Across from him, the ghost elder’s avatar, as if possessed of intelligence, extended both hands. One hand struck down upon the Hero Emperor’s great sword, pinning it with immense force, preventing the Hero Emperor from withdrawing.
The other hand, cold and merciless, thrust forward, striking precisely at the delicate crimson bloom upon the Hero Emperor’s chest.
A thick aura of death surged toward the flower, gradually devouring its vitality. The Hero Emperor froze completely, his body rapidly withering, his skin wrinkling, his muscles slackening, his long hair turning silver. Clearly, the ghost elder had discovered the Hero Emperor’s weakness—he realized that all the Emperor’s life force stemmed from a single enchantment on his chest. Destroying that enchantment would allow the ghost elder to kill the Emperor without spilling a drop of blood.
Thus, a deadly trap was formed.
The ghost elder’s avatar merged into the barrier. As long as the barrier remained intact, the avatar would not perish. The Hero Emperor, restrained by one of the avatars, would soon lose all vitality.
Qin Feng, meanwhile, was pinned beneath the Dragon-Slaying Spike, his life hanging by a thread.
The only remaining Saint-level peak expert still unharmed was Yang Hao, who was locked in a desperate struggle with the barrier. If he let go, the opening he had torn wide enough for a person to escape through would instantly seal shut.
Yet Yang Hao did not let go, because within this barrier was someone he absolutely had to save.
Yang Hao’s gaze remained fixed on Lan Ling. Lan Ling had risen from the ground. The injuries she had sustained moments ago left her pale, appearing like an angel of blood against her crimson-stained garments. She turned her head and met Yang Hao’s eyes.
At that moment, no words were needed.
The sky had gradually brightened, yet the blood spilled across the ground and the loss of life made this dawn feel more like darkness.
Cries of agony echoed in people’s ears. The banners of the Imperial Guard fell like waves, and wherever the ghost elder’s finger pointed, black-armored warriors perished.
It was a time of hellish torment.
On Lan Ling’s face was sorrow and grief. Her delicate, jade-like visage was streaked with two clear tears—tears for Yang Hao, for the only man she had ever loved in her life.
Though their love was fleeting, it was equally unforgettable.
A cold wind blew in from outside the barrier through the opening Yang Hao had strained to keep open, gently brushing Lan Ling’s long hair, slightly easing her dizziness from the stench of blood. The newborn sun slowly spread its light across the horizon, gradually illuminating the entire land.
Lan Ling smiled.
She tightly gripped her silver spear.
“Come out!!” Yang Hao shouted with all his might, stretching the opening in the barrier to its maximum. “Lan Ling, come out!!”
Perhaps it wasn’t selfishness on Yang Hao’s part. At this moment, the only one still able to escape within the barrier was Lan Ling. The Hero Emperor was dying, Qin Feng was dying, the Snow-Night Star Lion Corps were dying, and all the black-armored warriors were dying.
This was something the Hero Emperor, Jia Ran, had foreseen the moment he prepared to leave the palace. Yet even if only Lan Ling could escape, it would still be considered a victory for the Emperor.
“Come out…” Yang Hao opened his mouth wide, but his voice grew weaker and weaker. Lan Ling had already turned her back on him, not even glancing his way. Yang Hao deeply understood this woman’s stubbornness, and he knew exactly what choice she would make.
But Yang Hao still had to try.
In this world, how many people truly love each other?
Some people have gazed at each other for a thousand years without ever finding the chance to walk together. Others need only a single glance to remember each other for a thousand years.
How could Yang Hao forget the quiet, composed expression Lan Ling had worn the day she chose to stay behind on the Intelligence Core Star?
How could he forget her sorrowful gaze when she thrust her spear at her master inside the Grand Palace?
How could he forget her solitary, weary stance at the gate of the Dan Ding Sword Sect, wounded and leaning alone against the door after a lone battle?
She was a woman who had loved Yang Hao with all her heart.
Yang Hao roared toward the heavens: “Lan Ling! Come out!”
Flames erupted from every part of his body, as if he had become a god of fire standing amidst the inferno.
But the blood within the barrier was like tears flowing down Lan Ling’s face. The coldness of her silver spear represented the most solitary and noble pride.
A warrior, a fighter, a companion’s pride.
No one within this barrier would step over their comrades’ blood-soaked corpses and crawl through the opening Yang Hao had torn open.
Slowly, Lan Ling ascended toward the sky, her determination evident in her back view. Droplets of blood spilled from her wounds, making it seem as if she were raining blood as she soared through the air.
Her silver spear pointed upward, aimed directly at the ghost elder in the sky.
An unbreakable target, yet one she had to strike.
Opposite him, the spectral elder’s doppelganger seemed to possess intelligence as it extended both hands. One hand struck the Heroic Emperor’s greatsword, exerting immense force to lock the blade in place, preventing the emperor from retreating.
The other hand coldly thrust forward, precisely striking the delicate crimson flower on the Heroic Emperor’s chest.
A dense aura of death pressed into the flower, devouring its life force bit by bit. The Heroic Emperor froze in place, his body rapidly withering—his skin wrinkled with age, his muscles slackened, and his long hair turned silver. Clearly, the spectral elder had found the emperor’s weakness. He had discerned that all of the Heroic Emperor’s vitality stemmed from an enchantment on his chest. Shattering this enchantment would allow him to kill the emperor without shedding a drop of blood.
Thus, a deadly trap was set.
The spectral elder’s doppelganger merged with the barrier—as long as the barrier remained, the doppelganger would not perish. The Heroic Emperor, restrained by one of these doppelgangers, would soon lose all his life force.
Qin Feng, meanwhile, was pinned beneath the Dragon-Slaying Spike, teetering on the brink of death.
The only one still unscathed was Yang Hao, a peak Saint Realm expert locked in a desperate struggle with the barrier. The moment he let go, the gap he had torn open—just wide enough for a person to slip through—would seal shut.
Yang Hao refused to relent, for within this barrier was someone he had to save.
His gaze remained fixed on Lan Ling. She had risen from the ground, her injuries leaving her deathly pale. Clad in bloodstained robes, she resembled a crimson angel. She turned her head, meeting his eyes.
In that moment, no words were needed.
Dawn was breaking, but the blood-soaked earth and the loss of life made this sunrise feel darker than night.
Desperate cries echoed in the air. The banners of the Imperial Guard fell like waves, and wherever Ghostly Shadow pointed his finger, black-armored warriors met their end.
An era of purgatory.
Sorrow and melancholy etched Lan Ling’s jade-like face as twin trails of tears slid down her cheeks—tears for Yang Hao, the only man she had ever loved.
Though their love had been brief, it was unforgettable.
A cold wind slipped through the gap Yang Hao had forced open, brushing through Lan Ling’s hair and easing her dizziness from the bloodshed. The newborn sun cast its light across the land.
Lan Ling smiled.
She tightened her grip on her silver spear.
“Come out!!” Yang Hao strained with all his might, widening the gap in the barrier. “Lan Ling, come out!!”
This wasn’t mere selfishness—Lan Ling was the only one left who could escape. The Heroic Emperor was dying. Qin Feng was dying. The Snowy Night Star Lion Regiment was dying. Every black-armored warrior was dying.
This was the fate Emperor Jaran had foreseen when he left the palace. Even if only Lan Ling survived, it would still be his victory.
“Come out…” Yang Hao’s voice grew weaker.
Lan Ling had already turned away, refusing to look at him. Yang Hao knew her stubbornness well—he knew what choice she would make.
But he had to try.
How many in this world truly loved each other?
Some could gaze at one another for a thousand years and never be together. Others needed but a single glance to remember each other for eternity.
How could Yang Hao forget the quiet resolve in Lan Ling’s eyes when she stayed behind on the Brain Star?
How could he forget her sorrow when she thrust her spear at her master in the grand hall?
How could he forget her loneliness as she leaned against the gate of the Danding Sword Sect, wounded and panting after a bloody solo battle?
She was a woman who had loved him with all her heart.
Yang Hao roared at the sky, “Lan Ling! Come out!”
Flames erupted from his entire body, as though he were a god standing amidst fire.
But the blood within the barrier was like the tears on Lan Ling’s face. The cold grip of her silver spear embodied the proudest dignity in the world—the dignity of a warrior, a fighter, a comrade.
No one in this barrier would crawl through the gap Yang Hao had torn open, stepping over their comrades’ blood.
Lan Ling drifted slowly into the sky, her resolve clear in her silhouette. Blood dripped from her wounds, scattering like rain as she ascended.
Her silver spear pointed forward—toward the spectral elder in the sky.
An unbreakable target, yet one she had to break.
The Thirty-Six Ghostly Shadow Barrier, the Dragon-Slaying Spike, the undead—all originated from the spectral elder. Now, with everyone in the barrier on the verge of death, this was the only thing Lan Ling could do.
Gripping her spear, she charged at the spectral elder.
Charging toward someone she could never kill, toward her inevitable death. This was the only thing she could do for her comrades. For this, she was willing to die under the gaze of the man she loved.
Perhaps that, too, was a kind of happiness.
She had done all she could for Yang Hao.
Now, Lan Ling was ready to die.
The scene in the sky was tragic and brutal. Lan Ling, pale and fragile, flew toward the spectral elder like a swaying kite. Blood cascaded from her body, shrouding the air in a crimson mist.
The dawn’s light bathed everything in a holy glow—holy, yet tinged with cold blood.
“The sword is still in hand,” the Heroic Emperor rasped, now withered and skeletal. He chuckled hoarsely with his last strength, “The sword is still in hand!”
“Ahhh!” The surviving warriors echoed his cry.
Yang Hao clenched his jaw, watching Lan Ling’s suicidal charge. Tears streamed down his face like flames.
“Ah!” Yang Hao suddenly released his hold. The Ghostly Shadow Barrier flickered with white light as the gap sealed shut, leaving the barrier intact once more. Only now, it contained thousands more corpses—perhaps even those of the Heroic Emperor, Qin Feng, and Lan Ling.
But Yang Hao no longer cared. He stumbled back, flames erupting from his dantian, his mouth, his eyes—as though he were the source of fire itself, unleashing scorching power.
The Flaming Bow reacted in kind. The ancient soul within the bow sang a hymn from the dawn of creation—a song belonging solely to the Fire God, echoing over Earth after millennia.
The raging flames enveloped Yang Hao, merging him with the bow until they became one.
The true essence of fire surged from the Flaming Bow, flooding Yang Hao’s mind. All the secrets of flame were laid bare before him.
Yang Hao had entered a divine treasury. Every fire in the world, every origin of flame, revealed its mysteries to him. Those fires became his children.
In that instant, Yang Hao comprehended all the wisdom of the Fire God. The power of Zhu Rong took root within him, awakening anew.
Now, Yang Hao was the Yang Hao of the Danding Sect, the Yang Hao of Hunyuanzi—but also the Yang Hao of Zhu Rong, the Yang Hao of fire.
He had become the God of Fire.
Blazing light illuminated the earth. The heavens trembled; the seas churned.
Yang Hao chanted the Fire God’s mournful hymn—the lament of Zhu Rong, sealed within the bow for a thousand years. A fiery arrow formed at his fingertips.
He drew the Flaming Bow.
Amidst a song fiercer than fury, hotter than flame.
The first arrow of the Flaming Bow shot forth—a tidal wave of fire, striking the first Ghostly Shadow with speed beyond human sight.
The power of all flames, ancient and modern, erupted from that arrow.
The Ghostly Shadow—even the spectral elder’s doppelganger—could not evade it. The shadow, infused with the elder’s energy, shrieked in agony. It withdrew its power, but the flames clung as though burning from within its soul, impossible to shake off.
Ghostly Shadows had no life, but they retained fragments of souls. With even a wisp of soul, they could not escape the fire.
The once-invincible Ghostly Shadow writhed on the ground like a wretched insect, howling until it vanished into smoke and ash.
Yang Hao, now like a fire god descended upon the world, stunned everyone anew.
All paused, staring at him in awe. Though he had already reached the peak of the Saint Realm, he had only been a match for the elder. Yet now, he had shattered the supposedly unbreakable barrier—even burning one of the elder’s doppelgangers alive.
What kind of power was this?
Enveloped in flames, Yang Hao seemed reborn. His long hair, now crimson, billowed around him. Barefoot, wreathed in fiery illusions, he resembled the Fire God Zhu Rong himself.
Yang Hao did not stop. Another arrow of fury nocked onto the Flaming Bow. With each line of the ancient hymn—mournful yet beautiful—he loosed another arrow of vengeance.
Those arrows were the mightiest weapons in the world.
Among the thirty most formidable artifacts in the universe, the Flaming Bow ranked first. It could kill not just men, but gods.
Each arrow carried not only Yang Hao’s wrath, but also the Fire God’s millennia of hatred—sealed within the bow, unquenchable across heaven and earth.
Hunyuanzi’s hatred—the pain of losing his wife, the blood feud of his sect. Yang Hao’s hatred—the murder of his brothers, the wounding of his woman.
All this hatred became arrows.
Arrows that none could block.
Yang Hao fired twelve arrows of fury, incinerating all twelve of the spectral elder’s doppelgangers. The so-called unbreakable Ghostly Shadow Barrier, weakened by the loss of power, tore open a massive gap.
Thousands of Imperial Guards escaped the deadly trap. Though the battle was not yet over, at least half would survive.
Now, only three remained in peril.
The Heroic Emperor, his life force suppressed by a doppelganger. Qin Feng, barely holding on beneath the Dragon-Slaying Spike. And Lan Ling—worst of all, already struck down by the spectral elder’s true form, now held by the throat in midair, limp as a sheet of paper.
The elder needed only a slight squeeze to kill her—this young warrior who had broken through the Saint Realm, the most beautiful woman in the capital.
Yet he did not move. Could not move. Dared not move.
Yang Hao’s arrow of fury was aimed at the spectral elder’s true form. With each of the twelve unstoppable arrows, the elder’s power waned. Now, he had lost a full third of his strength—centuries of cultivation.
Worse, the Flaming Bow was the most powerful of all divine artifacts. The spectral elder alone could neither break it nor muster the courage to try.
As Yang Hao coldly leveled the arrow at him, the elder felt fear like never before—a terror he had only known during his mortal tribulations.
Yang Hao’s fiery aura and icy gaze froze the elder’s hand around Lan Ling’s throat, preventing him from tightening his grip.
The arrow’s radiance blazed in Yang Hao’s palm.
This was no fleeting brilliance of a divine weapon. Yang Hao now possessed all the secrets of fire—he was the Fire God’s avatar in this world.
Could the spectral elder oppose a god?
With twelve doppelgangers destroyed and a third of his power gone, he could barely maintain the barrier, let alone resist Yang Hao’s assault on the Heroic Emperor and Qin Feng.
Retreat was his only option.
Using Lan Ling as a shield, the elder’s form dimmed into the air, his sinister figure vanishing from the capital’s sky.
The Thirty-Six Ghostly Shadow Barrier dissipated in an instant.
Freed from pressure, the Heroic Emperor and Qin Feng collapsed, too weak to pursue the elder, and began meditating to heal.
Lan Ling, however, drifted down like a withered leaf—pale, weightless, following an erratic path.
Until she landed in Yang Hao’s arms.
“I saved you,” Yang Hao sighed in relief.
Lan Ling forced her eyes open, glanced at him, and murmured, “I don’t like red hair.”
Then she fell into a deep slumber.
The morning sun blazed warmly over the wounded, its rays as intoxicating as wine.
The bloodiest battle in the capital’s history ended on this radiant morning.
But for the empire, the darkest hour had only just begun.
Raise her spear and charge toward the ghost elder.
Charge toward a man she was destined not to kill, toward a fate she was destined to die. This was the only thing Lan Ling could do for her comrades. For this, she was willing to die before the eyes of the man she loved.
Perhaps, in doing so, she could find happiness.
She had done everything she could for Yang Hao.
Now, Lan Ling was ready to meet her end.
The scene in the sky was tragic and brutal. Lan Ling soared like a fragile, trembling reed, pale and delicate as she flew toward the ghost elder. Blood poured ceaselessly from her body, shrouding the battlefield in a crimson mist.
The morning sunlight bathed everything in holy radiance, yet within that sanctity lay a cold, blood-red hue.
“My sword remains in hand,” the Hero Emperor, now aged and frail, chuckled weakly, summoning his last strength to roar, “My sword remains in hand!”
“Haaa!” Those still alive responded in unison.
Yang Hao pressed his lips tightly together, gazing upward at Lan Ling’s final charge, his tears flowing in the form of fire.
Opposite him, the spectral elder’s avatar seemed to possess intelligence as it extended two hands. One hand struck the Heroic Emperor’s heavy sword, locking it in place with immense force, preventing the emperor from breaking free.
The other hand coldly reached forward, pressing directly against the delicate crimson flower blooming on the Heroic Emperor’s chest.
A dense aura of death surged into the flower, devouring its life force bit by bit. The Heroic Emperor froze in place, his body rapidly withering—his skin wrinkled with age, his muscles slackened, and his long hair turned silver. Clearly, the spectral elder had found the emperor’s weakness. He had discerned that all of the Heroic Emperor’s vitality stemmed from an enchantment on his chest. Shattering it would allow him to kill the emperor without shedding a drop of blood.
Thus, a deadly trap was set.
The spectral elder’s avatar merged with the barrier—as long as the barrier stood, the avatar would remain unkillable. The Heroic Emperor, restrained by one of these avatars, would soon lose all his life force.
Qin Feng, meanwhile, was pinned beneath the Dragon-Slaying Spike, teetering on the brink of death.
The only remaining unharmed peak Saint Realm expert, Yang Hao, was locked in a desperate struggle against the barrier. The moment he let go, the gap he had torn open—just wide enough for a person to slip through—would seal shut.
Yang Hao refused to relent, for within this barrier was someone he had to save.
His gaze remained fixed on Lan Ling. She had risen from the ground, her injuries leaving her deathly pale. Clad in bloodstained robes, she resembled a crimson angel. She turned her head, meeting his eyes.
In that moment, no words were needed.
Dawn was breaking, but the blood-soaked earth and the lives lost made this sunrise feel more like darkness.
Desperate cries echoed in the air. The banners of the Imperial Guard fell like waves, and wherever Ghostly Shadow pointed, black-armored warriors perished.
An era of purgatory.
Sorrow and melancholy etched Lan Ling’s jade-like face as twin streams of tears traced down her cheeks—tears for Yang Hao, the only man she had ever loved.
Though their love had been brief, it was unforgettable.
A cold wind slipped through the gap Yang Hao had forced open, brushing through Lan Ling’s hair, easing her dizziness from the bloodshed. The newborn sun cast its light across the land.
Lan Ling smiled.
She tightened her grip on her silver spear.
“Come out!!” Yang Hao strained with all his might, widening the gap in the barrier. “Lan Ling, come out!!”
This wasn’t mere selfishness—at this point, Lan Ling was the only one left in the barrier who could escape. The Heroic Emperor was dying. Qin Feng was dying. The Snow Night Star Lion Regiment was dying. All the black-armored warriors were dying.
This was the fate Emperor Jia Ran had foreseen when he left the palace. Even if only Lan Ling escaped, it would still be a victory for the emperor.
“Come out…” Yang Hao’s voice grew weaker.
Lan Ling had already turned away, refusing to look at him. Yang Hao knew her stubbornness well—he knew what choice she would make.
But he had to try.
In this world, how many truly loved each other?
Some could gaze at each other for a thousand years and never be destined to walk together. Others needed only a single glance to remember each other for eternity.
How could Yang Hao forget the quiet grace Lan Ling had shown when she stayed behind on the Mind Star?
How could he forget the sorrow in her eyes when she had thrust her spear at her master in the grand palace?
How could he forget the loneliness in her stance as she leaned against the gate of the Dan Ding Sword Sect, wounded and panting after a bloody solo battle?
She was a woman who had loved him with all her heart.
Yang Hao roared to the heavens, “Lan Ling! Come out!”
Flames erupted from his entire body, making him resemble a god standing amidst fire.
But the blood within the barrier was like the tears on Lan Ling’s face. The cold grip of her silver spear embodied the proudest dignity in the world—the dignity of a warrior, a fighter, a comrade.
No one in this barrier would crawl over their allies’ corpses to escape through the gap Yang Hao had torn open.
Lan Ling drifted slowly into the sky, her resolve clear in her silhouette. Blood dripped from her wounds, raining down as she ascended like a crimson storm.
Her silver spear pointed forward—toward the spectral elder in the sky.
An unbreakable target, yet one she had no choice but to challenge.
The Thirty-Six Ghostly Shadow Barrier, the Dragon-Slaying Spike, the spectral corpses—all originated from the spectral elder. Now, with everyone in the barrier on the verge of death, this was the only thing Lan Ling could do.
Raise her spear. Charge at the spectral elder.
Charge toward someone she could never kill. Charge toward her inevitable death.
This was the only thing she could do for her comrades. For this, she was willing to die under the gaze of the man she loved.
Perhaps that, too, was a kind of happiness.
She had done all she could for Yang Hao.
Now, Lan Ling was ready to die.
The scene in the sky was tragic and brutal. Lan Ling, pale and fragile, flew toward the spectral elder like a drifting kite. Blood cascaded from her body, shrouding the air in a crimson mist.
The dawn’s light bathed everything in a sacred glow—sacred, yet tinged with the cold hue of blood.
“The sword is still in hand,” the Heroic Emperor, now withered and skeletal, chuckled hoarsely with his last breath. “The sword is still in hand!”
“Raaah!” The surviving warriors roared in response.
Yang Hao clenched his jaw, watching Lan Ling’s suicidal charge as tears streamed down his face like liquid fire.
“Ah!” Suddenly, Yang Hao released his grip.
The Ghostly Shadow Barrier flickered with white light as the gap sealed shut, restoring the barrier to its former impenetrable state. Only now, it contained thousands more corpses—perhaps even those of the Heroic Emperor, Qin Feng, and Lan Ling.
But Yang Hao no longer cared. He staggered back, flames erupting from his dantian, his mouth, his eyes—as if he were the source of fire itself, unleashing scorching power.
The Flaming Bow reacted in kind. The ancient soul within it sang a hymn from the dawn of creation—a song belonging solely to the Fire God, echoing over Earth for the first time in millennia.
The raging flames enveloped Yang Hao, merging him with the Flaming Bow until they became one.
The true essence of fire surged from the bow, flooding Yang Hao’s mind. All the secrets of flame, endless and unfathomable, were laid bare before him.
Yang Hao had entered a divine treasury. Every fire in the world, every origin of flame, revealed its mysteries to him. The fires became his children.
In that instant, Yang Hao comprehended the full power of the Fire God. The might of Zhu Rong took root within him, awakening once more.
Now, Yang Hao was the Yang Hao of the Dan Ding Sect, the Yang Hao of Hun Yuanzi—but also the Yang Hao of Zhu Rong, the Yang Hao of fire.
No—he was the God of Fire.
Blazing light illuminated the earth. The heavens trembled. The seas churned.
Yang Hao chanted the Fire God’s mournful hymn—the lament Zhu Rong had been sealed within the bow for a thousand years. A fiery arrow formed at his fingertips.
He drew the Flaming Bow.
Amidst a song fiercer than fury, hotter than flame.
The first arrow of the Flaming Bow shot forth—a tidal wave of fire, moving faster than the eye could follow, striking the first Ghostly Shadow.
The power of all fire, past and present, erupted within that arrow.
The Ghostly Shadow—even the spectral elder’s avatar—could not evade it. The shadow, infused with the elder’s energy, shrieked in agony as it tried to withdraw its power, but the flames clung like a curse, burning from within its very soul.
Ghostly Shadows had no life, but they retained fragments of souls. And where there was a soul, this fire could not be escaped.
The once-invincible Ghostly Shadow writhed on the ground, howling, until it dissipated into smoke and ash.
Yang Hao, now a god of fire, stunned everyone once more.
All fighting ceased as people stared in awe. Even at his peak Saint Realm strength, Yang Hao had only been a match for the elder. But now, he had shattered the supposedly unbreakable barrier—even burning one of the spectral elder’s avatars alive.
What kind of power was this?
Enveloped in flames, Yang Hao seemed reborn. His hair, now crimson, billowed as he stood barefoot, surrounded by phantom images of fire artifacts—like the Fire God Zhu Rong incarnate.
Yang Hao did not stop. Another arrow of wrath nocked itself to the Flaming Bow. With each line of the ancient hymn—a song both sorrowful and sublime—he fired another arrow of vengeance.
These were the most powerful weapons in the world.
Among the thirty most formidable artifacts in the universe, the Flaming Bow ranked first. It could kill not just men, but gods.
Each arrow carried not just Yang Hao’s rage, but also the Fire God’s millennia-old hatred—sealed within the bow, a grudge that neither heaven nor earth could erase.
Hun Yuanzi’s hatred—the pain of losing his wife, the blood feud of his sect. Yang Hao’s hatred—the murder of his brothers, the wounding of his woman.
All this hatred became arrows.
Arrows that none could stop.
Yang Hao fired twelve arrows of wrath, incinerating all twelve of the spectral elder’s avatars and Ghostly Shadows. The so-called unbreakable barrier, weakened by the loss of power, tore open a massive gap.
Thousands of Imperial Guard warriors escaped. Though the deadly trap remained, at least half would survive.
Now, only three still teetered on the brink.
The Heroic Emperor, drained of life by an avatar. Qin Feng, barely holding on beneath the Dragon-Slaying Spike. And Lan Ling—worst of all, she had been struck down by the spectral elder’s true form, now held by the throat like a sheet of paper, dangling in the air.
A mere flick of the elder’s wrist would end her—this young warrior who had broken through the Saint Realm, the most beautiful woman in the capital.
Yet the spectral elder stood frozen. He could not move. He dared not move.
Yang Hao’s arrow of wrath was aimed directly at him. With each of the twelve unstoppable arrows, the elder’s power had diminished. Now, a third of his strength—centuries of cultivation—was gone.
Worse, the Flaming Bow was the mightiest of all divine artifacts. The spectral elder alone could not hope to counter it. He lacked even the courage to try.
As Yang Hao coldly trained the fiery arrow on him, the elder felt a terror unlike any he had known since his mortal days, when he faced heavenly tribulation.
Yang Hao’s blazing form, his ice-cold gaze, forced the elder to keep his hand around Lan Ling’s throat—but he dared not squeeze.
The arrow’s radiance gleamed in Yang Hao’s palm.
This was no fleeting burst of divine power. Yang Hao now wielded the full mysteries of fire. In this world, he was the Fire God incarnate.
Could the spectral elder oppose a god?
With twelve avatars destroyed and a third of his power lost, he could barely maintain the barrier, let alone resist Yang Hao’s assault.
So, the elder had no choice but to retreat.
Using Lan Ling as a shield, his form dimmed into the air, vanishing from the capital’s sky.
The Thirty-Six Ghostly Shadow Barrier dissolved in an instant.
Freed from their restraints, the Heroic Emperor and Qin Feng collapsed, too injured to pursue, and began meditating to heal.
Lan Ling, however, drifted down like a withered leaf—pale, weightless, more like a feather, swaying on an erratic path.
Yet she landed in Yang Hao’s arms.
“I saved you,” Yang Hao sighed in relief.
Lan Ling forced her eyes open, glanced at him, and murmured, “I don’t like red hair.”
Then she fell into a deep slumber.
The morning sun blazed with warmth, its gentle breeze soothing the wounded like fine wine.
The bloodiest battle in the capital’s history had ended on this radiant morning.
But for the empire, the darkest hour had only just begun.
But Yang Hao no longer cared. He frantically stepped back, and flames erupted from his dantian, his mouth, and his eyes as if he had become a living source of fire.
The Flame-Fusing Bow also reacted mysteriously. The soul within the bow began singing an ancient song from the dawn of creation, a melody unique to the fire god, echoing once more after thousands of years above the skies of Earth.
The raging flames enveloped Yang Hao and fused with the Flame-Fusing Bow, even merging the two into one.
At last, the ultimate secret of fire erupted from the bow, pouring into Yang Hao’s mind. All the mysteries of fire, seemingly endless, were revealed to him without reservation.
Yang Hao seemed to have entered an extraordinary treasure trove. Every flame, every source of fire in this world, unveiled their secrets to him, and all those flames became his children.
In that instant, Yang Hao grasped everything of the Fire God. Zhurong’s power took root and revived within Yang Hao’s body.
Now, Yang Hao was the Yang Hao of the Dan Ding Sect, the Yang Hao of Hun Yuan Zi, and the Yang Hao of Zhurong, the fire-wielding Yang Hao.
In fact, he had become the god of fire itself.
Blazing flames illuminated the earth, shaking the heavens and stirring the seas.
Yang Hao sang the mournful song of fire aloud, a lament from Zhurong sealed within the bow for a thousand years. A long arrow composed entirely of flame formed at his fingertips.
He drew the Flame-Fusing Bow.
In a song fiercer than rage, hotter than fire itself.
The ghost elder’s doppelganger, as if possessing intelligence, extended both hands directly opposite him. One hand struck the heavy sword of the Heroic Emperor, its immense force firmly locking the blade in place, preventing the emperor from breaking free.
The other hand, cold and ruthless, thrust forward, precisely striking the delicate crimson flower blooming on the Heroic Emperor’s chest.
A dense aura of death surged into the flower, devouring its life force bit by bit. The Heroic Emperor froze in place, his body rapidly withering—his skin wrinkled with age, his muscles slackened, and his long hair turned silver. It was clear that the ghost elder had found the emperor’s weakness. He had discerned that all of the Heroic Emperor’s vitality stemmed from an enchantment on his chest. Shattering this enchantment would allow him to kill the emperor without shedding a drop of blood.
Thus, a deadly trap was set.
The ghost elder’s doppelganger merged with the barrier—as long as the barrier remained unbroken, the doppelganger would persist. The Heroic Emperor, restrained by one of these doppelgangers, would soon lose all his life force.
Qin Feng, meanwhile, was pinned beneath the Dragon-Slaying Spike, teetering on the brink of death.
The only one still relatively unscathed was Yang Hao, a peak Saint Realm expert locked in a desperate struggle with the barrier. If he let go even for a moment, the gap he had torn open—just wide enough for a person to slip through—would seal shut.
But Yang Hao refused to relent. Because within this barrier, there was someone he absolutely had to save.
His gaze remained fixed on Lan Ling. She had already risen from the ground, her injuries leaving her deathly pale. Against the backdrop of her bloodstained robes, she resembled an angel of crimson. She turned her head, meeting his eyes.
In that moment, no words were needed.
The sky gradually brightened, but the bloodshed and loss of life made this dawn feel darker than night.
Desperate cries echoed in the air. The banners of the Imperial Guards fell like waves, and wherever Ghost You pointed, black-armored warriors met their end.
An era of purgatory.
Sorrow and melancholy etched Lan Ling’s jade-like face as twin trails of tears streamed down—tears for Yang Hao, the only man she had ever loved in her life.
Though their love had been brief, it was no less profound.
A cold wind slipped through the gap Yang Hao had forced open, brushing against Lan Ling’s long hair, slightly easing her dizziness from the bloodshed. The newborn sun cast its light across the land, inch by inch.
Lan Ling smiled.
She tightened her grip on her silver spear.
“Come out!!” Yang Hao roared with all his might, straining to widen the gap in the barrier. “Lan Ling, come out!!”
Perhaps it wasn’t just selfishness—at this point, Lan Ling was the only one left in the barrier who could still escape. The Heroic Emperor was dying. Qin Feng was dying. The Snow Night Star Lion Regiment was dying. Every black-armored warrior was dying.
This was an outcome the Heroic Emperor had foreseen when he left the palace. Even if only Lan Ling escaped alive, it would still count as a victory for the emperor.
“Come out…” Yang Hao’s voice grew weaker, his mouth agape.
Lan Ling had already turned away, refusing to look at him. Yang Hao knew her stubbornness well—he knew what choice she would make.
But he had to try.
In this world, how many truly loved each other?
Some could gaze at each other for a thousand years and never find the chance to be together. Others needed only a single glance to remember each other for eternity.
How could Yang Hao forget the quiet resolve in Lan Ling’s eyes when she stayed behind on the Brain Star?
How could he forget the sorrow in her strike when she thrust her spear at their master in the grand palace?
How could he forget the loneliness in her stance as she leaned against the gate of the Dan Ding Sword Sect, wounded and panting after a bloody solo battle?
She was a woman who had loved him with all her heart.
Yang Hao howled at the sky, “Lan Ling! Come out!”
Flames erupted from his entire body, as if he had become a god standing amidst fire.
But the blood within the barrier was like the tears on Lan Ling’s face. The cold grip of her silver spear embodied the proudest dignity in the world—the dignity of a warrior, a fighter, a comrade.
No one within this barrier would step over their fallen brothers’ blood to escape through the gap Yang Hao had torn open.
Lan Ling slowly ascended into the sky, her resolve unmistakable in her silhouette. Blood dripped from her wounds, raining down as she soared, as if the heavens themselves wept crimson.
Her silver spear pointed forward—toward the ghost elder in the sky.
An unbreakable target, yet one she had no choice but to challenge.
The Thirty-Six Ghost You Barrier, the Dragon-Slaying Spike, the undead corpses—all originated from the ghost elder. Now, with everyone in the barrier on the verge of death, this was the only thing Lan Ling could do.
Raise her spear. Charge at the ghost elder.
Charge toward a man she could never kill, toward a fate she could never escape. This was the only thing she could do for her comrades. For this, she was willing to die under the gaze of the man she loved.
Perhaps that, too, was a kind of happiness.
She had done all she could for Yang Hao.
Now, Lan Ling was ready to die.
The scene in the sky was tragic and brutal. Lan Ling, pale and fragile, flew toward the ghost elder like a kite caught in a storm. Blood cascaded from her body, shrouding the air in a mist of crimson.
The dawn’s light bathed everything in a sacred glow—sacred, yet tinged with the cold hue of blood.
“The sword is still in hand,” the Heroic Emperor rasped, now withered and skeletal. Yet he chuckled, mustering his last strength to roar, “The sword is still in hand!”
“Ahhh!” Those still alive responded in kind.
Yang Hao clenched his jaw, watching Lan Ling’s suicidal charge with tears that flowed like flames.
“Ah!” Suddenly, Yang Hao released his grip.
The Ghost You Barrier flickered with white light as the gap rapidly sealed shut, leaving the barrier intact once more. Only now, it contained tens of thousands more corpses—perhaps even those of the Heroic Emperor, Qin Feng, and Lan Ling.
But Yang Hao no longer cared. He staggered back, flames erupting from his dantian, his mouth, his eyes—as if he had become the source of fire itself, unleashing scorching power.
The Flaming Bow reacted in kind. The ancient soul within the bow sang a melody from the dawn of creation—a hymn belonging solely to the Fire God, echoing over Earth for the first time in millennia.
The raging flames enveloped Yang Hao, merging him with the Flaming Bow until the two became one.
The true essence of fire surged from the bow, flooding Yang Hao’s mind. All the secrets of flame, boundless and unfathomable, were laid bare before him.
It was as if he had stepped into an extraordinary treasure trove—every fire in the world, every origin of flame, revealed its mysteries to him. Those fires became his children.
In that instant, Yang Hao comprehended everything about the Fire God. The power of Zhu Rong took root within him, awakening once more.
Now, Yang Hao was the Yang Hao of the Dan Ding Sect, the Yang Hao of Hun Yuanzi—but also the Yang Hao of Zhu Rong, the Yang Hao of fire.
No, he was the God of Fire himself.
Blazing light illuminated the earth. The heavens trembled. The seas churned violently.
Yang Hao chanted the Fire God’s mournful hymn—the lament of Zhu Rong, sealed within the bow for a thousand years. A fiery arrow formed at his fingertips.
He drew the Flaming Bow.
Amid a song fiercer than fury, hotter than flame.
The first arrow of the Flaming Bow shot forth—a tidal wave of fire, moving faster than the eye could follow, striking the first Ghost You.
The power of all flames, past and present, erupted within that arrow.
Neither the Ghost You nor the ghost elder’s doppelganger could evade it. The Ghost You, infused with the elder’s energy, shrieked in agony. It tried to withdraw its power, but the flames clung to its very soul, impossible to shake off.
Ghost You had no life, but it retained fragments of a soul. And as long as even a trace of soul remained, it could not escape the fire.
The once-invincible Ghost You now writhed on the ground like a wretched worm, howling until it dissipated into smoke.
Yang Hao, now a god of fire incarnate, stunned everyone once more.
All fighting ceased as people stared in awe. Even at his peak in the Saint Realm, Yang Hao had only been a match for the elder. But now, he had shattered the supposedly unbreakable barrier—and burned one of the ghost elder’s doppelgangers alive.
What kind of power was this?
Enveloped in flames, Yang Hao seemed reborn. His hair, now crimson, billowed in the wind. His bare feet hovered above the ground, surrounded by phantom images of fire artifacts. He was the very image of Zhu Rong descending upon the mortal realm.
Yang Hao’s assault didn’t stop. Another arrow of fury nocked the Flaming Bow. With each line of the ancient hymn—a song both tragic and beautiful—he loosed another arrow of vengeance.
Those arrows were the most formidable weapons in existence.
Among the thirty most powerful artifacts in the universe, the Flaming Bow ranked first. It possessed not just the power to kill men, but to slay gods.
Each arrow carried not only Yang Hao’s wrath but also the millennia-old hatred of Zhu Rong, sealed within the bow—a grudge that spanned heaven and earth, eternal and unyielding.
Hun Yuanzi’s hatred—the pain of losing his wife, the blood feud of his sect. Yang Hao’s hatred—the murder of his brothers, the wounding of his woman.
All this hatred coalesced into arrows.
Arrows that none could withstand.
Yang Hao fired twelve arrows of fury, incinerating all twelve of the ghost elder’s doppelgangers. The so-called unbreakable Ghost You Barrier, weakened by the loss of power, finally tore open a massive gap.
Tens of thousands of Imperial Guards escaped to safety. Though the deadly trap remained, at least half would survive.
Now, only three still teetered on the brink.
The Heroic Emperor, his life force suppressed by a doppelganger. Qin Feng, barely holding on beneath the Dragon-Slaying Spike. And Lan Ling—worst of all, she had been struck by the ghost elder’s true form and now dangled in the air like a sheet of paper, her neck gripped in his hand.
A mere flick of the ghost elder’s wrist would end her—this young warrior who had broken through to the Saint Realm, the most beautiful woman in the capital.
Yet he remained motionless. He couldn’t move. He didn’t dare.
Yang Hao’s arrow of fury was aimed directly at the ghost elder’s true form. With each of the twelve unstoppable arrows fired, the elder’s power waned. Now, he had lost a third of his strength—centuries of cultivation gone in an instant.
Worse, the Flaming Bow was the mightiest of all divine artifacts. The ghost elder alone stood no chance against it—nor did he have the courage to try.
So when Yang Hao coldly trained his arrow on him, the ghost elder felt a fear unlike any he had known since his mortal days.
And the flames erupting from Yang Hao’s body, the ice-cold fury in his eyes, made the ghost elder hesitate—his grip on Lan Ling’s neck tightening slightly, but not enough to kill.
The radiance of the arrow blazed in Yang Hao’s palm.
This was no fleeting brilliance of a divine artifact. Yang Hao had mastered the full essence of fire—he was the Fire God’s avatar in this world.
Could the ghost elder oppose a god?
Especially after losing twelve doppelgangers and a third of his power? He could barely maintain the barrier, let alone keep suppressing the Heroic Emperor and Qin Feng.
So the ghost elder had no choice but to retreat.
Using Lan Ling as a shield, his form dimmed into the air until he vanished from the capital’s sky.
The Thirty-Six Ghost You Barrier dissipated in an instant.
Freed from the pressure, the Heroic Emperor and Qin Feng collapsed, too injured to pursue, and immediately began meditating to heal.
Lan Ling, however, drifted down like a withered leaf—pale and weightless, more like a feather tracing an erratic path.
Until she landed in Yang Hao’s arms.
“I saved you,” Yang Hao sighed in relief.
Lan Ling forced her eyes open, glanced at him, and murmured, “I don’t like red hair.”
Then she fell into a deep slumber.
The morning sun finally unleashed its full radiance, its warm breeze caressing the wounded like intoxicating wine.
The bloodiest battle in the capital’s history ended on this bright morning.
But for the empire, the darkest hour had only just begun.
Throughout time, the power of the source of all fire erupted from that single arrow.
Opposite him, the spectral elder’s avatar seemed to possess intelligence as it extended both hands. One hand struck the Emperor’s heavy sword, exerting immense force to lock it in place, preventing the Emperor from retreating.
The other hand coldly thrust forward, landing precisely on the vibrant crimson flower blooming over the Emperor’s chest.
A dense aura of death surged into the flower, devouring its life force bit by bit. The Emperor froze in place, his body rapidly withering—his skin wrinkling, muscles slackening, and his long hair turning silver. Clearly, the spectral elder had found the Emperor’s weakness. He had discerned that all of the Emperor’s vitality stemmed from an enchantment on his chest. Shattering it would allow him to kill the Emperor without shedding a drop of blood.
Thus, a death trap was set.
The spectral elder’s avatar merged with the barrier—as long as the barrier remained, the avatar would not perish. The Emperor, restrained by one of these avatars, would soon lose all his life force.
Qin Feng, meanwhile, was pinned beneath the Dragon-Slaying Spike, teetering on the brink of death.
The only remaining unharmed peak Saint Realm expert, Yang Hao, was locked in a desperate struggle with the barrier. The moment he let go, the gap he had torn open—just wide enough for a person to slip through—would seal shut.
Yang Hao refused to relent, for within this barrier was someone he had to save.
His gaze remained fixed on Lan Ling. She had risen from the ground, her injuries leaving her deathly pale. Clad in bloodstained robes, she resembled a crimson angel. She turned her eyes to meet his.
In that moment, no words were needed.
Dawn was breaking, but the blood-soaked earth and the loss of life made this sunrise feel more like darkness.
Screams of agony echoed in the air. The banners of the Imperial Guard fell like waves, and wherever Ghostly Shadow pointed, black-armored warriors perished.
An era of purgatory.
Sorrow and melancholy painted Lan Ling’s jade-like face as twin trails of tears streamed down. These tears were for Yang Hao—the only man she had ever loved in her life.
Though fleeting, that love had been etched into her bones.
A cold wind slipped through the gap Yang Hao had forced open, brushing against Lan Ling’s long hair, slightly easing her dizziness from the bloodshed. The newborn sun cast its light across the land.
Lan Ling smiled.
She tightened her grip on her silver spear.
“Come out!!” Yang Hao roared with all his might, straining to widen the gap in the barrier. “Lan Ling, come out!!”
Perhaps it wasn’t just selfishness—at this moment, she was the only one left in the barrier who could escape. The Emperor was dying. Qin Feng was dying. The Snowy Night Star Lion Regiment was dying. Every black-armored warrior was dying.
This was the fate Emperor Jia Ran had foreseen when he left the palace. Even if only Lan Ling escaped, it would still be a victory for the Emperor.
“Come out…” Yang Hao’s voice grew weaker.
Lan Ling had already turned away, refusing to look at him. Yang Hao knew her stubbornness well—he knew what choice she would make.
But he had to try.
In this world, how many truly loved each other?
Some could gaze at each other for a thousand years and never be destined to be together. Others needed only a single glance to remember each other for eternity.
How could Yang Hao forget the quiet resolve in Lan Ling’s eyes when she stayed behind on the Mind Star?
How could he forget the sorrow in her strike when she thrust her spear at her master in the grand palace?
How could he forget the loneliness in her stance as she leaned against the gate of the Dan Ding Sword Sect, wounded and panting after a bloody battle?
She was a woman who had loved him with all her heart.
Yang Hao roared at the heavens, “Lan Ling! Come out!”
Flames erupted from his entire body, as though he were a god standing amidst fire.
But the blood within the barrier was like the tears on Lan Ling’s face. The cold grip of her silver spear embodied the proudest dignity in the world—the dignity of a warrior, a fighter, a comrade.
No one in this barrier would step over their fallen brothers to crawl through the gap Yang Hao had torn open.
Lan Ling slowly ascended into the sky, her resolve clear in her silhouette. Blood dripped from her wounds, raining down as she flew, as though the heavens themselves wept crimson.
Her silver spear pointed forward—toward the spectral elder in the sky.
An unbreakable target, yet one she had no choice but to challenge.
The Thirty-Six Ghostly Shadow Barrier, the Dragon-Slaying Spike, the spectral corpses—all originated from the spectral elder. Now, with everyone in the barrier on the verge of death, this was the only thing Lan Ling could do.
Raise her spear. Charge at the spectral elder.
Charge toward a foe she could never defeat, toward a fate she could never escape.
This was the last thing she could do for her comrades. For this, she was willing to die under the gaze of the man she loved.
Perhaps that, too, was a kind of happiness.
She had done all she could for Yang Hao.
Now, Lan Ling was ready to die.
The scene in the sky was tragic and brutal. Lan Ling, pale and fragile, flew toward the spectral elder like a kite caught in a storm. Blood cascaded from her body, shrouding the air in a crimson mist.
The dawn’s light bathed everything in a holy glow—a holiness tinged with the cold hue of blood.
“The sword is still in hand,” the Emperor, now withered and skeletal, chuckled hoarsely with his last breath. “The sword is still in hand!”
“Raaaah!” The surviving warriors roared in response.
Yang Hao clenched his jaw, watching Lan Ling’s final charge. Tears streamed down his face in fiery streaks.
“Ah!” Suddenly, Yang Hao released his grip.
The Ghostly Shadow Barrier flickered with white light as the gap rapidly sealed shut, leaving the barrier intact once more. Only now, it held thousands more corpses—perhaps even those of the Emperor, Qin Feng, and Lan Ling.
But Yang Hao no longer cared. He staggered back, flames erupting from his dantian, his mouth, his eyes—as though he were the very source of fire, unleashing scorching power.
The Flaming Bow reacted in kind. The ancient soul within it sang a hymn from the dawn of creation—a song belonging solely to the Fire God, echoing over Earth after millennia of silence.
The raging inferno engulfed Yang Hao, merging him with the bow, fusing them into one.
The true secrets of fire surged from the bow, flooding Yang Hao’s mind. Every hidden truth of flame was laid bare before him.
It was as though he had entered a divine treasury—all fires, all origins of fire, revealed their mysteries to him. The flames became his children.
In that instant, Yang Hao comprehended the essence of the Fire God. The power of Zhu Rong took root within him, awakening once more.
Now, Yang Hao was the Yang Hao of the Dan Ding Sect, the Yang Hao of Hun Yuanzi, and also the Yang Hao of Zhu Rong—the Yang Hao of fire.
No—he was the God of Fire.
Blazing light illuminated the earth. The heavens trembled. The seas roared.
Yang Hao chanted the Fire God’s lament—the sorrow Zhu Rong had endured for a thousand years within the bow. A fiery arrow formed at his fingertips.
He drew the Flaming Bow.
Amidst a song fiercer than fury, hotter than flame.
The first arrow of the Flaming Bow shot forth—a tidal wave of fire, moving faster than the eye could follow, striking the first Ghostly Shadow.
The power of all flames, past and present, erupted within that arrow.
The Ghostly Shadow—even the spectral elder’s avatar—could not evade it. The shadow, infused with the elder’s energy, shrieked in agony. It tried to withdraw its power, but the flames clung like a curse, burning from within its very soul.
Ghostly Shadows had no life, but they retained fragments of souls. And where there was a soul, the fire would not relent.
The once-invincible Ghostly Shadow writhed on the ground, howling, until it dissipated into smoke.
Yang Hao, now a god of fire incarnate, stunned everyone anew.
All fighting ceased as warriors gaped in awe. Even at his peak Saint Realm strength, Yang Hao had only been a match for the spectral elder. But now, he had shattered the supposedly unbreakable barrier—and burned one of the elder’s avatars alive.
What kind of power was this?
Enveloped in flames, Yang Hao stood reborn. His hair, now crimson, billowed in the wind. His bare feet touched the ground as fiery artifacts materialized around him, as though the Fire God himself had descended.
Yang Hao did not stop. Another arrow of wrath nocked the Flaming Bow. With each line of the ancient hymn, he loosed another arrow of vengeance.
These arrows were the most formidable weapons in existence.
Among the thirty most powerful artifacts in the universe, the Flaming Bow ranked first. It could kill not just men—but gods.
Each arrow carried not only Yang Hao’s fury but also the millennia-old hatred of Zhu Rong, sealed within the bow—a grudge that spanned heaven and earth.
Hun Yuanzi’s hatred—the pain of losing his wife, the blood feud of his sect. Yang Hao’s hatred—the murder of his brothers, the wounding of his woman.
All this hatred became arrows.
Arrows that none could block.
Yang Hao fired twelve arrows of wrath, incinerating twelve of the spectral elder’s avatars. The so-called unbreakable Ghostly Shadow Barrier, weakened by the loss of power, tore open a massive rift.
Thousands of Imperial Guard warriors escaped the death trap. Though the battle was not yet over, at least half would survive.
Now, only three remained in peril.
The Emperor, his life force strangled by an avatar. Qin Feng, barely holding on beneath the Dragon-Slaying Spike. And Lan Ling—worst of all, she had been struck down by the spectral elder’s true form, now held by the throat in midair, limp as a sheet of paper.
A mere squeeze would end her—this young warrior who had broken into the Saint Realm, the most beautiful woman in the capital.
Yet the spectral elder did not move. Could not move. Dared not move.
Yang Hao’s arrow of wrath was aimed directly at him. With each of the twelve unstoppable arrows, the elder’s power waned. Now, a third of his strength—centuries of cultivation—was gone.
Worse, the Flaming Bow was the mightiest of divine artifacts. The spectral elder alone could not withstand it—nor did he have the courage to try.
As Yang Hao coldly trained the arrow on him, the elder felt a fear unlike any he had known since his mortal days, when he faced his heavenly tribulation.
Yang Hao’s fiery aura, his ice-cold gaze, forced the elder to keep his grip on Lan Ling’s throat—but he dared not tighten it.
The radiant arrow gleamed in Yang Hao’s hand.
This was no fleeting brilliance of a divine weapon. Yang Hao now wielded the full secrets of fire—he was the Fire God’s emissary on Earth.
Could the spectral elder defy a god?
With twelve avatars destroyed and a third of his power lost, he could barely maintain the barrier, let alone resist Yang Hao.
So, the elder had no choice but to retreat.
Using Lan Ling as a shield, his form dimmed into the air, vanishing from the capital’s sky.
The Thirty-Six Ghostly Shadow Barrier dissolved in an instant.
The Emperor and Qin Feng collapsed, freed from their torment, too weak to pursue the elder as they meditated to heal.
Lan Ling, however, drifted down like a withered leaf—pale, weightless, tracing an erratic path through the air.
Until she landed in Yang Hao’s arms.
“I saved you,” Yang Hao exhaled in relief.
Lan Ling forced her eyes open, glanced at him, and murmured, “I don’t like red hair.”
Then she fell into a deep slumber.
The morning sun blazed warmly, its gentle breeze soothing the wounded like fine wine.
The bloodiest battle in the capital’s history had ended on this radiant dawn.
But for the empire, the darkest hour had only just begun.
Opposite him, the spectral elder’s doppelganger seemed to possess intelligence as it extended both hands. One hand struck the Heroic Emperor’s heavy sword, locking it in place with immense force, preventing the emperor from breaking free.
The other hand, cold and merciless, thrust forward, pressing directly against the delicate crimson flower blooming on the Heroic Emperor’s chest.
A dense aura of death surged into the flower, devouring its life force bit by bit. The Heroic Emperor froze in place, his body rapidly withering—his skin wrinkled with age, his muscles slackened, and his long hair turned silver. Clearly, the spectral elder had found the emperor’s weakness. He had discerned that all of the Heroic Emperor’s vitality stemmed from a single blessing embedded in his chest. Shattering this blessing would allow him to kill the emperor without shedding a drop of blood.
Thus, a deadlock was formed.
The spectral elder’s doppelganger merged with the barrier—as long as the barrier remained unbroken, the doppelganger would persist. The Heroic Emperor, restrained by one of these doppelgangers, would soon lose all his life force.
Meanwhile, Qin Feng was pinned beneath the Dragon-Slaying Spike, teetering on the brink of death.
The only one still relatively unharmed was Yang Hao, a peak Saint Realm expert locked in a desperate struggle against the barrier. If he let go even for a moment, the gap he had torn open—just wide enough for a person to slip through—would seal shut.
But Yang Hao refused to relent.
Because within this barrier, there was someone he absolutely had to save.
Yang Hao’s gaze remained fixed on Lan Ling. She had already risen from the ground, her injuries leaving her deathly pale. Clad in bloodstained robes, she resembled a crimson angel. She turned her head slightly, meeting his eyes.
In that moment, no words were necessary.
The sky gradually brightened, but the blood-soaked earth and the fading lives made this dawn feel darker than night.
Desperate cries echoed in the air. The banners of the Imperial Guards fell like waves, and wherever the spectral elder pointed, black-armored warriors perished.
It was an era of purgatory.
Sorrow and melancholy etched Lan Ling’s jade-like face as two crystalline tears traced down her cheeks—tears meant for Yang Hao, the only man she had ever loved in her life.
Though their love had been fleeting, it was no less profound.
A cold wind slipped through the gap Yang Hao had forced open, brushing against Lan Ling’s long hair, slightly easing her dizziness from the scent of blood. The newborn sun cast its light across the land, inch by inch.
Lan Ling smiled.
She tightened her grip on her silver spear.
“Come out!!” Yang Hao roared with all his might, widening the gap in the barrier as far as possible. “Lan Ling, come out!!”
Perhaps this wasn’t purely selfishness on his part. At this moment, Lan Ling was the only one within the barrier who still had a chance to escape. The Heroic Emperor was dying. Qin Feng was dying. The Snowy Night Star Lion Corps was dying. Every black-armored warrior was dying.
This was something Emperor Jaran had foreseen when he prepared to leave the palace. Even if only Lan Ling escaped alive, it would still be a victory for the emperor.
“Come out…” Yang Hao’s voice grew weaker, his mouth hanging open.
Lan Ling had already turned away, refusing to look at him. Yang Hao knew her stubbornness well—he knew exactly what choice she would make.
But he had to try.
In this world, how many people truly loved each other?
Some could gaze at each other for a thousand years and never find the chance to be together. Others needed only a single glance to imprint each other in their hearts for eternity.
How could Yang Hao forget the quiet resolve in Lan Ling’s eyes when she stayed behind on the Wisdom Star?
How could he forget the sorrow in her strike when she thrust her spear toward her master in the grand palace?
How could he forget the loneliness in her stance as she leaned against the gate of the Danding Sword Sect, wounded and panting after a bloody solo battle?
She was a woman who had loved him with all her heart.
Yang Hao tilted his head back and bellowed, “Lan Ling! Come out!”
Flames erupted from his entire body, as though he had become a god standing amidst fire.
But the blood within the barrier was like the tears on Lan Ling’s face. The cold grip of her silver spear embodied the proudest dignity in the world—the dignity of a warrior, a fighter, a comrade.
No one within this barrier would crawl through the gap Yang Hao had torn open, stepping over the blood of their fallen brothers.
Lan Ling slowly ascended into the sky, her determination clear in the set of her shoulders. Blood dripped from her wounds, scattering like rain as she soared.
Her silver spear pointed forward—toward the spectral elder hovering in the sky.
An unbreakable target.
Yet one she had to break.
The Thirty-Six Ghostly Barrier, the Dragon-Slaying Spike, the spectral corpses—all originated from the spectral elder. Now, with everyone in the barrier on the verge of death, this was the only thing Lan Ling could do.
Raise her spear.
Charge at the spectral elder.
Toward a man she could never kill. Toward a fate she could never escape.
This was the only thing she could do for her comrades. For this, she was willing to die under the gaze of the man she loved.
Perhaps that, too, was a kind of happiness.
She had done all she could for Yang Hao.
Now, Lan Ling was ready to die.
The scene in the sky was tragic and brutal. Lan Ling resembled a fragile kite, pale and delicate as she flew toward the spectral elder. Blood cascaded from her body, shrouding the air in a crimson mist.
The dawn’s light bathed everything in a sacred glow—a sacredness tinged with the cold hue of blood.
“The sword is still in hand,” the Heroic Emperor rasped, now withered to a skeletal figure. Yet he chuckled, mustering his last strength to roar, “The sword is still in hand!”
“Raaaah!” The surviving warriors responded in kind.
Yang Hao clenched his jaw, watching Lan Ling’s suicidal charge with tears streaming down his face like liquid fire.
“Ah!” Suddenly, Yang Hao released his grip.
The spectral barrier flickered with white light as the gap rapidly sealed itself, restoring the barrier to its original state. Only now, it contained thousands more corpses—perhaps even those of the Heroic Emperor, Qin Feng, and Lan Ling.
But Yang Hao no longer cared. He staggered back, flames erupting from his dantian, his mouth, his eyes—as though he had become the source of fire itself, unleashing scorching power.
The Flaming Bow reacted in kind. The ancient soul within the bow sang a melody from the dawn of creation—a hymn belonging to the Fire God, echoing over Earth for the first time in millennia.
The raging flames engulfed Yang Hao, merging him with the Flaming Bow until the two became one.
The true essence of fire surged from the bow, flooding Yang Hao’s mind with endless secrets of flame—all laid bare before him.
It was as though he had stepped into an extraordinary treasure trove. Every fire in the world, every origin of flame, revealed its mysteries to him. The fires became his children.
In that instant, Yang Hao comprehended the entirety of the Fire God’s power. The might of Zhu Rong took root within him, awakening once more.
Now, Yang Hao was the Yang Hao of the Danding Sect, the Yang Hao of Hunyuanzi—but also the Yang Hao of Zhu Rong, the Yang Hao of fire.
He had become the God of Fire.
Blazing light illuminated the earth. The heavens trembled. The seas churned.
Yang Hao chanted the Fire God’s mournful hymn—the lament of Zhu Rong, sealed within the bow for a thousand years. A fiery arrow formed at his fingertips.
He drew the Flaming Bow.
Amidst a song fiercer than fury, hotter than flame.
The first arrow of the Flaming Bow shot forth—a tidal wave of fire, moving faster than the eye could follow, piercing the first spectral wraith.
The power of all flames, past and present, erupted within that arrow.
The spectral wraith—even the spectral elder’s doppelganger—could not evade it. The wraith, infused with a fraction of the elder’s power, shrieked in agony as it tried to withdraw its energy. But the flames clung to its very soul, impossible to shake off.
The wraith had no life, but it retained fragments of a soul. And where there was even a trace of soul, the fire would follow.
The once-invincible wraith now writhed on the ground like a pitiful worm, howling until it dissipated into smoke.
Yang Hao, now a god of fire incarnate, stunned everyone once more.
All fighting ceased as warriors gaped at him in awe. Even at his peak Saint Realm strength, he had only been a match for the spectral elder. But now, he had shattered the supposedly unbreakable barrier—and burned one of the elder’s doppelgangers alive.
What kind of power was this?
Enveloped in flames, Yang Hao seemed reborn. His hair, now crimson, billowed behind him. His bare feet hovered above the ground as fiery artifacts materialized around him, as though the Fire God himself had descended.
Yang Hao’s assault did not stop. Another arrow of wrath nocked itself onto the Flaming Bow. With each verse of the hymn—a song both tragic and beautiful—he loosed another arrow of vengeance.
These arrows were the most formidable weapons in existence.
Among the thirty most powerful artifacts in the universe, the Flaming Bow ranked first. It possessed not only the power to kill mortals but also the might to slay gods.
Each arrow carried not just Yang Hao’s fury but also the millennia-old hatred of Zhu Rong, sealed within the bow—a grudge that spanned heaven and earth, never to be extinguished.
Hunyuanzi’s hatred—the pain of losing his wife, the blood feud of his sect. Yang Hao’s hatred—the murder of his brothers, the wounding of his woman.
All this hatred coalesced into arrows.
Arrows that none could withstand.
Yang Hao fired twelve arrows of wrath, incinerating twelve of the spectral elder’s doppelgangers and twelve spectral wraiths. The so-called unbreakable barrier, weakened by the loss of power, finally tore open a massive gap.
Thousands of Imperial Guards escaped to safety. Though the deadlock remained, at least half would survive.
Now, only three still teetered on the brink.
The Heroic Emperor, his life force suppressed by a doppelganger. Qin Feng, barely holding on beneath the Dragon-Slaying Spike. And Lan Ling—worst of all, she had been struck down by the spectral elder’s true form. Now, suspended in the air by the elder’s grip on her throat, she swayed like a sheet of paper.
A single squeeze would end her—this young warrior who had broken through to the Saint Realm, the most beautiful woman in the imperial capital.
Yet the spectral elder did not move. He could not. He dared not.
Yang Hao’s arrow of wrath was aimed directly at the elder’s true form. With each of the twelve unstoppable arrows he had fired, the elder’s power waned. Now, his strength had diminished by a third—centuries of cultivation lost.
Worse still, the Flaming Bow was the most powerful of all divine artifacts. The spectral elder alone stood no chance against it. He lacked both the ability and the courage to try.
So when Yang Hao coldly leveled the arrow at him, the elder felt a terror unlike any he had known since his mortal days, when he faced heavenly tribulation.
The flames erupting from Yang Hao’s body, the ice in his gaze—it all forced the spectral elder to freeze, his hand around Lan Ling’s throat but not daring to squeeze.
The radiance of the arrow gleamed in Yang Hao’s palm.
This was no fleeting brilliance of a divine artifact. Yang Hao had mastered the full essence of fire. In this world, he was the embodiment of the Fire God.
Could the spectral elder oppose a god?
Especially after losing twelve doppelgangers and a third of his power? He could barely maintain the barrier, let alone sustain the pressure on the Heroic Emperor and Qin Feng.
Retreat was his only option.
Using Lan Ling as a shield, the spectral elder’s form dimmed, his sinister figure vanishing from the imperial skies.
The Thirty-Six Ghostly Barrier dissipated in an instant.
The Heroic Emperor and Qin Feng collapsed, freed from their restraints, too injured to pursue the elder. They immediately sat to meditate and heal.
Lan Ling, however, drifted down like a withered leaf—pale, weightless, tracing an erratic path through the air.
Until she landed in Yang Hao’s arms.
“I saved you,” Yang Hao exhaled in relief.
Lan Ling forced her eyelids open, glanced at him, and murmured, “I don’t like red hair.”
Then she fell into a deep slumber.
The morning sun finally unleashed its full radiance, its warm breeze caressing the wounded like intoxicating wine.
The bloodiest battle in the imperial capital’s history ended on this bright morning.
But for the empire, the darkest hour had only just begun.
Opposite him, the spectral elder’s doppelganger seemed to possess intelligence as it extended both hands. One hand struck the Heroic Emperor’s heavy sword, locking it in place with immense force, preventing the emperor from retreating.
The other hand coldly thrust forward, landing precisely on the delicate crimson flower blooming on the Heroic Emperor’s chest.
A dense aura of death pressed into the flower, devouring its life force bit by bit. The Heroic Emperor froze in place, his body rapidly withering—his skin wrinkling with age, his muscles slackening, his long hair turning silver. It was clear that the spectral elder had found the emperor’s weakness. He had discerned that all of the Heroic Emperor’s vitality stemmed from an enchantment on his chest. Shattering this enchantment would allow him to kill the emperor without shedding a drop of blood.
Thus, a deadly trap was set.
The spectral elder’s doppelganger merged with the barrier—as long as the barrier remained, the doppelganger would not perish. The Heroic Emperor, restrained by one of these doppelgangers, would soon lose all his life force.
Qin Feng, meanwhile, was pinned beneath the Dragon-Slaying Spike, teetering on the brink of death.
The only one still relatively unharmed was Yang Hao, a peak Saint Realm expert locked in a desperate struggle against the barrier. The moment he let go, the gap he had torn open—just wide enough for a person to slip through—would seal shut.
But Yang Hao refused to relent. Because within this barrier, there was someone he absolutely had to save.
His gaze remained fixed on Lan Ling. She had already risen from the ground, her injuries leaving her deathly pale. Clad in bloodstained robes, she resembled a crimson angel. She turned her head, meeting his eyes.
In this moment, no words were necessary.
The sky gradually brightened, but the bloodshed and loss of life made this dawn feel darker than night.
Desperate cries echoed in the air. The banners of the Imperial Guards fell like waves, and wherever Ghostly Shadow pointed, black-armored warriors met their end.
An era of purgatory.
Sorrow and melancholy etched Lan Ling’s jade-like face as twin trails of tears slid down her cheeks—tears for Yang Hao, the only man she had ever loved in her life.
Though their love had been brief, it had left an indelible mark.
A cold wind slipped through the gap Yang Hao had forced open, brushing through Lan Ling’s long hair, slightly easing her dizziness from the bloodshed. The newborn sun cast its light across the land, inch by inch.
Lan Ling smiled.
She tightened her grip on her silver spear.
“Come out!!” Yang Hao mustered all his strength, widening the gap in the barrier as much as possible. “Lan Ling, come out!!”
Perhaps this wasn’t purely selfish. At this moment, Lan Ling was the only one within the barrier who still had a chance to escape. The Heroic Emperor was dying. Qin Feng was dying. The Snowy Night Star Lion Regiment was dying. Every black-armored warrior was dying.
This was something the Heroic Emperor, Jia Ran, had foreseen when he prepared to leave the palace. Even if only Lan Ling escaped alive, it would still count as a victory for the emperor.
“Come out…” Yang Hao’s voice grew weaker, his mouth hanging open.
Lan Ling had already turned away, refusing to look at him. Yang Hao knew her stubbornness well—he knew what choice she would make.
But he had to try.
In this world, how many people truly loved each other?
Some could gaze at each other for a thousand years and never find the chance to be together. Others needed only a single glance to remember each other for eternity.
How could Yang Hao forget the quiet resolve in Lan Ling’s eyes when she stayed behind on the Wisdom Star?
How could he forget the sorrow in her strike when she thrust her spear at her master in the grand palace?
How could he forget the loneliness in her stance as she leaned against the gate of the Dan Ding Sword Sect, wounded and panting after a bloody solo battle?
She was a woman who had loved him with all her heart.
Yang Hao roared at the heavens, “Lan Ling! Come out!”
Flames erupted from his entire body, making him resemble a god standing amidst fire.
But the blood within the barrier was like the tears on Lan Ling’s face. The coldness of her silver spear embodied the most indomitable dignity in the world—the dignity of a warrior, a fighter, a comrade.
No one within this barrier would step over their comrades’ blood to escape through the gap Yang Hao had torn open.
Lan Ling slowly ascended into the sky, her determination clear from her silhouette alone. Blood dripped from her wounds, raining down as she flew, as if she were scattering crimson petals in her wake.
Her silver spear pointed forward—toward the spectral elder in the sky.
An unbreakable target, yet one she had no choice but to challenge.
The Thirty-Six Ghostly Shadow Barrier, the Dragon-Slaying Spike, the spectral corpses—all originated from the spectral elder. Now, with everyone in the barrier on the verge of death, this was the only thing Lan Ling could do.
Raise her spear. Charge at the spectral elder.
Toward a man she could never kill. Toward an ending she could never escape.
This was the only thing she could do for her comrades. For this, she was willing to die under the gaze of the man she loved.
Perhaps that, too, was a kind of happiness.
She had done all she could for Yang Hao.
Now, Lan Ling was ready to meet her death.
The scene in the sky was tragic and brutal. Lan Ling resembled a fragile kite, pale and delicate as she flew toward the spectral elder. Blood continued to spill from her body, shrouding the air in a mist of crimson.
The dawn’s light bathed everything in a sacred glow—sacred, yet tinged with the cold hue of blood.
“The sword is still in hand,” the Heroic Emperor, now withered and skeletal, chuckled hoarsely with his last breath. “The sword is still in hand!”
“Ahhh!” Those still alive roared in response.
Yang Hao clenched his jaw, watching Lan Ling’s suicidal charge with tears that flowed like flames.
“Ah!” Suddenly, Yang Hao released his grip.
The Ghostly Shadow Barrier flickered with white light as the gap rapidly sealed shut, restoring the barrier to its original state. Only now, it contained thousands more corpses—perhaps even those of the Heroic Emperor, Qin Feng, and Lan Ling.
But Yang Hao no longer cared. He staggered back, flames erupting from his dantian, his mouth, his eyes—as if he were the source of fire itself, unleashing scorching power.
The Flaming Bow reacted in kind. The ancient soul within the bow sang a melody from the dawn of creation—a hymn belonging solely to the Fire God, echoing over Earth for the first time in millennia.
The raging flames enveloped Yang Hao, merging him with the Flaming Bow until the two became one.
The true essence of fire erupted from the bow, flooding Yang Hao’s mind with endless secrets of flame, revealing all its mysteries without reservation.
Yang Hao seemed to have entered an extraordinary treasure trove. Every fire in the world, every origin of flame, unveiled its secrets to him. Those fires became his children.
In that instant, Yang Hao comprehended everything about the Fire God. The power of Zhu Rong took root within him, awakening once more.
Now, Yang Hao was the Yang Hao of the Dan Ding Sect, the Yang Hao of Hun Yuanzi, and also the Yang Hao of Zhu Rong—the Yang Hao of fire.
No—he was the God of Fire.
Blazing light illuminated the earth. The heavens trembled. The seas churned.
Yang Hao sang the Fire God’s mournful hymn—the sorrow of Zhu Rong, sealed within the bow for a thousand years. A fiery arrow formed at his fingertips.
He drew the Flaming Bow.
Amidst a song fiercer than fury, hotter than flame.
The first arrow of the Flaming Bow shot forth—a tidal wave of fire, moving faster than the eye could follow, striking the first Ghostly Shadow.
The power of all flames, past and present, erupted within that arrow.
The Ghostly Shadow—even the spectral elder’s doppelganger—could not evade it. The Ghostly Shadow, infused with the spectral elder’s energy, shrieked miserably as it tried to withdraw its power, but the flames clung to its very soul, impossible to shake off.
Ghostly Shadows had no life, but they retained fragments of souls. And where there was a soul, the fire would follow.
The once-invincible Ghostly Shadow now writhed on the ground like a pitiful worm, howling until it dissipated into smoke.
Yang Hao, now like a god descended from flames, stunned everyone once more.
All fighting ceased as people stared at him in awe. Even at his peak Saint Realm strength, he had only been a match for the spectral elder. But now, he had shattered the supposedly unbreakable barrier—even burning one of the spectral elder’s doppelgangers alive.
What kind of power was this?
Enveloped in flames, Yang Hao seemed reborn. His long hair, now crimson, billowed behind him. His bare feet hovered above the ground, surrounded by phantom images of fire artifacts, as if the Fire God himself had descended.
Yang Hao’s assault did not stop. Another arrow of fury nocked itself onto the Flaming Bow. With each line of the ancient hymn—a song both sorrowful and beautiful—he fired another arrow of vengeance.
Those arrows were the most powerful weapons in the world.
Among the thirty most formidable weapons in the universe, the Flaming Bow ranked first. It possessed not only the power to kill men but also the might to slay gods.
Each arrow carried not just Yang Hao’s wrath but also the Fire God’s millennia-old hatred—sealed within the bow, a grudge that spanned heaven and earth.
Hun Yuanzi’s hatred—the pain of losing his wife, the blood feud of his sect. Yang Hao’s hatred—the murder of his brothers, the wounding of his woman.
All this hatred coalesced into arrows.
Arrows that none could stop.
Yang Hao fired twelve arrows of fury, burning all twelve of the spectral elder’s doppelgangers—the twelve Ghostly Shadows. The so-called unbreakable Ghostly Shadow Barrier, weakened by the loss of power, finally tore open a massive gap.
Thousands of Imperial Guards escaped to safety. Though the deadly trap remained, at least half would survive.
Now, only three still teetered on the brink.
The Heroic Emperor, his life force suppressed by a doppelganger. Qin Feng, barely holding on beneath the Dragon-Slaying Spike. And Lan Ling—worst of all—already struck down by the spectral elder’s true form, now held by the throat in midair, swaying like a sheet of paper.
The spectral elder needed only the slightest pressure to kill Lan Ling—this young warrior who had broken through to the Saint Realm, the most beautiful woman in the capital.
Yet he remained motionless. Unable to move. Dared not move.
Yang Hao’s arrow of fury was aimed directly at the spectral elder’s true form. After the twelve unstoppable arrows had slain his doppelgangers, the elder’s power had diminished by a third—centuries of cultivation lost.
Worse yet, the Flaming Bow was the most powerful of all divine artifacts. The spectral elder alone could not hope to counter it—nor did he have the courage to try.
So when Yang Hao coldly aimed his arrow at him, the spectral elder felt a fear unlike any he had known since his mortal days.
The flames erupting from Yang Hao’s body, the icy resolve in his eyes—it all forced the spectral elder to keep his grip on Lan Ling’s throat without tightening it.
The radiance of the arrow of fury blazed in Yang Hao’s palm.
This was no fleeting brilliance of a divine artifact. Yang Hao had grasped the full essence of fire’s power. In this world, he was the Fire God incarnate.
Could the spectral elder oppose a god?
Especially after losing twelve doppelgangers and a third of his power? Even maintaining the barrier and the pressure on the Heroic Emperor and Qin Feng had become impossible.
So the spectral elder had no choice but to retreat.
Using Lan Ling as a shield, his form dimmed into the air until his ghostly figure vanished from the capital’s sky.
The Thirty-Six Ghostly Shadow Barrier dissipated in an instant.
The Heroic Emperor and Qin Feng collapsed, freed from their restraints, too injured to pursue as they sat to meditate and recover.
Lan Ling, however, drifted down like a withered leaf—pale and weightless, more like a feather tracing an erratic path.
Until she landed in Yang Hao’s arms.
“I saved you,” Yang Hao exhaled in relief.
Lan Ling forced her eyes open, glanced at him, and murmured, “I don’t like red hair.”
Then she fell into a deep slumber.
The morning sun finally unleashed its full radiance, its warm breeze caressing the wounded like intoxicating wine.
The bloodiest battle in the capital’s history ended on this bright morning.
But for the empire, the darkest hour had only just begun.
Yang Hao, like a fire god descending into the world, stunned everyone once more.
Everyone stopped, staring in shock at Yang Hao. Even though he had already reached the peak of the Saint realm before, he had merely been a match for the elders. But now, Yang Hao had shattered a barrier that no one in the world could break, even burning one of the ghost elder’s avatars to death.
What kind of power was this?
Within the flames, reborn like a phoenix, Yang Hao’s long hair flowed wildly, now a flaming red. His bare feet touched the ground, and illusions of various fire-imbued artifacts appeared across his body. He looked exactly like the mighty Fire God Zhurong descending from the heavens.
Yang Hao’s assault did not stop. Another arrow of wrath was placed on the Flame-Fusing Bow. With every line of the mournful, beautiful song praising the fire of heaven and earth, Yang Hao released another arrow of vengeance.
Each arrow was the most powerful weapon in the world.
Among the thirty most powerful weapons in the universe, each containing unfathomable energy, the Flame-Fusing Bow ranked first. It was not only capable of killing mortals but even gods.
Each arrow was not only Yang Hao’s fury, but also Zhurong’s ancient hatred sealed within the bow for a thousand years—an eternal hatred that could never be extinguished, neither in heaven nor on earth.
Hun Yuan Zi’s hatred, the pain of losing his wife, the vengeance for his slaughtered sect. Yang Hao’s hatred, the rage of losing his brothers, of seeing his lover wounded.
All this hatred became arrows.
Arrows that no one could stop.
Opposite him, the spectral elder’s doppelganger seemed to possess intelligence as it extended two hands. One hand struck the Emperor’s heavy sword, exerting immense force to lock it in place, preventing the Emperor from retreating.
The other hand coldly reached forward, pressing directly onto the vibrant blood-red flower on the Emperor’s chest.
A dense aura of death surged into the flower, devouring its life force bit by bit. The Emperor froze in place, his body rapidly withering—his skin wrinkled with age, his muscles slackened, and his long hair turned silver. Clearly, the spectral elder had found the Emperor’s weakness. He saw that all the Emperor’s vitality stemmed from an enchantment on his chest. Shattering it would allow him to kill the Emperor without shedding a drop of blood.
A deadly trap had thus been set.
The spectral elder’s doppelganger merged with the barrier—as long as the barrier stood, the doppelganger would not perish. The Emperor, restrained by one of these doppelgangers, would soon lose all his life force.
Qin Feng, meanwhile, was pinned beneath the Dragon-Slaying Spike, teetering on the brink of death.
The only remaining peak Saint Realm expert, Yang Hao, was locked in a desperate struggle with the barrier. The moment he let go, the gap he had torn open—just wide enough for a person to slip through—would seal shut.
Yang Hao did not relent, for within this barrier was someone he had to save.
His gaze remained fixed on Lan Ling. She had risen from the ground, her injuries leaving her deathly pale. Clad in bloodstained robes, she resembled a crimson angel. She turned her head, meeting his eyes.
In that moment, no words were needed.
Dawn was breaking, but the bloodshed and loss of life made this sunrise feel darker than night.
Desperate cries echoed in people’s ears. The banners of the Imperial Guards fell like waves, and wherever Ghostly Shadow pointed, black-armored warriors met their end.
An era of purgatory.
Tears streamed down Lan Ling’s jade-like face—tears for Yang Hao, the only man she had ever loved.
Though their love had been brief, it was unforgettable.
A cold wind slipped through the gap Yang Hao had forced open, brushing through Lan Ling’s hair, easing her dizziness from the bloodshed. The newborn sun cast its light across the land.
Lan Ling smiled.
She tightened her grip on her silver spear.
“Come out!!” Yang Hao strained with all his might, widening the gap in the barrier. “Lan Ling, come out!!”
This wasn’t just selfishness—at this point, Lan Ling was the only one left who could escape. The Emperor was dying, Qin Feng was dying, the Snow Night Star Lion Regiment was dying, and all the black-armored warriors were dying.
This was the outcome Emperor Jia Ran had foreseen when he left the palace. Even if only Lan Ling escaped, it would still be a victory for the Emperor.
“Come out…” Yang Hao’s voice grew weaker.
Lan Ling had already turned away, refusing to look at him. Yang Hao knew her stubbornness well—he knew what choice she would make.
But he had to try.
In this world, how many truly loved each other?
Some could face each other for a thousand years and never be together. Others needed only a single glance to remember each other for eternity.
How could Yang Hao forget the quiet grace Lan Ling had shown when she stayed behind on the Brain Star?
How could he forget the sorrow in her eyes when she had thrust her spear at her master in the grand palace?
How could he forget her loneliness after her bloody solo battle at the gates of the Danding Sword Sect, leaning against the door, panting and wounded?
She was a woman who had loved Yang Hao with all her heart.
Yang Hao roared at the sky, “Lan Ling! Come out!”
Flames erupted from his entire body, as if he were a god standing amidst fire.
But the blood within the barrier was like the tears on Lan Ling’s face. The cold grip of her silver spear embodied the proudest dignity in the world—the dignity of a warrior, a fighter, a comrade.
No one in this barrier would crawl through the gap Yang Hao had torn open, stepping over the blood of their allies.
Lan Ling drifted slowly into the sky, her resolve clear in her silhouette. Blood dripped from her wounds, raining down as she ascended.
Her silver spear pointed forward—toward the spectral elder in the sky.
An unbreakable target, yet one she had to break.
The Thirty-Six Ghostly Shadow Barrier, the Dragon-Slaying Spike, the spectral corpses—all originated from the spectral elder. Now, with everyone in the barrier on the verge of death, this was the only thing Lan Ling could do.
Raise her spear and charge at the spectral elder.
Charge at a man she could never kill, toward an ending she could never escape. This was the only thing she could do for her comrades. For this, she was willing to die under the gaze of the man she loved.
Perhaps that, too, was a kind of happiness.
She had done all she could for Yang Hao.
Now, Lan Ling was ready to die.
The scene in the sky was tragic and brutal. Lan Ling, pale and fragile, flew toward the spectral elder like a drifting kite. Blood cascaded from her body, shrouding the area in a crimson mist.
The dawn’s light bathed everything in holiness—a holiness tinged with cold blood.
“The sword is still in hand,” the Emperor, now withered and skeletal, chuckled hoarsely with his last breath. “The sword is still in hand!”
“Ah!” The surviving warriors echoed his cry.
Yang Hao clenched his jaw, watching Lan Ling’s suicidal charge. Tears streamed down his face in the shape of flames.
“Ah!” Suddenly, Yang Hao released his grip. The Ghostly Shadow Barrier flickered with white light as the gap sealed shut, leaving the barrier intact once more. Only now, it contained thousands more corpses—perhaps even those of the Emperor, Qin Feng, and Lan Ling.
But Yang Hao no longer cared. He staggered back, flames erupting from his dantian, his mouth, his eyes—as if he were the source of fire itself, unleashing scorching power.
The Flaming Bow reacted in kind. The ancient soul within it sang a hymn from the dawn of creation—a song belonging to the Fire God, echoing over Earth after millennia.
The raging flames enveloped Yang Hao, merging him with the bow, fusing them into one.
The true essence of fire surged from the bow, flooding Yang Hao’s mind. All the secrets of flame, endless and unfathomable, were laid bare before him.
Yang Hao had entered a divine treasury. Every fire in the world, every origin of flame, revealed its mysteries to him. Those fires became his children.
In that instant, Yang Hao comprehended all the power of the Fire God. The might of Zhu Rong took root within him, awakening anew.
Now, Yang Hao was the Yang Hao of the Danding Sect, the Yang Hao of Hunyuanzi, and also the Yang Hao of Zhu Rong—the Yang Hao of fire.
He had become the God of Fire.
Blazing light illuminated the earth, the heavens trembled, and the seas churned.
Yang Hao chanted the Fire God’s lament—the sorrow of Zhu Rong, sealed within the bow for a thousand years. A fiery arrow formed at his fingertips.
He drew the Flaming Bow.
Amidst a song fiercer than fury, hotter than flame.
The first arrow of the Flaming Bow shot forth—a tidal wave of fire, striking the first Ghostly Shadow at a speed beyond human sight.
The power of all fire, ancient and modern, erupted within that arrow.
The Ghostly Shadow—even the spectral elder’s doppelganger—could not evade it. The Ghostly Shadow, infused with the elder’s energy, shrieked in agony. It withdrew its power, but the flames, as if burning from within its soul, could not be shaken off.
The Ghostly Shadow had no life, but it retained fragments of a soul. With even a trace of soul, it could not escape the fire.
The once-invincible Ghostly Shadow now writhed on the ground like a wretched creature, howling until it dissipated into smoke.
Yang Hao, like a fire god descended upon the world, stunned everyone once more.
All paused, staring at him in awe. Though he had already reached the peak of the Saint Realm, he had only been a match for the elder. Now, he had shattered the supposedly unbreakable barrier and burned one of the elder’s doppelgangers alive.
What kind of power was this?
Enveloped in flames, Yang Hao’s hair billowed—now crimson. Barefoot, surrounded by illusions of fire artifacts, he resembled the Fire God Zhu Rong himself.
Yang Hao’s assault did not stop. Another arrow of fury nocked the Flaming Bow. With each line of the ancient hymn—a song both sorrowful and sublime—he fired another arrow of vengeance.
Those arrows were the most powerful weapons in the world.
Among the thirty most formidable weapons in the universe, the Flaming Bow ranked first. It could kill not just men, but gods.
Each arrow carried not only Yang Hao’s wrath but also the Fire God’s millennia of hatred—a grudge that neither heaven nor earth could erase.
Hunyuanzi’s hatred—the pain of losing his wife, the blood feud of his sect. Yang Hao’s hatred—the murder of his brothers, the wounding of his woman.
All this hatred became arrows.
Arrows that none could block.
Yang Hao fired twelve arrows of fury, burning all twelve of the spectral elder’s doppelgangers and Ghostly Shadows. The supposedly unbreakable Ghostly Shadow Barrier, weakened by the loss of power, tore open a massive gap.
Thousands of Imperial Guards escaped. Though the deadly trap remained, at least half would survive.
Now, only three were still in peril.
The Emperor, his life force suppressed by a doppelganger. Qin Feng, barely holding on beneath the Dragon-Slaying Spike. And Lan Ling—worst of all—had been struck by the spectral elder’s true form. Now, held by the throat, she dangled in the air like a sheet of paper.
The elder needed only a slight squeeze to kill her—this young warrior who had broken through the Saint Realm, the most beautiful woman in the capital.
Yet he remained motionless—unable to move, unwilling to move.
Yang Hao’s arrow of fury was aimed at the elder’s true form. With each of the twelve unstoppable arrows, the elder’s power waned. Now, his strength had diminished by a third—centuries of cultivation lost.
Even more terrifying, the Flaming Bow was the most powerful of all divine artifacts. The elder alone could not break it—nor did he dare try.
As Yang Hao coldly leveled the arrow at him, the elder felt unprecedented fear—the kind he had only known when facing heavenly tribulations in life.
Yang Hao’s fiery aura, his icy gaze, forced the elder to keep his hand around Lan Ling’s throat—not daring to tighten his grip.
The radiance of the arrow blazed in Yang Hao’s palm.
This was no fleeting brilliance. Yang Hao now possessed all the secrets of fire—he was the Fire God’s avatar in this world.
Could the elder oppose a god?
With twelve doppelgangers destroyed and a third of his power gone, he could barely maintain the barrier, let alone resist Yang Hao’s assault on the Emperor and Qin Feng.
So the elder had no choice but to retreat.
Using Lan Ling as a shield, his form dimmed into the air, vanishing from the capital’s sky.
The Thirty-Six Ghostly Shadow Barrier dissipated in an instant.
The Emperor and Qin Feng, freed from pressure, collapsed to the ground, too weak to pursue the elder, focusing instead on healing.
Lan Ling, like a withered leaf, drifted down from the sky—pale, light, like a feather on an erratic path.
Yet she landed in Yang Hao’s arms.
“I saved you,” Yang Hao sighed in relief.
Lan Ling forced her eyes open, glanced at him, and murmured, “I don’t like red hair.”
Then she fell into a deep slumber.
The morning sun cast its warm glow, the gentle breeze soothing the wounded like fine wine.
The bloodiest battle in the capital’s history ended on this radiant morning.
But for the empire, the darkest hour had only just begun.
Now, only three remained in mortal danger.
The Hero Emperor was restrained by one avatar, his life force being drained. Qin Feng struggled under the Dragon-Slaying Spike. Lan Ling was in the worst condition—struck down by the ghost elder’s true form, now held by the throat in midair, shaking like a piece of paper.
The ghost elder needed only to tighten his grip to kill Lan Ling, this young warrior who had transcended the Saint realm, the most beautiful woman in the capital.
But he remained motionless, unable and unwilling to move.
Yang Hao’s arrows of wrath were already aimed at the ghost elder’s true form. With each of the twelve arrows fired, as each avatar was destroyed, the ghost elder’s power weakened. Now, the ghost elder’s strength had diminished by nearly a third—centuries of cultivation lost.
Even more terrifying was that Yang Hao wielded the Flame-Fusing Bow, the most powerful divine weapon of all. The ghost elder could neither break it nor dared to try.
Thus, when Yang Hao coldly aimed his wrathful arrow at him, the ghost elder felt an unprecedented terror, a fear he had only known during his own ascension trials in life.
The flames erupting from Yang Hao’s body, the icy coldness in his eyes, left the ghost elder holding Lan Ling’s throat, unable to apply pressure.
The radiant glow of the wrathful arrow shone in Yang Hao’s palm.
This was no fleeting brilliance from a divine weapon. Yang Hao had fully grasped all the secrets of fire. In this world, he was the embodiment of the Fire God.
Could the ghost elder dare oppose a god?
Especially now, with twelve avatars destroyed and a third of his power lost, he could barely maintain the barrier, let alone continue pressuring the Hero Emperor and Qin Feng.
Therefore, the ghost elder had no choice but to retreat.
Holding Lan Ling as a shield, his entire form dimmed in the air, and the ghost elder’s mysterious figure finally vanished from the skies of the capital.
The ghost elder’s clone directly opposite him seemed to possess intelligence as it extended both hands. One hand struck the Emperor’s heavy sword, exerting immense force to firmly lock the blade in place, preventing the Emperor from retreating.
The other hand coldly thrust forward, precisely striking the vibrant crimson flower on the Emperor’s chest.
A dense aura of death surged into the flower, devouring its life force bit by bit. The Emperor froze in place, his body rapidly withering—his skin wrinkled with age, his muscles slackened, and his long hair turned silver. It was clear that the ghost elder had found the Emperor’s weakness. He had discerned that all of the Emperor’s vitality stemmed from an enchantment on his chest. Shattering this enchantment would allow him to kill the Emperor without shedding a drop of blood.
Thus, a deadly trap was set.
The ghost elder’s clone merged with the barrier—as long as the barrier remained unbroken, the clone would persist. The Emperor, restrained by one of the clones, would soon lose all his life force.
Qin Feng, meanwhile, was pinned beneath the Dragon-Slaying Spike, teetering on the brink of death.
The only one still unscathed was Yang Hao, a peak Saint Realm expert locked in a desperate struggle with the barrier. The moment he let go, the gap he had torn open—just wide enough for a person to slip through—would seal shut.
But Yang Hao did not relent, for within this barrier was someone he had to save.
His gaze remained fixed on Lan Ling. She had already risen from the ground, her injuries leaving her deathly pale. Against the backdrop of her bloodstained robes, Lan Ling resembled a crimson angel. She turned her head, meeting Yang Hao’s eyes.
In that moment, no words were needed.
The sky gradually brightened, but the bloodshed and loss of life made this dawn feel darker than night.
Desperate cries echoed in people’s ears. The banners of the Imperial Guards fell like waves, and wherever Ghost You pointed, black-armored warriors perished.
It was an era of purgatory.
Sorrow and melancholy etched Lan Ling’s jade-like face as two crystalline tears traced down her cheeks—tears for Yang Hao, the only man she had ever loved in her life.
Though their love had been brief, it was unforgettable.
A cold wind slipped through the gap Yang Hao had forced open in the barrier, brushing against Lan Ling’s long hair, slightly easing her dizziness from the bloodshed. The newborn sun cast its light across the land, inch by inch.
Lan Ling smiled.
She tightened her grip on her silver spear.
“Come out!!” Yang Hao roared with all his might, straining to widen the gap in the barrier. “Lan Ling, come out!!”
This might not have been selfishness on Yang Hao’s part—at this moment, Lan Ling was the only one in the barrier who could still escape. The Emperor was dying, Qin Feng was dying, the Snow Night Star Lion Regiment was dying, and all the black-armored warriors were dying.
This was something Emperor Jia Ran had foreseen when he left the palace. Even if only Lan Ling escaped, it would still be a victory for the Emperor.
“Come out…” Yang Hao’s voice grew weaker.
Lan Ling had already turned away, refusing to look at him. Yang Hao knew her stubbornness well—he knew what choice she would make.
But he had to try.
In this world, how many people truly loved each other?
Some could gaze at each other for a thousand years and never be destined to be together. Others needed only a single glance to remember each other for eternity.
How could Yang Hao forget the quiet resolve in Lan Ling’s eyes when she stayed behind on the Wisdom Star?
How could he forget the sorrow in her strike when she thrust her spear at her master in the grand palace?
How could he forget the loneliness in her stance as she leaned against the door of the Dan Ding Sword Sect, panting after a bloody solo battle?
She was a woman who had loved Yang Hao with all her heart.
Yang Hao roared at the heavens, “Lan Ling! Come out!”
Flames erupted from his entire body, as though he were a god standing amidst fire.
But the blood within the barrier was like the tears on Lan Ling’s face. The cold grip of her silver spear embodied the proudest dignity in the world—the dignity of a warrior, a fighter, a comrade.
No one in this barrier would crawl through the gap Yang Hao had torn open, stepping over the blood of their allies.
Lan Ling slowly ascended into the sky, her determination clear from her silhouette alone. Blood dripped from her wounds, raining down as she flew, as though she were scattering a crimson shower.
Her silver spear pointed forward—toward the ghost elder in the sky.
An unbreakable target, yet one she had to break.
The Thirty-Six Ghost You Barrier, the Dragon-Slaying Spike, the ghost corpses—all originated from the ghost elder. Now, with everyone in the barrier on the verge of death, this was the only thing Lan Ling could do.
Raise her spear and charge at the ghost elder.
Charge toward someone she could never kill, toward a fate she could never escape. This was the only thing Lan Ling could do for her comrades. For this, she was willing to die under the gaze of the man she loved.
Perhaps that, too, was a kind of happiness.
She had done all she could for Yang Hao.
Now, Lan Ling was ready to die.
The scene in the sky was tragic and brutal. Lan Ling, pale and fragile, flew toward the ghost elder like a fluttering kite. Blood cascaded from her body, shrouding the air in a crimson mist.
The dawn’s light bathed everything in a sacred glow—sacred, yet tinged with the cold hue of blood.
“The sword is still in hand,” the Emperor, now withered and skeletal, chuckled hoarsely with his last breath. “The sword is still in hand!”
“Ahhh!” The surviving warriors echoed his cry.
Yang Hao clenched his lips, watching Lan Ling’s suicidal charge with tears that flowed like flames.
“Ah!” Yang Hao suddenly released his grip.
The Ghost You Barrier flickered with white light as the gap rapidly sealed shut, restoring the barrier to its original state. Only now, it contained thousands more corpses—perhaps even those of the Emperor, Qin Feng, and Lan Ling.
But Yang Hao no longer cared. He staggered back, flames erupting from his dantian, his mouth, his eyes—as though he were the source of fire itself, unleashing scorching power.
The Flaming Bow reacted in an extraordinary way. The soul within the bow sang an ancient hymn, one that belonged to the Fire God, echoing over Earth for the first time in millennia.
The raging flames enveloped Yang Hao, merging him with the Flaming Bow, fusing the two into one.
The true essence of fire surged from the bow, flooding Yang Hao’s mind. All the secrets of fire, boundless and infinite, were laid bare before him.
Yang Hao seemed to have entered a divine treasury. Every flame in the world, every origin of fire, revealed its mysteries to him. Those flames became his children.
In that instant, Yang Hao comprehended everything about the Fire God. The power of Zhu Rong took root within him, awakening once more.
Now, Yang Hao was the Yang Hao of the Dan Ding Sect, the Yang Hao of Hun Yuanzi, and also the Yang Hao of Zhu Rong—the Yang Hao of fire.
No—he was the God of Fire.
Blazing light illuminated the earth, the heavens trembled, and the seas churned violently.
Yang Hao chanted the mournful hymn of fire—the sorrow Zhu Rong had endured for a thousand years within the bow. A fiery arrow formed at his fingertips.
He drew the Flaming Bow.
Amidst a song fiercer than rage, hotter than flame.
The first arrow of the Flaming Bow shot forth—a tidal wave of fire, moving faster than the eye could follow, striking the first Ghost You.
The power of all fire, spanning past and present, erupted from that arrow.
The Ghost You—even the ghost elder’s clone—could not evade it. The Ghost You, infused with the elder’s energy, let out a wretched howl. It tried to withdraw its power, but the flames clung to its very soul, impossible to shake off.
Ghost You had no life, but it retained fragments of a soul. And where there was even a trace of soul, the fire would not relent.
The once-invincible Ghost You now writhed on the ground like a pitiful worm, shrieking until it dissipated into smoke and ash.
Yang Hao, now like a fire god descended upon the world, stunned everyone once more.
All paused, staring at him in awe. Even at his peak Saint Realm strength, he had only been a match for the elder. But now, he had shattered the supposedly unbreakable barrier—even burning one of the ghost elder’s clones alive.
What kind of power was this?
Enveloped in flames, Yang Hao seemed reborn. His long hair, now crimson, billowed behind him. His bare feet hovered above the ground, surrounded by illusions of fiery artifacts. He was like Zhu Rong himself, returned to the mortal realm.
Yang Hao did not stop. Another arrow of wrath nocked onto the Flaming Bow. With each line of the ancient hymn—mournful yet beautiful—he fired another arrow of vengeance.
Those arrows were the most formidable weapons in the world.
Among the thirty most powerful artifacts in the universe, the Flaming Bow ranked first. It possessed not only the power to kill mortals but even the might to slay gods.
Each arrow carried not only Yang Hao’s fury but also the millennia of hatred Zhu Rong had endured within the bow—a grudge that neither heaven nor earth could erase.
Hun Yuanzi’s hatred—the pain of losing his wife, the blood feud of his sect. Yang Hao’s hatred—the murder of his brothers, the wounding of his woman.
All this hatred coalesced into arrows.
Arrows that none could withstand.
Yang Hao fired twelve arrows of wrath, incinerating all twelve of the ghost elder’s clones. The so-called unbreakable Ghost You Barrier, weakened by the loss of power, tore open a massive gap.
Thousands of Imperial Guards escaped. Though the deadly trap remained, at least half would survive.
Now, only three were still in mortal peril.
The Emperor, his life force suppressed by a clone. Qin Feng, barely holding on beneath the Dragon-Slaying Spike. And Lan Ling—worst of all, she had been struck down by the ghost elder’s true form. Now, held by the throat in midair, she swayed like a sheet of paper.
The ghost elder needed only the slightest pressure to kill her—to end the life of this young warrior who had broken through the Saint Realm, the most beautiful woman in the capital.
Yet he remained motionless. He could not move. He dared not move.
Yang Hao’s arrow of wrath was aimed directly at the ghost elder’s true form. With each of the twelve unstoppable arrows fired, the elder’s power diminished. Now, he had lost a full third of his strength—centuries of cultivation, gone.
Even more terrifying, the Flaming Bow in Yang Hao’s hands was the most powerful of all divine artifacts. The ghost elder alone could not break it—nor did he have the courage to try.
So when Yang Hao coldly trained his arrow on him, the ghost elder felt a fear unlike any he had known since his mortal days, when he faced his heavenly tribulation.
The flames erupting from Yang Hao’s body, the ice-cold fury in his eyes—these made the ghost elder grip Lan Ling’s throat but hesitate to squeeze.
The radiance of the wrathful arrow gleamed in Yang Hao’s palm.
This was no fleeting brilliance of a divine weapon. Yang Hao had mastered the full essence of fire—he was the embodiment of the Fire God in this world.
Could the ghost elder oppose a god?
With twelve clones destroyed and a third of his power gone, he could barely maintain the barrier, let alone resist Yang Hao’s assault.
So the ghost elder had no choice but to retreat.
Using Lan Ling as a shield, his form dimmed in the air, his sinister figure vanishing from the capital’s sky.
The Thirty-Six Ghost You Barrier dissipated in an instant.
The Emperor and Qin Feng, freed from their restraints, collapsed to the ground, too weak to pursue the ghost elder. They immediately began meditating to heal.
Lan Ling, however, drifted down like a withered leaf—pale, weightless, like a feather tracing an erratic path.
She landed in Yang Hao’s arms.
“I saved you,” Yang Hao exhaled in relief.
Lan Ling forced her eyes open, glanced at him, and murmured, “I don’t like red hair.”
Then she fell into a deep slumber.
The morning sun finally unleashed its full radiance, its warm breeze caressing the wounded like intoxicating wine.
The bloodiest battle in the capital’s history ended on this bright morning.
But for the empire, the darkest hour had only just begun.
The Hero Emperor and Qin Feng immediately felt the pressure lift, collapsing to the ground and beginning to meditate to heal their wounds without chasing after the ghost elder.
Lan Ling, like a falling leaf, drifted down from the sky. Pale and weightless, she resembled a feather, tracing a wavering path.
Finally landing in Yang Hao’s arms.
“I saved you,” Yang Hao exhaled in relief.
Lan Ling struggled to open her eyes slightly, glancing at him and murmuring, “I don’t like red hair.”
Then she drifted into a deep sleep once more.
The morning sun began to shine brightly, and a warm, gentle breeze caressed the wounded, as intoxicating as fine wine.
The bloodiest battle in the capital’s history ended on such a bright morning.
But for the entire empire, the darkest hour had only just begun.
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