisected two Black-Cloaks, while Yang Hao drew his twin blades—Treasure Sword and Gravity Sword—piercing the Gray-Cloaks’ hearts.
One move dismantled the first variation of the Twilight Three-Kill Doctrine.
Zeng Ran paled.
The Three-Kill Doctrine was a closely guarded secret, rarely used in the Assassins’ history. Developed a decade ago, it transformed covert assassins into a coordinated strike force, elevating the Twilight Assassins into a renowned sword school.
Facing a top-tier warrior like Yang Hao, individual skill was futile. Only the Three-Kill Doctrine stood a chance.
Even if the first variation failed, there were two more.
“Kill! Kill!” Zeng Ran roared. “Cold Yin Flying Swords!”
A wave of frigid energy surged from the assassins, chilling the very air.
Cold Yin Qi, a rare cultivation method permitted only to Senate-affiliated factions, could turn swords into guided projectiles—flying blades capable of decapitating targets from kilometers away.
A single flying sword was manageable. A hundred, attacking from all angles with varying force and trajectory, was terrifying.
Yet the horror never came.
As two Gray-Cloaks channeled Cold Yin Qi, flames erupted from their cores, engulfing them in an instant. More assassins combusted behind Zeng Ran, their bodies reduced to charred husks.
Even Zeng Ran felt it—a sinister fire surging through his meridians, threatening to tear him apart from within.
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Cloak rank in the Dusk Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young killers. The Dusk Assassins had long-standing traditions, but after the “Night of Dusk,” the group was nearly wiped out to protect the Emperor. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the entire assassin hierarchy.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above level 14 were Gray-Cloaks, those above level 18 were Black-Cloaks, and those above level 22 were Purple-Cloaks.
Now, the Dusk Assassins had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Cloaks, hundreds of Black-Cloaks, and even eighteen Purple-Cloaks.
In terms of strength, the Dusk Assassins were among the top even within the Ten Sword Schools.
If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Cloaks, the group’s combat prowess would have been even greater.
To prevent the Dusk Assassins from becoming too powerful, the Senate always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within. However, every leader had clashed with the Purple-Cloaks, leading to internal strife and weakening the group’s overall strength.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. His thoughts flickered briefly before he averted his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and focused on inspecting the hidden sentries.
There wasn’t much to check—the Dusk Assassins were highly disciplined, and their concealed sentries were flawless. Besides, in this desolate wasteland, no one would be foolish enough to come seeking death.
Zeng Ran relaxed slightly, though an uncomfortable sensation in his stomach unsettled him.
Given his mastery of the “Chill Qi,” his body should have been icy cold, lifeless as ancient frost to outsiders. Yet now, it felt as though a fire burned inside him, dispersing even some of his accumulated Chill Qi.
“Tonight’s dinner must have been too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As an assassin, hot meals were rare—today’s feast was only because the long-absent leader had returned.
Approaching the last sentry post, Zeng Ran saw his two Gray-Cloak subordinates blending into the massive star-rock like wisps of gray mist. This concealment technique was unique to the Dusk Assassins—even members of other sword schools would struggle to detect them.
In all the world, no one could breach the Dusk Assassins’ defenses.
Zeng Ran swelled with pride. After a final glance at the sentry, he turned to leave and deal with his stomach issue. But in that instant, his vision blurred as if a gray mist had appeared before him.
To his horror, he saw the heads of his two Gray-Cloak subordinates fly into the air.
It was a surreal sight—the two had been fused with the star-rock, nearly indistinguishable from it. Yet now, two masked heads had inexplicably detached, as if the rock itself had sprouted them.
Zeng Ran froze instinctively, scanning the surroundings but finding no trace of an intruder. He rushed toward the star-rock to investigate.
Fate intervened—Zeng Ran sensed an icy wind slicing toward him from the front.
As a Black-Cloak leader, his reflexes were impeccable. Without knowing the source, he twisted his body and collapsed like mud to the ground. His reaction was so swift that his subordinates barely registered the danger.
As the chilling wind passed, a scream erupted behind him. One of his Gray-Cloak subordinates had been bisected by an unseen force, blood and viscera spraying everywhere.
Amid the crimson rain, a bizarre crescent-shaped blade flickered into visibility, arcing gracefully before returning to a figure emerging from behind the star-rock.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery—clearly a high-ranking officer.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran drew his sword and demanded.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled faintly, hands clasped behind his back as he strolled forward. The crescent blade vanished again, and the frigid wind surged toward Zeng Ran once more, carrying Yang Hao’s voice:
“I am the Lord of the Divine Dominion, soon-to-be Imperial Viscount.”
Though he couldn’t see the blade, Zeng Ran knew disaster loomed. He acted swiftly, executing three moves in rapid succession:
Retreat!
Flick his sword!
Scatter poison!
The sequence was flawless—Zeng Ran retreated without hesitation, abandoning his subordinates as he bolted toward the main camp.
The flick of his sword produced a resonant hum, a signal that echoed through the Dusk Assassins’ base—a unique alarm for imminent danger.
The powder he scattered was the Dusk Assassins’ signature knockout drug, originally crafted by the Alchemy Sect but somehow acquired by the Senate. To Yang Hao, it was useless.
Though Zeng Ran escaped, the crescent blade claimed another victim—his remaining subordinate’s head flew off in a slow, mesmerizing arc. The blade seemed enchanted, its beauty luring victims to offer their necks willingly.
Yang Hao advanced, impressed despite the ease of his kills. He had faced many warrior groups—even the elite Royal Swordsmen and Demon Bear Corps had fallen before him. Yet the Dusk Assassins surpassed them all.
A sword school’s strength lay not just in individual skill but in discipline and coordination. Despite the ambush and the swift elimination of their sentries, Zeng Ran had remained composed, sacrificing subordinates to warn the main camp.
The assassins inside surged out immediately, fully armed and battle-ready even in sleep.
Yang Hao admired their efficiency, wishing he had such a force to counter the Ten Sword Schools.
But admiration didn’t dull the looming threat.
Zeng Ran, now backed by reinforcements, glared at Yang Hao with renewed confidence. This contingent included a hundred Gray-Cloaks, forty Black-Cloaks, and even ten Purple-Cloaks—enough to annihilate an entire sword school, let alone one man.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly appointed Lord?”
“The very same.” Yang Hao grinned, tapping his chest as the crescent blade disappeared again.
Zeng Ran tensed. He’d heard of Yang Hao—how their leader and ten Black-Cloaks had failed to land a single blow against him. Rumors spoke of a weapon with divine properties, the dream of every assassin.
Bowing slightly—a gesture reserved for top-tier warriors—Zeng Ran asked, “As an Imperial noble, why oppose the Dusk Assassins?”
Yang Hao coughed lightly, scrambling for an answer. He couldn’t admit he was here to kidnap a woman and steal a sacred sword. Instead, he shifted blame:
“Your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something important from me. I’ve come to reclaim it.”
Zeng Ran scoffed inwardly. Killing four Gray-Cloaks before negotiations? This was clearly an attack, not a retrieval mission.
“In the past decade, no one has dared challenge the Dusk Assassins,” Zeng Ran said coldly, raising his sword as hundreds followed suit. “Think carefully, Lord.”
Yang Hao didn’t hesitate. He moved like a phantom, shattering the assassins’ formation. The crescent blade reappeared, its golden-edged elegance claiming three more heads before vanishing again.
In one fluid motion, Yang Hao broke their formation and slew five men, his mastery evident.
Zeng Ran seethed—no one had ever humiliated the Dusk Assassins like this.
Yet the leader’s tent remained silent. Where were the ten Purple-Cloaks?
“Kill!” Zeng Ran barked, assuming command.
Four assassins materialized in bursts of black mist, striking from all angles to trap Yang Hao.
But Yang Hao was no easy prey. Summoning the crescent blade, he deflected all four attacks, shattering their swords. With a flick, two Black-Cloaks fell bisected, while Yang Hao drew two more blades—Treasure Sword and Gravity Sword—piercing the Gray-Cloaks’ hearts.
One move dismantled the first variation of the Dusk Assassins’ “Triple Kill Doctrine.”
Zeng Ran paled.
The Triple Kill Doctrine was a closely guarded secret, rarely used. It transformed assassins from lone hunters into a coordinated killing machine, blending stealth with open combat.
Developed a decade ago, it had elevated the Dusk Assassins into a formidable sword school.
Yet Yang Hao had dismantled its first form effortlessly.
“Again!” Zeng Ran roared. “Chill Qi Flying Swords!”
A wave of icy energy rose from the assassins, chilling the very air.
Chill Qi was a rare cultivation method, reserved for Senate-affiliated warriors. Infused into swords, it allowed them to fly like legendary blades, decapitating foes from afar.
A hundred such swords would be unstoppable.
But the horror never came.
Two Gray-Cloaks burst into flames mid-technique, burning like torches. Others followed, their bodies igniting from within.
Even Zeng Ran felt it—a strange fire surged through his meridians, threatening to tear him apart.
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Cloak rank within the Obsidian Order, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young assassins of his generation. The Obsidian Assassins had long-standing traditions, but after the “Night of Obsidian,” the order was nearly wiped out to ensure the safety of the empire’s emperor. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the entire assassin hierarchy of the Obsidian Order.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above Level 14 were Gray-Cloaks, those above Level 18 were Black-Cloaks, and those above Level 22 were Purple-Cloaks.
Today, the Obsidian Order had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Cloak assassins, over a hundred Black-Cloaks, and even eighteen Purple-Cloaks.
It could be said that the strength of the Obsidian Assassins was among the top even within the Ten Sword Schools.
If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Cloak team, the Obsidian Order’s combat power might have been even greater.
To prevent the Obsidian Order from becoming too powerful, the Senate had always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within the order’s own ranks. However, every leader had clashed with the Purple-Cloak elites, leading to internal strife that weakened the Obsidian Order’s overall strength.
Such grand matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. His thoughts flickered briefly before he averted his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and focused on inspecting the hidden sentries.
Truthfully, there wasn’t much to inspect. The Obsidian Order was highly disciplined, with each member fulfilling their role meticulously. The hidden sentries were flawless, especially in this desolate and frigid land where no one would dare come seeking death.
Thus, Zeng Ran relaxed, though a discomfort in his stomach unsettled him slightly.
Given his mastery of the “Cold Qi,” Zeng Ran’s body should have been icy and lifeless, like an ancient block of ice. Yet now, it felt as though a fire burned inside him, consuming even some of his Cold Qi.
“Tonight’s dinner must have been too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As an assassin of the Obsidian Order, hot meals were rare. Only the leader’s return had granted them this luxury.
Approaching the last hidden sentry, Zeng Ran saw his two Gray-Cloak subordinates blending into the massive star-rock like wisps of gray mist. This concealment technique was unique to the Obsidian Order—even members of other sword schools would struggle to detect them.
In all the world, no one could breach the Obsidian Order’s defenses.
Zeng Ran swelled with pride. After a final glance at the sentry, he turned to leave and tend to his stomach. But that glance revealed something surreal—a phantom-like vision.
He saw the heads of his two Gray-Cloak subordinates rise into the air.
It was a bizarre sight. The two had been perfectly merged with the star-rock, indistinguishable from it. Yet now, two masked heads floated eerily, as if the rock itself had sprouted them.
Instinctively, Zeng Ran froze. He scanned the surroundings but saw no trace of an intruder. He rushed toward the star-rock to investigate.
Fate spared him. Zeng Ran sensed a chilling wind slicing toward him from the front.
As a Black-Cloak leader, his reflexes were impeccable. Without knowing the source, he twisted his body and collapsed like mud to the ground. His reaction was so swift that his subordinates barely registered what had happened.
As the cold wind passed, a scream erupted behind Zeng Ran. One of his Gray-Cloak subordinates had been cleaved in half by an unseen force, blood and viscera spraying everywhere.
In the bloody aftermath, a peculiar crescent-shaped blade shimmered into view, tracing an elegant arc before returning to a figure emerging from behind the star-rock.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery—clearly a high-ranking officer.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran drew his sword and demanded.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled faintly, hands clasped behind his back as he strolled leisurely. Yet his blade, Shadowmoon, vanished again into the air, and the icy wind surged toward Zeng Ran once more, carrying his words: “I am the lord of the Divine Dominion, soon-to-be Viscount of the Empire.”
Though he couldn’t see Shadowmoon, Zeng Ran knew disaster loomed. He acted swiftly, executing three moves in succession:
Retreat!
Flick his sword!
Scatter powder!
The sequence was seamless, executed with breathtaking speed. Zeng Ran retreated without hesitation, abandoning his subordinates as he bolted toward the main camp.
The flick of his sword produced a resonant hum—a unique alarm signal that echoed throughout the Obsidian Order’s headquarters.
The powder he scattered was the Obsidian Order’s signature knockout drug, originally crafted by the Alchemy Sect but somehow acquired by the Senate. Yet it had no effect on Yang Hao.
Shadowmoon missed Zeng Ran but effortlessly severed the neck of another Gray-Cloak assassin. The blade’s graceful arc seemed almost slow, yet it carried an irresistible allure—as if inviting its victims to offer their necks willingly.
The second Gray-Cloak died without a sound, his headless body standing eerily upright as blood gushed skyward.
Yang Hao advanced, impressed despite the ease of his kills. He had faced many martial groups—even defeated the elite Royal Swordsmen and the Demon Bear Regiment—but the Obsidian Order surpassed them all.
A sword school’s strength lay not only in individual skill but also in discipline and coordination. Despite the sudden ambush and the swift elimination of their sentries, Zeng Ran had remained composed, prioritizing retreat to warn the main camp—a testament to the Obsidian Order’s training.
Upon receiving the alarm, the assassins surged forth instantly, fully armed and battle-ready even in sleep.
Yang Hao admired this formidable force, wishing he could command such a regiment to defy the Ten Sword Schools.
But admiration aside, danger loomed.
Having rallied his forces, Zeng Ran turned back with renewed confidence, born from familiarity with his side’s strength. This contingent included a hundred Gray-Cloaks, forty Black-Cloaks, and even ten Purple-Cloaks—a formidable assembly capable of annihilating an entire sword school, let alone a single intruder.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly appointed Lord Yang?”
“That’s me.” Yang Hao grinned, pointing at himself as Shadowmoon vanished once more.
Zeng Ran tensed. He had heard of Yang Hao—how their leader and ten Black-Cloaks had failed to land a single strike against him. Moreover, Yang Hao’s bizarre weapon bore the glow of a divine artifact. A blade that could vanish was every assassin’s dream.
Zeng Ran bowed slightly—a gesture reserved for the empire’s top warriors.
“Lord Yang, as a noble of the empire, why oppose the Obsidian Order?”
“Hmm…” Yang Hao coughed lightly, struggling for an answer. He couldn’t very well admit he was here to kidnap a woman and steal a sacred sword. Thinking fast, he shifted blame: “Your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something important from me. I’ve come to reclaim it.”
Zeng Ran scoffed inwardly. Killing four Gray-Cloaks before even speaking was hardly the act of a man seeking justice.
“For a decade, people have fled the Obsidian Order. None have dared seek death like this.” Zeng Ran’s expression darkened as he raised his sword. Over a hundred blades pointed at Yang Hao. “Lord Yang, reconsider.”
Reconsider? Yang Hao moved without hesitation, darting like a phantom into the assassins’ formation, shattering their carefully arranged sword formation. Shadowmoon struck faster, its dark, gold-tinged edge claiming three more Gray-Cloak heads before vanishing again.
By the time Yang Hao returned to his original position, Shadowmoon had claimed five lives.
The fluid, masterful display left Zeng Ran seething. Never had the Obsidian Order been so disrespected—their honor lay in taking lives, not losing them.
Yet glancing back, Zeng Ran grew uneasy. The leader’s tent remained silent. The ten Purple-Cloak elites should have responded to the alarm by now.
“Kill!” Zeng Ran barked, assuming command in their absence.
Four clouds of black mist exploded around Yang Hao as two Black-Cloaks and two Gray-Cloaks struck simultaneously from all directions, sealing his escape.
But Yang Hao was no easy prey. Recalling Shadowmoon, he unleashed the “Deflection” technique, sparks flying as four swords shattered mid-air.
With a cold snort, Shadowmoon arced gracefully, bisecting two Black-Cloaks while Yang Hao drew his Gravity Sword and Treasure Sword, piercing the Gray-Cloaks’ hearts.
One move—just one—shattered the first variation of the Obsidian Order’s “Triple Kill Doctrine.”
Zeng Ran trembled.
The Triple Kill Doctrine was a closely guarded secret, rarely used in the Obsidian Order’s history. Most assassins worked alone, striking from shadows before vanishing.
But a decade ago, the order’s elders devised this doctrine, transforming assassination into open combat and group tactics. It was this doctrine that elevated the Obsidian Order into the ranks of the Ten Sword Schools, granting them both stealth and battlefield prowess.
Facing Yang Hao—a warrior ranked among the empire’s top hundred—Zeng Ran knew individual skill wouldn’t suffice. Only the Triple Kill Doctrine stood a chance.
Even if Yang Hao had broken the first variation, there was more to come.
“Kill! Kill!” Zeng Ran roared. “Cold Qi Flying Swords!”
Yang Hao watched as a wave of chilling energy rose from the assassins, engulfing the world in an icy aura.
Cold Qi was the Obsidian Order’s signature energy, a rare cultivation method permitted only under the Senate’s direct oversight. Infused into swords, it allowed them to fly like legendary blades, beheading foes from kilometers away.
A single flying sword was no threat, but a hundred—each controlled by will, striking from different angles with varying force—would be overwhelming. Even Yang Hao’s “Deflection” technique might falter.
Yet the horror never materialized.
As Zeng Ran shouted, two Gray-Cloaks channeled Cold Qi—only for flames to erupt from their cores, engulfing them in an instant.
More assassins burst into spontaneous combustion, their bodies burning from within. Even Zeng Ran felt it—a strange fire surging through his meridians, threatening to tear him apart.
Even if Yang Hao had broken the first move with one strike, it was not that big of a deal.
“Kill! Kill!!” Zeng Ran shouted again, “Release the Stillness Sword!”
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Clothed rank in the Dusk Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young killers. The Dusk Assassins had long-standing traditions, but after the “Night of Dusk,” in order to protect the Emperor, the assassination group was nearly annihilated. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the entire assassin system of the Dusk Assassins.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above level 14 were Gray-Clothed, those above level 18 were Black-Clothed, and those above level 22 were Purple-Clothed.
Now, the Dusk Assassins had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Clothed assassins, over a hundred Black-Clothed, and even eighteen Purple-Clothed.
It could be said that the strength of the Dusk Assassins was among the top even within the Ten Sword Sects.
If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Clothed group, the overall combat power of the Dusk Assassins would have been even stronger.
To prevent the Dusk Assassins from becoming too powerful, the Senate had always assigned the leadership position to outsiders rather than those trained within the group. However, every leader had clashed with the Purple-Clothed elites, leading to mutual restraint and a decline in the group’s overall strength.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. The thought flickered through his mind before he withdrew his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and carefully inspected the hidden sentries around.
There wasn’t much to check. The Dusk Assassins were strictly hierarchical, and the hidden sentries were flawless. Moreover, in such a desolate place, no one would dare come seeking death.
So Zeng Ran relaxed, though a discomfort in his stomach made him slightly uneasy.
Given Zeng Ran’s mastery of the Cold Qi, his entire body should have been icy and lifeless, like an ancient block of ice. Yet now, it felt as if a fire burned inside him, even dissipating some of his Cold Qi.
“Tonight’s dinner must have been too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As an assassin, hot meals were rare. Only the leader’s return had granted them this luxury.
Approaching the last sentry, Zeng Ran saw his two Gray-Clothed subordinates blending into the massive star-rock like wisps of gray mist—a concealment technique unique to the Dusk Assassins. Even members of other sword sects would struggle to detect them.
In all the world, no one could breach the Dusk Assassins’ defenses.
Zeng Ran swelled with pride. After a final glance at the sentry, he turned to leave and deal with his stomach issue. But that glance revealed something surreal—two masked heads rising from the star-rock.
For a moment, Zeng Ran froze. He scanned the surroundings but saw no one. Instinct drove him toward the star-rock for answers.
Fate intervened. A chilling wind swept toward him.
Zeng Ran, a Black-Clothed leader, reacted instantly, twisting his body and collapsing like mud. His swift movement left his subordinates bewildered.
As the cold wind passed, a scream erupted behind him. One of his Gray-Clothed subordinates had been cleanly bisected by an unseen force, blood and viscera spraying everywhere.
In the bloody aftermath, a crescent-shaped blade materialized, spinning gracefully before returning to a figure emerging from behind the star-rock.
The man wore a long black coat adorned with intricate golden embroidery—a high-ranking officer’s attire.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran drew his sword and demanded.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled, hands behind his back, strolling leisurely. Yet the blade vanished again, and the icy wind surged toward Zeng Ran with his words: “I am the Lord of the Divine Dominion, the future Viscount of the Empire.”
Though he couldn’t see the blade, Zeng Ran knew danger loomed. He acted swiftly—retreating, flicking his sword, and scattering powder—all in one fluid motion.
His retreat was decisive, abandoning his subordinates as he bolted toward the base. The sword flick sent a resonant hum echoing through the camp—a unique Dusk Assassins’ alarm.
The powder was their signature knockout drug, originally crafted by the Alchemy Sect but somehow acquired by the Senate. To Yang Hao, it was useless.
The crescent blade missed Zeng Ran but slit his subordinate’s throat in a graceful arc, so mesmerizing it seemed to invite surrender.
Another Gray-Clothed assassin fell without a sound, head severed, blood spurting high.
Yang Hao advanced, impressed despite the ease of his kills. Having fought elite groups like the Royal Swordsmen and the Demon Bear Regiment, he found the Dusk Assassins far superior.
A sword sect’s strength lay not just in individual skill but in discipline and coordination. Despite the ambush and lost sentries, Zeng Ran’s calm retreat to alert the base showcased remarkable composure.
The assassins emerged instantly, battle-ready even in sleep.
Yang Hao admired their prowess, wishing he commanded such a force to defy the Ten Sword Sects.
But admiration faded as danger mounted.
Regrouped, Zeng Ran glared at Yang Hao with newfound confidence. This contingent boasted a hundred Gray-Clothed, forty Black-Clothed, and ten Purple-Clothed assassins—enough to crush even a full sword sect.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly titled Lord?”
“Indeed.” Yang Hao grinned, pointing at himself as the blade vanished again.
Zeng Ran tensed. Yang Hao’s reputation preceded him—his strange weapon, rumored to bear divine qualities, was every assassin’s dream.
Bowing slightly, Zeng Ran offered the respect due to a top-tier warrior:
“Lord, as a noble of the Empire, why oppose the Dusk Assassins?”
Yang Hao coughed lightly, scrambling for an answer. Blaming their leader, he said, “Your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something important. I’ve come to reclaim it.”
Zeng Ran scoffed inwardly. Killing four assassins before negotiations was hardly the act of a man seeking justice.
“In ten years, none have dared challenge the Dusk Assassins,” Zeng Ran said coldly, raising his sword. Hundreds followed suit. “Think carefully, Lord.”
Yang Hao didn’t hesitate. He moved like a phantom, shattering their formation. The hidden blade claimed three more heads before he returned to his spot.
Five dead in a blink—a master’s display.
Zeng Ran seethed. No one dishonored the Dusk Assassins so brazenly.
Yet the leader’s tent remained silent. Where were the ten Purple-Clothed elites?
“Kill!” Zeng Ran ordered.
Four assassins materialized in black smoke, striking from all sides—a flawless trap.
But Yang Hao summoned his blade, deflecting all four attacks and severing their swords. With a flick, two Black-Clothed assassins fell. Drawing his Gravity and Treasure Swords, he pierced the Gray-Clothed assassins’ hearts.
One move dismantled the first variation of the Dusk’s Triple Kill Formation.
Zeng Ran paled.
The Triple Kill Formation was a secret, rarely used. It transformed assassins into a coordinated killing machine, blending stealth with open combat.
Developed a decade ago, it elevated the Dusk Assassins into a formidable sword sect.
Yet Yang Hao shattered its first form effortlessly.
“Again!” Zeng Ran roared. “Cold Qi Flying Swords!”
A wave of chilling energy rose, freezing the very air.
Cold Qi, a Senate-exclusive cultivation method, allowed swords to fly like immortals’ blades, beheading foes from afar.
A hundred such swords would be unstoppable.
But the horror never came. Two Gray-Clothed assassins burst into flames, burning alive. Others followed, consumed from within.
Even Zeng Ran felt it—a sinister fire surging through his meridians, threatening to tear him apart.
Tonight, it was Zeng Ran’s turn to be on duty.
As a leader of the Black-Cloak rank in the Dusk Assassins, Zeng Ran was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding young killers. The Dusk Assassins originally had their old traditions, but after the “Night of Dusk,” nearly the entire group was wiped out to protect the Emperor. Over the past decade, the Senate had painstakingly rebuilt the assassin system of the Dusk Assassins.
Assassins were divided into three ranks based on their abilities: those with combat power above Level 14 were Gray-Cloaks, those above Level 18 were Black-Cloaks, and those above Level 22 were Purple-Cloaks.
Now, the Dusk Assassins had grown immensely powerful. There were thousands of Gray-Cloaks, over a hundred Black-Cloaks, and even eighteen Purple-Cloaks.
It could be said that the strength of the Dusk Assassins was among the top even within the Ten Sword Schools.
If not for the discord between the leader and the elite Purple-Cloaks, the group’s combat power would have been even greater.
To prevent the Dusk Assassins from becoming too powerful, the Senate had always appointed outsiders as leaders rather than promoting from within the group. However, every leader had clashed with the Purple-Cloaks, leading to internal strife and a decline in the group’s overall strength.
Such matters were beyond Zeng Ran’s concern. With just a fleeting thought, he withdrew his gaze from the distant leader’s tent and carefully inspected the hidden sentries around.
There wasn’t much to check—the Dusk Assassins were highly disciplined, and their hidden sentries were flawless. Especially in such a desolate place, no one would dare come seeking death.
So Zeng Ran relaxed, though a discomfort in his stomach made him slightly uneasy.
Given his mastery of the Chilling Qi, his entire body should have been cold and lifeless, like an ancient block of ice. Yet now, it felt as if a fire was burning inside him, even dissipating some of his Chilling Qi.
“Tonight’s dinner must have been too spicy,” Zeng Ran muttered to himself. As an assassin, he rarely got to eat a hot meal. Only because the long-absent leader had returned did they have this luxury.
Approaching the last sentry post, Zeng Ran saw his two Gray-Cloak subordinates blending into the massive star-rock like wisps of gray mist—a concealment technique unique to the Dusk Assassins. Even members of other sword schools would struggle to detect them.
In all the world, no one could breach the Dusk Assassins’ defenses.
Zeng Ran felt a surge of pride. After one last glance at the sentry, he turned to leave and deal with his stomach issue. But that glance made him see something strange—as if a gray mist had blurred his vision.
To his horror, the heads of the two Gray-Cloak subordinates flew into the air.
It was a bizarre sight. The two had been perfectly merged with the star-rock, nearly indistinguishable from it. Yet now, two masked heads had inexplicably risen from within. If not for knowing the sentry was there, one might think the rock itself had sprouted heads.
Instinctively, Zeng Ran froze. He scanned the surroundings but saw no one. Just as he was about to rush to the star-rock for answers, a chilling gust of wind swept toward him from the front.
Zeng Ran, a Black-Cloak leader for a reason, twisted his body and collapsed like mud to the ground—so fast that his subordinates didn’t even realize what had happened.
As the cold wind passed, a scream erupted behind him. One of his Gray-Cloak subordinates had been cleanly bisected by an unseen force, blood and entrails spraying everywhere.
In the bloody aftermath, a strange crescent-shaped blade materialized, spinning once before elegantly returning to a figure emerging from behind the star-rock.
The man wore a long black coat with golden embroidery at the collar and cuffs—clearly a high-ranking officer.
“Who are you?” Zeng Ran drew his sword and demanded.
“Me?” Yang Hao smiled faintly, hands behind his back as he strolled leisurely. Yet the crescent blade vanished again, and the icy wind surged toward Zeng Ran once more, carrying Yang Hao’s voice:
“I am the Lord of the Divine Dominion, the future Viscount of the Empire.”
Though he couldn’t see the blade, Zeng Ran knew danger was imminent. He acted swiftly, performing three actions in quick succession:
Retreat!
Flick his sword!
Scatter powder!
The sequence was executed flawlessly. Zeng Ran retreated without hesitation, abandoning his subordinates as he bolted toward the main camp.
The flick of his sword produced a deep, resonant hum—a unique alarm signal that echoed throughout the Dusk Assassins’ base.
The powder he scattered was a potent knockout drug, originally created by the Alchemy Sect but somehow acquired by the Senate. Of course, it had no effect on Yang Hao.
The crescent blade missed Zeng Ran but cleanly beheaded another subordinate. The blade moved with mesmerizing grace, almost slow yet irresistibly alluring—as if inviting its victims to offer their necks.
Another Gray-Cloak fell without a sound, blood gushing over a meter high as his headless body remained standing.
Yang Hao advanced, impressed despite the ease of his kills. He had fought many martial groups before—even defeated the elite Royal Swordsmen and the Demon Bear Regiment. But the Dusk Assassins were on another level entirely.
A sword school’s strength wasn’t just in individual skill but in discipline and coordination. Despite the sudden attack and the loss of their sentries, Zeng Ran had remained calm, prioritizing retreat to warn the main camp—a testament to their training.
Upon receiving the alarm, the assassins surged out instantly, fully armed and battle-ready even in sleep.
Yang Hao couldn’t help but admire this formidable force. If he had such a swordsmen group, he wouldn’t fear the Ten Sword Schools.
But admiration aside, danger loomed.
After regrouping, Zeng Ran turned to face Yang Hao with renewed confidence. This time, the Dusk Assassins had deployed a hundred Gray-Cloaks, forty Black-Cloaks, and even ten Purple-Cloaks—a formidable force capable of annihilating an entire sword school, let alone one man.
“You’re Yang Hao?” Zeng Ran recognized him. “The newly appointed Lord?”
“That’s me.” Yang Hao grinned, pointing at himself as the crescent blade vanished once more.
Zeng Ran tensed. He had heard of Yang Hao—how their leader and ten Black-Cloaks had been repelled in a single move. And that strange weapon of his seemed to glow with divine power, the kind every assassin dreamed of wielding.
Zeng Ran bowed slightly—a gesture reserved for the top hundred warriors.
“Lord, as a noble of the Empire, why oppose the Dusk Assassins?”
“Hmm…” Yang Hao coughed lightly. It was a tricky question. He couldn’t very well say he was here to kidnap the mother of his child and steal their sacred sword. Thinking fast, he shifted the blame:
“Your leader, Ling Ziyan, stole something important from me. I’m here to take it back.”
Zeng Ran inwardly scoffed. Killing four Gray-Cloaks before even speaking clearly meant Yang Hao was here for trouble, not negotiation.
“In the past decade, no one has dared challenge the Dusk Assassins,” Zeng Ran said coldly, raising his sword as hundreds of blades pointed at Yang Hao. “Think carefully, Lord.”
Think? Yang Hao didn’t hesitate. He moved like a blur, crashing into the assassins’ formation and disrupting their sword array. The crescent blade reappeared, its dark edge gleaming gold as it cleanly severed three more heads.
By the time Yang Hao returned to his original spot, five were dead, and the blade had vanished once more.
The fluid, deadly precision was the mark of a true swordmaster.
Zeng Ran burned with rage. No one had ever disrespected the Dusk Assassins like this. Their honor lay in taking lives, not losing them.
Yet when he glanced back, the leader’s tent remained silent. The ten Purple-Cloaks should have appeared by now—Yang Hao would stand no chance against them. But they seemed undisturbed by the alarm.
“Kill!” Zeng Ran barked, taking command in their absence.
Four clouds of black smoke exploded around Yang Hao as two Black-Cloaks and two Gray-Cloaks struck from all sides, sealing his escape routes.
But Yang Hao was no easy prey. With a flick of his wrist, the crescent blade intercepted all four attacks, shattering their swords mid-strike.
A cold smirk crossed Yang Hao’s face as the blade arced gracefully, bisecting the two Black-Cloaks. Meanwhile, he drew his Gravity Sword and Treasure Sword, piercing the Gray-Cloaks’ hearts.
One move—just one—shattered the first variation of the Dusk Assassins’ Three-Kill Doctrine.
Zeng Ran’s blood ran cold.
The Three-Kill Doctrine was a closely guarded secret, rarely used in the group’s history. Most assassins worked alone, striking from the shadows and retreating swiftly.
But a decade ago, the elders had devised this doctrine to transform assassination into open combat, leveraging teamwork to turn stealth kills into overwhelming force.
It was this doctrine that elevated the Dusk Assassins into one of the Ten Sword Schools—feared not just for their stealth but for their battlefield prowess.
Facing Yang Hao, a top hundred warrior, Zeng Ran knew individual skill wouldn’t suffice. Only the Three-Kill Doctrine stood a chance.
Even if the first variation had been broken, there was more.
“Kill! Kill!” Zeng Ran roared. “Chilling Qi Flying Swords!”
A wave of icy energy surged from the assassins, chilling the air as if the world itself had frozen over.
Chilling Qi was a unique cultivation method, reserved for Senate-affiliated swordsmen under imperial decree. Infused into blades, it allowed swords to fly like projectiles, beheading enemies from kilometers away.
A few such swords were manageable. But a hundred, controlled by will, striking from all angles? Even Yang Hao’s defensive techniques might falter.
Yet the terrifying scene never came.
As Zeng Ran gave the order, two Gray-Cloaks suddenly burst into flames from within, burning like human torches. More assassins followed, their bodies igniting inexplicably, reducing them to charred husks in seconds.
Even Zeng Ran felt it—a strange fire erupting in his dantian, surging through his meridians like a flood, threatening to tear him apart.
Such a powerful flying sword would not worry Yang Hao if there were only one or two of them. However, if hundreds of flying swords were coming after his head, it would be very terrifying. After all, these flying swords could be controlled by consciousness, attacking different parts with different routes and force. Even if Yang Hao used the Yu technique, it would be difficult to defend properly.
However, this terrifying scene did not appear. After Zeng Ran shouted, two Gray Robe assassins who were using the Stillness Qi suddenly erupted with a burst of fire from their dantian, their entire bodies engulfed in mysterious flames, turning into human torches.
Then, several assassins behind Zeng Ran spontaneously combusted, the raging fire seemingly burning from within their bodies. In just an instant, these assassins were burned beyond recognition.
Even Zeng Ran felt something was wrong. As soon as he slightly exerted the Stillness Qi, he discovered a strange evil fire in his dantian, rushing up against the meridians like a flood, ready to tear his meridians apart and surge into his brain.
“Don’t circulate the Qingju Qi!” Zeng Ran shouted, his face flushed red as he struggled with all his might to suppress the sinister fire within his dantian. “We’ve been poisoned!!”
“It’s not that serious,” Yang Hao said lazily, sheathing his twin swords behind his back. “I just added a little spice to your meal while you were enjoying it.”
Yang Hao smiled on the surface, but deep down, he knew it wasn’t just a bit of spice. Earlier, his Nascent Soul had infiltrated the base of the Darkmoon assassins and mixed a large amount of *Lierong Pills* into their food.
The *Lierong Pills* were auxiliary pills Yang Hao had been taking since reaching the Nascent Soul stage—an upgraded version of the *Huorong Pills*. At his insistence, his master and disciple had modified the formula. Without affecting the massive fire-attribute Qi they produced, the pills now had no scent or color, making them nearly undetectable in food—just a slight spiciness.
But *Lierong Pills* were no mere chili sauce. Their true purpose was to ignite a fire within one’s dantian. For Yang Hao, this fire enhanced his Qi, invigorating his body and spirit.
For the Darkmoon assassins, however, it was a different story. The *Qingming Qi* they cultivated was an extreme Yin and cold energy, often freezing their bodies during cultivation—a hallmark of ice-attribute Qi. The raging fire of *Lierong Pills* clashing with this icy foundation would inevitably lead to a violent collision, tearing meridians apart and spreading uncontrollable flames throughout their bodies.
If these assassins didn’t circulate their *Qingju Qi*, they might survive. But once they did, they would face a gruesome fate.
Yang Hao couldn’t help but admire Zeng Ran’s composure and adaptability. *If I get the chance, I should recruit him,* he mused.
Zeng Ran glared coldly at Yang Hao, not daring to use *Qingju Qi* again. “Lord Governor, I must admit, I’m impressed. To infiltrate Darkmoon’s camp undetected is no small feat.”
“Just taking a stroll,” Yang Hao replied with a grin, unfazed.
“But Darkmoon’s dignity is not to be insulted,” Zeng Ran said, his gaze turning even colder. “So, Lord Governor… please die. Kill! Kill! Kill!”
With Zeng Ran’s signal, the third variation of Darkmoon’s *Three-Killing Formation*—the one that had never failed, the one that left rivers of blood in its wake—was unleashed.
This variation was called *”Cataclysm.”*
When the elder who created the *Three-Killing Formation* first devised it, he knew that if Darkmoon mastered it, it would become a disaster. Because *Cataclysm* was unstoppable. A single assassination squad with such power could overwhelm even armies.
And so it was. With *Cataclysm*, Darkmoon’s role in the Imperial Army expanded beyond assassinations—they became the vanguard in battles against other martial factions. Once, they had challenged three martial factions at once and emerged unscathed while their enemies were annihilated.
In Darkmoon’s hands, *Cataclysm* was calamity—more violent than a landslide, hotter than magma. Human lives before it were nothing but dust.
Yang Hao had underestimated Darkmoon, thinking they relied solely on *Qingju Qi*. A fatal mistake.
As Zeng Ran gave the signal, Yang Hao was stunned to see the hundred Darkmoon assassins before him vanish into black smoke. They hadn’t fled—they had concealed themselves. Worse, the chilling winds around him multiplied from a hundred to thousands.
The assassins hadn’t increased tenfold—this was an illusion to disorient him.
In the silent, frigid air, a hundred swords crept toward Yang Hao. He might kill most with *Shadowmoon*, but a single strike would mean his defeat—and death.
This was the essence of *Cataclysm*. Whether facing an entire swordsman battalion or a Grand Swordmaster, its lethality remained absolute. None who had witnessed its variations lived to tell the tale.
A shiver ran down Yang Hao’s spine. He had been overconfident—perhaps because of the divine weapon in his grasp, or his recent ascension to Grand Swordmaster.
But *Cataclysm* taught him a harsh lesson: no matter how strong one was, they could never stand alone against a powerful force. To survive, he needed even greater strength.
“Disciple!!” Hunyuanzi’s sharp voice snapped Yang Hao out of his thoughts. He realized the danger he was in—the chilling winds and killing intent around him were like sharks circling.
He couldn’t tell which were illusions and which were real.
So he closed his eyes. A pill, glowing faint blue like the heart of ice, flew into his mouth.
*Icefall Frost Jade Pill!* The dormant sword pill of the Alchemy Sword Sect!
As the pill dissolved, Yang Hao underwent a miraculous transformation. His skin shimmered with blue light, his blood and muscles turning icy. Even his hair and eyelashes frosted over.
He extended a hand, a swirling blue orb of light forming in his palm, radiating extreme cold.
Snow began to fall—impossible on this comet, where clouds didn’t exist. The snow came from Yang Hao, who now resembled a god of ice.
The *Cataclysm* closed in. The countless assassins, unable to hold back, lunged with swords blazing dark light. They expected Yang Hao to die—at best, taking half of them with him.
But Yang Hao exploded.
Not his body—his power. The orb in his palm, his *Shadowmoon* blade, erupted in a dazzling blue-white radiance.
Like an avalanche, an unimaginable force of ice and snow filled every inch of space.
Countless ice crystals fell, covering hundreds of meters. Everything within—microbes, rocks, gas, solid matter, even blood—froze.
*Icefall Frost Jade Sword* was one of the Alchemy Sword Sect’s supreme techniques, requiring a pill to activate. Its power rivaled that of true Sword Immortals. In ancient battles, it had slain three of the mightiest Sword Immortals.
Though Yang Hao, at the Nascent Soul stage, couldn’t unleash its full might, it was more than enough for his foes.
The hidden assassins were forced out of concealment, each encased in massive blocks of ice. No matter their strength, none could escape.
As Yang Hao recovered from the sword intent, he marveled at the frozen scene around him. The power of the sword pill and *Icefall Frost Jade Sword* far exceeded his expectations.
“Should we kill them?” Hunyuanzi asked indifferently, unimpressed by Yang Hao’s display.
Yang Hao thought for a moment. “No. I’m heading to Earth soon. I don’t need assassins hunting me every day.”
“Fair enough,” Hunyuanzi chuckled. “They cultivate *Qingju Qi*—they won’t die from a few days in ice.”
Yang Hao nodded, then turned his gaze toward the distant, silent command tent.
*Is Ling Ziyan there? And the ten Purple-Robed Masters of Darkmoon?*
After this battle, Yang Hao no longer underestimated his foes. He flew cautiously toward the tent.
But it was empty—and not just empty. It bore signs of a fierce battle. Aside from the specially reinforced outer shell, nothing inside remained intact.
Though called the commander’s tent, it was clear Ling Ziyan didn’t reside here. Ten simple beds—likely for the Purple-Robed Masters—had been shredded by sword energy. In a corner, alloy crushes lay crumpled. The devastation resembled the aftermath of a storm.
Yang Hao grew more suspicious. *Why would Darkmoon’s highest command tent be the site of such a battle? What were they doing here?*
Ling Ziyan’s claim that she couldn’t control Darkmoon seemed confirmed—otherwise, the Purple-Robed Masters wouldn’t dare occupy her tent.
Just then, Yang Hao sensed movement in the distance.
His *Keen Perception* was at work again. Despite his deepening cultivation, this basic technique from the Galactic Empire had only grown stronger.
At the edge of his awareness, he detected a cliff—a terrifying precipice like a dragon’s lair. Its sheer, mirror-smooth walls and deep fissures led straight into the void of space.
Ling Ziyan and the ten Purple-Robed Masters stood atop it.
When Yang Hao arrived, all eleven stared at him, stunned by his presence.
“What are you doing here?” Ling Ziyan stamped her foot, glaring.
She wore Darkmoon’s standard assassin garb—also purple. Ling Ziyan had indeed risen to the Purple-Robed rank, though her methods differed from the others.
The traditional outfit looked different on her. Her porcelain skin contrasted sharply with the dark fabric, and her face, usually alluring, now bore deep sorrow. In her hands was an enormous sword—its hilt cross-shaped, its surface engraved with steel-blue patterns. She struggled to hold its weight.
“I came for you,” Yang Hao said, ignoring the other ten. “Lady Thousand Faces, where are you taking my child?”
The words drained the color from Ling Ziyan’s face. The ten assassins stiffened, their auras flickering.
“You don’t understand!” Ling Ziyan pressed her lips together, resolve hardening. “Yang Hao, leave now!”
A sense of death—a chilling aura—coalesced behind Yang Hao.
“And you?” he asked, ignoring the threat behind him.
Fear flashed in Ling Ziyan’s eyes—not for Yang Hao, but for those behind him.
“If you don’t leave, we’ll both die!” she roared, hurling the massive sword at him. “Hurry!!”
Yang Hao caught it—its weight like solid steel. The sword appeared ordinary, but its hilt bore a pure white gemstone containing power even he couldn’t fathom.
“What is this?”
“The *Sword of Judgment*!” Ling Ziyan’s voice trembled as the assassins’ deathly aura peaked. “One of the Ten Divine Weapons of the Ten Swords School—entrusted to Darkmoon.”
Yang Hao’s heart lurched. He realized his grave mistake.
When Ling Ziyan vanished from Three Crystal Seas, everyone assumed she had betrayed them again—that her spy identity meant she never truly cared for him.
But now, facing her despair, he wondered if there was more to her story.
“It’s not that serious,” Yang Hao lazily sheathed the two swords behind his back. “I just added a little spice to your meal because you all seemed to be enjoying your food.”
Although Yang Hao wore a cheerful smile on the outside, he knew deep down that what he had added was far more than just a little spice. Earlier, using his yuan-embryo, he had infiltrated the headquarters of the Ming Se group and sprinkled a large amount of Lie Rong Pills into their food.
The Lie Rong Pill was a supplementary pill that Yang Hao had consumed regularly since reaching the Yuan Ying stage. It was an upgraded version of the previous Huo Rong Pill. At Yang Hao’s insistence, his master and apprentice had modified the Lie Rong Pill to a certain extent. Without affecting its efficacy of generating massive fiery energy, the pill now had no smell or color. When added to food, it only imparted a slight spiciness.
However, the Lie Rong Pill was no chili sauce; its main function was to ignite a fire within a person’s dantian. When placed in Yang Hao’s dantian, this fire naturally enhanced his energy, making him feel physically comfortable and mentally refreshed.
But now, the situation was entirely different for the Ming Se assassins. The Qing Ming energy they cultivated was a form of extremely yin and cold energy, often causing their bodies to freeze and form ice. It could be considered the epitome of ice-based energy. When the fiery energy from the Lie Rong Pill burned within this icy environment, the two forces would inevitably clash, ultimately resulting in the tearing of meridians and the uncontrolled spread of fiery energy throughout their bodies.
Therefore, if these Ming Se assassins refrained from circulating their Qingju energy, they would be fine. But once they did, they would face a tragic fate.
However, Yang Hao was quite impressed by Ceng Ran’s calmness and quick thinking. He mused that if he had the opportunity, he would really like to recruit this person into his own ranks.
Ceng Ran glared coldly at Yang Hao but dared not use the Qingju energy again. “My Lord, I must say I’m truly impressed. To infiltrate the Ming Se camp without being detected is no small feat.”
“Just a casual stroll,” Yang Hao still smiled cheerfully, completely unfazed.
“But the dignity of the Ming Se cannot be insulted,” Ceng Ran’s gaze grew even colder. “So, my Lord… please die. Kill! Kill! Kill!”
At Ceng Ran’s signal, the third transformation of the Ming Se’s Three Killings Formation was unleashed. This transformation had never failed before; whenever it appeared, it left a trail of bloodshed. It was now activated once again with a frenzied intensity.
This transformation was known as “Catastrophe.”
When the elder who created the Three Killings Formation first devised it, he realized that once the Ming Se learned it, it would become a catastrophe. Because this “Catastrophe” was unstoppable by anyone. A covert assassination group already possessed extraordinary strength, but when combined with the power of “Catastrophe,” it could even overwhelm entire armies.
The reality indeed proved this to be true. After acquiring “Catastrophe,” the Ming Se’s responsibilities within the imperial army expanded beyond mere assassination to include direct confrontations with other martial arts groups. The Ming Se once challenged three martial arts groups at once, and in that battle, not a single member of the Ming Se was lost, while the opposing forces were completely annihilated.
To the Ming Se, “Catastrophe” was a disaster, more ferocious than a mountain flood and more scorching than molten lava. In its presence, human lives were as insignificant as dust.
Yang Hao had mistakenly assumed that the Ming Se assassins relied solely on Qingju energy. This was a grave error, for indeed, underestimating the enemy was the surest path to death.
After Ceng Ran gave the signal, Yang Hao was shocked to discover that the hundreds of Ming Se assassins before him had simultaneously vanished into black smoke. The sensation of their disappearance was peculiar. Yang Hao’s spiritual awareness told him that those people had not fled but were hiding, concealing themselves. Even more terrifying was that Yang Hao began to feel a rapid increase in the cold winds around him, surging from over a hundred to thousands.
Naturally, the number of Ming Se assassins hadn’t increased tenfold. This was clearly their illusion technique, designed to confuse Yang Hao and prevent him from discerning the direction of their concealment.
Now, in the air, within the frigid and silent space, a hundred swords were stealthily approaching Yang Hao’s body. Perhaps Yang Hao could kill most of them with Shadow Moon, but if even one sword struck true, then Yang Hao would be defeated. Defeat meant death.
This was the essence of “Catastrophe.” Whether facing an entire squad of swordsmen or battling a grand swordsman, “Catastrophe” could maintain consistent lethality. No one knew the variations of this sword formation, as anyone who had experienced it was already dead. Everyone understood the consequence of encountering this formation.
It was death.
A chilling sense of dread rose from Yang Hao’s spine. He realized he had indeed underestimated his opponents. Perhaps it was because he held divine weapons, or perhaps it was due to his recent ascension to the grand swordsman level, which had made him a bit complacent.
However, “Catastrophe” had given him a clear understanding. No matter how strong one’s power was, it was impossible to stand against a powerful and cohesive team. To win and survive, one must possess even greater strength.
“Apprentice!!” Hun Yuan Zi’s sharp shout jolted Yang Hao from his reverie. He remembered that he was still in danger. The cold winds and killing intent around him were like sharks slowly circling him.
Yang Hao couldn’t tell which shark was a phantom and which one was the real one with its gaping maw.
So he closed his eyes. A pill, shimmering with a faint blue light, like the core of snow and ice, flew into his mouth.
Bing Bao Yu Shuang Dan! The legendary sword pill of the Dan Ding Sect, which had lain dormant for a thousand years!
As the pill, cold as the seabed’s ice, dissolved within him, Yang Hao underwent an incredible transformation. A faint blue glow emanated from his skin, his blood and muscles seemed to freeze, even his hair and eyelashes were dusted with white frost.
Yang Hao extended one hand forward, and a sphere of blue light rotated and shimmered in his palm, emitting waves of intensely cold power.
And in the sky, heavy snow began to fall. On this comet source, clouds were virtually impossible, yet the snow originated from Yang Hao himself. At this moment, Yang Hao had become the god of snow and ice on this comet source.
The force of the catastrophe approached from all directions. The countless Ming Se assassins could no longer contain themselves. Their swords erupted with dark light, all converging on Yang Hao at the center. In their expectations, Yang Hao would be unable to escape or resist. At best, he could only take out half of the assassins with him before succumbing to death.
But Yang Hao erupted.
His body did not explode, but his power, the glowing sphere in his palm, and his Shadow Moon Blade intensely radiated a brilliant blue-white aura.
It was as if a cataclysmic snow explosion had occurred, unleashing millennia of accumulated snow in an instant. An inconceivable force filled every inch of space with the power of ice and snow.
In the sky, countless ice crystals fell like snowflakes, covering an area of nearly hundreds of meters. Within this region, any living being was frozen, whether microorganisms or rocks, gas or solid matter; even the blood in a person’s body became part of the ice crystals.
The Bing Bao Yu Shuang Sword was one of the most supreme sword techniques of the Dan Ding dual cultivation sect. It required a simple activation, yet the power it unleashed was even no less than that of true sword immortals. In the ancient days during the battle of the immortals, the Bing Bao Yu Shuang Sword had sealed and killed three of the most powerful sword immortals.
Although Yang Hao, at the Yuan Ying stage, could not fully unleash the most potent power of this sword technique, it was more than sufficient to deal with the current adversaries.
The hundreds of Ming Se assassins hidden in the space were now all forced out of their disguises by the Bing Bao Yu Shuang Sword and were individually sealed within massive ice blocks. No matter how powerful these individuals were, no matter how high their combat abilities, they could not escape the power of this sword.
As Yang Hao slowly recovered from the sword intent, he looked at the icy, crystalline scene around him and was secretly astonished. The power of the sword pill and the Bing Bao Yu Shuang Sword had far exceeded his expectations.
“Should I kill them?” Hun Yuan Zi was indifferent, even feeling that the sword Yang Hao had unleashed was too weak, not even reaching half of his former glory.
Yang Hao pondered for a moment. “No need. I’m about to go to Earth. I don’t want to be chased by these assassins every day.”
“Fine,” Hun Yuan Zi chuckled. “Anyway, these people all cultivate Qingju energy. They won’t die even if sealed in ice for a few days.”
“Don’t circulate the Qingju Qi!” Zeng Ran shouted urgently, his face flushed red as he struggled with all his might to suppress the sinister fire within his dantian. “We’ve been poisoned!!”
“It’s not that serious,” Yang Hao said lazily, sheathing his two swords behind his back. “I just added a little spice to your meal while you were enjoying it.”
Yang Hao smiled on the surface, but deep down, he knew it wasn’t just a “little spice.” Earlier, he had used his Nascent Soul to infiltrate the base of the Nether Shades and mixed a large amount of *Lierong Pills* into their food.
The *Lierong Pills* were an auxiliary elixir Yang Hao had been taking since reaching the Nascent Soul stage—an upgraded version of the old *Huorong Pills*. At his insistence, the master and disciple duo had modified the formula. Now, the *Lierong Pills* had no scent or color, blending seamlessly into food with only a slight hint of spiciness.
But the *Lierong Pills* were far from mere chili sauce. Their true purpose was to ignite a fire within one’s dantian. For Yang Hao, this fire enhanced his Qi, invigorating his body and spirit.
But for the Nether Shades assassins, it was a different story. The *Qingming Qi* they cultivated was an extremely Yin and cold energy, often causing their bodies to freeze over during training—a hallmark of ice-attribute Qi. The raging fire of the *Lierong Pills* clashing with this icy energy would inevitably lead to a violent collision, tearing through meridians and spreading uncontrollable flames throughout their bodies.
If these assassins didn’t circulate their *Qingju Qi*, they might survive. But once they did, they would face a gruesome fate.
Yang Hao, however, couldn’t help but admire Zeng Ran’s composure and adaptability. He mused that if given the chance, he’d love to recruit such a man under his command.
Zeng Ran glared coldly at Yang Hao, not daring to use *Qingju Qi* again. “Lord Governor, I must admit, I’m impressed. To infiltrate the Nether Shades’ camp undetected is no small feat.”
“Just passing through,” Yang Hao replied with a grin, utterly nonchalant.
“But the dignity of the Nether Shades cannot be insulted,” Zeng Ran said, his gaze turning even colder. “So, Lord Governor… please die. Kill! Kill! Kill!”
With Zeng Ran’s signal, the third variation of the *Three Kill Formation*—a technique that had never failed, one that left rivers of blood in its wake—was unleashed once more.
This variation was called *”Cataclysm.”*
When the elder who created the *Three Kill Formation* first devised it, he knew that if the Nether Shades mastered it, it would become a disaster. Because *”Cataclysm”* was unstoppable. A single assassination squad, already formidable, combined with the power of *”Cataclysm”*, could even overwhelm entire armies.
And so it was. With *”Cataclysm”*, the Nether Shades no longer limited themselves to assassinations—they engaged in full-scale battles against martial sects. Once, they had challenged three martial sects simultaneously and emerged unscathed while annihilating their foes.
In the hands of the Nether Shades, *”Cataclysm”* was calamity—more violent than a landslide, hotter than magma. Human lives before it were nothing but dust.
Yang Hao had underestimated them, thinking the Nether Shades relied solely on *Qingju Qi*. He was gravely mistaken. Underestimating an enemy was the surest path to death.
As Zeng Ran gave the signal, Yang Hao was stunned to see the hundred or so assassins before him vanish into black smoke. It wasn’t teleportation—his spiritual sense told him they were still there, lurking, hiding. Worse, he felt the chilling winds around him multiply from a hundred to thousands.
The assassins hadn’t increased tenfold—this was an illusion, meant to disorient him.
In the cold, silent air, a hundred swords crept toward Yang Hao’s body. He might kill most with *Shadowmoon*, but a single strike would mean his defeat—and his death.
This was the essence of *”Cataclysm.”* Whether facing an entire swordsman battalion or a grandmaster, its lethality remained absolute. None who had witnessed its variations lived to tell the tale.
A shiver ran down Yang Hao’s spine. He realized his arrogance—perhaps from wielding divine weapons or his recent ascension to grandmaster—had blinded him.
But *”Cataclysm”* had humbled him. No matter how strong one was, they could never stand against a powerful, coordinated force. To survive, he needed even greater strength.
“Disciple!!” Hunyuanzi’s sharp cry snapped Yang Hao from his thoughts. He remembered the danger he was in—the cold winds and killing intent circling him like sharks.
He didn’t know which sharks were illusions and which had bared their fangs.
So he closed his eyes.
A pill, glowing faint blue like the heart of ice, flew into his mouth.
*Icefall Jadefrost Pill!* The sword pill of the Alchemy Sword Sect, dormant for a thousand years!
As the pill dissolved, Yang Hao underwent a miraculous transformation. His skin shimmered with blue light, his blood and muscles turning icy. Even his hair and eyelashes frosted over.
He extended a hand, a swirling orb of blue light forming in his palm, radiating extreme cold.
Snow began to fall—unnatural on this comet, where clouds never formed. The power came from Yang Hao, who now stood as the god of ice and snow.
The forces of *”Cataclysm”* closed in. Countless assassins, unable to hold back any longer, unleashed dark energy from their swords, all striking toward Yang Hao. In their minds, he couldn’t escape or block—at best, he’d take half of them down with him.
But Yang Hao exploded.
Not his body—his power. The orb in his palm, his *Shadowmoon Blade*, erupted in a dazzling blue-white radiance.
Like an avalanche of millennia-old snow, an unimaginable force filled every inch of space with icy might.
Countless ice crystals rained down, freezing everything within hundreds of meters—microbes, rocks, gases, solids, even the blood in people’s veins turned to ice.
*Icefall Jadefrost Sword*—one of the Alchemy Sword Sect’s supreme techniques, activated by a sword pill. Its power rivaled that of true sword immortals. In ancient battles, it had once sealed away three of the mightiest sword immortals.
Though Yang Hao, at the Nascent Soul stage, couldn’t unleash its full potential, it was more than enough for his current foes.
The hidden assassins were forced into visibility, each encased in massive blocks of ice. No matter their strength, none could escape this sword’s power.
As Yang Hao slowly recovered, he gazed at the frozen sculptures around him, astonished by the might of the sword pill and *Icefall Jadefrost Sword*.
“Should we kill them?” Hunyuanzi asked indifferently, unimpressed—Yang Hao’s strike wasn’t even half as powerful as his own in his prime.
Yang Hao thought for a moment. “No. I’m heading to Earth soon. I don’t need assassins hunting me every day.”
“Fair enough,” Hunyuanzi chuckled. “They cultivate *Qingju Qi* anyway—they won’t die even if frozen for days.”
Yang Hao nodded, then turned his gaze toward the distant command tent, eerily silent as if oblivious to the battle.
Was Ling Ziyan there? And what of the Nether Shades’ ten Violet-Cloaked elites?
After this battle, Yang Hao no longer dared to be careless. He flew over cautiously.
But the tent was empty—and not just empty. It bore signs of a fierce struggle. Aside from the specially reinforced outer fabric, nothing inside remained intact.
Though called the commander’s tent, it was clear Ling Ziyan didn’t reside here. Ten simple beds—likely for the Violet-Cloaked elites—lay in splinters, shredded by sword energy. In a corner, alloy chests had been crushed. The devastation resembled the aftermath of a storm.
This deepened Yang Hao’s suspicions. Why would the Nether Shades’ highest-ranking tent be the site of such a battle? What were they doing here?
Ling Ziyan’s claim that she couldn’t command the Nether Shades seemed validated—otherwise, the Violet-Cloaked elites wouldn’t dare occupy her tent.
Just then, Yang Hao sensed movement in the distance—his *Keen Sense* at work. Despite his progress in cultivation, this basic technique, one of the Galactic Empire’s foundational arts, had only grown stronger.
Where others saw these techniques as diluted versions of ancient methods, *Keen Sense* was an innovation.
Now, with a mere thought, Yang Hao could sense nearby people or objects of interest.
There, atop a cliff—a terrifying precipice with sheer, mirror-like walls and jagged fissures leading straight into the void—stood Ling Ziyan and the ten Violet-Cloaked elites.
When Yang Hao arrived, all eleven stared at him, seemingly shocked by his presence.
“What are you doing here?” Ling Ziyan stamped her foot, glaring.
Today, she wore the Nether Shades’ standard assassin garb—also violet. She had indeed risen to Violet-Cloak rank, though her methods differed from the others.
The traditional outfit looked entirely different on her. Her porcelain skin stood out against the dark fabric, and her face, devoid of its usual allure, bore deep sorrow. In her hands was an enormous sword—its hilt cross-shaped, its surface engraved with steel-blue patterns. Judging by her strained grip, it was astonishingly heavy.
“I came for you,” Yang Hao said, ignoring the other ten. “Lady Thousand Faces, where are you taking my child?”
The words drained the color from Ling Ziyan’s face and visibly unsettled the assassins.
“You don’t understand!” Ling Ziyan pressed her lips together, resolve hardening her features. “Yang Hao, leave. Now!”
Suddenly, Yang Hao felt an unsettling presence behind him—a sensation of death, coalescing among the ten assassins.
“And you?” Yang Hao focused on Ling Ziyan, disregarding the threat behind him.
Fear flashed in her eyes—not for him, but for those at his back.
“If you don’t leave, we’ll both die!” she roared, hurling the massive sword at him. “Hurry!!”
Yang Hao caught it—the weight like solid steel. The sword appeared ordinary, but its hilt bore a pure white gemstone containing power even he couldn’t fathom.
“What is this?”
“The *Sword of Judgment*!” Ling Ziyan’s face paled as the assassins’ deathly aura peaked. “One of the Ten Divine Swords of the Ten Sword Styles, guarded by the Nether Shades.”
Yang Hao’s heart lurched. He realized his grave mistake.
When Ling Ziyan vanished from Three Crystal Seas, everyone assumed she had betrayed them again—that her spy identity, *Thousand Faces*, meant she never truly cared for Yang Hao, only her own schemes.
Was Ling Ziyan there? And were the ten purple-robed experts of the Ming Se assassination group there as well?
After the battle with the Ming Se, Yang Hao finally dared not be overconfident and flew forward with increased caution.
But the headquarters was empty. Not only was it empty, it seemed as if a fierce battle had taken place there. Except for the specially synthesized outer cover of the tent that hadn’t been torn apart, nothing inside the headquarters remained intact.
“Don’t circulate the Qingju Qi!” Zeng Ran shouted urgently, his face flushed red as he struggled with all his might to suppress the sinister fire within his dantian. “We’ve been poisoned!!”
“It’s not that serious,” Yang Hao said lazily, sheathing the two swords behind his back. “I just added a little spice to your meal while you were enjoying it.”
Yang Hao smiled on the surface, but deep down, he knew it wasn’t just a pinch of spice. Earlier, he had infiltrated the base of the Darkmoon assassins with his Nascent Soul and mixed a large amount of Lierong Pills into their food.
The Lierong Pills were auxiliary pills Yang Hao had been taking regularly since reaching the Nascent Soul stage—an upgraded version of the Huorong Pills. At his insistence, the master and disciple duo had modified the formula. Without compromising the pill’s ability to generate immense fiery true qi, the Lierong Pills now had no scent or color, adding only a slight spiciness to the food.
But the Lierong Pills were no mere chili sauce. Their primary function was to ignite a fire within one’s dantian. For Yang Hao, this fire would naturally enhance his true qi, invigorating his body and spirit.
However, when introduced into the dantian of Darkmoon assassins, the effect was entirely different. The Darkmoon assassins cultivated the Qingming Qi, an extremely yin and cold true qi. During cultivation, their bodies would often freeze over, making it the epitome of ice-attribute true qi. The raging fire of the Lierong Pills clashing with this icy environment would inevitably lead to a violent collision, resulting in torn meridians and uncontrollable flames spreading throughout their bodies.
Thus, if these Darkmoon assassins refrained from circulating the Qingju Qi, they might survive. But once they did, they would face a gruesome fate.
Yang Hao couldn’t help but admire Zeng Ran’s composure and adaptability. He mused that if given the chance, he would definitely recruit this man to his side.
Zeng Ran glared coldly at Yang Hao but dared not use the Qingju Qi again. “Lord Governor, I must admit, I’m impressed. To infiltrate the Darkmoon camp undetected is no small feat.”
“Just passing through,” Yang Hao replied with a grin, unfazed.
“But the dignity of Darkmoon cannot be insulted,” Zeng Ran said, his gaze growing even colder. “So, Lord Governor… please die. Kill! Kill! Kill!”
With Zeng Ran’s signal, the third variation of the Darkmoon’s Three-Kill Formation—a technique that had never failed, one that left rivers of blood in its wake—was unleashed once more.
This variation was called “Cataclysm.”
When the elder who created the Three-Kill Formation first devised it, he knew that if Darkmoon mastered it, it would become a disaster. Because “Cataclysm” was unstoppable. A single assassination squad, already possessing extraordinary strength, combined with the power of “Cataclysm,” could even overwhelm entire armies.
History proved this true. Once “Cataclysm” was in their arsenal, Darkmoon’s role in the Imperial Army expanded beyond assassinations to include decisive battles against other martial factions. Darkmoon once challenged three martial factions simultaneously—and emerged unscathed while annihilating their opponents.
In Darkmoon’s hands, “Cataclysm” was calamity—more violent than a mountain flood, more scorching than molten lava. Human lives were mere dust before its might.
Yang Hao had gravely underestimated Darkmoon, assuming they relied solely on the Qingju Qi. This was a fatal mistake—complacency was the best guide to death.
After Zeng Ran’s signal, Yang Hao was shocked to see the hundred Darkmoon assassins before him vanish into black smoke. It was an eerie disappearance—his spiritual sense told him they hadn’t fled but had instead concealed themselves. Even more terrifying, Yang Hao sensed the chilling winds around him multiplying rapidly, from a hundred to over a thousand.
The assassins hadn’t actually multiplied tenfold—this was clearly a diversion to obscure their positions.
In the frigid, silent air, a hundred swords silently crept toward Yang Hao’s body. He might kill most of them with his Shadowmoon Blade, but a single strike would mean his defeat—and death.
This was the essence of “Cataclysm.” Whether facing an entire swordsman battalion or a grandmaster, its lethality remained unmatched. None who witnessed its variations lived to tell the tale. Everyone knew the outcome of encountering this formation.
Death.
A shiver ran down Yang Hao’s spine. He realized he had truly underestimated his foes—perhaps due to his newfound divine weapon or his recent ascension to grandmaster status, which had made him overconfident.
But “Cataclysm” taught him a harsh lesson: no matter how strong an individual was, they could never stand against a powerful, coordinated team. To survive and triumph, he needed even greater strength.
“Disciple!!” Hunyuanzi’s sharp cry snapped Yang Hao out of his thoughts, reminding him of the danger he was in. The chilling winds and killing intent around him circled like sharks, slowly closing in.
Yang Hao couldn’t tell which sharks were illusions and which had bared their fangs.
So he closed his eyes. A pill, glowing faintly blue like the core of an iceberg, flew into his mouth.
The Icefall Frost Pill! A sword pill from the Danding Sect, dormant for a millennium!
As the pill dissolved within him, Yang Hao underwent an incredible transformation. His skin shimmered with a pale blue light, his blood and muscles seemed to turn to ice, and even his hair and eyelashes frosted over.
One hand extended forward, a swirling blue orb of light rotating in his palm, radiating an intensely cold power.
Snow began to fall heavily from the sky—an impossibility on this comet’s surface, where clouds didn’t exist. The snow’s power came solely from Yang Hao, who now resembled a god of ice and snow.
As the forces of “Cataclysm” closed in, the countless hidden Darkmoon assassins finally struck. Their swords erupted with dark light, all aiming for Yang Hao at the center. In their minds, Yang Hao couldn’t escape or block—at best, he might take half of them down with him, but death was inevitable.
But Yang Hao exploded.
Not his body—his power, the orb in his palm, and his Shadowmoon Blade erupted in a dazzling blue-white radiance.
It was like an earth-shattering avalanche, as if millennia of snow had suddenly cascaded down. An unimaginable force filled every inch of space with icy might.
Countless ice crystals fell like snowflakes, covering an area of several hundred meters. Within this zone, all life froze—microorganisms, rocks, gases, solids, even the blood in human veins turned to ice.
The Icefall Frost Sword was one of the Danding Sect’s supreme sword techniques, requiring a pill to activate. Its power rivaled that of true sword immortals. In ancient battles among immortals, this technique had once sealed away three of the mightiest sword immortals.
Though Yang Hao, at the Nascent Soul stage, couldn’t unleash its full potential, it was more than enough for his current foes.
The hundred hidden Darkmoon assassins were forced out of concealment, each encased in massive blocks of ice. No matter their strength or combat prowess, none could escape this sword’s power.
As Yang Hao slowly recovered from the sword’s intent, he was awed by the frozen tableau around him. The power of the sword pill and the Icefall Frost Sword far exceeded his expectations.
“Should we kill them?” Hunyuanzi asked nonchalantly, even disappointed that Yang Hao’s strike was weaker than half of what he could have achieved in his prime.
Yang Hao pondered briefly. “No need. I’m heading to Earth soon. I don’t want assassins hunting me every day.”
“Fair enough,” Hunyuanzi chuckled. “These guys cultivate the Qingju Qi anyway—they can survive being frozen for days.”
Yang Hao nodded, then turned his gaze toward the distant, silent command tent, seemingly indifferent to the battle.
Was Ling Ziyan there? Were the ten Purple-Robed Masters of Darkmoon there as well?
After this battle, Yang Hao no longer dared to be reckless. He flew cautiously toward the tent.
But the command tent was empty—not just empty, but also bearing signs of a fierce struggle. Aside from the specially reinforced outer shell remaining intact, nothing inside was left undamaged.
Though called the commander’s tent, it was clear Ling Ziyan didn’t reside there. The large tent originally housed ten simple beds for the Purple-Robed Masters, but all had been shredded by sword energy. In a corner, several alloy crushes had been crushed. The scene resembled the aftermath of a category-ten storm.
This deepened Yang Hao’s suspicions. Why would Darkmoon’s highest command post show signs of battle? What had happened here?
Ling Ziyan’s earlier claim that she couldn’t control Darkmoon seemed validated—otherwise, the Purple-Robed Masters wouldn’t dare occupy her tent.
Just then, Yang Hao sensed movement in the distance—his heightened perception at work. Despite his progress in cultivation, the basic techniques of the Galactic Empire, particularly his keen perception, had only grown stronger. While most imperial techniques were seen as diluted versions of ancient cultivation methods, perception was an exception—an innovation.
Now, with a mere thought, Yang Hao could sense nearby people or objects of interest.
There, atop a cliff—or rather, a terrifying precipice resembling a dragon’s lair—stood Ling Ziyan and the ten Purple-Robed Masters. The sheer, mirror-like rock faces surrounded them, and the summit was riddled with deep crevices, each a potential fall into the abyss of outer space.
When Yang Hao arrived, the eleven figures stared at him, seemingly stunned by his presence.
“What are you doing here?” Ling Ziyan stamped her foot, glaring at him.
Today, she wore Darkmoon’s standard assassin attire—also purple, marking her as a Purple-Robed Master. But her methods differed entirely from the others.
Though clad in traditional assassin garb, Ling Ziyan’s porcelain skin stood out against the dark fabric. Her face lacked its usual allure—her brows were delicate, her eyes filled with deep sorrow. In her hands was an enormous sword, its hilt cross-shaped and adorned with steel-blue patterns. Judging by her strained grip, it was astonishingly heavy.
“I came for you,” Yang Hao said, ignoring the other ten. “Lady Thousand Faces, where are you taking my child?”
His words not only paled Ling Ziyan’s face but also visibly unsettled the ten assassins, their auras wavering momentarily.
“You don’t understand! You don’t understand!” Ling Ziyan pressed her lips together, her expression hardening. “Yang Hao, leave now!”
Suddenly, Yang Hao sensed an uncomfortable presence behind him—a feeling of death, a gathering of lifeless energy among the ten assassins.
“And you?” Yang Hao ignored the threat behind him, focusing on the woman before him.
Fear flashed in Ling Ziyan’s eyes—not for Yang Hao, but for those behind him.
“If you don’t leave now, we’ll both die!” she roared, hurling the massive sword at him. “Hurry!!”
Yang Hao caught the sword, its weight like solid steel. Though outwardly unremarkable, its hilt bore a pure white gemstone—one whose power even Yang Hao couldn’t fully grasp.
“What is this?”
“The Sword of Judgment!” Ling Ziyan’s face twisted in despair as she felt the assassins’ deathly energy reaching its peak. “One of the Ten Divine Swords of the Ten-Sword Style, entrusted to Darkmoon.”
Yang Hao’s heart lurched. He realized the magnitude of his mistake.
When Ling Ziyan left Three Crystal Seas without a word, many assumed she had betrayed them again—her identity as the spy “Thousand Faces” leading them to believe she had never truly cared for Yang Hao, only using him for her own ends.
Seeing this scene, Yang Hao’s mind was filled with growing suspicion. How could there be a fierce battle in the tent of the highest commander of the Ming Se? What exactly had these people been doing here?
“Don’t circulate the Qingju Qi!” Zeng Ran shouted urgently, his face flushed red as he struggled with all his might to suppress the sinister fire within his dantian. “We’ve been poisoned!!”
“Not that serious,” Yang Hao said lazily, sheathing his twin swords behind his back. “I just added a little spice to your meal since you all seemed to be enjoying it so much.”
Yang Hao smiled on the surface, but deep down, he knew it wasn’t just a bit of spice. Earlier, his Nascent Soul had infiltrated the base of the Nether Shades and dumped a large amount of *Lierong Pills* into their food.
The *Lierong Pills* were auxiliary pills Yang Hao had been taking regularly since reaching the Nascent Soul stage—an upgraded version of the old *Huorong Pills*. At his insistence, the master and disciple duo had modified the formula. Now, while still producing immense fiery true qi, the pills had no scent or color, making them nearly undetectable in food—just a slight hint of spiciness.
But *Lierong Pills* were no chili sauce. Their true purpose was to ignite a fire within one’s dantian. For Yang Hao, this fire would naturally enhance his true qi, invigorating his body and spirit.
But for the Nether Shades assassins, it was a different story. The *Qingming Qi* they cultivated was an extremely cold and yin-based true qi, so frigid that it could freeze their bodies solid during cultivation—a hallmark of ice-attribute true qi. When the blazing fire of *Lierong Pills* clashed with this icy domain, the two forces would violently collide, tearing through meridians and spreading uncontrollable flames throughout their bodies.
If these assassins didn’t circulate their *Qingju Qi*, they might survive. But once they did, they would face a gruesome fate.
Still, Yang Hao couldn’t help but admire Zeng Ran’s composure and adaptability. He mused that if given the chance, he’d love to recruit such a man under his command.
Zeng Ran glared coldly at Yang Hao, not daring to circulate his *Qingju Qi* again. “Lord Governor, I must admit, I’m impressed. To infiltrate the Nether Shades’ camp undetected is no small feat.”
“Just taking a stroll,” Yang Hao replied with a grin, completely unfazed.
“But the dignity of the Nether Shades cannot be insulted,” Zeng Ran said, his gaze growing even colder. “So, Lord Governor… please die. Kill! Kill! Kill!”
With Zeng Ran’s signal, the third variation of the *Three Kill Formation*—the one that had never failed, the one that left rivers of blood in its wake—finally erupted into motion.
This variation was called *”Cataclysm.”*
When the elder who created the *Three Kill Formation* first devised it, he knew that if the Nether Shades ever learned it, it would become a disaster. Because *”Cataclysm”* was unstoppable. A single assassination squad, already possessing extraordinary strength, combined with the power of *”Cataclysm”*, could even overwhelm entire armies.
And so it was. Once the Nether Shades mastered *”Cataclysm”*, their role in the Imperial Army expanded beyond assassinations—they became the vanguard in battles against other martial factions. There was even an instance where they challenged three martial factions at once, emerging unscathed while their enemies were annihilated.
In the hands of the Nether Shades, *”Cataclysm”* was calamity—more violent than a mountain flood, hotter than molten lava. Human lives before it were nothing but dust.
Yang Hao had assumed the Nether Shades relied solely on *Qingju Qi*. He was gravely mistaken. Underestimating the enemy was the surest path to death.
After Zeng Ran’s signal, Yang Hao was stunned to see the hundred or so assassins before him vanish into black smoke. It was an eerie disappearance—his spiritual sense told him they hadn’t fled but had instead concealed themselves. Even more terrifying, he felt the chilling winds around him multiply from a hundred to over a thousand.
The assassins hadn’t increased tenfold—this was clearly a diversion, meant to disorient him.
In the cold, silent air, a hundred swords now slithered toward Yang Hao’s body. He might kill most of them with *Shadowmoon*, but even one strike would mean his defeat—and death.
This was the essence of *”Cataclysm.”* Whether facing an entire swordsman battalion or a grandmaster, its lethality remained absolute. No one who had witnessed its variations lived to tell the tale. Everyone knew the consequence of encountering this formation.
Death.
A shiver ran down Yang Hao’s spine. He realized he had truly underestimated his foes. Perhaps it was the confidence from wielding a divine weapon, or perhaps his recent ascension to grandmaster status had made him complacent.
But *”Cataclysm”* had taught him a harsh lesson—no matter how strong an individual was, they could never stand against a powerful, coordinated force. To survive, he needed even greater strength.
“Disciple!!” Hunyuanzi’s sharp shout snapped Yang Hao out of his thoughts, reminding him of the danger he was in. The chilling winds and killing intent around him now circled like sharks, slowly closing in.
Yang Hao couldn’t tell which sharks were illusions and which had truly bared their fangs.
So he closed his eyes. A pill, shimmering with pale blue light like the core of an iceberg, flew into his mouth.
*Icefall Frost Jade Pill!* The sword pill of the Alchemy Sword Sect, dormant for a thousand years!
As the pill dissolved, an incredible transformation overtook Yang Hao. His skin glowed faintly blue, his blood and muscles seeming to turn to ice. Even his hair and eyelashes frosted over with white rime.
One hand extended forward, a swirling orb of blue light spinning in his palm. An intensely cold power radiated from it.
Snow began to fall heavily from the sky—impossible on this comet, where clouds didn’t exist. The snow was Yang Hao’s doing. He had become the god of ice here.
As the power of *”Cataclysm”* closed in, the countless hidden assassins finally struck. Their swords erupted with dark light, all thrusting toward Yang Hao at once. In their minds, he had no escape, no defense—at best, he could take half of them down with him, but death was inevitable.
But Yang Hao exploded.
Not his body—his power. The orb in his palm, his *Shadowmoon Blade*, erupted in a dazzling burst of blue-white radiance.
Like an avalanche of the ages, an unimaginable force of ice and snow filled every inch of space.
Countless ice crystals rained down, covering an area of hundreds of meters. Within it, everything froze—microorganisms, rocks, gases, solids, even the blood in people’s veins turned to ice.
*Icefall Frost Jade Sword*—one of the Alchemy Sword Sect’s supreme techniques. Activated by a single pill, its power rivaled that of a true Sword Immortal. In the ancient battles of immortals, this technique had once sealed away three of the mightiest Sword Immortals.
Though Yang Hao, at the Nascent Soul stage, couldn’t unleash its full might, it was more than enough for his current foes.
The hundred hidden assassins were now fully exposed, each encased in massive blocks of ice. No matter their strength or combat prowess, none could escape this sword’s power.
As Yang Hao slowly recovered from the sword’s intent, he gazed at the frozen tableau around him, inwardly shocked. The might of the sword pill and *Icefall Frost Jade Sword* far exceeded his expectations.
“Should we kill them?” Hunyuanzi asked nonchalantly, even disappointed that Yang Hao’s strike hadn’t matched half of his former glory.
Yang Hao thought for a moment. “No need. I’m heading to Earth soon—I don’t want assassins chasing me every day.”
“Fair enough,” Hunyuanzi chuckled. “They cultivate *Qingju Qi* anyway. They won’t die even after days frozen in ice.”
Yang Hao nodded, then turned his gaze toward the distant command tent, which had remained eerily silent throughout the battle.
Was Ling Ziyan there? Were the Nether Shades’ ten Purple-Clad elites there as well?
After this battle, Yang Hao no longer dared to be careless. He flew over cautiously.
But the tent was empty. Not just empty—it bore signs of a fierce struggle. Aside from the specially reinforced outer fabric, nothing inside remained intact.
Though called the commander’s tent, it was clear Ling Ziyan didn’t stay here. Inside the massive tent, ten simple beds—likely for the Purple-Clad elites—had been shredded by sword energy. In the corner, several alloy containers had been crushed. The entire scene looked as if a storm had torn through.
This only deepened Yang Hao’s suspicions. Why would the Nether Shades’ highest-ranking tent show signs of battle? What had happened here?
Ling Ziyan’s claim that she couldn’t command the Nether Shades seemed validated—otherwise, the Purple-Clad elites wouldn’t dare occupy her tent.
Just then, Yang Hao sensed movement in the distance.
His *Keen Sense* was at work again. Despite his progress in cultivation, this basic technique from the Galactic Empire had only grown stronger. Among the empire’s foundational arts, only *Keen Sense* was considered an innovation rather than a diluted version of ancient methods.
Now, with a mere thought, Yang Hao could sense nearby people or objects of interest.
There—a cliff, or rather, a terrifying precipice like a dragon’s lair. Its sides were sheer and smooth as mirrors, its top riddled with deep crevices. A fall here would likely send one straight into the void of space.
Ling Ziyan and the ten Purple-Clad elites stood atop this cliff.
When Yang Hao arrived, all eleven stared at him, seemingly shocked by his presence.
“What are you doing here?” Ling Ziyan stomped her foot, glaring at him.
Today, she wore the standard assassin’s garb of the Nether Shades—also purple. It seemed she had indeed been ranked among the Purple-Clad, though her methods differed entirely from the others.
Even in traditional assassin attire, Ling Ziyan stood out. Her porcelain skin contrasted starkly against the dark fabric, and her face, usually so bewitching, now bore deep sorrow. In her hands was an enormous sword—its hilt cross-shaped, its surface engraved with steel-blue patterns. Judging by her strained grip, it was astonishingly heavy.
“I came for you,” Yang Hao said, ignoring the other ten. “Lady Thousand Faces, where are you taking my child?”
The question not only paled Ling Ziyan’s face but also visibly unsettled the ten assassins, their auras flickering momentarily.
“You don’t understand! You don’t understand!” Ling Ziyan pressed her lips together, her expression hardening. “Yang Hao, leave now!”
Suddenly, Yang Hao sensed something deeply unsettling behind him—a presence of death, coalescing among the ten assassins.
“And you?” Yang Hao ignored the threat behind him, focusing on the woman before him.
Fear flashed in Ling Ziyan’s eyes—not for Yang Hao, but for those behind him.
“If you don’t leave now, we’ll both die!” she roared, hurling the massive sword toward him. “Hurry!!”
Yang Hao caught it—the weight like solid steel. The sword appeared ordinary, but its hilt bore a pure white gemstone, its power unfathomable even to him.
“What is this?”
“The *Sword of Judgment*!” Ling Ziyan’s face twisted in despair as she felt the assassins’ deathly aura peak behind Yang Hao. “One of the Ten Divine Swords of the Ten Sword Styles, guarded by the Nether Shades.”
Yang Hao’s heart lurched. He realized his grave mistake.
When Ling Ziyan had vanished from Three Crystal Seas, everyone assumed she had betrayed them again—that her identity as the spy *Thousand Faces* meant she had never truly cared for Yang Hao, only using him for her schemes.
Just then, Yang Hao faintly sensed some unusual activity in the distance.
This was again the result of Yang Hao’s acute perception technique. Although he had progressed further along the path of cultivation, the acute perception technique he had learned in his early days continued to enhance as always. Among the basic techniques established by the Galactic Empire, cultivators seemed to regard them as weakened versions of ancient cultivation methods, except for the acute perception technique, which was actually an innovation.
Now, as long as Yang Hao focused his mind, he could sense anyone or anything nearby.
It was a cliff, or rather, a terrifying precipice like a dragon’s jaw. The surrounding area was composed of vertical, smooth, mirror-like star rocks, and the top of the cliff was even more riddled with deep gullies. Each deep trench could cause someone to fall down. More terrifyingly, those bottomless gullies might directly connect to outer space, hurling anyone who fell into the universe.
Ling Ziyan and the ten purple-robed experts were standing atop this cliff.
When Yang Hao arrived, the eleven people stared at him, as if surprised by this man’s arrival.
“What are you doing here?” Ling Ziyan stomped her foot, glaring at him.
Today, this woman wore the standard assassin uniform of the Ming Se, which was also purple. Indeed, Ling Ziyan had already reached the purple-robed rank within the Ming Se, though her method of killing was completely different from others.
Although it was the traditional assassin uniform, it looked different on Ling Ziyan’s body. Her delicate, fair skin, hidden beneath the dark outer garment, was even more dazzling.
“Don’t circulate the Qingbin Qi!” Zeng Ran shouted, his face flushed red as he struggled with all his might to suppress the sinister fire within his dantian. “We’ve been poisoned!!”
“It’s not that serious,” Yang Hao said lazily, sheathing his twin swords behind his back. “I just added a little spice to your meal while you were enjoying it.”
Yang Hao smiled on the surface, but deep down, he knew it wasn’t just a “little spice.” Earlier, his Nascent Soul had infiltrated the base of the Darkmoon assassins and mixed a large amount of *Lierong Pills* into their food.
The *Lierong Pills* were auxiliary pills Yang Hao had been taking since reaching the Nascent Soul stage—an upgraded version of the *Huorong Pills*. At his insistence, the master and disciple duo had modified the formula. Now, the *Lierong Pills* had no scent or color, blending seamlessly into food with only a slight spiciness.
But these pills were far from mere chili sauce. Their true purpose was to ignite a fire within one’s dantian. For Yang Hao, this fire enhanced his Qi, invigorating his body and spirit.
However, when introduced into the dantian of Darkmoon assassins, the effect was entirely different. The *Qingming Qi* they cultivated was an extremely cold and yin-based energy, often causing their bodies to frost over during training—a hallmark of ice-attribute Qi. The raging fire of the *Lierong Pills* clashing with this icy foundation would inevitably lead to a violent collision, tearing meridians apart and spreading uncontrollable flames throughout their bodies.
Thus, if these assassins refrained from circulating their *Qingju Qi*, they might survive. But once activated, they would face a gruesome fate.
Yang Hao couldn’t help but admire Zeng Ran’s composure and adaptability. He mused that if given the chance, he’d recruit such a person into his ranks.
Zeng Ran glared coldly at Yang Hao, not daring to use his *Qingsuan Qi*. “Lord Governor, I must admit my admiration. To infiltrate Darkmoon’s camp undetected is no small feat.”
“Just passing through,” Yang Hao replied with a grin, unfazed.
“But Darkmoon’s dignity cannot be insulted,” Zeng Ran said, his gaze growing even colder. “So, Lord Governor… please die. Kill! Kill! Kill!”
With Zeng Ran’s signal, the third variation of Darkmoon’s *Three-Killing Formation*—a technique that had never failed, one that left rivers of blood in its wake—was unleashed.
This variation was called *”Cataclysm.”*
When the elder who created the *Three-Killing Formation* first devised it, he knew that if Darkmoon mastered it, it would bring disaster. Because *Cataclysm* was unstoppable. A single assassination squad, already formidable, combined with the power of *Cataclysm*, could overwhelm even entire armies.
And so it was. Once *Cataclysm* was in their hands, Darkmoon’s role expanded beyond assassinations—they became the Empire’s vanguard in battles against other martial factions. There was even an instance where Darkmoon challenged three martial factions at once and emerged unscathed, while their enemies were annihilated.
In Darkmoon’s grasp, *Cataclysm* was calamity—more violent than a landslide, hotter than magma. Human lives before it were as insignificant as dust.
Yang Hao had underestimated Darkmoon, assuming they relied solely on *Qingju Qi*. This was a grave mistake—complacency was the best guide to death.
As Zeng Ran’s signal echoed, Yang Hao was stunned to see the hundred Darkmoon assassins before him vanish into black smoke. It wasn’t teleportation—his spiritual senses told him they were still there, lurking, concealed. Worse, the chilling gusts around him multiplied from a hundred to thousands.
The assassins hadn’t increased tenfold—this was an illusion, meant to disorient him.
In the frigid silence, a hundred swords silently glided toward Yang Hao’s body. He might kill most with *Shadowmoon*, but a single strike would mean his defeat—and death.
This was the essence of *Cataclysm*. Whether facing an entire swordsman battalion or a Grand Swordmaster, its lethality remained absolute. None who witnessed its variations lived to tell the tale.
A shiver ran down Yang Hao’s spine. He realized his arrogance—perhaps from wielding divine artifacts or his recent ascension to Grand Swordmaster—had blinded him.
But *Cataclysm* taught him a harsh lesson: no matter how strong an individual, they could never stand against a coordinated force. To survive, he needed even greater power.
“Disciple!!” Hunyuanzi’s sharp cry snapped Yang Hao from his thoughts. The chilling winds and killing intent around him now felt like circling sharks.
He couldn’t tell which were illusions and which were real.
So he closed his eyes.
A pill, glowing faint blue like the heart of a glacier, flew into his mouth.
*Icefall Frost Jade Pill!*
The sword pill of the Alchemy Sword Sect, dormant for a millennium!
As the pill dissolved, Yang Hao underwent a miraculous transformation. His skin shimmered with blue light, his blood and muscles turning icy. Even his hair and eyelashes frosted over.
Extending a hand, a swirling orb of blue light formed in his palm, radiating extreme cold.
Snow began to fall—impossible on this comet, where clouds didn’t exist. The blizzard was Yang Hao’s doing. He had become the comet’s god of ice.
The forces of *Cataclysm* closed in. The countless hidden assassins could wait no longer—their swords erupted with dark light, all thrusting toward Yang Hao. In their minds, he couldn’t evade or block. At best, he’d take half with him—but death was inevitable.
Yet Yang Hao exploded.
Not his body—his power. The orb in his palm, his *Shadowmoon* blade, erupted in a dazzling blue-white radiance.
Like an avalanche of millennia, an unimaginable force filled every inch of space with icy might.
Countless ice crystals rained down, freezing everything within hundreds of meters—microbes, rocks, gases, solids, even the blood in veins turned to ice.
*Icefall Frost Jade Sword*—one of the Alchemy Sword Sect’s supreme techniques. Activated by a pill, its power rivaled that of true sword immortals. In ancient battles, it had slain three of the mightiest sword immortals.
Though Yang Hao, at the Nascent Soul stage, couldn’t unleash its full might, it was more than enough for his foes.
The hidden assassins were forced into visibility, each encased in massive blocks of ice. No matter their strength, none could escape this sword’s dominion.
As Yang Hao recovered from the sword’s intent, he marveled at the frozen tableau around him. The power of the sword pill and *Icefall Frost Jade Sword* far exceeded his expectations.
“Should we kill them?” Hunyuanzi asked indifferently, unimpressed.
Yang Hao pondered. “No. I’m heading to Earth soon. I don’t need assassins hunting me daily.”
“Fair,” Hunyuanzi chuckled. “They cultivate *Qingju Qi*—they won’t die frozen for a few days.”
Yang Hao nodded, then turned his gaze toward the distant, silent command tent.
Was Ling Ziyan there? And the ten Purple-Robed Masters of Darkmoon?
After this battle, Yang Hao no longer dared to be reckless. He flew cautiously toward the tent.
But it was empty—and not just empty. Signs of fierce combat were everywhere. Aside from the specially reinforced outer fabric, nothing inside remained intact.
Though called the “Commander’s Tent,” it was clear Ling Ziyan didn’t reside here. Ten simple beds—likely for the Purple-Robed Masters—lay shredded by sword energy. In a corner, alloy crushes were crumpled like paper. The devastation resembled the aftermath of a storm.
This deepened Yang Hao’s suspicions. Why would Darkmoon’s highest command post witness such violence? What were they doing?
Ling Ziyan’s claim that she couldn’t control Darkmoon seemed validated—otherwise, the Purple-Robed Masters wouldn’t dare occupy her tent.
Just then, Yang Hao sensed movement in the distance.
His *Keen Perception*—one of the few Galactic Empire basic techniques that grew stronger with cultivation—alerted him.
There, atop a cliff like a dragon’s perch, stood Ling Ziyan and the ten Purple-Robed Masters.
When Yang Hao arrived, all eleven stared at him, stunned.
“What are you doing here?” Ling Ziyan stamped her foot, glaring.
Dressed in Darkmoon’s standard assassin garb—also purple—she stood out starkly. Her fair skin contrasted sharply with the dark fabric, and her usual allure was replaced by deep sorrow.
In her hands was an enormous sword—its hilt cross-shaped, its surface engraved with steel-blue patterns. She struggled under its weight.
“I came for you,” Yang Hao said, ignoring the others. “Lady Thousand Faces, where are you taking my child?”
The question drained Ling Ziyan’s face of color. The ten assassins’ auras flickered in shock.
“You don’t understand!” Ling Ziyan bit her lip, resolve hardening. “Yang Hao, leave now!”
A sense of death—palpable and oppressive—coalesced behind Yang Hao.
“And you?” he pressed.
Fear flashed in Ling Ziyan’s eyes—not for him, but for those behind him.
“If you stay, we all die!” she roared, hurling the massive sword at him. “Take it!”
Yang Hao caught it—its weight like solid steel. The sword appeared ordinary, save for a pure white gem embedded in its hilt. The energy within it was unfathomable.
“What is this?”
“The *Sword of Judgment*!” Ling Ziyan’s voice trembled as the assassins’ deathly aura peaked. “One of the Ten Divine Swords of the Ten Sword Styles, guarded by Darkmoon.”
Yang Hao’s heart lurched. He realized his grave mistake.
When Ling Ziyan vanished from Three Crystal Seas, many believed she’d betrayed him again—that her loyalty was always a ruse.
But now, facing her here, he knew the truth was far more complicated.
“Don’t circulate the Qing Bin Qi!” Zeng Ran shouted urgently, his face flushed red as he struggled with all his might to suppress the sinister fire within his dantian. “We’ve been poisoned!!”
“It’s not that serious,” Yang Hao lazily sheathed the two swords behind his back. “I just added a little spice to your meal while you were enjoying it.”
Though Yang Hao smiled on the surface, he knew deep down that what he had added was far from just a bit of spice. Earlier, his Nascent Soul had infiltrated the base of the Dark Moon assassins and mixed a large amount of *Crackling Molten Pills* into their food.
The *Crackling Molten Pills* were auxiliary pills Yang Hao had been taking regularly since reaching the Nascent Soul stage—an upgraded version of the earlier *Fire Molten Pills*. At his insistence, the master and disciple duo had modified the pills to some extent. While retaining their potent fire-based energy effects, the *Crackling Molten Pills* now had no scent or color, merely adding a slight spiciness to the food.
But these pills were no mere chili sauce. Their primary function was to ignite a fire within a person’s dantian. If this fire were in Yang Hao’s dantian, it would naturally enhance his true energy, invigorating his body and spirit. However, when placed in the dantian of a Dark Moon assassin, the effect was entirely different.
The *Dark Moon Qi* cultivated by these assassins was an extremely yin and cold energy. During cultivation, it often caused their bodies to freeze over, making it a representative of ice-based true energy. The raging fire of the *Crackling Molten Pills* burning within such an icy environment would inevitably lead to a violent clash of forces. The result? Torn meridians and uncontrollable flames spreading throughout their bodies.
Thus, if these Dark Moon assassins refrained from circulating their *Qing Bin Qi*, they might be fine. But once they did, they would face a gruesome fate.
Yang Hao couldn’t help but admire Zeng Ran’s composure and adaptability. He mused that if given the chance, he would definitely recruit this man to his side.
Zeng Ran glared coldly at Yang Hao but dared not circulate his *Qing Bin Qi* again. “Lord Governor, I must admit, I’m impressed. To infiltrate the Dark Moon camp undetected is no small feat.”
“Just taking a stroll,” Yang Hao replied with a grin, seemingly unfazed.
“But the dignity of the Dark Moon cannot be insulted,” Zeng Ran’s gaze grew even colder. “So, Lord Governor… please die. Kill! Kill! Kill!”
With Zeng Ran’s signal, the third variation of the *Three Kill Theory*—a technique that had never failed, one that left rivers of blood in its wake—was unleashed in full frenzy.
This variation was called *”Cataclysm.”*
When the elder who created the *Three Kill Theory* first devised it, he knew that if the Dark Moon learned it, it would become a disaster. Because *”Cataclysm”* was unstoppable. A single assassination squad with such overwhelming power, combined with the force of *”Cataclysm,”* could even defy armies.
Indeed, after mastering *”Cataclysm,”* the Dark Moon’s role in the Imperial Army expanded beyond assassinations to include decisive battles against other martial factions. There was even an instance where the Dark Moon challenged three martial factions at once—and emerged unscathed while annihilating their opponents entirely.
In the hands of the Dark Moon, *”Cataclysm”* was calamity—more ferocious than a mountain flood, more scorching than lava. Human lives before it were as insignificant as dust.
Yang Hao had gravely underestimated the Dark Moon assassins, assuming they relied solely on *Qing Bin Qi*. This was a fatal mistake, for arrogance was the best guide to death.
After Zeng Ran’s signal, Yang Hao was stunned to see the hundred or so Dark Moon assassins before him vanish into black smoke. The sensation was eerie—his spiritual sense told him they hadn’t fled but had instead concealed themselves. Even more terrifying, he felt the chilling gusts around him multiply from a hundred to over a thousand.
The assassins hadn’t actually increased tenfold; this was clearly a diversion to obscure their true positions.
In the frigid, silent air, a hundred swords now silently crept toward Yang Hao’s body. He might be able to fend off most with his *Shadow Moon Blade*, but a single strike would spell his doom.
This was the essence of *”Cataclysm.”* Whether facing an entire swordsman regiment or a grandmaster swordsman, its lethality remained unmatched. None who had witnessed its variations lived to tell the tale. Everyone knew the consequence of encountering this formation.
Death.
A shiver ran down Yang Hao’s spine. He realized he had truly underestimated his foes—perhaps due to wielding divine artifacts or his recent ascension to grandmaster swordsman status, which had made him complacent.
But *”Cataclysm”* taught him a harsh lesson: no matter how strong an individual, they could never stand against a formidable team. To survive and triumph, one needed even greater power.
“Disciple!!” Hun Yuanzi’s sharp cry snapped Yang Hao out of his thoughts, reminding him of the danger he was in. The chilling winds and killing intent around him now circled like sharks, slowly closing in.
Yang Hao couldn’t discern which sharks were illusions and which were real, poised to strike.
So he closed his eyes. A pill glowing with a faint blue light, like the core of ice and snow, flew into his mouth.
*Icefall Frost Jade Pill!* The sword pill of the Alchemy Sword Sect, dormant for a thousand years!
As the pill dissolved like deep-sea ice within him, Yang Hao underwent an incredible transformation. A pale blue radiance shimmered across his skin, his blood and muscles seeming to crystallize into ice. Even his hair and eyelashes frosted over with white rime.
One hand extended before him, a sphere of blue light spun and shimmered in his palm, radiating an intensely frigid power.
Snow began to fall heavily from the sky—an impossibility on this comet source, where clouds didn’t exist. The snow’s power came solely from Yang Hao, who now stood as the god of ice and snow upon this celestial body.
As the forces of *”Cataclysm”* closed in, the countless hidden Dark Moon assassins could no longer restrain themselves. Their swords erupted with dark light as they thrust toward Yang Hao at the center. In their minds, he had no escape, no defense—at best, he might take half of them down with him, but death was inevitable.
Yet Yang Hao exploded.
Not his body, but his power—the orb in his palm, his *Shadow Moon Blade*—erupted in a dazzling burst of blue-white brilliance.
Like an earth-shattering avalanche, eons of accumulated snow cascaded down in an instant. An unfathomable force filled every inch of space with the might of ice and snow.
Countless ice crystals drifted down like snowflakes, covering an area of nearly a hundred meters. Within this zone, all life froze—microorganisms, rocks, gases, solids, even the blood in human veins turned to ice.
*Icefall Frost Jade Sword* was one of the Alchemy Sword Sect’s supreme techniques, requiring a sword pill to activate. Its unleashed power rivaled that of a true sword immortal. In the legendary battles of immortals, this technique had once sealed away three of the mightiest sword immortals.
Though Yang Hao, at the Nascent Soul stage, couldn’t unleash its full potential, it was more than enough for his current foes.
The hundred Dark Moon assassins hidden in space were now forced into visibility, each encased in massive blocks of ice. No matter their strength or combat prowess, none could escape the power of this single sword.
As Yang Hao slowly recovered from the sword’s intent, he gazed at the icy sculptures around him, inwardly astonished. The might of the sword pill and *Icefall Frost Jade Sword* far exceeded his expectations.
“Should we kill them?” Hun Yuanzi asked nonchalantly, even finding Yang Hao’s display underwhelming—less than half of his own past glory.
Yang Hao pondered briefly. “No need. I’m heading to Earth soon. I don’t want assassins hunting me every day.”
“Fair enough,” Hun Yuanzi chuckled. “These guys cultivate *Qing Bin Qi* anyway. They won’t die even if frozen for days.”
Yang Hao nodded, then turned his gaze toward the distant, eerily silent commander’s headquarters.
Was Ling Ziyan there? Along with the Dark Moon’s ten elite purple-clad assassins?
After the battle with the Dark Moon, Yang Hao no longer dared to be overconfident. Cautiously, he flew toward the camp.
But the headquarters was empty—not just empty, but also bearing signs of intense combat. Aside from the specially reinforced tent cover remaining intact, nothing inside was left whole.
Though called the commander’s headquarters, it was clear Ling Ziyan didn’t reside here. The large tent originally held ten simple beds for the purple-clad elites, but all were now shredded by sword energy. In the corner, several alloy containers had been crushed. The scene resembled the aftermath of a category ten storm.
This only deepened Yang Hao’s suspicions. Why would the Dark Moon’s highest command post witness such a fierce battle? What were these people doing here?
Ling Ziyan’s claim that she couldn’t command the Dark Moon seemed validated—otherwise, the purple-clad elites wouldn’t dare occupy the commander’s tent.
Just then, Yang Hao faintly sensed movement in the distance.
His *Keen Perception Art* was at work again. Despite his growing prowess in cultivation, this foundational technique from his early days continued to strengthen. Among the Galactic Empire’s basic arts, most were seen by cultivators as diluted versions of ancient methods—except for *Keen Perception Art*, which was an innovation.
Now, with a mere thought, Yang Hao could sense any person or object nearby.
There, a cliff loomed—a terrifying precipice like a dragon’s lair. Its sides were sheer and smooth as mirrors, while the top was riddled with deep crevices, each capable of sending a falling victim straight into the void of space.
Ling Ziyan and the ten purple-clad elites stood atop this cliff.
When Yang Hao arrived, all eleven stared at him, seemingly stunned by his appearance.
“What are you doing here?” Ling Ziyan stamped her foot, glaring at him.
Today, she wore the standard Dark Moon assassin attire—also purple. It seemed Ling Ziyan had indeed risen to the purple-clad rank, though her methods differed entirely from others.
Even in traditional assassin garb, Ling Ziyan stood out. Her fair, porcelain-like skin contrasted starkly against the dark fabric, drawing the eye. Her face, usually bewitching, now bore deep sorrow, her brows like distant mountains.
In her hands was an enormous sword—its hilt cross-shaped, adorned with bluish-steel patterns. Judging by her strained grip, it must be incredibly heavy.
“I came for you,” Yang Hao said, ignoring the other ten. “Lady Thousand Faces, where are you taking my child?”
His words not only paled Ling Ziyan’s face but also visibly unsettled the ten assassins, their auras wavering momentarily.
“You don’t understand! You don’t understand!” Ling Ziyan pressed her lips together, her expression hardening. “Yang Hao, leave now!”
Suddenly, Yang Hao sensed an uncomfortable presence behind him—a feeling of death, a gathering of lethal energy from the ten assassins.
“And you?” Yang Hao focused on the woman before him, disregarding the threat behind.
Fear flashed in Ling Ziyan’s eyes—not directed at Yang Hao, but at those behind him.
“If you don’t leave now, we’ll both die!” she roared, hurling the massive sword toward him. “Hurry!!”
Yang Hao caught the sword—its weight like solid steel. Though outwardly unremarkable, its hilt bore a pure white gemstone containing a power even Yang Hao couldn’t fathom.
“What is this?”
“The *Sword of Judgment*!” Ling Ziyan’s face twisted in despair as she felt the assassins’ death energy reaching its peak. “One of the Ten Divine Swords of the Ten Sword Streams, guarded by the Dark Moon assassins.”
Yang Hao’s heart lurched. He realized the magnitude of his mistake.
When Ling Ziyan vanished from Three Crystal Seas, everyone assumed she had betrayed them again—that her espionage identity as the Thousand-Faced Enchantress meant she never truly cared for Yang Hao, only using him for ulterior motives.
This sentence not only made Ling Ziyan’s face pale but also caused a slight tremor among the ten assassins, their breaths momentarily disrupted.
“You don’t understand, you don’t understand!” Ling Ziyan pressed her lips together, her expression becoming resolute. “Yang Hao, you must leave quickly!”
Suddenly, Yang Hao felt an uncomfortable sensation from behind him. It was like death, a gathering of deadly energy among the ten assassins.
“And you?” Yang Hao ignored what was behind him and focused on the woman before him.
A look of fear suddenly appeared in Ling Ziyan’s eyes. This fear was not directed at Yang Hao but at the people behind him.
“If you don’t leave now, we’ll both die!” Ling Ziyan roared, forcefully throwing her large sword towards Yang Hao. “Hurry up!!”
Yang Hao caught the sword, which indeed felt as heavy as a block of iron. The sword didn’t have any special luster on the outside, but on the seemingly ordinary hilt, there was a pure white gemstone. The power contained within this gemstone was so profound that even Yang Hao couldn’t fathom it.
“What is this?”
“The Sword of Judgment!” Ling Ziyan saw that the ten people behind Yang Hao had already gathered enough deadly energy, and despair appeared on her face. “This is one of the Ten Divine Swords of the Ten Sword School, the Sword of Judgment, which is kept by the Ming Se assassination group.”
A sudden chill ran through Yang Hao’s heart. He suddenly realized how grave his mistake had been.
“Don’t circulate the Inviting Guest Qi!” Zeng Ran shouted urgently, his face flushed red as he struggled with all his might to suppress the sinister fire within his dantian. “We’ve been poisoned!!”
“It’s not that serious,” Yang Hao said lazily, sheathing his two swords behind his back. “I just added a little spice to your meal while you were enjoying it.”
Though Yang Hao smiled on the surface, he knew deep down that what he had added was far from just a bit of spice. Earlier, his Nascent Soul had infiltrated the base of the Nether Shades and mixed a large amount of *Splitting Molten Pills* into their food.
The *Splitting Molten Pills* were auxiliary pills Yang Hao had been consuming regularly since reaching the Nascent Soul realm—an upgraded version of the old *Fire Molten Pills*. At his insistence, the master and disciple duo had modified the pills to some extent. Without compromising their ability to generate immense fiery true qi, the *Splitting Molten Pills* now had no scent or color. When added to food, they merely gave a slight spicy taste.
But *Splitting Molten Pills* were no mere chili sauce. Their primary function was to ignite a fire within a person’s dantian. If this fire were in Yang Hao’s dantian, it would naturally enhance his true qi, invigorating his body and spirit.
However, when placed in the dantian of a Nether Shades assassin, the effect was entirely different. The *Pure Nether Qi* cultivated by the Nether Shades was an extremely yin and cold true qi. During cultivation, it often caused the body to freeze over, making it the epitome of ice-attribute true qi. The raging fire of the *Splitting Molten Pills* burning within such an icy environment would inevitably lead to a violent clash of forces. The result? Torn meridians, uncontrollable true fire spreading throughout the body.
Thus, if these Nether Shades assassins refrained from circulating their *Inviting Guest Qi*, they might survive. But once they did, they would face a gruesome fate.
Still, Yang Hao couldn’t help but admire Zeng Ran’s composure and adaptability. He mused that if given the chance, he would definitely recruit this man to his side.
Zeng Ran glared coldly at Yang Hao but dared not circulate his *Inviting Guest Qi* again. “Lord Governor, I must admit my admiration. To infiltrate the Nether Shades’ camp undetected is no small feat.”
“Just taking a casual stroll,” Yang Hao replied with a grin, utterly nonchalant.
“But the dignity of the Nether Shades cannot be insulted,” Zeng Ran said, his gaze growing even colder. “So, Lord Governor… please die. Kill! Kill! Kill!”
With Zeng Ran’s signal, the third variation of the *Three Kill Theory*—the one that had never failed, the one that left rivers of blood in its wake—finally erupted into frenzied motion once more.
This variation was called *Cataclysm*.
When the elder who created the *Three Kill Theory* first devised it, he knew that if the Nether Shades mastered this sword formation, it would become a disaster. Because *Cataclysm* was unstoppable. An assassination squad already possessed extraordinary strength, but when combined with the power of *Cataclysm*, even armies would be powerless to resist.
Indeed, after acquiring *Cataclysm*, the Nether Shades’ role in the Imperial Army expanded beyond mere assassinations—they became pivotal in decisive battles against other martial factions. The Nether Shades once challenged three martial factions simultaneously, and not a single one of their members was lost, while their enemies were annihilated.
In the hands of the Nether Shades, *Cataclysm* was calamity—more ferocious than a mountain flood, more scorching than molten lava. Human lives before it were nothing but dust.
Yang Hao had assumed the Nether Shades relied solely on *Inviting Guest Qi*. He was gravely mistaken. Underestimating the enemy was the surest path to death.
After Zeng Ran issued his signal, Yang Hao was shocked to see the hundred or so Nether Shades assassins before him vanish into black smoke. The sensation was eerie—Yang Hao’s spiritual sense told him they hadn’t fled but had instead concealed themselves. Even more terrifying, he felt gusts of icy wind rapidly multiplying around him, from a hundred to over a thousand.
The Nether Shades assassins hadn’t actually multiplied tenfold—this was clearly a diversion to obscure their positions.
In the frigid, silent air, a hundred swords now silently glided toward Yang Hao’s body. He might be able to kill most of them with *Shadow Moon*, but if even one sword struck, he would lose. And losing meant death.
This was the essence of *Cataclysm*. Whether facing an entire swordsman regiment or a grandmaster swordsman, *Cataclysm* maintained its lethal efficiency. No one knew the variations of this sword formation—those who had experienced it were all dead. Everyone knew the consequence of encountering it.
Death.
A chill crept up Yang Hao’s spine. He realized he had truly underestimated his enemy. Perhaps it was the confidence from wielding a divine weapon, or perhaps his recent ascension to grandmaster swordsman status had made him complacent.
But *Cataclysm* gave him a sobering realization: no matter how strong an individual was, they could never stand against a powerful, coordinated team. To win, to survive, he needed even greater strength.
“Disciple!!” Hunyuanzi’s sharp shout snapped Yang Hao out of his thoughts, reminding him of the danger he was in. The cold winds and killing intent around him now circled like sharks, slowly closing in.
Yang Hao couldn’t tell which sharks were illusions and which had truly bared their fangs.
So he closed his eyes.
A pill, shimmering with pale blue light like the core of an iceberg, flew into his mouth.
*Icefall Frost Jade Pill!* The sword pill of the Alchemy Sword Sect, dormant for a thousand years!
As the pill, cold as the depths of the ocean, dissolved within him, Yang Hao underwent an incredible transformation. A faint blue glow radiated from his skin—his blood and muscles seemed to turn to ice, even his hair and eyelashes frosting over with white rime.
One of Yang Hao’s hands extended forward, a swirling orb of blue light spinning in his palm. An intensely frigid power emanated from it.
Snow began to fall heavily from the sky—something impossible on this comet’s surface, where clouds didn’t exist. The snow’s power came entirely from Yang Hao, who now stood as the god of ice and snow upon the comet.
As the forces of *Cataclysm* closed in, the countless hidden Nether Shades assassins could no longer restrain themselves. Their swords erupted with dark light as they all thrust toward Yang Hao at the center. In their estimation, Yang Hao could neither escape nor block—at best, he might take half of them down with him, but death was inevitable.
But Yang Hao exploded.
Not his body—his power. The orb in his palm, his *Shadow Moon* blade, erupted violently in the air, unleashing a dazzling blue-white radiance.
It was like an earth-shattering avalanche—millennia of accumulated snow crashing down in an instant. An inconceivable force filled every inch of space with the might of ice.
Countless ice crystals drifted down like snowflakes, covering an area of nearly a hundred meters. Within this zone, every living thing froze—microorganisms, rocks, gases, solids, even the blood in people’s veins turned to ice.
*Icefall Frost Jade Sword* was one of the Alchemy Sword Sect’s supreme sword techniques. Activated by a sword pill, its unleashed power rivaled that of a true sword immortal. In the ancient battles of immortals, this technique had once sealed away three of the mightiest sword immortals.
Though Yang Hao, at the Nascent Soul realm, couldn’t unleash the technique’s full might, it was more than enough to deal with his current foes.
The hundred or so Nether Shades assassins hidden in space were now all forced into visibility, each encased in massive blocks of ice. No matter how strong they were, no matter their combat prowess, none could escape the power of this sword.
As Yang Hao slowly recovered from the sword’s intent, he gazed at the frozen sculptures around him, inwardly astonished. The power of the sword pill and *Icefall Frost Jade Sword* far exceeded his expectations.
“Should we kill them?” Hunyuanzi asked indifferently, even disappointed that Yang Hao’s strike had been so weak—not even half as impressive as his own past displays.
Yang Hao lowered his head in thought. “No need. I’m heading to Earth soon. I don’t want to be hunted by assassins every day.”
“Fair enough,” Hunyuanzi chuckled. “These people cultivate *Inviting Guest Qi* anyway—they can survive being frozen for days.”
Yang Hao nodded, then turned his gaze toward the distant, silent command tent, seemingly indifferent to the battle.
Was Ling Ziyan there? Were the Nether Shades’ ten Purple-Robed Masters there as well?
After the battle with the Nether Shades, Yang Hao no longer dared to be overconfident. Cautiously, he flew toward the tent.
But the command tent was empty. Not just empty—it showed signs of a fierce struggle. Aside from the specially reinforced outer fabric remaining intact, nothing inside was left undamaged.
Though called the commander’s tent, it was clear Ling Ziyan didn’t reside here. The large tent originally held ten simple beds for the Purple-Robed Masters, but now they were shredded by sword energy. In a corner, several alloy containers had been crushed. The scene was as chaotic as if a category-ten storm had swept through.
This sight deepened Yang Hao’s suspicions. Why would the Nether Shades’ highest command post show signs of battle? What had happened here?
Ling Ziyan’s claim that she couldn’t command the Nether Shades seemed validated—otherwise, the Purple-Robed Masters wouldn’t dare occupy the commander’s tent.
Just then, Yang Hao faintly sensed movement in the distance.
His *Keen Sense* was at work again. Though he had ventured far down the path of cultivation, this basic technique from his early days continued to grow stronger. Among the Galactic Empire’s foundational techniques, most seemed like diluted versions of ancient cultivation methods—only *Keen Sense* stood out as an innovation.
Now, with a mere thought, Yang Hao could sense any person or object nearby.
There—a cliff, or rather, a terrifying precipice like a dragon’s lair. Its sides were sheer and smooth as mirrors, while the top was riddled with deep crevices, each capable of sending a person plummeting into the abyss. Worse, those bottomless chasms likely led straight to outer space, hurling anyone who fell into the void.
Ling Ziyan and the ten Purple-Robed Masters stood atop this cliff.
When Yang Hao arrived, all eleven stared at him, seemingly stunned by his appearance.
“What are you doing here?” Ling Ziyan stamped her foot, glaring at him.
Today, she wore the Nether Shades’ standard assassin attire—also purple. Ling Ziyan had indeed been ranked among the Purple-Robed Masters, though her methods of killing differed entirely from the others.
Even in traditional assassin garb, Ling Ziyan stood out. Her fair, porcelain-like skin contrasted starkly against the dark fabric, making her even more striking.
Her face, usually bewitching, now bore no trace of allure—her brows were delicate, her eyes filled with deep sorrow. In her hands, she clutched an enormous sword with a cross-shaped hilt and bluish-steel patterns. Judging by her strained grip, it must have been incredibly heavy.
“I came for you,” Yang Hao said, ignoring the other ten. “Lady Thousand Faces, where are you taking my child?”
His words not only paled Ling Ziyan’s face but visibly unsettled the ten assassins—their auras wavered for a brief moment.
“You don’t understand, you don’t understand!” Ling Ziyan pressed her lips together, her expression hardening. “Yang Hao, leave now!”
Suddenly, Yang Hao felt an uncomfortable sensation behind him—like death itself. A necrotic aura was coalescing among the ten assassins.
“What about you?” Yang Hao ignored the threat behind him, focusing on the woman before him.
Fear flashed in Ling Ziyan’s eyes—not directed at Yang Hao, but at those behind him.
“If you don’t leave now, we’ll both die!” Ling Ziyan roared, hurling her massive sword at Yang Hao. “Hurry!!”
Yang Hao caught the sword—it felt as heavy as solid steel. Though outwardly unremarkable, its hilt bore a pure white gemstone containing a power even Yang Hao couldn’t fathom.
“What is this?”
“The *Sword of Judgment*!” Ling Ziyan’s face twisted in despair as she sensed the necrotic aura behind Yang Hao reaching its peak. “One of the Ten Divine Weapons of the Ten Swords School, entrusted to the Nether Shades for safekeeping.”
Yang Hao’s heart trembled. He realized the enormity of his mistake.
When Ling Ziyan had left Three Crystal Sea without a word, everyone assumed she had betrayed them again. Given her identity as the spy *Thousand Faces*, they believed she had never truly cared for Yang Hao—that it was all part of some scheme.
Even Yang Hao had such thoughts.
But they were all wrong. Ling Ziyan’s secret return to the Mingse base had only one mission this time, a mission she was determined to complete at the cost of her life.
“You came back to help me steal the Sword of Judgment?” Yang Hao was stunned.
But the sadness in Ling Ziyan’s eyes deepened. She gazed at her own hands—delicate and tender, though they had ended many lives, they remained pure and unblemished.
“It’s useless just sitting there, so I’ll steal it for you to play with,” Ling Ziyan smiled bitterly. “Yang Hao, you should leave quickly and become your lord.”
At this moment, even Yang Hao sensed something was wrong. He turned swiftly and indeed noticed movement behind him. The ten assassins dressed in purple, who had originally stood like statues, had transformed. From each of their bodies emanated a pure black aura, like a devil’s soul—terrifying, dark, and dreadful, yet brimming with power.
Each of them possessed a combat strength of at least level twenty-four; even among ordinary swordsmen, they were top-tier experts. Moreover, they were Mingse, the most terrifying dark assassins in the universe, the culmination of ten years of effort by the Elder Council.
Although they stood scattered, they gave the impression of being a single entity, their dark auras merging seamlessly, like water and milk combined.
Even their speech was synchronized: “Ling Ziyan, you have betrayed the Elder Council and Mingse. Even your master, Elder Rongli, cannot save you.”
Even Yang Hao had such thoughts.
But they were all wrong. Ling Ziyan’s return to the Twilight’s stronghold this time had only one mission—a mission she intended to complete at the cost of her life.
“You came back to help me steal the Sword of Judgment?” Yang Hao was stunned.
The sorrow in Ling Ziyan’s eyes deepened as she gazed at her own hands. Those hands were delicate and lovely, though they had ended many lives—yet they remained so pure and white.
“It’s useless just sitting there, so I might as well steal it for you to play with,” Ling Ziyan said with a bitter smile. “Yang Hao, leave quickly. Go and be the lord you’re meant to be.”
By now, even Yang Hao sensed something was wrong. He spun around swiftly and saw the disturbance behind him. The ten purple-clad assassins, who had stood motionless like mountains, had now transformed. From each of them, a pitch-black aura emerged—ghastly, sinister, terrifying, yet brimming with power, like the souls of demons.
Each of these men possessed combat strength above level 24, making them first-rate experts even among ordinary swordmasters. And they were no ordinary warriors—they were Twilight, the most feared dark assassins in the universe, the culmination of a decade of effort by the Senate.
Though they stood scattered, they felt like a single entity, their dark auras intertwined seamlessly, blending like milk and water.
Even their voices merged into one: “Ling Ziyan, you have betrayed the Senate and Twilight. Not even your master, Elder Rong Lian, can save you now.”
“Since when has Twilight ever treated me as their leader?” Ling Ziyan retorted sharply, though her heart wavered. “You’ve long wanted me dead—aren’t you afraid the Emperor will investigate?”
“The Emperor?” The ten masters sneered. “Even the Emperor answers to the Senate.”
“Audacious!”
“Die!”
The words came swiftly, their meanings chaotic. Before Yang Hao could fully grasp them, the ten masters moved again—this time, solidifying into one.
Earlier, their auras had merely merged, but when the words “Die!” were uttered, the dark energy condensed into something tangible, like a thick liquid, flowing slowly through the air in a way that could be clearly felt.
In unison, the ten chanted in an eerie, drawn-out tone: “Final Judgment!”
“The Emperor?” The ten experts sneered in unison. “Even the Emperor listens to the Elder Council.”
“Reckless!”
“Die!”
These few words were spoken extremely fast, their meanings chaotic and tangled. Before Yang Hao could fully comprehend, the ten experts moved again—they solidified into one.
Previously, the ten individuals’ auras had merely merged, but as they uttered the words “die,” their dark energies actually congealed, like a thick liquid, visibly flowing slowly through the air.
In an eerie tone, they spoke in unison with elongated syllables: “Final Judgment!”
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