The Eight Dragon-Yu Legions, with fewer than a hundred men, were all injured and exhausted. Most had collapsed in the woods, gasping for breath and unable to rise. Even Qing Li, who had rushed back from the imperial capital, was covered in blood. His Dragon-Head Sword Squad was the strongest among the Dragon-Yu Legions, and he could barely stand, leaning on his sword. But to continue fighting was impossible.
The only one still able to resist the Elders’ assault was a single man with a single sword.
Situ Hai leaned casually against a tree at the edge of the woods, tightly gripping his rusted sword. He had never encountered so many formidable opponents in his life, yet now, he still wore a relaxed expression. He stood as if in an empty world, yet his presence alone caused the three hundred Elders to halt their advance.
The Eight Executive Elders pushed through the crowd and stood before Situ Hai.
Wu Yi glared at Situ Hai with a dark expression and said, “Hand over the Hidden Dragon Pavilion, and we’ll let you return to see Guang Ran.”
Situ Hai gave a bitter smile. “Master, the Hidden Dragon Pavilion has already been breached by you all. What else is there to hand over?”
“Is this all the Hidden Dragon Pavilion has after five thousand years?” Wu Yi pointed at the Dragon-Yu Legion in the woods. “Are these people really the last force Guang Ran relies on?”
“In times like these,” Situ Hai revealed a trace of melancholy and helplessness, “no one with any sense of honor would choose to survive in disgrace. If there were even one person left in the Hidden Dragon Pavilion, they would still come out to fight you to the death.”
“Not summoned, never to appear. Isn’t this the oath of your Hidden Dragon Pavilion?” Wu Yi sneered.
“There’s no need to say more.” Situ Hai waved his sword. Although he had long entered the Saint Realm, he had never regained the peak strength of his youth, making him appear even more dispirited. “Esteemed Masters, the Hidden Dragon Pavilion has survived for five thousand years without falling. Today, though only these people remain, we will still fight to the very end.”
The eight executive Elders looked around, expanding their divine consciousness and stretching their mental tendrils to every corner of the planet. But none of their divine senses received any response—except for the Dragon-Yu Legion in the woods, the entire planet seemed devoid of any high-level presence.
Hei Feng whispered into Wu Yi’s ear, “It seems these really are all the people they have. Perhaps we should kill them off quickly and return to Earth to deal with that reckless Guang Ran.” Although Wu Yi still harbored doubts, he began to waver—not because of Hei Feng’s words, but because over the years, the Elder Council had gained astonishing control over cultivators across the land. Wu Yi believed that even if the Hidden Dragon Pavilion had hidden forces, they would be so weak as to be laughable—perhaps they couldn’t even gather a few Saint Realm experts.
Thinking this way, Wu Yi decided that as long as they killed everyone in the woods, the Hidden Dragon Pavilion would no longer pose a threat to the Elder Council. Without this force’s support, even the Hero Emperor and Yang Hao would struggle to turn the tides.
“Situ Hai,” Wu Yi declared sternly, “I remember you as the disciple of the old Sword Saint and the junior brother of the Hero Emperor. I’ll give you one last chance. If you step aside and do not interfere, I will not only spare your life, but also allow you to join the Elder Council.”
The cold wind howled, flapping the dark-golden ceremonial robes of the Elders—robes that symbolized honor in the Galactic Empire. To wear such a robe meant absolute power, the privilege to take anything one desired, access to ancient cultivation techniques, and the embodiment of strength and authority.
But beyond that?
Situ Hai had already discarded his wine bottle—he no longer needed it. His life had been like a dramatic film, full of ups and downs, glory and disgrace, rising to fame in youth and falling into obscurity in middle age. Now, it was the final scene of his life. What else did he need?
With a flick of his wrist, his rusted sword traced a dazzling arc at an impossible angle. Quietly, he said, “The sword remains in my hand!”
“Hah!” A deafening roar erupted from the Dragon-Yu Legion, making it hard to believe that these near-death men still possessed such momentum.
Wu Yi feigned a long sigh and waved his hand. The Elders surged forward.
Limitless sword light erupted from Situ Hai’s hand. His rusted sword instantly shed all its rust, shining with brilliant radiance. Though the Elders were numerous, none could approach the range of Situ Hai’s sword.
This once-youthful Sword Saint simply thrust his sword forward, again and again, without aim.
This was a heaven-shattering strike, powerful enough to make the very cosmos recoil.
Wherever the sword light reached, none dared oppose it. Even the Elders clad in their honored dark-golden robes could not take another step forward.
The Elders had already summoned their respective treasures—dozens of uniquely shaped cultivation artifacts unleashed their power into the air. Those without artifacts joined hands, unleashing a collective palm strike.
Once, outside the Grand Palace, ten Elders working together could force back four flying dragons. Now, with dozens of Elders combining their might, the force and killing intent were so overwhelming that even Qing Li in the woods felt suffocated.
Yet Situ Hai held his ground. Not only that, he struck again.
It was a strike more dazzling than the wind, more radiant than light.
As he unleashed this strike, Situ Hai smiled.
On his weary, haggard face bloomed a smile of arrogant supremacy, reminiscent of his youthful days as a celebrated prodigy.
The fierce wind blew against him, darkness surged like a flood, yet the impossible strike forced over a hundred Elders to retreat a step.
Shock was etched on every face. Elders never retreated—they only advanced. Especially now, when they had mobilized their full force to crush the Hidden Dragon Pavilion in one decisive blow.
Could it be that they couldn’t break through the sword of a mere Saint Realm cultivator?
Elder Wu Yi, however, had already discerned the truth. Situ Hai was no longer relying on Saint Realm power. For him, Saint Realm strength was now secondary. A man like Situ Hai needed only a sword to hold the pass against ten thousand.
The Eight Dragon Guard Legions, numbering less than a thousand, were all wounded and utterly exhausted. Most of them had collapsed in the forest, gasping for breath and unable to rise. Even Qin Li, who had rushed back from the imperial capital, was drenched in blood. His Dragonhead Sword Regiment, the strongest among the Dragon Guard Legions, could barely stand with the support of their swords, but continuing to fight seemed impossible.
The only one left who could still hold off the Elders’ assault was a single man with a single sword.
Situ Hai leaned against a tree at the forest’s edge, gripping his rusted sword tightly. In all his life, he had never faced so many formidable opponents. Yet, at this moment, Situ Hai remained composed, standing as if he were in an empty wilderness, forcing the three hundred Elders to halt their advance.
The eight Chief Elders stepped forward from the crowd, positioning themselves opposite Situ Hai.
Wu Yi studied Situ Hai with a dark expression before speaking, “Hand over the Hidden Dragon Pavilion, and we’ll let you return to see Guan Ran.”
Situ Hai gave a bitter smile. “Elder, the Hidden Dragon Pavilion has already been destroyed by you. What is left to hand over?”
“Five thousand years of unbroken legacy, and this is all the strength the Hidden Dragon Pavilion has?” Wu Yi gestured toward the Dragon Guard Legions in the forest. “Are these the last forces Guan Ran relies on?”
“At this point,” Situ Hai replied with a trace of melancholy, “anyone with a shred of courage would not cower in comfort. If even one person remained in the Hidden Dragon Pavilion, they would come out and fight you to the death.”
“‘Unsummoned, we shall never appear.'” Wu Yi sneered. “Isn’t that the oath of your Hidden Dragon Pavilion?”
“Enough talk.” Situ Hai raised his sword. Though he had long since entered the Saint Realm, he had never regained the peak strength of his youth, making him appear even more desolate. “Honored Elders, the Hidden Dragon Pavilion has endured for five thousand years without falling. Though only these few remain today, we will fight to the very last.”
The eight Chief Elders scanned their surroundings, extending their divine senses to every corner of the planet. Yet, their probing found no response—no trace of any other powerful auras beyond the Dragon Guard Legions in the forest.
Black Wind leaned close to Wu Yi and whispered, “It seems these are truly the only ones left. Let’s finish them quickly so we can return to Earth and deal with that reckless Guan Ran.”
Though Wu Yi still harbored doubts, he began to waver—not because of Black Wind’s words, but because the Elder Council’s control over the world’s cultivators had reached an astonishing level over the years. Wu Yi believed that even if the Hidden Dragon Pavilion had hidden forces, they would be laughably weak, perhaps not even enough to gather a few Saint Realm experts.
With this in mind, Wu Yi decided that once the people in the forest were wiped out, the Hidden Dragon Pavilion would no longer pose a threat to the Elder Council. Without this force’s support, even if the Heroic Emperor and Yang Hao wished to overturn the heavens, it would be nearly impossible.
“Situ Hai,” Wu Yi declared sharply, “out of respect for you as the old Sword Saint’s disciple and the Heroic Emperor’s junior brother, I offer you one last chance. Step aside and stay out of this, and not only will I spare your life, but I will even allow you to join the Elder Council.”
A cold wind howled, stirring the Elders’ dark gold robes—symbols of their supreme honor.
In the Galactic Empire, joining the Elder Council was the highest honor one could attain. Wearing those robes meant absolute authority, access to ancient cultivation texts, and the embodiment of power and prestige.
But what else was there?
Situ Hai had already discarded his wine flask—he no longer needed it. His life had been like a turbulent film, filled with soaring highs and crushing lows, fame in youth and disappointment in middle age. He had tasted nearly everything life had to offer. Now, as this film reached its final scene, what more did he need?
With a flick of his wrist, Situ Hai’s rusted sword traced a dazzling arc through the air at an impossible angle. He murmured softly, “The long sword is still in hand.”
“HAH!” A deafening roar erupted from the Dragon Guard Legions, astonishing for men on the brink of death.
Wu Yi feigned a sigh and waved his hand. The Elders surged forward.
Countless sword rays erupted from Situ Hai’s hand. His rusted blade shed its decay in an instant, gleaming with radiant brilliance. Despite the Elders’ overwhelming numbers, none could breach the boundary marked by his sword.
This once-young Sword Saint simply thrust forward—once, then again.
This was the sword that could pierce the heavens, the strike that had once forced even the cosmos to retreat.
Where his sword light reached, none dared oppose it. Even the Elders clad in their dark gold robes of glory could advance no further.
The Elders had already summoned their treasures—dozens of mystical artifacts bursting with power in the air. Those without weapons joined forces to unleash a single palm strike.
Outside the Great Palace, ten Elders had once repelled four flying dragons with a combined strike. Now, dozens of Elders struck together, their combined force and killing intent so overwhelming that even Qin Li in the forest felt suffocated.
Yet Situ Hai withstood it—and then, he thrust his sword once more.
This strike was more dazzling than the wind, more radiant than light itself.
As he unleashed it, Situ Hai smiled.
His weary, haggard face bore the same proud, solitary grin from his days of youthful fame.
The gale reversed, darkness surged like a flood, and that impossible sword strike forced the hundreds of Elders to collectively retreat a step.
Shock flickered across every face. The Elders never retreated—only advanced. Yet now, with their full might unleashed to crush the Hidden Dragon Pavilion in one battle, they had been halted.
Could it be that even their combined strength could not break a single ordinary Saint Realm swordsman?
But Wu Yi had already seen the truth. Situ Hai was not relying on the power of the Saint Realm—for him, such strength was secondary. A man like Situ Hai needed only a single sword to hold off ten thousand.
Wu Yi recalled what the Supreme One had told him before departing:
*”Though the Elder Council holds all the world’s cultivation techniques, that does not mean no other experts can emerge. Intelligent beings are creative—they can forge their own, even mightier paths.”*
Thus, the old Sword Saint had once defied the Elder Council for ten years with nothing but his sword. And now, it seemed that among his three disciples, only Situ Hai had truly grasped the essence of the blade.
Modern cultivators relied too heavily on the Saint Realm’s power, believing only cultivated strength could win battles. But in this world, there was more than one path. If martial skill were refined to its peak, one could attain supreme combat prowess.
What Situ Hai wielded was the soul of the sword—the essence of swordsmanship. Situ Hai himself was the sword’s soul.
The Supreme One had said:
*”In this world, beyond strength, there is soul—and soul controls strength.”*
With the soul of his sword, Situ Hai stood unyielding against the Elders.
Wu Yi felt a chill of fear. He dared not act rashly. If even three hundred Elders could not defeat this foe, the eight Chief Elders might not prevail either. If Situ Hai remained standing, the Elder Council’s dignity would be shattered.
The only way now was to break Situ Hai’s sword soul and render him powerless.
“Situ Hai,” Wu Yi began, watching as Situ Hai, with his desolate expression, casually thrust his sword again and again, forcing the Elders further back. “In your youth, you were a prodigy, reaching the peak of the Saint Realm before twenty. The entire empire marveled at you. But you were arrogant, believing yourself invincible—you even tried to halt the empire’s expansion single-handedly.”
“I succeeded.” Situ Hai’s eyes gleamed, his sword soul shining even brighter. “The empire’s fleets never advanced another step.”
Wu Yi’s words seemed not to weaken Situ Hai but to fuel his courage and resolve.
“True, you succeeded. You and He De created a miracle in cosmic history—the Battle of the Outer Mongolia Left Spiral Arm, where two men annihilated an invincible fleet.” Wu Yi, seeing Situ Hai respond, knew his trap was set. “But Situ Hai, wasn’t that the beginning of your tragedy?”
“Tragedy?” Situ Hai’s sword hesitated slightly, his expression darkening.
“After that battle, rumors spread in the empire that you had died. So a woman—your woman—began her quest for vengeance. Situ Hai, do you remember her name?”
Situ Hai staggered as if struck by a bullet, though he still gripped his sword. “I could never forget, alive or dead. That woman was my wife—Chang Rong, the greatest assassin in the cosmos.”
“Indeed, Chang Rong—that was her name.” Wu Yi’s dark robes billowed, his expression unreadable. “Upon hearing of your death, Chang Rong vowed to avenge you by assassinating the emperor at any cost. How deeply she once loved you.”
“How deeply she once loved me?” Situ Hai’s sorrow roared like the sea.
“To kill the emperor, Chang Rong sought out your master—and your senior brother. What was his name again?” Wu Yi sneered.
“Guan Ran.”
“Guan Ran—a beautiful name. In his youth, he was beautiful too.” Wu Yi continued, “Back then, Guan Ran wandered the flower gardens every night, his identity unknown. The night Chang Rong found him, Guan Ran was drinking in the Lingfei Starry Sea, dancing with beauties in drunken revelry. But when Chang Rong stepped through that door, all other beauties paled. None could match her starry eyes, her jade-like skin—all the world’s charms combined could not rival a tenth of her beauty.”
Situ Hai’s sword stilled. The Elders opposite him paused as well, as if time itself had frozen.
Wu Yi’s smile was icy. “What glorious days those were. Guan Ran helped Chang Rong plot the assassination, clearing obstacles for her, overcoming countless trials. They were inseparable—day and night, through every season. On cold, lonely nights, Chang Rong would sit beside Guan Ran.”
“They did nothing.” Situ Hai’s voice was like iron—cold and hard.
“Perhaps.” Wu Yi’s cruel reminiscence continued. “Then came the day that would change history. After an arduous journey, Chang Rong finally stood in the Great Palace before the Galactic Emperor—the man she swore to kill, the one who had taken her husband from her.”
Heavy breaths passed between Situ Hai, the Dragon Guard Legions, and the Elders. No one interrupted Wu Yi’s tale—it was the only sound in the world, a knife slowly carving into Situ Hai’s soul.
“And guess what? Chang Rong witnessed the most astonishing scene of her life. The man she sought to kill—her sworn enemy, the bastard who had murdered her husband—was none other than Guan Ran. The same Guan Ran who had comforted her night after night, who had danced among flowers with effortless grace. Guan Ran was the emperor. Some may have known, but none spoke of it—none told Chang Rong. She was but a pawn, moved across another’s chessboard.”
“ENOUGH!!” Situ Hai roared, his face pale. The memory buried deepest in his soul now burned with pain—so much that even his sword hand trembled.
“Enough? The climax has yet to come.” Wu Yi laughed. “The worst part? Chang Rong realized she had fallen in love with Guan Ran—the very man she had sworn to kill. How laughable.”
His laughter rained down like needles on Situ Hai’s spirit, making his entire body shudder.
“But this was Chang Rong—the greatest assassin in the cosmos.” Even Wu Yi could not help but respect her. “A true assassin is not swayed by emotion. Yes, she loved Guan Ran—loved the Heroic Emperor—but in the end, before all witnesses, she drove her dagger into his chest. The blade pierced the young emperor’s heart, blood spraying forth. Who could forget that glorious moment?”
Wu Yi closed his eyes, as if reliving the scene—the sound of blood, Guan Ran’s handsome, smiling face, and the tears on Chang Rong’s cheeks.
The Great Palace’s floor still bore the stains of that emperor’s lifeblood.
“Ah…” Tears streamed down Situ Hai’s face, carrying a lifetime of sorrow.
“But the true ending was so exquisitely cruel—even the heavens could not have foreseen it.” Wu Yi’s voice trembled with excitement. “Right after Chang Rong assassinated the Heroic Emperor, you—the cosmos’s greatest wandering swordsman, the reckless fool—returned. You arrived at the Great Palace unharmed, witnessing how your wife had avenged you, how your senior brother had died in her arms.”
“Chang Rong looked at me.” Situ Hai murmured, lost. “She said… ‘You’re alive.'”
Thus, the old Sword Saint had emerged, relying solely on his sword to foil ten years of relentless pursuit by the Elder Council. Now, it seemed that among the old Sword Saint’s three disciples, only Situ Hai had truly inherited the essence of the sword.
Modern cultivators relied too much on Saint Realm power, needing the strength gained through cultivation to fight. But in this world, there were other paths—perfecting martial techniques to the utmost peak could also grant supreme combat power.
What Situ Hai relied on was the soul of the sword, the soul of swordsmanship itself. Situ Hai himself was the embodiment of the sword’s soul.
The Eight Dragon-Blessed Legions, numbering less than a hundred, were all wounded and exhausted, with most of them collapsed in the forest, gasping for breath and unable to rise. Even Qing Li, who had rushed back from the imperial capital, was drenched in blood. His Dragon’s Head Sword Formation, the strongest among the Dragon-Blessed Legions, could barely stand with the support of their swords, but continuing to fight seemed impossible.
The only one left who could still hold off the Elders was a single man with a single sword.
Situ Hai leaned against a tree at the edge of the forest, gripping his rusted sword tightly. In his entire life, he had never faced so many formidable opponents. Yet, at this moment, Situ Hai remained composed, standing as if he were in a place of no resistance, forcing the three hundred Elders to halt in their tracks.
The eight presiding Elders stepped forward from the crowd, standing opposite Situ Hai.
Wu Yi stared at Situ Hai with a dark expression for a moment before speaking, “Hand over the Hidden Dragon Pavilion, and we’ll let you return to see Guan Ran.”
Situ Hai gave a bitter smile. “Elder, the Hidden Dragon Pavilion has already been destroyed by you. What is left to hand over?”
“The Hidden Dragon Pavilion, unbroken for five thousand years—is this all the strength it has?” Wu Yi pointed at the Dragon-Blessed Legions in the forest. “Are these the last forces Guan Ran relies on?”
“At this point,” Situ Hai sighed with a trace of melancholy, “anyone with a shred of courage would not cower in comfort. If even one person remained in the Hidden Dragon Pavilion, they would come out to fight you.”
“Never appear unless summoned—isn’t that the oath of your Hidden Dragon Pavilion?” Wu Yi sneered.
“Enough talk.” Situ Hai waved his sword. Though he had long entered the Saint Realm, he had never regained the peak strength of his youth, making him appear even more desolate. “Honored Elders, the Hidden Dragon Pavilion has endured for five thousand years without falling. Though only these few remain today, we will fight to the last breath.”
The eight presiding Elders scanned their surroundings, extending their divine senses to every corner of the planet. Yet, none of their senses detected anything—no powerful auras existed beyond the Dragon-Blessed Legions in the forest.
Hei Feng leaned close to Wu Yi and whispered, “It seems there really are only these people left. Why don’t we finish them off quickly and return to Earth to deal with that reckless Guan Ran?”
Though Wu Yi still harbored doubts, he began to waver—not because of Hei Feng’s words, but because the Elder Council had controlled the world’s cultivators for so long, reaching an astonishing level of dominance. Wu Yi believed that even if the Hidden Dragon Pavilion had hidden forces, they would be laughably weak—perhaps not even enough to gather a few Saint Realm experts.
With this in mind, Wu Yi decided that as long as they wiped out the people in the forest, the Hidden Dragon Pavilion would no longer pose a threat to the Elder Council. Without this force’s support, even if Emperor Yinglie and Yang Hao wanted to overturn the heavens, it would be nearly impossible.
“Situ Hai,” Wu Yi said sharply, “out of respect for you as the old Sword Saint’s disciple and Emperor Yinglie’s junior brother, I’ll give you one last chance. Step aside and stay out of this, and not only will I spare your life, but I’ll even allow you to join the Elder Council.”
A cold wind howled, rustling the Elders’ black-gold robes—symbols of their supreme honor.
In the Galactic Empire, joining the Elder Council was the highest honor imaginable. Wearing these robes meant absolute authority, access to ancient cultivation scriptures, and the embodiment of power and prestige.
But beyond that?
Situ Hai had already discarded his wine flask—he no longer needed it. His life had been like a turbulent film, filled with soaring highs and crushing lows, glory and despair, early fame and midlife disappointment. He had tasted it all. Now, as this film reached its final scene, what more did he need?
With a flick of his wrist, Situ Hai’s rusted sword traced an impossible arc, gleaming brilliantly. He murmured softly, “The long sword is still in hand.”
“HAH!” A deafening roar erupted from the Dragon-Blessed Legions—astonishing for men on the brink of death.
Wu Yi feigned a sigh and waved his hand. The Elders surged forward.
Endless sword light erupted from Situ Hai’s hand. His rusted sword shed all its corrosion in an instant, shining with radiant brilliance. Despite the Elders’ numbers, none could breach the boundary drawn by his blade.
This once-young Sword Saint simply thrust forward—once, then again.
This was a sword strike that could split the heavens, one that had once forced even the cosmos to retreat.
Wherever the sword light reached, none dared oppose it. Even the Elders clad in their black-gold robes of glory could not advance a single step further.
The Elders had already summoned their treasures—dozens of mystical artifacts unleashed their power in the sky. Those without weapons joined forces to strike with a single palm.
Outside the Great Palace, ten Elders striking together had once repelled four flying dragons. Now, dozens of Elders struck as one—their combined force and killing intent so overwhelming that even Qing Li in the forest felt suffocated.
Yet Situ Hai blocked it all. Not only that—he thrust his sword once more.
This strike was more dazzling than the wind, more radiant than light itself.
As he unleashed it, Situ Hai smiled.
His weary, desolate face bore the same proud, solitary grin from his days of youthful fame.
The gale reversed, darkness surged like a flood, and that impossible sword strike forced hundreds of Elders to retreat a step.
Shock flickered across every face. The Elders never retreated—only advanced. Yet now, with their full might unleashed to crush the Hidden Dragon Pavilion in one battle, they had been halted by a single sword from an ordinary Saint Realm cultivator?
Wu Yi, however, had already seen the truth. Situ Hai was not relying on the power of the Saint Realm—for him, it was almost irrelevant. A man like Situ Hai needed only a single sword to hold off an army.
Wu Yi recalled what the Supreme Elder had told him before his journey:
*”The Elder Council may control all the world’s cultivation techniques, but that doesn’t mean no other experts can emerge. Intelligent beings are creative—they can forge even stronger paths of cultivation.”*
Thus, the old Sword Saint had once defied the Elder Council for a decade with nothing but his sword. Now, it seemed that among his three disciples, only Situ Hai had truly grasped the essence of the sword.
Modern cultivators relied too heavily on the Saint Realm’s power, believing they could only fight with the strength gained through cultivation. But in this world, there was more than one path. If martial arts were refined to their peak, one could attain supreme combat prowess.
What Situ Hai relied on was the soul of the sword—the essence of swordsmanship. Situ Hai himself was the sword’s soul.
The Supreme Elder had said:
*”In this world, beyond power, there is the soul—and the soul controls power.”*
Situ Hai, wielding the soul of his sword, stood undefeated against the Elders.
Wu Yi felt a chill of fear. He dared not act rashly. If even three hundred Elders could not break through, the eight presiding Elders might not succeed either. If Situ Hai remained standing, what face would the Elder Council have left?
The only solution now was to shatter Situ Hai’s sword soul and render him powerless.
“Situ Hai, you were a prodigy—reaching the peak of the Saint Realm before twenty, astonishing the entire empire,” Wu Yi began, watching as Situ Hai, with a desolate expression, casually thrust his sword, forcing the Elders back further. “But in your youthful arrogance, you thought yourself invincible, daring to oppose the empire’s expansion alone.”
“I succeeded.” Situ Hai’s eyes gleamed, his sword soul shining even brighter. “The empire’s fleets never advanced another step.”
Wu Yi’s words seemed not to weaken Situ Hai but to fuel his courage and fighting spirit.
“True, you succeeded. You and He De created a miracle in cosmic history—the Battle of the Outer Mongolia Left Spiral Arm, where two men annihilated an invincible fleet.” Seeing Situ Hai respond, Wu Yi knew his trap was set. “But Situ Hai, wasn’t that the beginning of your tragedy?”
“Tragedy?” Situ Hai’s sword hesitated, his expression darkening.
“After the battle, rumors spread in the empire that you had died. So a woman—your woman—began her quest for vengeance. Situ Hai, do you remember her name?”
Situ Hai staggered as if struck by a bullet, yet he still held his sword. “I could never forget, even in death. That woman was my wife—Chang Rong, the greatest assassin in the universe.”
“Exactly—Chang Rong.” Wu Yi’s robes billowed, his demeanor unusually intense. “Upon hearing of your death, Chang Rong vowed to assassinate the emperor at any cost to avenge you. This woman—how deeply she once loved you.”
“How deeply she once loved me?” Situ Hai’s sorrow roared like the sea.
“To kill the emperor, Chang Rong sought out your master—and your senior brother. What was his name again?” Wu Yi smirked.
“Guan Ran.”
“Guan Ran—a beautiful name. In his youth, he was a beautiful man.” Wu Yi continued, “Back then, Guan Ran reveled in the flower houses every night. No one knew who he was, no one knew his identity. The night Chang Rong found him, Guan Ran was drinking in the Lingfei Star Sea, dancing with beauties in the night. But when Chang Rong walked through that door, all other women paled in comparison. None could match her starry eyes, her jade-like skin. All the world’s beauty combined could not rival a tenth of her.”
Situ Hai stopped his swordplay. The Elders opposite him halted as well. The entire world seemed to freeze—time itself stood still.
Wu Yi’s smile was bone-chilling. “What glorious days those were. Guan Ran helped Chang Rong assassinate the emperor, clearing obstacles for her, overcoming countless hardships. They were together day and night, through every season, every cold and lonely evening, sitting side by side.”
“They did nothing.” Situ Hai’s voice was ice—cold as iron.
“Perhaps.” Wu Yi’s cruel reminiscence continued. “Then came the day destined to change history. After an arduous journey, Chang Rong finally stood in the Great Palace before the Galactic Emperor—the man she swore to kill, the one who had murdered her husband.”
Heavy breaths passed between Situ Hai, the Dragon-Blessed Legions, and the Elders. No one could interrupt Wu Yi’s tale—it was the only sound in the world, a blade slowly tearing apart Situ Hai’s soul.
“And guess what? Chang Rong witnessed the most wondrous, most unbelievable scene of her life. The man she sought to kill—her mortal enemy, the bastard who murdered her husband—was none other than Guan Ran. The same Guan Ran who had comforted her night after night. Guan Ran was the emperor. Some may have known, but no one told Chang Rong. She was a lone, helpless pawn, moved by others on their chessboard.”
“ENOUGH!!” Situ Hai roared, his face pale. The memories buried deepest in his soul now burned with pain—so intense his sword hand trembled.
“Enough? The climax hasn’t even arrived.” Wu Yi laughed. “The worst part? Chang Rong realized she had fallen in love with Guan Ran—the very man she had sworn to kill. How laughable.”
His laughter rained down on Situ Hai’s soul, shaking him to the core.
“But this was Chang Rong—the greatest assassin in the universe.” Even Wu Yi could not help but respect her. “A true assassin would never be swayed by emotion. Yes, she loved Guan Ran—loved Emperor Yinglie—but in the eyes of all, she drove her dagger into his chest. The sharp blade pierced the young emperor’s heart, blood spraying forth. Who could forget that glorious moment?”
Wu Yi closed his eyes, as if reliving the scene—the beautiful sound of blood gushing, Emperor Yinglie’s handsome, smiling face, and the tears streaming down Chang Rong’s cheeks.
The Great Palace’s floor still bore the stains of that emperor’s lifeblood.
“Ha…” Tears streamed down Situ Hai’s face—his lifetime of sorrow poured out in those drops.
“But the true ending was so exquisitely cruel, not even the heavens could have foreseen it.” Wu Yi marveled, even as the storyteller, he couldn’t suppress his excitement. “Right after Chang Rong assassinated Emperor Yinglie, you—you, the universe’s greatest wandering swordsman, Situ Hai—the reckless fool who only knew brute strength—returned. You appeared unharmed in the Great Palace, witnessing how your wife had avenged you, how your senior brother had died in her arms.”
“Chang Rong looked at me.” Situ Hai murmured, lost in memory. “Chang Rong looked at me… and said, ‘You’re alive.'”
Wu Yi felt a chill, even panic. He dared not attack recklessly. If three hundred Elders could not defeat him, even the Eight Executive Elders might not be able to subdue him. If Situ Hai still stood after that, where would the Elder Council’s dignity lie?
The only way now was to shatter Situ Hai’s sword soul, leaving him powerless to fight.
“Situ Hai, you were a prodigy, reaching the peak of the Saint Realm before twenty. The entire empire was shaken by your talent,” Wu Yi said, watching Situ Hai’s weathered face and the effortless yet increasingly effective sword strikes that forced the Elders further back. “But you were arrogant in your youth, believing yourself invincible, daring to single-handedly halt the empire’s expansion.”
“I succeeded,” Situ Hai’s eyes gleamed, his sword soul shining even brighter. “The imperial fleet never expanded another inch.”
Wu Yi’s words did not seem to weaken Situ Hai but instead fueled his courage and fighting spirit.
“That’s right, you succeeded. You and Hede created a miracle in cosmic history—two men alone orchestrated the Battle of the Outer Meng Left Arm, annihilating the once-invincible fleet,” Wu Yi said, seeing Situ Hai respond and knowing he had fallen into his trap. “But Situ Hai, wasn’t that the beginning of your tragedy?”
“Tragedy?” Situ Hai’s sword slowed, his expression turning grave.
“After the battle of the Outer Meng Left Arm, rumors spread that you were dead. So a woman—your woman—began her quest for vengeance. Situ Hai, do you still remember her name?”
Situ Hai seemed struck by a bullet. He staggered back a step, still holding his sword. “I will never forget her. She was my wife. Her name was Changrong—the greatest assassin in the universe.”
“Indeed, Changrong. That was her name.” Elder Wu Yi’s dark robe billowed, his expression unusually animated. “Knowing of your death, Changrong decided at any cost to assassinate the emperor to avenge you. This woman once loved you deeply.”
“Once loved me?” Situ Hai’s sorrow surged like a sea.
“Changrong sought out your master and your senior brother to help her assassinate the emperor. Do you remember his name?” Wu Yi sneered.
“Guang Ran.”
“Guang Ran—a beautiful name. He was handsome in his youth,” Wu Yi said. “Back then, Guang Ran roamed from flower to flower every night, no one knew who he was. No one knew his identity. They say the night Changrong found Guang Ran, he was drinking in the Lingfei Star Sea, dancing with beauties. No one could have imagined that when Changrong walked through that door, all the beauties lost their luster. No one could match Changrong’s beauty, her star-like eyes, her skin like jade. All the beauty in the world combined couldn’t match even a tenth of hers.”
Situ Hai stopped his sword strikes. The Elders before him also halted. The entire world seemed to freeze, time itself ceasing to flow.
Elder Wu Yi’s expression was one of bone-deep mockery: “Those were truly beautiful days. Guang Ran helped Changrong assassinate the emperor, step by step removing every obstacle for her, helping her through countless dangers. They spent every day and night together, through spring, summer, autumn, and winter. Every cold night, Changrong sat side by side with Guang Ran.”
“They did nothing.” Situ Hai’s voice was like ice—cold as iron.
“Perhaps,” Wu Yi continued cruelly, “but the day destined to change history finally came. After enduring countless hardships, Changrong finally reached the Grand Palace of the imperial city. She saw the supreme ruler of the Galactic Empire—the emperor she had sworn to kill, the man who had taken her husband’s life.”
Heavy breathing filled the air between Situ Hai, the Dragon-Yu Legion, and the Elders. No one interrupted Wu Yi’s narration. It was as if his voice was the only sound in the world, slicing through Situ Hai’s soul like a knife.
“Guess what happened? Changrong witnessed the most beautiful, most unbelievable scene of her life. The man she had sworn to kill—the enemy who had taken her husband’s life—was none other than Guang Ran, the charming man who had comforted her every night, the one who had roamed among flowers. Guang Ran was the emperor of the Galactic Empire. People might have known, but no one spoke of it. No one told Changrong. She was the loneliest pawn, always on someone else’s chessboard, manipulated by others.”
“Enough!!” Situ Hai roared. His face turned pale, the memory he had buried deep within his soul now aching, so painfully that even his sword-wielding hand trembled.
“Enough? The climax hasn’t even come yet.” Wu Yi laughed. “Even worse was what happened next—Changrong discovered she had fallen in love with Guang Ran. She had fallen in love with the man she hated most, the one she had sworn to kill. How absurd, how ridiculous.”
His laughter rained down like needles on Situ Hai’s soul, making his entire being tremble.
“But that was Changrong—the greatest assassin in the universe.” Even Wu Yi couldn’t help but show respect for this woman. “A true assassin is never swayed by emotions. Yes, she loved Guang Ran, loved the Hero Emperor, but Changrong still plunged her dagger into Guang Ran’s chest before everyone’s eyes. The sharp blade pierced the young emperor’s heart, and blood sprayed forth with a hiss. Who could forget that glorious moment?”
Wu Yi closed his eyes, as if recalling the sound of blood spurting that day, the handsome, smiling face of the Hero Emperor Guang Ran, and the tears streaming down Changrong’s face.
The Grand Palace floor should still bear the emperor’s blood from that day.
“Heh…” Tears poured from Situ Hai’s eyes, the sorrow of a lifetime condensed into these tears.
“The true ending of the story was so clever, even Heaven’s Strategy couldn’t have predicted it,” Wu Yi marveled, unable to contain his excitement even as a mere narrator. “Just after Changrong assassinated the Hero Emperor, you—you, the greatest wandering swordsman in the universe, the man who only relied on brute courage—you returned. You arrived at the Grand Palace, unscathed. You witnessed with your own eyes how your wife avenged you. You saw with your own eyes how your senior brother died in your wife’s arms.”
“Changrong looked at me,” Situ Hai murmured, lost in thought. “Changrong looked at me… and she said, ‘You’re alive.’”
“You’re still alive, yet she killed the one she loved deeply,” Wu Yi said without leaving any room for mercy. “Chang Rong finally realized what she had done. She thought she was merely a pawn on Ying Lieh Huang’s chessboard, controlled all along by the emperor. But that’s not true. The real cause of this tragedy is you, you, the young hero, the spiritual leader who stands unshaken in the universe, the greatest swordsman, the unsurpassable peak. Situ Hai, in your heart, your wife isn’t even as important as a blade of grass in the cosmos.”
Situ Hai fell silent, sinking into a long, endless recollection and solitude. The past surged forward, overwhelming him completely. After so many years of drinking and decadence, Situ Hai thought he had forgotten everything, that he had licked all his wounds clean. But it hadn’t ended; the wounds had only burrowed deeper, hidden so profoundly even he couldn’t reach them.
“Chang Rong felt the cooling of her lover’s corpse in her arms. Finally, she understood everything. She knew whom she should choose. Situ Hai, your wife did everything she could for you. She was finally doing something for the one she loved.”
Wu Yi asked coldly, “Do you know what she did?”
Situ Hai, of course, knew better than anyone in this world: “Chang Rong used a secret method, the last inherited secret of her family. She exchanged her life for the blessing on Rao Ran’s chest. This blessing was bought with all of Chang Rong’s vitality. She brought Rao Ran back to life, forever living in her love.”
“So, you lost her,” Wu Yi sneered. “All for your desire to be a hero, for your craving for fame, for proving your strength. What did you end up gaining?”
“I lost her,” Situ Hai collapsed. Anyone with eyes could see that Situ Hai had crumbled, his entire spirit, soul, and strength utterly shattered.
What broke Situ Hai wasn’t Wu Yi’s voice, but the past, Situ Hai’s memories.
That long, endless pain, the boundless regret, surged like a hopeless sea within Situ Hai’s chest and veins, making this man, just as he had before, watching his wife leave, collapse completely.
No power can rival love, not even the strongest person in the world can stop love from fading away. Situ Hai was a heartbroken man, from a teenage prodigy burdened with infinite hopes to a supreme expert, all the way to now, becoming Situ the drunkard guarding the royal family, no one knew what had happened to him.
Only Situ Hai himself knew he had always been guarding, guarding Rao Ran, the emperor of the empire. But Situ Hai couldn’t let Ying Lieh Huang die because it was his wife’s love that sustained Ying Lieh Huang’s body. As long as Ying Lieh Huang lived, Chang Rong’s love would never disappear.
Guarding another man for the sake of his woman. This boundless pain finally crushed Situ Hai. His eyes lost focus, his hands trembled, and even his rusty sword fell to the ground.
Chih! Chih! Chih!
Three elder swords pierced Situ Hai’s body. But this genius swordsman showed no reaction, merely lowering his head, watching the unimaginable scene, the swords skewering Situ Hai’s body, blood flowing on the azure blade, thick dark red blood, like Situ Hai’s longing.
“You can finally be with Chang Rong, Situ Hai,” Xu Yi delivered the final verdict.
Then countless swords, chaotic and disordered, pierced Situ Hai’s body. Now flowing wasn’t just his blood, but his life force, those firmly guarded life forces within his body, also draining away through the swords.
“Chang Rong…,” Situ Hai suddenly clutched his chest, his face showing disbelief. His eyes gazed at the vast sky, where white clouds shifted endlessly, light pouring down, spreading warmth across the earth.
“Chang Rong…,” Situ Hai’s tears stopped, that sorrow flowing inward, the pain on his body seemingly being gradually washed away by the past. The events of that day in the grand palace reversed before his eyes. Chang Rong’s voice and smile, the intimacy between lovers, the beautiful times, all reappeared one by one.
“Chang Rong…,” Situ Hai revealed an unprecedented relaxed smile. That smile wasn’t the arrogance of youthful fame, but a recollection of the happiest time in the past. Between him and Chang Rong, it wasn’t only pain and sorrow, not only the parting in the grand palace. There was more, their time together, their love, their mutual declarations of eternal love.
Apparently, these memories hadn’t been forgotten, but hidden, buried beneath pain and sorrow. Only when Wu Yi exposed Situ Hai’s most painful past, ruthlessly tearing open that wound, did those happy memories flow out like a warm current, flowing in his veins, in his eyes, in Situ Hai’s fingertips.
This stopped his trembling.
He felt strength again, felt life returning, his soul mending the wounds, everything growing stronger from weaker.
When Situ Hai withdrew his gaze from the vast sky, the last sword pierced his chest, but he felt no pain, as if the force of life was rapidly expanding, surpassing all death.
Situ Hai stared tightly at Wu Yi, his gaze serene and happy: “Chang Rong left her love to Rao Ran, but I still have memories.” He covered his chest, where the warm current was surging. Situ Hai closed his eyes again, his face full of happiness.
A brilliance emerged from Situ Hai’s body.
It was the brilliance of the Sacred Domain, the peak of the Sacred Domain. Decades later, the once youthful hero finally returned to the peak of the Sacred Domain at the moment of his life’s end.
Situ Hai looked at his body, riddled with countless sword wounds, yet he didn’t stop the bleeding, for the flow of blood was like time, irreversible.
Situ Hai straightened his body; he not only returned to the peak of the Sacred Domain but also to the past, the invincible young swordsman reviving at this moment.
Wu Yi’s expression turned serious; he didn’t know what had happened to Situ Hai, but it was evident that this dying man had become more invincible.
“The long sword… still in hand!” Situ Hai roared to the sky.
“Ha!!”
Countless sword lights appeared at Situ Hai’s fingertips. He lightly raised his hand, pointing toward the array of three hundred elders. In the air, three hundred, three thousand, thirty thousand sword lights appeared, almost innumerable attacks, pouring down on the elders.
Like a breached flood, like collapsing snow, carrying indescribable energy, surrounding the elders.
What kind of power was this?
The eight chief elders were astonished to the extreme, for in Situ Hai they witnessed true swordsmanship, not relying on strength, not even requiring skill. It was an essence, the essence of swordsmanship.
The highest essence of swordsmanship blossomed in Situ Hai’s heart. Perhaps it had been buried long ago, this once-in-a-lifetime genius who reached the peak at twenty, or had already mastered the essence of swordsmanship, only past sorrows and all the bitterness buried it.
Until today, until Situ Hai stood at the edge of life and death, did it truly blossom.
Standing alone at the edge of the forest, Situ Hai, with a single gesture, controlled countless attacks, controlling exactly three hundred elders. That was no longer something a human could do, but something a god could.
Situ Hai might have become the Sword God, only the God of Swords could possess such powerful sword essence.
Under the sky, if it came to swordsmanship, probably no one could rival him.
“You are alive, yet she killed the one she loved the most.” Wu Yi spoke without leaving any room for doubt. “Only after Chang Rong realized what she had done did she understand. She thought she was a pawn on Guan Ran’s chessboard, always controlled by the Heroic Emperor. But that wasn’t the case. The one who truly caused this tragedy was you—the young hero, the unyielding spiritual leader of the universe, the greatest swordsman, the insurmountable peak. Situ Hai, your wife, in your heart, wasn’t even as important as a blade of grass in the universe.”
Situ Hai fell silent, sinking into a long, long recollection of solitude. Memories surged over him with unstoppable force, drowning him completely. All these years of drowning in alcohol and degradation—Situ Hai thought he had forgotten, that he had licked all his wounds clean. But it wasn’t over. The wounds had only buried themselves deeper, so deep that even he couldn’t reach them anymore.
“Chang Rong felt the coldness of her lover’s body in her arms. She finally understood everything. She knew who she should choose. Situ Hai, your wife did everything she could for you. Now, at last, she would do something for the one she truly loved.”
Wu Yi asked coldly, “Do you know what she did?”
Of course Situ Hai knew. No one in the world knew better than him: “Chang Rong used a forbidden art—the last secret technique of her family. She exchanged her life for a blessing on Guan Ran’s chest. This blessing was bought with all of Chang Rong’s life force. She brought Guan Ran back from death and ensured he would live forever in her love.”
“So, you lost her.” Wu Yi sneered. “All because you wanted to be a hero, because you wanted fame, because you wanted to prove your strength. And what did you gain in the end?”
“I lost her.” Situ Hai collapsed. Anyone with eyes could see it—his entire spirit, soul, and strength had been utterly, completely shattered.
What broke Situ Hai wasn’t Wu Yi’s words, but the memories—the endless pain, the boundless regret, surging like a hopeless sea in his chest and veins, reducing him to the same wreck he had been when he watched his wife leave.
No force in the world could compare to love. Not even the strongest man could reverse its loss. Situ Hai was a man of sorrow—once a prodigy, a superhuman bearing countless hopes, now reduced to a drunken guardian of the royal family. No one knew what had happened to him.
Only Situ Hai himself knew. He had been guarding—guarding Guan Ran, the emperor of this empire. But he couldn’t let the Heroic Emperor die, because what sustained the Heroic Emperor’s body was his wife’s love. As long as the Heroic Emperor lived, Chang Rong’s love would never fade.
Guarding another man for the sake of his own woman—this was the endless torment that finally broke Situ Hai. His vision blurred, his hands trembled, and even his rusted sword fell to the ground.
*Thud! Thud! Thud!*
Three elder swords pierced Situ Hai’s body. But the genius swordsman didn’t react at all. He merely lowered his head, watching as if this had never happened—the swords skewering his body, blood flowing down the blades, thick and crimson, like his own longing.
“You can go join Chang Rong now, Situ Hai.” Wu Yi pronounced the final sentence.
Countless more swords stabbed into Situ Hai’s body chaotically. Now, what flowed wasn’t just his blood, but his life force—the stubborn vitality that had clung to his body, now draining away through the blades.
“Chang Rong…” Situ Hai suddenly clutched his chest, his face twisting in disbelief. His eyes gazed at the heavens, where clouds shifted like fleeting shadows, and a radiant light descended, spreading warmth across the world.
“Chang Rong…” Situ Hai’s tears stopped. The sorrow flowed inward, the physical pain diluted by memories. Everything that had happened in the grand palace that day reversed before his eyes—Chang Rong’s voice, her smile, the intimacy between lovers, the beautiful moments, all unfolding one by one.
“Chang Rong…” Situ Hai smiled with unprecedented ease—not the arrogance of youthful fame, but the recollection of the happiest time of his life. Between him and Chang Rong, it wasn’t just pain and sorrow, not just life and death in the grand palace. There had been so much more—their love, their whispered promises of eternity.
These things hadn’t been forgotten. They had been hidden, buried beneath pain and sorrow. Only when Wu Yi dredged up Situ Hai’s most agonizing memories, tearing open that wound, did the happy past flow out like a warm current—through his veins, his eyes, his fingertips.
It stopped his trembling.
He felt strength again, life returning, his soul mending the wounds. Everything grew stronger, even stronger than before.
When Situ Hai withdrew his gaze from the vast sky, the last sword pierced his chest. But he felt no pain—as if the force of life was swelling rapidly, surpassing even death itself.
Situ Hai’s eyes locked onto Wu Yi, filled with serenity and happiness: “Chang Rong left her love for Guan Ran. But I still have my memories.” He pressed a hand to his chest, where warmth surged. Closing his eyes, his face was radiant with joy.
A glow emerged from Situ Hai’s body—the radiance of the Saint Realm, the pinnacle of the Saint Realm. Decades later, the young hero had returned to his peak at the final moment of his life.
Situ Hai looked at the countless sword wounds riddling his body, bleeding freely—unstoppable, like time itself.
He straightened. Not only had he returned to the pinnacle of the Saint Realm, but he had also returned to his former self—the once-unrivaled young swordsman, now revived.
Wu Yi’s expression darkened. He didn’t know what had happened to Situ Hai, but it was clear—this dying man had become even more invincible.
“The sword… is still in hand!” Situ Hai roared to the heavens.
“HAH!!!”
Countless sword lights appeared at Situ Hai’s fingertips. With a gentle lift of his hand, he pointed toward the formation of three hundred elders. In the air, three hundred, three thousand, thirty thousand sword lights manifested—an endless barrage of attacks raining down upon the elders.
Like a breached flood, like an avalanche, carrying indescribable power, it trapped the elders in an inescapable storm.
What kind of power was this?
The eight elder stewards were stunned. In Situ Hai, they witnessed true swordsmanship—not reliant on strength, not even on skill, but on an ultimate principle, the very essence of the sword.
The highest principle of swordsmanship blossomed in Situ Hai’s heart. Perhaps it had been buried all along—this genius, who had reached the pinnacle at twenty, might have grasped the sword’s essence long ago. Only sorrow and suffering had buried it.
Until today. Until Situ Hai stood on the brink of death, did it truly bloom.
Standing alone at the edge of the forest, Situ Hai controlled countless peerless attacks with a single, sweeping gesture—commanding three hundred elders. This was no longer the work of a man, but of a god.
Perhaps Situ Hai had become the Sword God. Only the God of Swords could wield such supreme swordsmanship.
In all the world, none could rival him in the art of the sword.
Perhaps not even the Supreme One. A deep terror seized Wu Yi—the kind he only felt in the darkest nights, when he remembered the souls he had wronged.
But one thing reassured Wu Yi: no matter how much power Situ Hai unleashed, he was still dying. Anyone could see it—Situ Hai was clinging to his last breath. His body was riddled with swords, his blood nearly drained, his spirit and soul long broken.
Now, one final blow would finish him.
A dead man could not become a god.
Wu Yi gave a signal. Four elder stewards lunged forward like eagles, their combined force immense—the mere wind of their charge stripped the leaves from the trees, the rustling like a dirge for the soul.
The four elders struck with a killing palm—a force never before seen in the universe.
But Situ Hai raised his gaze. Four sword lights materialized out of thin air.
*Slash! Slash! Slash! Slash!*
They cut not just the wind, but the robes of the four elders. Blood sprayed like crimson mist. The four elders were forced back, wounded by a mere glance from Situ Hai.
Yet at the same moment, behind Situ Hai, Wu Yi appeared like a ghost—this most cunning of men had used his comrades as bait, launching a shameless sneak attack.
Wu Yi’s white palm pressed against Situ Hai’s back.
“Hah, it takes five stewards to kill me. I must be the greatest in the world.” Situ Hai laughed.
Wu Yi’s palm unleashed its force—no sound, no explosion. But Situ Hai’s face changed. The Sword God had reached his end—not only was his body pierced with countless wounds, but his organs had been shattered by Wu Yi’s strike.
“The sword…” Situ Hai spat blood, waving off the Longyou Corps charging recklessly from the forest.
“The sword…” He coughed black blood—his last vestige of vitality. He leaned against a sapling to keep from collapsing.
“The sword, ah…”
Wu Yi’s eyes gleamed with malice. He placed both hands on Situ Hai’s head: “Let me send you off properly.”
“THE SWORD IS STILL IN HAND!!!” A roar came from afar.
With it came an arrow—an arrow of wrath. This arrow had once grievously wounded the Ghost Elder, carrying the accumulated fury of the Fire God for a thousand years. It was the strongest weapon in the world, fired from the Flaming Bow.
The arrow’s target was Wu Yi beside Situ Hai. Wu Yi dared not block it—he threw down Hunyuanzi and fled to his comrades. But the arrow pursued relentlessly.
The four stewards shouted in fury, striking with full force.
Flames erupted from the arrow, scorching all four before dissipating into the air.
A single arrow had saved Situ Hai.
“Who dares?!” Wu Yi’s rage made his hair stand on end.
Yang Hao stood tall atop the clouds, expressionless, bow drawn—another flaming arrow nocked. At this moment, Yang Hao truly resembled a war god. Situ Hai’s impending death had ignited his battle fury.
“You brat!!” Black Wind stomped in fury. “Yang Hao, have you come to die too?”
Under Elder He De’s lead, a group of sword saints charged from the flank, throwing the elders into chaos. Though three hundred strong, the elders were unprepared for the counterattack.
Only after dozens fell did the elders form a defensive line, barely holding against He De’s assault.
But the tide had turned.
The elders’ opponent was no longer Situ Hai, but Yang Hao. Though Situ Hai wasn’t dead, he was as good as gone. Yang Hao’s sudden appearance had caught the stewards completely off guard.
No one had expected Yang Hao to come—and with so few men.
A moth flies into the flame for light. But today, was Yang Hao here to die?
Wu Yi took a deep breath, wiping his hands clean of the earlier humiliation. He looked up at Yang Hao.
“You’ve come,” Wu Yi said, as if greeting an old friend.
“I have,” Yang Hao nodded, his grip steady on the bow.
“I can’t fathom why,” Wu Yi mused. “There’s no logic to it. Your life, your friends’ lives—how do they compare to the Hidden Dragon Pavilion?”
“There are many reasons,” Yang Hao smiled faintly. The black ring on his finger sat quietly, as if it had been there for centuries.
The fate that spanned millennia wrapped around Yang Hao like a warm current, connecting him to the dying Situ Hai and the Longyou Corps in the forest.
“THE SWORD IS STILL IN HAND!” Yang Hao shouted, echoing his predecessor.
“HAH!!” The Longyou Corps responded. “HAH!!!”
Wu Yi saw the ring on Yang Hao’s hand. He knew exactly what it meant—and whose hand it should have been on.
“You’re the leader of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion now?” Wu Yi bellowed. “You’ve inherited its legacy?”
The Longyou Corps knelt en masse—even Qin Li, who had once clashed with Yang Hao in the hall, wept as he knelt.
They had been abandoned, believing no one would come to their aid. Yet here was Yang Hao, daring to charge in with so few. The spirit of the Hidden Dragon—indomitable, unyielding—had found its heir.
Qin Li’s fighting spirit blazed anew. Brandishing his sword, he roared to Yang Hao in the sky: “HAH! HAH!!!”
But what slightly eased Wu Yi’s anxiety was that no matter how much energy Situ Hai unleashed, he was about to die. Anyone could see that Situ Hai was merely relying on his last breath of vitality, his body pierced by countless swords, his blood almost drained, his spirit and soul long broken.
Now, just one final heavy blow could kill him.
A dead man cannot become a god.
Wu Yi signaled with his eyes, and four chief elders nearby surged forward like eagles, rushing toward Situ Hai. The power of four Sacred Domain peaks was immense; the mere momentum of their flight blew the leaves off the entire forest, green leaves flying in the woods, the rustling sound like a soul-destroying melody.
The four chief elders launched a full-force palm strike at Situ Hai, a killing strike. In the universe, there had never been such a powerful combined attack before.
But Situ Hai raised his eyes, and four sword lights appeared out of nowhere.
Chih! Chih! Chih! Chih!
They pierced not just the wind, but also the garments of the four chief elders. Blood flew, red like dust, the four chiefs were actually forced back and injured by Situ Hai’s gaze alone.
At the same time, from behind Situ Hai, Wu Yi’s figure appeared like a ghost. This most cunning old fox had used his four colleagues as bait, shamelessly launching a sneak attack from behind without regard for his dignity.
Wu Yi’s white palm tightly pressed against Situ Hai’s back.
“Heh, five chiefs can kill me; I shall be the greatest in the world,” Situ Hai laughed.
Wu Yi’s palm released its force, without sound, without a thunderous explosion. But Situ Hai’s face changed; this Sword God had reached his end. Not only was his body pierced with countless wounds, his internal organs were also shattered by Wu Yi’s strike.
“The long sword…” Situ Hai spat out blood, waving his hand to stop the Lung Yu Legion rushing recklessly from the forest.
“The long sword…” Situ Hai’s face turned grim, black blood spewing from his mouth, this was his last bit of vitality. He had to lean on a small tree to avoid falling.
“The long sword…”
Wu Yi’s eyes flared with ferocity, his hands gripping Situ Hai’s head: “Let me send you on your final journey.”
“The long sword still in hand!!!” A long roar came from afar.
“You’re alive, but she killed the one she loved the most.” Wu Yi’s words left no room for doubt. “Only after Chang Rong realized what she had done—she thought she was just a pawn on Guang Ran’s chessboard, controlled by the Heroic Emperor all along. But that wasn’t the case. The one who truly caused all this tragedy was you—the young hero, the unshakable spiritual leader of the universe, the greatest swordsman, the insurmountable peak. Situ Hai, your wife, in your heart, wasn’t even as important as a blade of grass in this universe.”
Situ Hai fell silent, sinking into a long, desolate recollection. Memories surged over him with unstoppable force, drowning him completely. All these years of drowning himself in alcohol, of degradation—he thought he had forgotten, that he had licked all his wounds clean. But it wasn’t over. The wounds had only buried themselves deeper, so deep that even he couldn’t reach them anymore.
“Chang Rong felt the coldness of her lover’s body in her arms. She finally understood everything. She knew who she had to choose. Situ Hai, your wife did everything she could for you. Now, she was finally going to do something for the one she truly loved.”
Wu Yi asked coldly, “Do you know what she did?”
Of course Situ Hai knew. No one in this world knew better than him. “Chang Rong used a forbidden art—the last secret passed down in her family. She exchanged her own life for a blessing upon Guang Ran’s chest. That blessing was bought with all of her life force. She brought Guang Ran back from death and ensured he would live forever within her love.”
“So, you lost her.” Wu Yi sneered. “All because you wanted to be a hero, because you wanted fame, because you wanted to prove your strength. And what did you gain in the end?”
“I lost her.” Situ Hai collapsed. Anyone with eyes could see it—his spirit, his soul, his strength, all utterly shattered.
What broke Situ Hai wasn’t Wu Yi’s words, but the memories—the endless pain, the boundless regret, surging like a hopeless sea in his chest, in his veins. It reduced him to the same wreck he had been when he watched his wife leave.
No force in this world could compare to love. Not even the strongest man could stop its departure. Situ Hai was a man of sorrow—once a prodigy, a peerless warrior carrying the hopes of thousands, now reduced to a drunken guardian of the royal family. No one knew what had happened to him.
Only Situ Hai himself understood. He had been guarding—guarding Guang Ran, the emperor of this empire. But he couldn’t let the Heroic Emperor die, because what sustained Guang Ran’s body was the love of his wife. As long as the Heroic Emperor lived, Chang Rong’s love would never fade.
Guarding another man for the sake of his own woman. The endless torment of it.
Finally, it broke him. His gaze scattered, his hands trembled, even his rusted sword clattered to the ground.
*Thud! Thud! Thud!*
Three elder swords pierced Situ Hai’s body. But the genius swordsman didn’t react at all. He just lowered his head, staring at the impossible sight—blades skewering his body, blood dripping down the cold steel, thick and dark red, like his own sorrow.
“You can go join Chang Rong now, Situ Hai.” Wu Yi delivered the final verdict.
Countless more swords stabbed into Situ Hai’s body. Now, it wasn’t just his blood flowing—it was his life force, the stubborn vitality that had clung to his body, now draining away through the blades.
“Chang Rong…” Suddenly, Situ Hai clutched his chest, his face twisting in disbelief. His eyes lifted to the heavens, where clouds shifted like fleeting dogs, and light poured down, scattering warmth across the world.
“Chang Rong…” His tears stopped. The grief flowed inward, the physical pain dulled by the flood of memories. Everything that had happened in the grand palace that day reversed before his eyes. Chang Rong’s voice, her smile, their intimacy, their happiest moments—all unfolded one by one.
“Chang Rong…” Situ Hai smiled—a smile of unprecedented ease. Not the arrogance of his youth, but the recollection of the happiest time of his life. Between him and Chang Rong, it wasn’t just pain and sorrow, not just life and death in the grand palace. There had been so much more—their love, their whispered promises of eternity.
He hadn’t forgotten. It had all been buried—beneath the pain, beneath the sorrow. Only when Wu Yi dredged up his most agonizing memories, when he tore open that wound, did the happy past flow out like a warm current—through his veins, into his eyes, to the tips of his fingers.
His trembling stopped.
He felt strength returning, life mending his soul, everything growing stronger, even stronger than before.
When Situ Hai pulled his gaze back from the vast sky, the last sword pierced his chest. But he felt no pain. It was as if the force of life was swelling within him, surpassing even death itself.
Situ Hai locked eyes with Wu Yi, his gaze serene and blissful. “Chang Rong left her love for Guang Ran. But I still have my memories.” He pressed a hand to his chest, where warmth surged. Closing his eyes, his face was radiant with happiness.
A glow emerged from Situ Hai’s body—the radiance of the Saint Realm, the pinnacle of the Saint Realm. Decades later, the young hero had returned to his peak in the final moments of his life.
He looked down at his body, riddled with sword wounds, blood still flowing—unstoppable, like time itself.
Situ Hai straightened. He wasn’t just back at the peak of the Saint Realm—he had returned to his former self, the once-unrivaled young swordsman, now awakened once more.
Wu Yi’s expression darkened. He didn’t know what had happened to Situ Hai, but it was clear—this dying man had become even more invincible.
“The sword… still in hand!” Situ Hai roared to the heavens.
“HAH!!”
Countless sword lights erupted from his fingertips. With a mere flick of his wrist, he pointed toward the formation of three hundred elders. Three hundred, three thousand, thirty thousand sword lights filled the air—an endless barrage of attacks raining down upon them.
Like a collapsing dam, like an avalanche, an indescribable force trapped the elders in an inescapable storm.
What kind of power was this?
The eight elder stewards were stunned. They had just witnessed true swordsmanship—not reliant on brute strength, not even on technique, but on an ultimate principle—the essence of the sword.
The highest principle of the sword blossomed in Situ Hai’s heart. Perhaps it had been buried there all along. This genius, who had reached the pinnacle at twenty, might have grasped the sword’s essence long ago. Only sorrow and suffering had buried it—until now, until the brink of death, when it finally erupted.
Standing alone at the edge of the forest, Situ Hai controlled countless peerless attacks with a single, sweeping gesture—commanding three hundred elders. This was no feat of man, but of a god.
Perhaps Situ Hai had become the Sword God. Only a god of the sword could wield such supreme mastery.
In all the world, none could rival his swordsmanship now.
Not even the Supreme One. A sudden terror seized Wu Yi—the kind he only felt in the deepest night, when he remembered the souls of those he had wronged.
But one thing reassured him. No matter how much power Situ Hai unleashed, he was still dying. Anyone could see it—he was clinging to his last breath, his body riddled with swords, his blood nearly drained, his spirit and soul already broken.
Now, one final blow would finish him.
A dead man could not become a god.
Wu Yi gave a signal. Four elder stewards lunged forward like eagles, their combined might shaking the forest, leaves scattering like a requiem for the soul.
They struck with a killing palm—a force never before seen in this universe.
But Situ Hai merely lifted his gaze. Four sword lights materialized out of thin air.
*Ssssh! Ssssh! Ssssh! Ssssh!*
They didn’t just cut through the wind—they sliced through the robes of the four stewards, drawing blood that scattered like crimson mist. The four were forced back, wounded by a mere glance from Situ Hai.
Yet at the same moment, Wu Yi appeared like a ghost behind Situ Hai. The most cunning of them all, he had used his comrades as bait while he struck from behind—without a shred of dignity.
Wu Yi’s pale palm pressed against Situ Hai’s back.
“Hah. It takes five stewards to kill me. I must be the greatest in the world.” Situ Hai laughed.
Wu Yi unleashed his force—no sound, no explosion, but Situ Hai’s face twisted. The Sword God had reached his end. Not only was his body pierced with countless wounds, but his organs had been shattered by Wu Yi’s strike.
“The sword…” Situ Hai spat blood, waving off the Dragon Guard charging recklessly from the forest.
“The sword…” He coughed up black blood—his last vestige of vitality. He braced himself against a sapling to keep from collapsing.
“The sword…”
Wu Yi’s eyes gleamed with malice. He placed both hands on Situ Hai’s head. “Let me send you off properly.”
“THE SWORD IS STILL IN HAND!!!” A roar came from afar.
With it came an arrow—an arrow of wrath. This arrow had once grievously wounded the Ghost Elder, and it carried the accumulated fury of the Fire God over a millennium. It was the strongest weapon in the world—the Flaming Bow’s shot.
The arrow’s target was Wu Yi beside Situ Hai. Wu Yi didn’t dare block it—he threw himself aside, scrambling to his comrades. But the arrow pursued relentlessly.
The four stewards bellowed, striking out with all their might.
Flames erupted from the arrow, scorching all four before dissipating into the air.
A single arrow had saved Situ Hai.
“Who dares?!” Wu Yi’s rage made his hair stand on end.
Yang Hao stood tall atop the clouds, expressionless, bow drawn, another flaming arrow nocked. At this moment, he truly looked like the God of War. Situ Hai’s impending death had ignited Yang Hao’s battle spirit.
“You brat!!” Black Wind stomped furiously. “Yang Hao, have you come to die too?”
Under Elder He De’s lead, a group of elite swordsmen charged from the flank, throwing the elders into chaos. Though three hundred strong, they were caught off guard and struggled to hold the line.
Only after dozens fell did they manage to regroup against He De’s assault.
But the tide had turned.
The elders’ opponent was no longer Situ Hai—it was Yang Hao. Though Situ Hai wasn’t dead yet, he might as well have been. Yang Hao’s sudden appearance had taken the stewards completely by surprise.
No one had expected Yang Hao to come—and with so few men.
A moth flies into the flame for light. But was Yang Hao here to die today?
Wu Yi took a deep breath, wiping his hands clean of the earlier humiliation, and looked up at Yang Hao.
“You came,” he said, as if greeting an old friend.
“I came,” Yang Hao nodded, his grip steady on the bow.
“I can’t fathom why,” Wu Yi mused. “There’s no logic to it. Your life, your friends’ lives—how do they compare to the Hidden Dragon Pavilion?”
“There are many reasons,” Yang Hao smiled faintly. On his finger rested a black ring—as if it had been there for centuries.
The fate that spanned millennia wrapped around Yang Hao like a warm current, connecting him to the dying Situ Hai and the Dragon Guard in the forest.
“THE SWORD IS STILL IN HAND!” Yang Hao shouted, echoing his predecessor.
“HAH!!” The Dragon Guard responded. “HAH!!!”
Wu Yi saw the ring on Yang Hao’s hand. He knew exactly what it meant—and whose hand it should have been on.
“You’re the leader of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion now?” Wu Yi bellowed. “You’ve inherited their legacy?”
The Dragon Guard knelt en masse—even Qing Li, who had once clashed with Yang Hao in the hall, knelt with tears in his eyes.
They had been abandoned, resigned to their fate. Yet here was Yang Hao, daring to charge in with just a handful of men. The undying spirit of the Hidden Dragon had found its heir.
Qing Li’s fighting spirit blazed. Brandishing his sword, he roared to the skies, “HAH! HAH!!!”
The arrow of wrath targeted Wu Yi beside Situ Hai. Surprisingly, Wu Yi dared not block it, hastily abandoning Hun Yuan Zi and frantically retreating to his companions’ side. Yet the arrow still relentlessly pursued.
The four chief elders roared in anger, simultaneously unleashing their full strength.
The flame arrow spewed fierce fire, scorching all four before slowly dissolving into the air.
Such an arrow saved Situ Hai.
“Who!!” Wu Yi roared in fury, his beard bristling.
Yang Hao stood high in the clouds, his face calm, his hands drawing the bow. Another rocket arrow appeared at his fingertips. At this moment, Yang Hao was truly like a war god, and the dying Situ Hai had ignited Yang Hao’s raging fire.
“Brat!!” Hei Feng stomped his foot and roared, “Yang Hao, dare you come to die too?”
With Elder Hede leading, several experts charged from the flank. Under Hede’s leadership, these sword saints overwhelmed the elders, sending them into chaos. Although there were three hundred elders, the sudden counterattack made them hard-pressed to resist.
After injuring dozens, the three hundred elders finally established a defense line to withstand Hede’s attack.
The situation had changed.
The elders’ opponent had shifted from Situ Hai to Yang Hao. Although Situ Hai wasn’t dead, he was as good as. But Yang Hao’s sudden appearance was truly unexpected for the elders.
No one had anticipated that Yang Hao would dare come, with so few people.
Moths flying into the flame seek the light. But today, was Yang Hao coming to die?
Wu Yi took a deep breath, slowly wiping his hands, recovering from the awkward situation of being chased by the wrathful arrow, then lifting his head to gaze at Yang Hao.
“You came,” Wu Yi greeted, as if speaking to a friend.
“I came,” Yang Hao nodded, steadily holding the bow.
“You are alive, yet she killed the one she loved the most.” Wu Yi spoke without leaving any room for doubt. “Only then did Chang Rong realize what she had done. She thought she was a pawn on Guan Ran’s chessboard, forever controlled by the Heroic Emperor. But that wasn’t the case. The one who truly caused this tragedy was you—you, the young hero, the unyielding spiritual leader of the universe, the greatest swordsman, the insurmountable peak. Situ Hai, your wife, in your heart, wasn’t even as important as a blade of grass in the cosmos.”
Situ Hai fell silent, sinking into a long, long recollection of solitude. Memories surged over him with unstoppable force, drowning him completely. All these years of drowning in alcohol and self-destruction, Situ Hai had believed he had forgotten, that he had licked all his wounds clean. But it wasn’t over. The wounds had only buried themselves deeper, so deep that even he could no longer reach them.
“Chang Rong felt the coldness of her lover’s body in her arms. She finally understood everything. She knew who she had to choose. Situ Hai, your wife did everything she could for you. Now, at last, she would do something for the one she truly loved.”
Wu Yi asked coldly, “Do you know what she did?”
Of course Situ Hai knew. No one in the world knew better than he did. “Chang Rong used a forbidden art—the last secret technique passed down in her family. She traded her own life for a blessing upon Guan Ran’s chest. This blessing was exchanged for all of Chang Rong’s life force. She brought Guan Ran back from death and ensured he would live forever in her love.”
“So, you lost her.” Wu Yi sneered. “All because you wanted to be a hero, because you wanted fame, to prove your strength. And what did you gain in the end?”
“I lost her.” Situ Hai collapsed. Anyone with eyes could see that Situ Hai had crumbled—his spirit, his soul, his strength, utterly and completely shattered.
What broke Situ Hai wasn’t Wu Yi’s words, but the memories, the past.
The endless pain, the boundless regret, surged like a hopeless sea in Situ Hai’s chest and veins, reducing this man to the same state as when he had watched his wife leave—utterly broken.
No force in the world could compare to love. Even the strongest man could not reclaim what love had taken. Situ Hai was a man of sorrow. Once a prodigy, a superhuman talent carrying the hopes of thousands, he had now become the drunken guardian of the imperial family—Situ the Drunk Cat. No one knew what had happened to this man.
Only Situ Hai himself knew. He had been guarding, protecting Guan Ran, the emperor of this empire. But he couldn’t let the Heroic Emperor die, because what sustained the Heroic Emperor’s body was the love of his wife. As long as the Heroic Emperor lived, Chang Rong’s love would never fade.
Guarding another man for the sake of his own woman. This was the boundless agony that had finally destroyed Situ Hai. His eyes dimmed, his hands trembled, and even his rusted sword fell to the ground.
*Thud! Thud! Thud!*
Three elder swords pierced Situ Hai’s body. But the genius swordsman showed no reaction, merely lowering his head to observe this unprecedented scene—the swords skewering his body, blood flowing down the blades, thick and crimson, like his own unending grief.
“You can go join Chang Rong now, Situ Hai.” Wu Yi delivered the final verdict.
Countless more swords stabbed into Situ Hai’s body in chaotic succession. Now, what flowed from him wasn’t just blood, but his life force—the stubborn vitality that had clung to his body now drained away through the blades.
“Chang Rong…” Situ Hai suddenly clutched his chest, his face twisting in disbelief. His gaze lifted to the heavens, where clouds shifted like fleeting shadows, and a radiant light descended, spreading warmth across the world.
“Chang Rong…” Situ Hai’s tears ceased. The sorrow flowed inward, the physical pain diluted by the flood of memories. Everything that had happened in the grand palace that day replayed before his eyes—Chang Rong’s voice, her smile, the intimacy between lovers, the beautiful moments, all unfolding one by one.
“Chang Rong…” Situ Hai smiled with unprecedented ease. It wasn’t the arrogance of his youth, but the recollection of the happiest time in his life. Between him and Chang Rong, it wasn’t just pain and sorrow, not just the life-and-death parting in the grand palace. There had been so much more—their time together, their love, their whispered promises of eternity.
These memories hadn’t been forgotten. They had merely been buried beneath the pain, hidden within the sorrow. Only when Wu Yi dredged up Situ Hai’s most agonizing past, tearing open that wound, did the happy memories flow out like a warm current—through his veins, his eyes, his fingertips.
His trembling stopped.
He felt strength returning, life mending his soul, everything growing stronger, even surpassing its former state.
When Situ Hai withdrew his gaze from the vast sky, the final sword pierced his chest. Yet he felt no pain, as if the power of life had already expanded beyond all death.
Situ Hai’s eyes locked onto Wu Yi’s, filled with serenity and happiness. “Chang Rong left her love with Guan Ran. But I still have my memories.” He pressed a hand to his chest, where warmth surged forth. Closing his eyes, his face was radiant with joy.
A brilliance emerged from Situ Hai’s body—the radiance of the Saint Realm, the pinnacle of the Saint Realm. Decades later, the former young hero had, at the last moment of his life, returned to the peak of the Saint Realm once more.
Situ Hai looked at the countless sword wounds riddling his body, the blood still flowing, unstoppable as time itself.
He straightened. Not only had he returned to the peak of the Saint Realm, but he had also returned to his former self—the unrivaled young swordsman of the past, now awakened once more.
Wu Yi’s expression darkened. He didn’t know what had happened to Situ Hai, but it was clear—this dying man had become even more invincible.
“The sword… still in hand!” Situ Hai roared to the heavens.
“HAH!!”
Countless sword lights materialized at Situ Hai’s fingertips. With a mere flick of his wrist, he pointed toward the formation of three hundred elders. Three hundred, three thousand, thirty thousand sword lights filled the air—an endless barrage of attacks raining down upon the elders.
Like a breached flood, like an avalanche, carrying indescribable power, it trapped the elders in an inescapable storm.
What kind of power was this?
The eight elder stewards were stunned. In Situ Hai, they had witnessed true swordsmanship—not reliant on strength, not even on skill, but on an ultimate principle, the essence of the sword.
The highest principle of swordsmanship blossomed in Situ Hai’s heart. Perhaps it had been buried within him all along. This unparalleled genius, who had reached the pinnacle at twenty, might have grasped the essence of the sword long ago. Only sorrow and suffering had buried it—until now, until Situ Hai stood at the brink of death, did it truly bloom.
Standing alone at the edge of the forest, Situ Hai controlled countless peerless attacks with a single, sweeping gesture—commanding three hundred elders. This was no feat of man, but of a god.
Perhaps Situ Hai had become the Sword God. Only the God of Swords could wield such supreme swordsmanship.
In all the world, none could rival him in the art of the sword.
Perhaps not even the Supreme One. A sudden terror gripped Wu Yi’s heart—the kind of fear he only felt in the deepest night, when he remembered the souls he had wrongfully slain.
But Wu Yi took some comfort in one fact: no matter how much power Situ Hai unleashed, he was still dying. Anyone could see that Situ Hai was clinging to his last breath. His body was riddled with swords, his blood nearly drained, his spirit and soul already shattered.
Now, one final blow would finish him.
A dead man could not become a god.
Wu Yi gave a signal. Four elder stewards lunged forward like eagles, their combined might immense. The sheer force of their charge stripped the leaves from the trees, the rustling sound like a requiem for the soul.
The four stewards unleashed a killing palm strike—a joint attack unparalleled in the universe.
But Situ Hai merely lifted his gaze. Four sword lights appeared out of thin air.
*Slash! Slash! Slash! Slash!*
They cut not just the wind, but the robes of the four stewards. Blood sprayed like crimson mist as the four were forced back, wounded by Situ Hai’s mere glance.
Yet at the same moment, behind Situ Hai, Wu Yi’s figure appeared like a ghost. The most cunning of them all, he had used his comrades as bait while he launched a dishonorable sneak attack.
Wu Yi’s white palm pressed against Situ Hai’s back.
“Hah, it takes five stewards to kill me. I must be the greatest in the world.” Situ Hai laughed.
Wu Yi’s palm unleashed its force—no sound, no explosion, but Situ Hai’s face twisted. The Sword God had reached his end. Not only was his body riddled with wounds, but his organs had been utterly crushed by Wu Yi’s strike.
“The sword…” Situ Hai spat blood, waving off the Longyou Army charging recklessly from the forest.
“The sword…” Situ Hai coughed up black blood—his last vestiges of vitality. He leaned against a small tree to keep from collapsing.
“The sword, ah…”
Wu Yi’s eyes gleamed with malice as he placed both hands on Situ Hai’s head. “Let me send you off properly.”
“THE SWORD STILL IN HAND!!!” A roar echoed from afar.
With it came an arrow—an arrow of wrath. This arrow had once grievously wounded the Ghost Elder, carrying the accumulated fury of the Fire God for a thousand years. It was the strongest weapon in the world, fired from the Blazing Bow.
The arrow’s target was Wu Yi beside Situ Hai. Wu Yi dared not block it, hastily dropping Hunyuanzi and retreating to his comrades. Yet the arrow pursued relentlessly.
The four stewards roared, combining their strength to counter.
Flames erupted from the arrow, scorching all four before dissipating into the air.
With that single arrow, Situ Hai was saved.
“Who dares?!” Wu Yi’s fury made his hair stand on end.
Yang Hao stood tall atop the clouds, expression solemn, bow drawn, another flaming arrow nocked at his fingertips. At this moment, Yang Hao truly resembled a god of war. Situ Hai’s impending death had ignited his battle spirit.
“Brat!!” Black Wind stomped in rage. “Yang Hao, have you come to die as well?”
Under Elder He De’s lead, a group of elite swordsmen charged from the flank, throwing the elders into disarray. Though three hundred elders stood against them, the sudden counterattack was hard to withstand.
Only after dozens were wounded did the elders manage to form a defensive line, holding back He De’s assault.
But the tide had turned.
The elders’ opponent was no longer Situ Hai, but Yang Hao. Though Situ Hai wasn’t dead, he was as good as gone. Yang Hao’s sudden appearance had caught the stewards completely off guard.
No one had expected Yang Hao to come—and with so few men at that.
Moths flew into flames seeking light. But was Yang Hao here to die today?
Wu Yi took a deep breath, slowly wiping his hands clean of the earlier humiliation from the wrath arrow. He looked up at Yang Hao.
“You’ve come,” Wu Yi said, as if greeting an old friend.
“I have,” Yang Hao nodded, his grip steady on the bow.
“I can’t fathom why,” Wu Yi mused. “There’s no logic to it. Your life, your friends’ lives—how do they compare to the Hidden Dragon Pavilion?”
“There are many reasons,” Yang Hao smiled faintly. The black ring on his finger sat quietly, as if it had rested there for centuries.
The destiny spanning millennia wrapped around Yang Hao like a warm current, also connecting the dying Situ Hai and the Longyou Army in the forest.
“THE SWORD STILL IN HAND!” Yang Hao shouted, echoing his predecessor.
“HAH!” The Longyou Army responded. “HAH!!!”
Wu Yi saw the ring on Yang Hao’s hand. He knew exactly what it signified—and whose hand it should have been on.
“You’re the leader of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion now?” Wu Yi bellowed. “You’ve inherited its legacy?”
The Longyou Army knelt en masse, even Qing Li, who had once clashed with Yang Hao in the hall, now wept as he knelt.
They had been abandoned, believing no one would come to their aid. Yet here was Yang Hao, daring to charge into their midst with just a handful of men. The spirit of the Hidden Dragon—the undying, unyielding spirit—had found its heir at last.
Qing Li’s fighting spirit blazed anew. Brandishing his sword, he shouted to Yang Hao in the sky: “HAH! HAH!!!”
“There are many reasons,” Yang Hao smiled faintly, the black ring quietly resting on his hand, as if it had been there for centuries.
That ancient destiny, like a warm current, surrounded Yang Hao, and similarly connected with the dying Situ Hai and Long You in the woods.
“The long sword still in hand!” Yang Hao shouted, just like the predecessor.
“Ha!” The Lung Yu Legion responded, “Ha!!!”
Wu Yi also saw the ring on Yang Hao’s hand. He naturally understood what it represented, who it should have belonged to.
“You’re alive, yet she killed the one she loved the most.” Wu Yi spoke without leaving any room for doubt. “Only after Chang Rong realized what she had done—she thought she was a pawn on Guan Ran’s chessboard, controlled all along by the Heroic Emperor. But that wasn’t the case. The one who truly caused this tragedy was you—the young hero, the unyielding spiritual leader of the cosmos, the greatest swordsman, the insurmountable pinnacle. Situ Hai, your wife, in your heart, wasn’t even as important as a blade of grass in the universe.”
Situ Hai fell silent, sinking into a long, long abyss of memories and solitude. The past surged over him with unstoppable force, drowning him completely. All these years of drowning in alcohol and self-destruction, he thought he had forgotten, that he had licked all his wounds clean. But it wasn’t over. The wounds had only buried themselves deeper, so deep that even he couldn’t reach them anymore.
“Chang Rong felt the coldness of her lover’s body in her arms. She finally understood everything. She knew who she had to choose. Situ Hai, your wife did everything she could for you. And now, she finally did something for the one she truly loved.”
Wu Yi asked coldly, “Do you know what she did?”
Of course Situ Hai knew. No one in the world knew better than him: “Chang Rong used a forbidden art—the last secret of her family’s legacy. She exchanged her life for a blessing upon Guan Ran’s chest. This blessing was bought with all of Chang Rong’s life force. She brought Guan Ran back from death and ensured he would live forever in her love.”
“So, you lost her.” Wu Yi sneered. “All because you wanted to be a hero, because you wanted fame, because you wanted to prove your strength. And what did you gain in the end?”
“I lost her.” Situ Hai collapsed. Anyone with eyes could see it—his entire spirit, soul, and strength had been utterly, completely shattered.
What broke Situ Hai wasn’t Wu Yi’s words, but the past—his own memories.
The endless pain, the boundless regret, surged like a hopeless sea in his chest, in his veins, overwhelming him just as it had when he watched his wife leave.
No force in the world could compare to love. Not even the strongest man could reclaim what love had taken. Situ Hai was a man of sorrow—once a prodigy, a superhuman burdened with countless hopes, now reduced to a drunken guardian of the royal family. No one knew what had happened to this man.
Only Situ Hai himself knew. He had been guarding—guarding Guan Ran, the emperor of this empire. But he couldn’t let the Heroic Emperor die, because what sustained the emperor’s body was the love of his wife. As long as the Heroic Emperor lived, Chang Rong’s love would never fade.
Guarding another man for the sake of his own woman. The endless torment of it.
Finally, it broke him. His vision blurred, his hands trembled, and even his rusted sword fell to the ground.
*Thud! Thud! Thud!*
Three elders’ swords pierced Situ Hai’s body. But the genius swordsman didn’t react at all. He merely lowered his head, watching as if this had never happened—the swords skewering his body, blood dripping down the blades, thick and crimson like his own grief.
“You can go join Chang Rong now, Situ Hai.” Wu Yi delivered the final verdict.
Countless more swords stabbed into Situ Hai’s body chaotically. Now, it wasn’t just his blood that flowed—his life force, the stubborn vitality that had clung to his body, seeped out along the blades.
“Chang Rong…” Situ Hai suddenly clutched his chest, his face twisting in disbelief. His gaze lifted to the heavens, where clouds shifted like fleeting shadows, and a radiant light bathed the world in warmth.
“Chang Rong…” Situ Hai’s tears stopped. The sorrow flowed inward, the physical pain diluted by the past. Everything that had happened in the grand palace that day replayed before his eyes—Chang Rong’s voice, her smile, the intimacy between lovers, the beautiful moments, all unfolding one by one.
“Chang Rong…” Situ Hai smiled—a smile of unprecedented ease. Not the arrogance of his youth, but the memory of the happiest time of his life. Between him and Chang Rong, it wasn’t just pain and sorrow, not just the life-and-death parting in the grand palace. There was so much more—the times they had spent together, their love, their whispered promises of eternity.
It turned out none of it had been forgotten. It had only been buried—beneath the pain, beneath the sorrow. Only when Wu Yi dredged up the most agonizing memories, tearing open that wound, did the happy past flow out like a warm current—through his veins, into his eyes, to the tips of his fingers.
It made his trembling stop.
He felt strength again. Felt life returning, his soul mending. Everything, from weakness to strength, grew even stronger.
When Situ Hai pulled his gaze back from the vast sky, the last sword pierced his chest. But he felt no pain. It was as if the power of life had already expanded beyond all death.
Situ Hai locked eyes with Wu Yi, his gaze serene and blissful. “Chang Rong left her love for Guan Ran. But I still have my memories.” He pressed a hand to his chest, where warmth surged. He closed his eyes again, his face filled with happiness.
A radiance burst forth from Situ Hai’s body.
The radiance of the Saint Realm—the pinnacle of the Saint Realm. Decades later, the young hero had returned to the peak at the final moment of his life.
Situ Hai looked at the countless sword wounds riddling his body, bleeding freely. The flow of blood, like time itself, was irreversible.
He straightened. Not only had he returned to the peak of the Saint Realm, but he had also returned to his former self—the unrivaled young swordsman of the past, now awakened once more.
Wu Yi’s expression darkened. He didn’t know what had happened to Situ Hai, but it was clear—this dying man had become even more invincible.
“The sword… is still in hand!” Situ Hai roared to the heavens.
“HAH!!!”
Countless sword lights erupted from Situ Hai’s fingertips. With a mere flick of his wrist, he unleashed an endless barrage—three hundred, three thousand, thirty thousand sword beams—raining down upon the elders’ formation.
Like a collapsing dam, like an avalanche, with indescribable power, it trapped the elders in an inescapable storm.
What kind of power was this?
The eight elder stewards were stunned. In Situ Hai, they witnessed true swordsmanship—not reliant on brute force, not even on technique, but on an ultimate principle—the essence of the sword.
The highest essence of swordsmanship bloomed in Situ Hai’s heart. Perhaps it had been buried within him all along. This genius, who had reached the pinnacle at twenty, might have grasped the sword’s essence long ago. Only sorrow and suffering had buried it—until now, until the brink of death, when it finally erupted.
Standing alone at the edge of the forest, Situ Hai controlled countless peerless attacks with a single, sweeping gesture—commanding three hundred elders. This was no feat of man, but of a god.
Perhaps Situ Hai had become the Sword God. Only the God of Swords could wield such supreme mastery.
In all the world, none could rival his swordsmanship now.
Perhaps not even the Supreme One. A sudden terror gripped Wu Yi—the kind he only felt in the deepest night, when he remembered the souls of the innocent he had slain.
But one thing reassured him: No matter how much power Situ Hai unleashed, he was still dying. Anyone could see it—he was clinging to his last breath. His body was riddled with swords, his blood nearly drained, his spirit and soul already shattered.
Now, one final blow would finish him.
A dead man could not become a god.
Wu Yi signaled. Four elder stewards lunged forward like eagles, charging at Situ Hai. The combined might of four peak Saint Realm experts was overwhelming—the sheer force of their assault stripped the leaves from the trees, filling the forest with a rustling dirge.
The four elders unleashed a killing palm strike—a strike of such power that the cosmos had never seen its like.
But Situ Hai lifted his gaze. Four sword lights materialized out of thin air.
*Slash! Slash! Slash! Slash!*
They didn’t just cut through the wind—they sliced through the elders’ robes, drawing blood that scattered like crimson mist. The four stewards were forced back, wounded by a mere glance from Situ Hai.
Yet at the same moment, Wu Yi appeared behind Situ Hai like a ghost. The most cunning of them all, he had used his comrades as bait while he struck from behind, disregarding all dignity.
Wu Yi’s pale palm pressed against Situ Hai’s back.
“Hah, it takes five stewards to kill me. I must be the greatest in the world.” Situ Hai laughed.
Wu Yi unleashed his power—no sound, no explosion—but Situ Hai’s expression changed. The Sword God had reached his end. Not only was his body pierced with countless wounds, but his organs had been utterly crushed by Wu Yi’s strike.
“The sword…” Situ Hai spat blood, waving off the Longyou Corps charging recklessly from the forest.
“The sword…” He coughed up black blood—his last vestige of vitality. He had to brace himself against a sapling to keep from collapsing.
“The sword… ah…”
Wu Yi’s eyes gleamed with malice. He placed both hands on Situ Hai’s head. “Let me send you off properly.”
“THE SWORD IS STILL IN HAND!!!” A roar came from afar.
With it came an arrow—an arrow of wrath. This arrow had once grievously wounded the Ghost Elder, and it carried the accumulated fury of the Fire God over millennia. It was shot from the strongest weapon in the world—the Blazing Bow.
The arrow of wrath was aimed at Wu Yi beside Situ Hai. Wu Yi didn’t dare block it—he abandoned his attack and frantically retreated to his comrades. But the arrow pursued relentlessly.
The four stewards shouted in unison, unleashing their full power.
Flames erupted from the arrow, scorching all four before dissipating into the air.
With that single arrow, Situ Hai was saved.
“Who dares?!” Wu Yi bellowed, his beard bristling with rage.
Yang Hao stood tall atop the clouds, his face calm, his bow drawn. Another flaming arrow nocked at his fingertips. At this moment, Yang Hao truly resembled a god of war. The sight of the dying Situ Hai had ignited his battle spirit.
“You brat!!!” Black Wind stomped furiously. “Yang Hao, have you come to die too?”
Under Elder He De’s lead, a group of elite swordsmen surged from the flanks, throwing the elders into chaos. Though three hundred strong, the elders were caught off guard and struggled to hold their ground.
Only after dozens fell did they manage to form a defensive line against He De’s assault.
But the tide had turned.
The elders’ opponent was no longer Situ Hai, but Yang Hao. Though Situ Hai wasn’t dead yet, he was as good as gone. Yang Hao’s sudden appearance had caught the stewards completely off guard.
No one had expected Yang Hao to come—and with so few men at that.
Moths fly into the flame for light. But was Yang Hao here to die today?
Wu Yi took a deep breath, wiping his hands as he composed himself from the arrow’s pursuit. He looked up at Yang Hao.
“You’ve come,” Wu Yi said, as if greeting an old friend.
“I have,” Yang Hao nodded, his grip steady on the bow.
“I can’t fathom why,” Wu Yi mused. “There’s no logic to it. Your life, your friends’ lives—how do they compare to the Hidden Dragon Pavilion?”
“There are many reasons,” Yang Hao smiled faintly. The black ring on his finger sat quietly, as if it had rested there for centuries.
The destiny that spanned millennia wrapped around Yang Hao like a warm current, linking him to the dying Situ Hai and the Longyou Corps in the forest.
“THE SWORD IS STILL IN HAND!” Yang Hao shouted, echoing his predecessor.
“HAH!!” The Longyou Corps responded. “HAH!!!”
Wu Yi saw the ring on Yang Hao’s hand. He knew exactly what it signified—and whose hand it should have been on.
“So you’re the Hidden Dragon Pavilion’s leader now?” Wu Yi roared. “You’ve inherited their legacy?”
The Longyou Corps knelt en masse—even Qing Li, who had once clashed with Yang Hao in the hall, knelt with tears streaming down his face.
They had been abandoned, believing no one would come to their aid. Yet here was Yang Hao, daring to charge in with just a handful of men. The spirit of the Hidden Dragon—the undying, unyielding spirit—had found its heir at last.
Qing Li’s fighting spirit blazed anew. He raised his sword, shouting to Yang Hao in the sky: “HAH!!! HAH!!!”
The Lung Yu Legion knelt to the ground, even Qing Li, who had clashed with Yang Hao in the hall before, now wept and knelt.
“You are alive, yet she killed the one she loved the most.” Wu Yi spoke without leaving any room for doubt. “Only after Chang Rong realized what she had done—she thought she was a pawn on Guan Ran’s chessboard, forever controlled by the Heroic Emperor. But that wasn’t the case. The one who truly caused this tragedy was you—the young hero, the unyielding spiritual leader of the universe, the greatest swordsman, the insurmountable peak. Situ Hai, your wife, in your heart, wasn’t even as important as a blade of grass in the cosmos.”
Situ Hai fell silent, sinking into a long, desolate recollection. Memories surged over him with unstoppable force, drowning him completely. All these years of drowning himself in alcohol, of degradation—he thought he had forgotten, that he had licked all his wounds clean. But it wasn’t over. The wounds had only buried themselves deeper, so deep that even he couldn’t reach them anymore.
“Chang Rong felt the coldness of her lover’s body in her arms. She finally understood everything. She knew who she should choose. Situ Hai, your wife did everything she could for you. Now, she was going to do something for the one she truly loved.”
Wu Yi asked coldly, “Do you know what she did?”
Of course Situ Hai knew. No one in the world knew better than him. “Chang Rong used a forbidden art—the last secret passed down in her family. She traded her own life for a blessing upon Guan Ran’s chest. This blessing was bought with all her life force. She brought Guan Ran back from death and ensured he would live forever in her love.”
“So, you lost her.” Wu Yi sneered. “All because you wanted to be a hero, because you wanted fame, to prove your strength. And what did you gain in the end?”
“I lost her.” Situ Hai collapsed. Anyone with eyes could see it—his spirit, his soul, his strength, utterly and completely shattered.
What broke Situ Hai wasn’t Wu Yi’s words, but the memories, the past. The endless pain, the boundless regret, surged like a hopeless sea in his chest, in his veins, reducing this man to the same wreck he had been when he watched his wife leave.
No power could compare to love. Not even the strongest man in the world could reclaim what love had taken. Situ Hai was a man of sorrow. Once a prodigy, a superhuman burdened with countless hopes, he had now become the drunken guardian of the imperial family—Situ the drunkard. No one knew what had happened to him.
Only Situ Hai himself understood. He had been guarding, protecting Guan Ran, the emperor of this empire. But he couldn’t let the Heroic Emperor die, because what sustained the emperor’s body was the love of his wife. As long as the Heroic Emperor lived, Chang Rong’s love would never fade.
To guard another man for the sake of his own woman—this was the endless torment that finally broke Situ Hai. His gaze scattered, his hands trembled, and even his rusted sword fell to the ground.
*Thud! Thud! Thud!*
Three elders’ swords pierced Situ Hai’s body. But the genius swordsman showed no reaction. He merely lowered his head, watching as if this were an unreal scene—swords skewering his body, blood flowing down the blades, thick and crimson, like his own unending grief.
“You can go join Chang Rong now, Situ Hai.” Wu Yi pronounced the final sentence.
Countless more swords stabbed into Situ Hai’s body chaotically. Now, it wasn’t just his blood that flowed—his life force, the stubborn vitality that had clung to his body, seeped out along the blades.
“Chang Rong…” Situ Hai suddenly clutched his chest, his face twisting in disbelief. His eyes lifted to the heavens, where clouds shifted like fleeting shadows, and light bathed the world in warmth.
“Chang Rong…” Situ Hai’s tears stopped. The sorrow flowed inward, and the pain in his body seemed to fade bit by bit, washed away by memories. Everything that had happened in the grand palace that day reversed before his eyes. Chang Rong’s voice, her smile, their intimacy, their beautiful moments—all unfolded one by one.
“Chang Rong…” Situ Hai smiled, a smile of unprecedented ease. Not the arrogance of his youthful fame, but the recollection of the happiest time of his life. Between him and Chang Rong, it wasn’t just pain and sorrow, not just life and death in the grand palace. There was so much more—their love, their promises of eternity.
These things hadn’t been forgotten. They had been hidden, buried beneath the pain, beneath the sorrow. Only when Wu Yi dredged up the most agonizing memories, tearing open that wound, did the happy past flow out like a warm current—through his veins, his eyes, his fingertips.
It stopped his trembling.
He felt strength again, life returning, his soul mending the wounds. Everything grew from weak to strong, even stronger.
When Situ Hai withdrew his gaze from the vast sky, the last sword pierced his chest. But he felt no pain. It was as if the power of life had expanded rapidly, surpassing even death itself.
Situ Hai fixed his eyes on Wu Yi, his gaze serene and content. “Chang Rong left her love for Guan Ran. But I still have my memories.” He pressed a hand to his chest, where warmth surged. He closed his eyes again, his face filled with happiness.
A radiance emerged from Situ Hai’s body.
It was the glow of the Saint Realm—the pinnacle of the Saint Realm. Decades later, the young hero had returned to his peak at the final moment of his life.
Situ Hai looked at the countless sword wounds riddling his body, bleeding freely. The flow of blood, like time itself, was irreversible.
He straightened. Not only had he returned to the peak of the Saint Realm, but he had also returned to his former self—the unrivaled young swordsman of the past, revived in this moment.
Wu Yi’s expression darkened. He didn’t know what had happened to Situ Hai, but it was clear—this dying man had become even more invincible.
“The sword… is still in hand!” Situ Hai roared to the heavens.
“*Hah!*”
Countless sword lights appeared at his fingertips. With a gentle lift of his hand, he pointed toward the formation of three hundred elders. Three hundred, three thousand, thirty thousand sword lights filled the air—an endless barrage of attacks raining down upon them.
Like a bursting dam, like an avalanche, with indescribable energy, it trapped the elders in an inescapable storm.
What kind of power was this?
The eight elder stewards were stunned. In Situ Hai, they witnessed true swordsmanship—not reliant on strength, not even on skill, but on an ultimate principle, the very essence of the sword.
The highest principle of swordsmanship blossomed in Situ Hai’s heart. Perhaps it had been buried there all along. This unparalleled genius, who had reached the pinnacle at twenty, might have grasped the essence of the sword long ago. Only sorrow and suffering had buried it—until now, until Situ Hai stood at the brink of death, did it truly bloom.
Standing alone at the edge of the forest, Situ Hai controlled countless peerless attacks with a single, boundless gesture. He commanded the three hundred elders—an act beyond human capability, the work of a god.
Perhaps Situ Hai had become the Sword God. Only a god of the sword could wield such supreme mastery.
In all the world, none could rival his swordsmanship now.
Perhaps not even the Supreme One. A sudden terror gripped Wu Yi’s heart—the kind of fear he only felt in the deepest night, when he remembered the wronged souls who had died by his hand.
But one thing reassured Wu Yi slightly. No matter how much power Situ Hai unleashed, he was still dying. Anyone could see it—he was clinging to his last breath. Countless swords had pierced him, his blood nearly drained, his spirit and soul long broken.
Now, just one final blow would kill him.
A dead man could not become a god.
Wu Yi gave a signal. Four elder stewards lunged forward like eagles, charging at Situ Hai. The combined might of four peak Saint Realm experts was immense—just the force of their movement stripped the leaves from the trees, filling the forest with a rustling dirge.
The four elders unleashed a killing palm strike—a strike of such power that the universe had never seen its like before.
But Situ Hai lifted his gaze. Four sword lights materialized out of thin air.
*Slash! Slash! Slash! Slash!*
They cut not just through the wind, but through the robes of the four elders. Blood sprayed like crimson mist. The four stewards were forced back, wounded by a mere glance from Situ Hai.
Yet at the same moment, behind Situ Hai, Wu Yi’s figure appeared like a ghost. The most cunning of them all had used his comrades as bait, launching a shameless sneak attack.
Wu Yi’s white palm pressed against Situ Hai’s back.
“Five stewards to kill me. I must be the greatest in the world.” Situ Hai laughed.
Wu Yi’s palm released its force—no sound, no explosion. But Situ Hai’s face changed. The Sword God had reached his end. Not only was his body riddled with wounds, but his organs had been utterly shattered by Wu Yi’s strike.
“The sword…” Situ Hai spat blood, waving off the Longyou Corps charging recklessly from the forest.
“The sword…” He coughed up black blood—his last remaining vitality. He had to lean against a small tree to keep from collapsing.
“The sword…”
Wu Yi’s eyes gleamed with malice. He placed both hands on Situ Hai’s head. “Let me send you off properly.”
“*The sword is still in hand!!!*” A roar came from afar.
With it came an arrow—an arrow of wrath. This arrow had once grievously wounded the Ghost Elder, and it carried the accumulated fury of the Fire God over millennia. It was the strongest weapon in the world, fired from the Flaming Bow.
The arrow’s target was Wu Yi beside Situ Hai. Wu Yi didn’t dare block it—he threw himself aside, retreating frantically to his companions. But the arrow pursued relentlessly.
The four stewards shouted in fury, unleashing their full power.
Flames erupted from the arrow, scorching all four before dissipating into the air.
With that single arrow, Situ Hai was saved.
“Who dares?!” Wu Yi roared, his beard bristling with rage.
Yang Hao stood tall atop the clouds, his face calm, his bow drawn. Another flaming arrow appeared at his fingertips. At this moment, Yang Hao truly resembled a god of war. Situ Hai’s impending death had ignited his battle fury.
“You brat!!” Black Wind stomped his foot. “Yang Hao, have you come to die too?”
Under Elder He De’s lead, a group of elite swordsmen charged from the flank, throwing the elders into chaos. Though there were three hundred elders, they struggled to withstand the sudden assault.
Only after dozens were wounded did the elders manage to form a defensive line, holding back He De’s attack.
But the tide had turned.
The elders’ opponent was no longer Situ Hai—it was Yang Hao. Though Situ Hai wasn’t dead yet, he was as good as gone. Yang Hao’s sudden appearance had caught the stewards completely off guard.
No one had expected Yang Hao to come—and with so few men at that.
A moth flies into the flame for light. But was Yang Hao here to die today?
Wu Yi took a deep breath, slowly wiping his hands clean of the earlier humiliation of being chased by the arrow of wrath. He looked up at Yang Hao.
“You’ve come,” Wu Yi said, as if greeting an old friend.
“I have,” Yang Hao nodded, his grip on the bow steady.
“I can’t fathom why,” Wu Yi mused. “It makes no sense. Your life, your friends’ lives—how do they compare to the Hidden Dragon Pavilion?”
“There are many reasons,” Yang Hao smiled faintly. The black ring on his finger sat quietly, as if it had been there for centuries.
The destiny that spanned millennia wrapped around Yang Hao like a warm current, connecting him to the dying Situ Hai and the Longyou Corps in the forest.
“*The sword is still in hand!*” Yang Hao shouted, echoing his predecessor.
“*Hah!*” the Longyou Corps responded. “*Hah!!!*”
Wu Yi saw the ring on Yang Hao’s hand. He knew exactly what it represented—and whose hand it should have been on.
“You’re the leader of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion now?” Wu Yi bellowed. “You’ve inherited their legacy?”
The Longyou Corps knelt en masse, even Qing Li, who had once clashed with Yang Hao in the hall, wept as he knelt.
They had been abandoned, thinking no one would come to their aid. Yet here was Yang Hao, daring to charge in with just a handful of men. The spirit of the Hidden Dragon—the undying, unyielding spirit—had found its heir at last.
Qing Li’s fighting spirit burned fiercely. He raised his sword, shouting to Yang Hao in the sky: “*Hah! Hah!!!*”
Qing Li’s fighting spirit was completely ignited. He waved his sword, echoing Yang Hao in the sky: “Ha! Ha!!!”
The entire Longyou Legion rose to their feet. Though battered and barely clinging to life, they upheld their dignity, even if it was on a single leg.
“The sword is still in my hand!!”
“Haa!!”
“The sword is still in my hand!!”
“Haa!!”
“The sword is still in my hand!!”
“Haa!!”
With Yang Hao and the Longyou Legion exchanging cries back and forth, the Elders’ faces turned pale with despair. They couldn’t tell anymore who was the trapped pawn within the encirclement, or who the true defeated side was.
This Longyou Legion had endured far beyond expectations under the full might of the Elders’ assault. Their mission should have ended long ago—they had already fallen into a desperate situation.
Had it not been for Situ Hui holding out during those final moments, they should have perished long ago.
Yet now, this defeated army had revived. Once again, they stood like warriors, clenching their fists and swinging them through the air. Their swords—blades soaked in blood—were drawn from their sheaths once more.
They were immortal. These people might not have been true hidden dragons, yet they had become undying.
“Yang Hao!” Wu Yi’s fury was evident in his billowing robe, “I will make you regret ever being born.”
Before he could utter another word, Yang Hao’s arrow had already whistled through the air.
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