The arrow, exuding thick smoke and flames, accumulated from fire, fury, and hatred, transformed into a black, ominous blaze in midair. With unstoppable momentum, it surged once again toward Wu Yi.
The four elder stewards stepped forward, blocking the attack once more. Yet the endless waves of heat wrapped around them like vengeful ghosts. The black flame was even fiercer than before; the moment it made contact, it began to devour them from within.
Even more despairing was the fact that Yang Hao’s Shadow Moon had already transformed into a thousand-mile killing surge, rushing toward them.
The arrow wreathed in raging flames, an arrow forged from fire, fury, and hatred, transformed into black, malevolent flames in midair, surging once more with unstoppable momentum toward Wu Yi.
The four Elder Stewards stepped forward again to intercept it. But the boundless waves of heat, like vengeful spirits, enveloped them. The black, malevolent flames, even fiercer than before, began to recoil the moment they made contact.
What was even more despairing was Yang Hao’s Shadow Moon, which had already transformed into a thousand-mile river of slaughter, surging toward them.
The most formidable assassination technique in history, driven by a peak master of the Sacred Domain and propelled by the thousand-year Sword Core of the Alchemy Sect, was about to tear the blocking Elder Stewards to shreds.
This time, the stewards dared not underestimate it. At least three uninjured Elder Stewards summoned their artifacts—among them even a divine weapon—to block Shadow Moon.
Yet, the explosive fireballs rained down ten times in succession upon the heads of the Elder Stewards.
Even the ever-calculating Elder Tian Ce had not anticipated that Yang Hao would unleash so many killing moves simultaneously. He poured his entire life’s cultivation into containing the explosive flames, barely managing to confine the devastation to his immediate surroundings.
But half of this steward’s body had already been blown to pieces, his life hanging by a thread.
For the first time, an Elder Steward had been grievously wounded before their eyes, and the entire Elder Council erupted in horrified cries.
Yet Yang Hao, like a moth drawn to flame, charged straight into the midst of the Elder Stewards.
“I’ll kill you!!!” Black Wind and Rong Wei, consumed by rage, immediately closed in for the kill.
But what awaited them was an endless torrent of fire-based arcane principles. The most potent black, malevolent flames in the known world erupted from Yang Hao’s body, transforming him into a god of fire, chanting an ancient, desolate hymn. With every step he took, the malevolent flames surged higher and stronger.
Eight Elder Stewards found themselves engulfed in these flames, trapped in a dire predicament.
The three hundred elders wanted to turn back and aid them, but they were held at bay by He De’s group and the Dragon’s Blessing Legion.
All that could be seen were eight figures writhing within the flames, their voices unheard, their power undetectable. Yang Hao’s inferno had formed a domain of his own, one where no outsider could intervene.
Could it be that the centuries-old Elder Council was truly about to fall? Could the so-called pinnacle masters of the universe, the Elder Stewards, truly be annihilated within these raging flames, destroyed by Yang Hao alone?
They were the disciples of the Supreme One, the strongest among the elders. To kill them, one must first understand why they had become the strongest.
Within the malevolent flames, these eight suddenly erupted with a radiant light—a power imprinted upon their very souls. When this power merged, it resembled the first glimmer of dawn at the world’s creation, yet carried an inconceivable brilliance.
These lights, brief yet overwhelming, cleansed the eight of all afflictions and extinguished the malevolent flames entirely.
Yang Hao, now stripped of his defenses, stood exposed before the eight. At least five stewards struck in unison, and Yang Hao, having exhausted all his tricks, spat a mouthful of blood as he was sent flying through the air.
Yet even then, Yang Hao laughed maniacally: “Si Tu Hai, I’ve outdone you! It took eight of them to bring me down!!”
Si Tu Hai, barely clinging to life, watched the reckless yet indomitable Yang Hao and managed a faint smile.
Thus, the all-out battle between the eight Elder Stewards and Yang Hao concluded in mutual devastation. The outcome: Yang Hao was grievously wounded, while three stewards were severely injured. By comparison, the Elder Council had suffered even greater losses. Now, the only one seemingly unharmed was Wu Yi.
But let it not be forgotten—from the very beginning until now, the Elder Council had always held the upper hand.
Three hundred elders and eight stewards—both in numbers and power, they held an overwhelming advantage. The Hidden Dragon Pavilion’s side relied solely on the individual prowess of Si Tu Hai and Yang Hao.
But even that prowess had reached its limit. The final outcome seemed unchanged.
Wu Yi’s body was scorched black, though his core remained intact. He glanced back at his own forces—their condition was pitiful, devoid of the usual transcendent grace they displayed when slaughtering foes.
Gnashing his teeth in fury, Wu Yi pointed at Yang Hao, who was slowly rising to his feet: “I will kill you. I will kill everyone here. None of you will escape. Not a single one can evade the wrath of the elders.”
“Then who,” Yang Hao wiped the blood from his lips, his eyes gleaming with amusement—not the bitter smile of one at death’s door, but genuine confidence, as if he were gazing down upon mortals from the clouds, “can escape Yang Hao’s wrath?”
He De and his companions had already gathered by Yang Hao’s side like beams of light. The masters of the Alchemy Sect were destined to be forever etched into history.
“Kill!! Kill!!!” Wu Yi, his hair disheveled, roared madly.
The three hundred elders unleashed their attacks, and the Dragon’s Blessing Legion fell like wheat before a scythe.
“He De!” Yang Hao called.
He De raised his great axe and swung it with all his might at the empty air before him. The Golden-Splitting Cleave, as merciless as the final severance between lovers, tore through space itself.
Every ounce of He De’s power was drained by that single swing.
A massive wormhole, accompanied by violent spatial distortions, appeared. Through its transparent yet warped aperture, the other side revealed the Alchemy Sect’s sanctuary—and directly opposite Yang Hao stood the physical body of the Supreme One.
Yang Hao drew his bow. The Flaming Fury Arrow of the Blaze Bow was fully drawn, poised to unleash destruction. Its tip was aimed squarely at the Supreme One’s body.
The wind stilled. Time froze.
Everything came to a standstill.
No further commands were needed. The elders’ swords could no longer be swung.
In this world, gods existed—but they were imprisoned. Those who imprisoned the gods became the only gods. The elders worshipped with all their hearts the deity now in Yang Hao’s crosshairs, the one beyond the wormhole.
The Supreme One!
The master of this universe, the unshakable pinnacle of existence—even the nine Elder Stewards could only prostrate themselves at his feet.
And now, Yang Hao was pointing the most powerful divine weapon in the universe at him.
Who dared move?
Who wasn’t afraid?
Yang Hao uttered words that sent even greater chills down their spines: “I’m injured. I can’t hold on much longer.”
Indeed, Yang Hao’s hands trembled. He seemed weak, swaying as if on the verge of collapse from blood loss.
Wu Yi’s lips were parched, his teeth clenched so tightly they bit into his flesh. He wanted to say:
“If you can’t hold on, then lower the bow.”
But that was impossible. If Yang Hao could no longer hold on, the only thing left for him to do was release—to loose that arrow, filled with power enough to require four stewards to block it, straight at the defenseless, spiritless body of the Supreme One.
Wu Yi even felt the urge to kneel and beg.
Yet Yang Hao remained calm. Today’s standoff was a death trap, an inescapable dead end. The only way out was to stake everything on one desperate gamble. His fingers held the bowstring firmly. Even though Hun Yuanzi had repeatedly urged him to relent, even threatened him with the authority of a master, Yang Hao had refused. For the first time, he defied his teacher.
Because Yang Hao bore a responsibility. The ring bestowed upon him by the old Sword Saint was a duty—one that had lasted five thousand years. This legacy was not just the passing of power, but the charge to protect the Hidden Dragon Pavilion and its unseen dragons.
Yang Hao could shoot—but he would not. The time was not yet right.
In the most exhausted, weakest voice, he advised Wu Yi: “Elder, today’s battle has left us all weary.”
Weary indeed. The battlefield was littered with the wounded, including seven of the eight stewards—among them the barely breathing Elder Tian Ce. Today’s battle, the Hidden Dragon Pavilion’s last stand, had pushed the Elder Council to its limits. They had paid a price and nearly shattered the Pavilion’s final line of defense.
But they were weary.
“Go back,” Yang Hao continued. “There will be other days.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?” Wu Yi’s question was one Yang Hao had heard often.
“I do,” Yang Hao replied. “I am the heir of the Alchemy Sect. I am the leader of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion. This is my duty.”
Wu Yi’s pupils contracted, his gaze sharpening to its peak intensity. Yet Yang Hao remained as composed and steady as an unshakable statue.
Finally, Wu Yi understood. The tables had turned completely. Yang Hao had revealed his trump card—one that guaranteed victory. No matter what price the elders were willing to pay, the Supreme One was their bottom line. Even if all three hundred elders perished, even if the nine stewards fell, the Supreme One could not be toppled. The destruction of his physical form would mean the collapse of the Elder Council and the complete upheaval of the universe’s order.
Wu Yi turned. The wind rustled through the barren branches of the forest. He saw Si Tu Hai, his body a mangled ruin, blood pooling around him. He saw the swordsmen of the Dragon’s Blessing Legion sitting on the ground, supporting one another, their blood mingling as if they were one.
He also saw the stunned expressions of the elders. He knew—this battle was lost. The enemy had won, albeit at great cost, but the Elder Council had lost.
To lose was to concede.
Wu Yi wearily waved his hand. The elders shuddered, some unwilling to believe, yet forced to accept.
The few stewards still capable of action sighed deeply, gathered together, and formed a mobile barrier. As a brilliant light erupted from the barrier, the three hundred elders and eight stewards vanished, leaving behind a battlefield drenched in blood and a shattered star system—yet ultimately, they had achieved nothing.
Before departing, Elder Wu Yi looked at Yang Hao and said, “Young man, don’t forget—there is still tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Yang Hao nodded. “Every tomorrow is the start of another bloody battle.”
As Si Tu Hai collapsed onto the ground, a cold wind whistled through the gaping hole in his chest, swirling within his body—yet he felt no pain. The sight before him allowed him to finally set down his burdens. He lay comfortably on the grass, beckoning Yang Hao and the others with his gaze.
Everyone could see—this was Si Tu Hai’s final moment.
Once a brash, unrivaled genius swordsman in his youth, he was now a middle-aged man on the brink of death. His sword remained, his sword intent remained—every sword technique in the world was but a child’s toy in his eyes.
Si Tu Hai had mastered the essence of the sword. He was the god of swordsmanship, the pinnacle none could surpass.
Yet he was about to die.
His shattered body could no longer bear his weight.
Si Tu Hai asked Long Yun: “Who am I?”
Long Yun drove his broadsword into the earth and roared: “You are Si Tu Hai—the universe’s greatest wandering swordsman!”
“And your friend. Your brother.” Si Tu Hai laughed. “I never seduced a brother’s wife. Long Yun, your wife came to me, but I didn’t take her away. All these years, she might have been waiting for you to find her.”
Long Yun’s expression twisted: “You didn’t…?”
“I didn’t.” Si Tu Hai nodded. “Apart from Chang Rong, there was no other woman.”
Long Yun inhaled sharply, his eyes filled with regret—the kind that could never be undone. He could have kept this friend. He could have kept his wife. But jealousy and rage had robbed him of any chance to start over.
Si Tu Hai’s gaze drifted until it landed on He De. The old bear stood there, his height nearly matching Si Tu Hai’s seated form. Si Tu Hai smiled: “Old friend…”
“Old friend.” He De’s eyes brimmed with tears.
“I miss those days. Together, we were invincible.” Si Tu Hai coughed up blood as he laughed.
“We still are.” He De reached out, as if to grasp Si Tu Hai’s fading life, but it was futile. “You are invincible.”
“The world is unfair. We both got hurt, but you returned to the Sacred Domain’s peak long ago. I… only now.” Si Tu Hai sighed. “Too late, isn’t it? Too late.”
“I had help,” He De said.
“I never did.” Si Tu Hai shook his head bitterly. “Old bear, will you help me?”
He De stiffened. He closed his eyes, but the tears flowed anyway. This weathered old sage, who thought he had shed his last tear long ago, had saved his final drop for today.
Gripping his axe, he stomped the ground—once, twice—before finally nodding: “Yes. I’ll help you.”
Satisfied, Si Tu Hai turned to Yang Hao. With great effort, he raised his hand.
He clasped Yang Hao’s hand—the one bearing the black ring. To Yang Hao’s surprise, Si Tu Hai said nothing. Instead, a surge of power, fierce and unrelenting, poured from Si Tu Hai’s fingertips into Yang Hao’s body.
Yang Hao was caught off guard, but soon, that power and its accompanying thoughts settled into his mind and flesh as if finding a new home.
Yang Hao clenched his teeth to keep from wailing in grief. He could sense it—this power, this spiritual imprint, was the essence of swordsmanship Si Tu Hai had grasped at the brink of death. It was the culmination of Si Tu Hai’s life’s work, the passing of the torch from one generation’s genius to the next.
And the secrets of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion, the keys to its hidden barriers—Si Tu Hai bequeathed them all to Yang Hao.
These secrets needed no words.
When the transfer was complete, Yang Hao, overwhelmed with sorrow, nearly collapsed: “Why, Si Tu Hai? Why?”
Why entrust all this to Yang Hao? Why pass on a lifetime’s worth of hard-won wisdom, everything he had, to a young man without reservation?
This time, the stewards no longer dared to underestimate him. At least three unscathed elders raised their magical treasures, including even a divine artifact, to block the Shadow Moon.
But then, ten consecutive fireballs from the flame explosion crashed onto the heads of the elder stewards.
Even though Tian Ce Yuan Lao was known for his meticulous planning, he hadn’t foreseen that Yang Hao would unleash so many deadly techniques at once. He risked his life, pouring all his energy into containing the explosion’s power just around himself.
But half of this steward’s body had already been blown to pieces, and his life was nearly extinguished.
For the first time, an elder steward had suffered such a grievous injury before their very eyes, and the entire Elder Council erupted in shock and horror.
Yet Yang Hao, like a moth rushing headlong into the flames, flew straight into the midst of the elder stewards.
“I’ll kill you!!!” Hei Feng and Rong Li, furious beyond measure, immediately surged forward to strike.
But what awaited them was an endless torrent of fire-based principles. The most powerful black flame in the known world poured forth from Yang Hao’s body. Yang Hao had become a god of fire, chanting an ancient, mournful song from the distant past. Each step he took intensified the flames, elevating them to greater and greater heights.
All eight elder stewards were engulfed in the inferno, trapped in a desperate situation.
The three hundred elders wanted to turn back and rescue them, but were held in place by He De’s group and the Long You Legion.
All they could see were eight figures swaying within the flames. No sounds could be heard, no power fluctuations felt. Yang Hao’s blazing inferno had formed a domain of his own, one that no outsider could interfere with.
Was the Elder Council, which had lasted for centuries, truly about to fall? Were these so-called peak experts of the universe truly going to be destroyed in this inferno, at the hands of just one man—Yang Hao?
The arrow wreathed in raging flames, an accumulation of fire, fury, and hatred, transformed into black, malevolent fire in midair. With unstoppable momentum, it shot toward Wu Yi once more.
The four presiding elders stepped forward again to intercept it. But the boundless heat waves, like vengeful wraiths, enveloped them. The black inferno, even fiercer than before, began to backlash the moment it touched them.
What was even more despairing was Yang Hao’s Shadow Moon, which had already transformed into a thousand-mile killing tide, surging toward them.
The most formidable assassination technique in history, driven by a peak master of the Holy Domain and propelled by the thousand-year Sword Pill of the Alchemy Sect, was about to tear the blocking elders to shreds.
This time, the elders dared not underestimate it. At least three completely uninjured presiding elders summoned their treasures, including even a divine artifact, to block Shadow Moon.
But the explosive fireballs fell upon the elders’ heads ten times in succession.
Even the ever-calculating Tian Ce Elder had not anticipated that Yang Hao would unleash so many killing moves simultaneously. He poured his entire life’s cultivation into suppressing the explosion, barely containing its devastation around himself.
Yet half of this elder’s body had been blown apart, his life hanging by a thread.
For the first time, a presiding elder had been grievously wounded before their eyes, and the entire Elder Council erupted in horrified cries.
But Yang Hao, like a moth drawn to flame, charged into the midst of the presiding elders.
“I’ll kill you!!!” Black Wind and Rong Wei, consumed by rage, immediately closed in for the kill.
What awaited them, however, was an endless torrent of fire-based arcane arts. The most potent black inferno in the known world erupted from Yang Hao’s body, transforming him into a god of flames, chanting an ancient song of utmost desolation. With every step he took, the inferno grew stronger and more terrifying.
Eight presiding elders were engulfed in this malevolent fire, trapped in a dire predicament.
The three hundred elders tried to turn back to aid them but were held off by He De’s group and the Dragon Bless Legion.
All that could be seen were eight figures writhing within the flames, their voices unheard, their power fluctuations imperceptible. Yang Hao’s inferno had formed a domain of his own, one where no outsider could intervene.
Could it be? Could the Elder Council, standing for centuries, truly be defeated? Could the so-called pinnacle masters of the universe, the presiding elders, truly be annihilated in this raging fire, by Yang Hao alone?
They were the disciples of the Supreme One, the strongest among the elders. To kill them, one must first understand why they had become the strongest.
Within the inferno, the eight suddenly erupted with light—power imprinted upon their very souls. This power fused together like the first glimmer of dawn at the world’s creation, yet it carried an inconceivable radiance.
The light was brief but overwhelming. When it burst forth, it cleansed the eight elders of all corruption and extinguished the inferno completely.
Yang Hao, now like a disarmed warrior, stood exposed before them. At least five elders struck in unison, and Yang Hao, having exhausted all his tricks, spat a mouthful of blood as he was sent flying through the air.
Yet even then, Yang Hao laughed wildly. “Si Tu Hai, I’ve outdone you! It took eight of them to bring me down!!”
Si Tu Hai, barely clinging to life, watched the reckless yet indomitable Yang Hao and smiled faintly.
Thus, the all-out battle between the eight presiding elders and Yang Hao ended in mutual devastation. The result: Yang Hao grievously wounded, three elders severely injured. By comparison, the Elder Council had suffered far greater losses. Now, the only one seemingly unharmed was Wu Yi.
But let it not be forgotten—from beginning to end, the Elder Council had always held the upper hand.
Three hundred elders and eight presiding elders held an overwhelming advantage in both numbers and power. The Hidden Dragon Pavilion relied solely on the individual prowess of Si Tu Hai and Yang Hao.
But even that prowess had reached its limit. The final outcome seemed unchanged.
Wu Yi, his body scorched black but his core unharmed, glanced back at his comrades. Their wretched state bore no resemblance to their usual transcendent grace when executing their foes.
Gnashing his teeth in fury, Wu Yi pointed at Yang Hao, who was slowly rising. “I’ll kill you. I’ll kill everyone here. None of you will escape. Not a single one will evade the wrath of the elders!”
“Then who,” Yang Hao wiped the blood from his lips, his eyes gleaming with amusement—not the bitter smile of despair, but genuine confidence, as if gazing down upon mortals from the clouds, “can escape Yang Hao’s wrath?”
He De’s group had already gathered by Yang Hao’s side like beams of light. The masters of the Alchemy Sect were destined to be forever etched into history.
“Kill!! Kill!!!” Wu Yi, his hair disheveled, roared madly.
The three hundred elders attacked in unison, and the Dragon Bless Legion fell like wheat before a scythe.
“He De!” Yang Hao called.
He De raised his great axe and swung it with all his might at the empty space before him. The Golden-Splitting Strike, as merciless as a lover’s final farewell, cleaved through the void.
Every ounce of He De’s power was drained by that single swing.
A massive wormhole, accompanied by violent spatial fluctuations, appeared. Through its transparent yet distorted image, the other side revealed the Alchemy Sect’s sanctum—and directly opposite Yang Hao, the physical body of the Supreme One.
Yang Hao drew his bow. The Fury Arrow of the Blazing Fusion Bow was fully drawn, poised to strike. Its tip was aimed at the Supreme One’s body.
The wind stilled. Time froze.
Everything came to a standstill.
No further orders were needed. The elders’ swords could no longer be swung.
In this world, gods existed—but they were imprisoned. Those who imprisoned the gods became the only gods. The elders worshipped with all their hearts the deity now in Yang Hao’s crosshairs across the wormhole.
The Supreme One!
The master of the universe, the unshakable pinnacle of existence—even the nine presiding elders could only prostrate themselves at his feet.
And now, Yang Hao had the most powerful divine artifact in the cosmos aimed at him.
Who dared move?
Who wasn’t afraid?
Yang Hao uttered words that sent even greater chills down their spines: “I’m injured. I can’t hold on much longer.”
Indeed, his hand trembled. He seemed weak, swaying from blood loss.
Wu Yi’s lips cracked as he bit down hard. He wanted to say:
“If you can’t hold on, just lower the bow.”
But that was impossible. If Yang Hao could no longer hold on, the only thing left was to release—to loose the arrow, that single shot brimming with power, the same infernal arrow that had required four elders to block, now aimed at the defenseless, spiritless body of the Supreme One.
Wu Yi even felt the urge to kneel and beg.
But Yang Hao remained calm. Today’s standoff was a death trap, a situation with no escape—except by embracing death to find life. His fingers held the bowstring firmly. Despite Hun Yuanzi’s countless demands to let go, even using his authority as a master to pressure him, Yang Hao refused. For the first time, he defied his master.
Because Yang Hao had a duty. The ring bestowed upon him by the old Sword Saint was a responsibility—one spanning five thousand years. This legacy was not just a transfer of power, but a charge to protect the Hidden Dragon Pavilion and its unseen dragons.
Yang Hao could shoot—but he wouldn’t. The time was not yet right.
In his most exhausted, weakest voice, he advised Wu Yi: “Elder, today’s battle has left us all weary.”
Weary indeed. The battlefield was littered with the wounded, including seven of the eight presiding elders—among them, the barely breathing Tian Ce Elder. Today’s battle, the Hidden Dragon Pavilion’s last stand, had pushed the Elder Council to its limits. They had paid a price and nearly shattered the Pavilion’s final line of defense.
But they were weary.
“Go back,” Yang Hao continued. “There will be other days.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?” Wu Yi asked—a question often posed to Yang Hao.
“I do,” Yang Hao replied. “I am the heir of the Alchemy Sect. I am the leader of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion. This is my duty.”
Wu Yi’s pupils contracted, his gaze at its most piercing. Yet Yang Hao remained as steady as an unshakable statue.
Finally, Wu Yi understood. The situation had completely reversed. Yang Hao had revealed his trump card—one that guaranteed victory. No matter what price the elders were willing to pay, the Supreme One was their bottom line. Even if all three hundred elders perished, even if the nine presiding elders fell, the Supreme One could not be toppled. The destruction of his physical form would mean the collapse of the Elder Council and the complete upheaval of the universe’s order.
Wu Yi turned. The wind rustled through the bare branches of the forest. He saw Si Tu Hai, his body a mangled ruin, lying in a pool of blood. He saw the swordsmen of the Dragon Bless Legion sitting on the ground, supporting one another, their blood mingling as if they were one.
He also saw the dazed expressions of the elders and realized—this battle was lost. The enemy had won, albeit at great cost, but the Elder Council had lost.
To lose was to concede.
Wu Yi wearily waved his hand. The elders shuddered, some disbelieving, yet forced to accept.
The few presiding elders still capable of action sighed deeply, gathered, and erected a mobile barrier. As brilliant light erupted from it, the three hundred elders and eight presiding elders vanished, leaving behind a blood-soaked battlefield and a shattered star system—yet ultimately, they had achieved nothing.
Before departing, Elder Wu Yi looked at Yang Hao and said, “Young man, don’t forget—there is still tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Yang Hao nodded. “Every tomorrow is the start of another bloody battle.”
As Si Tu Hai slumped to the ground, a cold wind whistled through the gaping hole in his chest, swirling within his body—yet he felt no pain. The sight before him allowed him to finally set down his burdens. He lay comfortably on the grass, beckoning Yang Hao and the others with his gaze.
Everyone could see—this was Si Tu Hai’s final moment.
Once a brash, unrivaled genius swordsman in his youth, he was now a middle-aged man on death’s doorstep. His sword remained, his sword intent remained—yet all the sword arts of the world were but child’s play in his eyes.
Si Tu Hai had mastered the essence of the sword. He was the god of swordsmanship, the pinnacle none could surpass.
But he was about to die.
His shattered body could no longer bear his weight.
Si Tu Hai asked Long Yun, “Who am I?”
Long Yun drove his broadsword into the ground and roared, “You are Si Tu Hai—the universe’s greatest wandering swordsman!”
“And your friend. Your brother.” Si Tu Hai laughed. “I never seduced a brother’s wife. Long Yun, your wife came to me, but I didn’t take her away. All these years, she might have been waiting for you to find her.”
Long Yun’s expression twisted. “You didn’t—?”
“I didn’t.” Si Tu Hai nodded. “Apart from Chang Rong, I never had another woman.”
Long Yun inhaled sharply, his eyes filled with regret—the kind that could never be undone. He could have kept this friend. He could have kept his wife. But jealousy and rage had robbed him of any chance to start over.
Si Tu Hai’s gaze drifted until it landed on He De. The old bear stood there, his height nearly matching Si Tu Hai’s seated form. Si Tu Hai smiled. “Old friend…”
“Old friend.” He De’s eyes brimmed with tears.
“I miss those days. Together, we were invincible.” Si Tu Hai coughed up blood as he laughed.
“We still are.” He De reached out, as if to grasp Si Tu Hai’s fading life, but it was futile. “You are invincible.”
“The world is unfair. We both got hurt, but you returned to the peak of the Holy Domain long ago. I never made it.” Si Tu Hai sighed. “Too late now, isn’t it? Too late.”
“I had help,” He De said.
“I never did.” Si Tu Hai shook his head bitterly. “Old bear, will you help me?”
He De stiffened. He closed his eyes, but the tears flowed anyway. This weathered old sage, who thought he had cried his last tear long ago, had saved his final drop for today.
Gripping his axe, he stomped the ground—once, twice—before finally nodding. “Yes. I’ll help you.”
Satisfied, Si Tu Hai turned to Yang Hao. With great effort, he raised his hand and grasped Yang Hao’s—the one bearing the black ring.
To Yang Hao’s surprise, Si Tu Hai said nothing. Instead, a surge of power and thought erupted from Si Tu Hai’s fingertips, flooding into Yang Hao’s body.
Caught off guard, Yang Hao soon felt the energy and memories settle into his mind and flesh as if finding a new home.
He clenched his teeth to stifle his grief. He recognized this power, this spiritual imprint—it was the essence of swordsmanship Si Tu Hai had grasped at death’s door, the culmination of his life’s mastery. It was the passing of the torch from one generation’s genius to the next.
And the secrets of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion, the keys to its hidden barriers—Si Tu Hai had entrusted them all to Yang Hao.
Such secrets needed no words.
When the transfer was complete, Yang Hao, overwhelmed with sorrow, nearly collapsed. “Why, Si Tu Hai? Why?”
Why bestow all this upon Yang Hao? Why hand over a lifetime’s worth of wisdom, earned through blood and sacrifice, to a young man without reservation?
Suddenly, within the flames, the eight elders erupted with radiant light—the power imprinted upon their souls. This power, when fused together, was like the primordial light at the dawn of creation, yet carried an indescribable brilliance.
These beams of light were brief but immensely powerful. When they shot forth, they cleansed the eight elders’ surroundings and extinguished the raging flames entirely.
Yang Hao was like a warrior stripped of his weapons, exposed before the eight. At least five stewards, having unleashed their ultimate techniques in unison, struck him with a devastating blow. Yang Hao spat a long stream of blood into the air and was hurled backward.
Yet even in this state, Yang Hao laughed wildly: “Situ Hui, I’m better than you. It took eight people to bring me down!!”
Situ Hai, barely clinging to life with only breaths left in him, looked at Yang Hao—still like a mischievous child yet brimming with heroic spirit—and a smile crept onto his lips.
Thus, the climactic battle between the Eight Great Elder Stewards and Yang Hao ended in mutual devastation. The outcome: Yang Hao was gravely wounded, and three of the stewards were critically injured. Comparatively, the Elder Council had suffered far more. At this point, only Wu Yi remained unscathed.
But don’t forget—who had held the advantage from the very beginning until now? It was still the Elder Council.
Three hundred elders and eight stewards, in terms of both numbers and power, held an overwhelming superiority. The only strength the Hidden Dragon Pavilion relied upon was the personal abilities of Situ Hai and Yang Hao.
But even that ability had now been exhausted. The remaining outcome seemed to be unchanged.
Wu Yi’s body was charred and blackened, but fortunately, his core essence remained intact. He looked back at his side, seeing their pitiful state—nothing like their usual graceful, ethereal demeanor when they slaughtered enemies.
Fuming with rage, Wu Yi pointed at Yang Hao, who was slowly rising again: “I will kill you. I will kill everyone here. No one can escape the wrath of the Elders. Not a single soul.”
“Then who can escape Yang Hao’s wrath?” Yang Hao wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. In his eyes was a smile—genuine, not a bitter one born of despair, but a confident smile from deep within, as if he were gazing down from the heavens upon all beings.
He De and his group had already appeared beside Yang Hao like rays of light. The experts of the Dan Ding Sect were destined to be immortalized in history.
“Kill! Kill!!” Wu Yi, his hair wild and disheveled, roared furiously.
The three hundred elders unleashed their attacks, and the Long You Legion fell like wheat before the scythe.
“He De!” Yang Hao shouted.
He De swung his long axe with all his might at the empty space before him. The slash was as merciless as a lover’s final farewell, cleaving through space itself.
All of He De’s strength was drained into that single strike.
The arrow wreathed in raging flames, an arrow forged from fire, fury, and hatred, transformed into black, malevolent fire in midair, surged once more with unstoppable momentum toward Wu Yi.
The four presiding elders stepped forward again to intercept it. But the boundless waves of heat, like vengeful spirits, enveloped them. The black, malevolent flames, even fiercer than before, began to backlash the moment they made contact.
What was even more despairing was Yang Hao’s Shadow Moon, which had already transformed into a thousand-mile killing current, rushing toward them.
The most formidable assassination technique in history, driven by a peak master of the Sacred Domain and propelled by the thousand-year sword elixir of the Alchemy Sect, was about to tear the blocking elders to shreds.
This time, the elders dared not underestimate it. At least three uninjured presiding elders summoned their treasures, including even a divine artifact, managing to block Shadow Moon.
Yet, the explosive fireballs rained down ten times in succession upon the elders’ heads.
Even the ever-calculating Tian Ce Elder had not anticipated that Yang Hao would unleash so many killing moves simultaneously. He poured his entire life’s cultivation into suppressing the explosion, barely managing to contain its devastation around himself.
But half of this elder’s body had already been blown to pieces, his life hanging by a thread.
For the first time, a presiding elder had been grievously wounded before their eyes, and the entire Elder Council erupted in horrified cries.
Yet Yang Hao, like a moth drawn to flame, charged straight into the midst of the elders.
“I’ll kill you!!!” Black Wind and Rong Rui, consumed by rage, immediately closed in for the kill.
But what awaited them was an endless torrent of fire-based arcane principles. The most potent black malevolent flames in the known world poured forth from Yang Hao’s body, transforming him into a god of fire, chanting an ancient song of utmost desolation. With every step he took, the malevolent flames grew stronger and more terrifying.
Eight presiding elders were engulfed by these flames, trapped in a dire predicament.
The three hundred elders tried to turn back to aid them but were held off by He De’s group and the Dragon Bless Legion.
All that could be seen were eight figures writhing within the flames, their voices unheard, their power fluctuations imperceptible. Yang Hao’s inferno had formed a domain of his own, one where no outsider could intervene.
Could it be that the Elder Council, which had endured for centuries, was truly about to fall? Could the so-called pinnacle masters of the universe, the presiding elders, truly be annihilated within these raging flames, destroyed by Yang Hao alone?
They were the disciples of the Supreme One, the strongest among the elders. To kill them, one must first understand why they had become the strongest.
Within the malevolent flames, the eight suddenly erupted with a radiant light—a power imprinted upon their very souls. This power fused together like the first glimmer of dawn at the world’s creation, yet it carried an inconceivable brilliance.
The light was brief but overwhelming. When it burst forth, it cleansed the eight elders of all corruption and extinguished the malevolent flames entirely.
Yang Hao, now like a disarmed warrior, stood exposed before them. At least five elders struck in unison, and Yang Hao, having exhausted all his tricks, spat a mouthful of blood as he was sent flying through the air.
Yet even then, Yang Hao laughed maniacally: “Si Tu Hai, I’ve surpassed you. It took eight of them to bring me down!!”
Si Tu Hai, barely clinging to life, watched the reckless yet indomitable Yang Hao and managed a faint smile.
Thus, the all-out battle between the eight presiding elders and Yang Hao ended in mutual devastation. The outcome: Yang Hao grievously wounded, three elders severely injured. By comparison, the Elder Council had suffered even greater losses. Now, the only one seemingly unharmed was Wu Yi.
But let it not be forgotten—from the very beginning until now, the Elder Council had always held the upper hand.
The three hundred elders and eight presiding elders held an overwhelming advantage in both numbers and power. The Hidden Dragon Pavilion relied solely on the individual prowess of Si Tu Hai and Yang Hao.
But even that prowess had reached its limit. The final outcome seemed unchanged.
Wu Yi’s body was scorched black, though his core remained intact. He glanced back at his comrades, their conditions wretched, devoid of the usual transcendent grace they displayed when killing.
Gnashing his teeth in fury, Wu Yi pointed at Yang Hao, who was slowly rising: “I’ll kill you. I’ll kill everyone here. None of you will escape. Not a single one can evade the wrath of the elders.”
“Then who,” Yang Hao wiped the blood from his lips, his eyes gleaming with amusement—not the bitter smile of one at death’s door, but genuine confidence, as if he were gazing down upon mortals from the clouds, “can escape Yang Hao’s wrath?”
He De and his companions had already gathered by Yang Hao’s side like beams of light. The masters of the Alchemy Sect were destined to be forever etched into history.
“Kill!! Kill!!!” Wu Yi, his hair disheveled, roared madly.
The three hundred elders unleashed their attacks, and the Dragon Bless Legion fell like wheat before a scythe.
“He De!” Yang Hao called.
He De raised his great axe and swung it with all his might at the empty space before him. The Golden-Splitting Strike, as merciless as a lover’s final farewell, cleaved through the void.
Every ounce of He De’s power was drained by that single swing.
A massive wormhole, accompanied by violent spatial fluctuations, appeared. Through its transparent yet distorted view, the other side revealed the Alchemy Sect’s sanctum—and directly opposite Yang Hao stood the physical body of the Supreme One.
Yang Hao drew his bow. The Flaming Rage Arrow of the Blazing Fusion Bow was fully drawn, poised to strike. Its tip aimed unerringly at the Supreme One’s body.
The wind stilled. Time froze.
Everything came to a standstill.
No further commands were needed. The elders’ swords could no longer be swung.
In this world, gods existed—but they were imprisoned. Those who imprisoned the gods became the only gods. The elders worshipped with all their hearts the deity now in Yang Hao’s crosshairs, the one beyond the wormhole.
The Supreme One!
The master of the universe, an existence none could challenge—even the nine presiding elders could only prostrate themselves at his feet.
And now, Yang Hao aimed the most powerful divine artifact in the cosmos at him.
Who dared move?
Who wasn’t afraid?
Yang Hao uttered words that sent even greater chills down their spines: “I’m injured. I can’t hold on much longer.”
Indeed, Yang Hao’s hand trembled. He appeared weak, swaying as if on the verge of collapse from blood loss.
Wu Yi’s lips were parched, his teeth clenched. He wanted to say:
“If you can’t hold on, just lower the bow.”
But that was impossible. If Yang Hao could no longer hold on, the only thing left was to release—to loose the arrow, to send that flame-wreathed projectile, a strike that required four elders to block, hurtling toward the defenseless, spiritless body of the Supreme One.
Wu Yi even felt the urge to kneel and beg.
But Yang Hao’s expression remained serene. Today’s confrontation was a death trap, an inescapable dead end. The only way out was to fight with the desperation of one already doomed. His fingers held the bowstring firmly. Even as Hun Yuan Zi repeatedly urged him to let go, even threatened him with the authority of a master, Yang Hao refused. For the first time, he defied his teacher.
Because Yang Hao bore responsibility. The ring bestowed upon him by the old Sword Saint was a duty—one passed down for five thousand years. This legacy was not merely the transfer of power but the obligation to protect the Hidden Dragon Pavilion and its unseen dragons.
Yang Hao could shoot—but he would not. The time was not yet right.
In his most exhausted, weakest voice, he advised Wu Yi: “Elder, today’s battle has left us all weary.”
Weary indeed. The battlefield was littered with the wounded, including seven of the eight presiding elders—among them the barely breathing Tian Ce Elder. Today’s battle, the Hidden Dragon Pavilion’s stand, had pushed the Elder Council to its limits. They had paid a price and nearly shattered the Pavilion’s final line of defense.
But they were weary.
“Go back,” Yang Hao continued. “There will be other days.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?” Wu Yi’s question was one Yang Hao had heard often.
“I do,” Yang Hao replied. “I am the heir of the Alchemy Sect. I am the leader of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion. This is my duty.”
Wu Yi’s pupils contracted, his gaze sharpening to its peak. Yet Yang Hao remained as calm and steady as ever, so much so that one might mistake him for an unshakable statue.
Finally, Wu Yi understood. The situation had completely reversed. Yang Hao had revealed his trump card—one that guaranteed victory. No matter what price the elders were willing to pay, the Supreme One was their bottom line. Even if all three hundred elders perished, even if the nine presiding elders fell, the Supreme One could not be toppled. The destruction of his physical form would mean the collapse of the Elder Council, the complete upheaval of the universe’s order.
Wu Yi turned. The wind rustled through the bare branches of the forest. He saw Si Tu Hai, his body a mangled ruin, blood pooling around him. He saw the swordsmen of the Dragon Bless Legion sitting on the ground, supporting one another, their blood mingling as if they were one.
He also saw the stunned expressions of the elders. He knew—this battle was lost. The enemy had won, albeit at great cost, but the Elder Council had been defeated.
Defeat must be acknowledged.
With a weary wave of his hand, Wu Yi signaled retreat. The elders trembled, some unwilling to believe it, yet forced to accept.
The few presiding elders still capable of action sighed deeply, gathered together, and formed a mobile barrier. As a brilliant light erupted from the barrier, the three hundred elders and eight presiding elders vanished, leaving behind a battlefield drenched in blood and a shattered star system—yet ultimately, they had achieved nothing.
Before departing, Wu Yi fixed Yang Hao with a gaze and said, “Young man, don’t forget—there is still tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Yang Hao nodded. “Every tomorrow is the beginning of another bloody battle.”
As Si Tu Hai collapsed onto the grass, the cold wind whistled through the gaping hole in his chest, swirling within his body—yet he felt no pain. The sight before him allowed him to finally set down his burdens. He lay comfortably on the grass, beckoning Yang Hao and the others with his eyes.
Everyone could see—this was Si Tu Hai’s final moment.
Once a brash, unrivaled genius swordsman in his youth, he was now a middle-aged man on the brink of death. His sword remained, his sword intent remained—all the sword techniques in the world were but child’s play in his eyes.
Si Tu Hai had mastered the essence of the sword. He was the god of swordsmanship, a peak none could surpass.
Yet he was about to die.
His shattered body could no longer bear his weight.
Si Tu Hai asked Long Yun: “Who am I?”
Long Yun drove his broadsword into the ground and roared, “You are Si Tu Hai—the universe’s greatest wandering swordsman!”
“And your friend. Your brother.” Si Tu Hai laughed. “I never seduced a brother’s wife. Long Yun, your wife came to me once, but I didn’t take her away. All these years, she might have been waiting for you to find her.”
Long Yun’s expression twisted. “You didn’t…?”
“I didn’t.” Si Tu Hai nodded. “Aside from Chang Rong, I never had another woman.”
Long Yun inhaled sharply, his eyes filled with regret—the kind that could never be undone. He could have kept this friend. He could have kept his wife. But jealousy and rage had robbed him of any chance to start over.
Si Tu Hai’s gaze drifted until it settled on He De. The old bear stood there, his height nearly matching Si Tu Hai’s seated form. Si Tu Hai smiled. “Old friend…”
“Old friend.” He De’s eyes glistened with tears.
“I miss those days. Together, we were invincible.” Si Tu Hai coughed up blood as he laughed.
“We still are.” He De reached out, as if to grasp Si Tu Hai’s fading life, but it was futile. “You are invincible.”
“The world is unfair. We were injured together, yet you returned to the Sacred Domain’s peak long ago. I… only now.” Si Tu Hai sighed. “Too late, isn’t it? Too late.”
“I had help,” He De said.
“I never did.” Si Tu Hai shook his head bitterly. “Old bear, will you help me?”
He De stiffened. He closed his eyes, but the tears flowed anyway. This weathered old saint, who thought he had long since cried his last, had saved his final tear for today.
Gripping his axe, he stomped the ground—once, twice—before finally nodding. “Yes. I’ll help you.”
Satisfied, Si Tu Hai turned to Yang Hao. With great effort, he raised his hand and grasped Yang Hao’s—the one bearing the black ring.
To Yang Hao’s surprise, Si Tu Hai said nothing. Instead, a surge of power, vast and overwhelming, poured from Si Tu Hai’s fingertips into Yang Hao’s body.
Caught off guard, Yang Hao could only grit his teeth as the energy and memories settled into his mind and flesh, merging seamlessly.
He had to bite down hard to keep from wailing in grief. He sensed it—this power, this spiritual imprint, was Si Tu Hai’s final epiphany, the culmination of his life’s mastery, the essence of swordsmanship passed from one genius to another.
And the secrets of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion, the keys to its hidden barriers—Si Tu Hai bequeathed them all to Yang Hao.
Such secrets needed no words.
When the transfer was complete, Yang Hao, grief-stricken and barely standing, choked out: “Why? Si Tu Hai… why?”
Why entrust all this to Yang Hao? Why pass on a lifetime’s worth of wisdom, of power, to a young man without reservation?
The flaming arrows, those accumulated from fire, rage, and hatred, transformed into black, malevolent flames in the air, surging once more with unstoppable momentum toward Wu Yi.
The four presiding elders stepped forward again to intercept them. But the boundless waves of heat, like vengeful spirits, enveloped them. The black malevolent flames, even fiercer than before, began to backlash the moment they made contact.
Even more despairing was Yang Hao’s Shadow Moon, which had already transformed into a thousand-mile killing current, rushing toward them.
The most formidable assassination technique in history, driven by a peak master of the Holy Domain and propelled by the thousand-year sword elixir of the Alchemy Sect, was about to tear the blocking elders to shreds.
This time, the elders dared not underestimate it. At least three uninjured elders summoned their treasures, including even a divine artifact, managing to halt Shadow Moon.
Yet, the explosive fireballs fell ten times in succession upon the elders’ heads.
Even the ever-calculating Tiance Elder had not anticipated that Yang Hao would unleash so many killing moves simultaneously. He poured his entire life’s cultivation into suppressing the explosive flames, barely managing to contain them around himself.
But half of this elder’s body had already been blown to pieces, his life hanging by a thread.
For the first time, an elder had been grievously wounded before their eyes, and the entire Elder Council erupted in horrified cries.
Yang Hao, like a moth drawn to flame, truly flew into the midst of the elders.
“I’ll kill you!!!” Black Wind and Rong Wei, consumed by fury, immediately closed in for the kill.
But what awaited them was an endless torrent of fire-based mysteries. The most powerful black malevolent flames in the known world poured from Yang Hao’s body, transforming him into a god of fire, chanting an ancient song of utmost desolation. With every step he took, the malevolent flames surged higher and stronger.
Eight presiding elders were engulfed by these flames, trapped in dire straits.
The three hundred elders wanted to turn back to aid them, but they were held back by He De’s group and the Dragon Bless Legion.
All that could be seen were eight figures writhing within the flames, their voices unheard, their power fluctuations imperceptible. Yang Hao’s inferno had formed a domain of his own, one that no outsider could interfere with.
Could it be that the Elder Council, which had endured for centuries, was truly about to fall? Could the so-called pinnacle elders of the universe truly be annihilated within these raging flames, destroyed by Yang Hao alone?
They were the disciples of the Supreme, the strongest among the elders. To kill them, one must first ask why they had become the strongest.
Within the malevolent flames, the eight suddenly erupted with radiance—the power imprinted upon their souls. This power fused together like the first glimmer of dawn at the world’s creation, yet it carried an inconceivable brilliance.
These lights, brief yet mighty, cleansed the eight elders as they burst forth, extinguishing the malevolent flames entirely.
Yang Hao, now like a disarmed warrior, stood exposed before the eight. At least five elders struck in unison, and Yang Hao, having exhausted all his tricks, spewed blood as he was sent flying through the air.
Yet even then, Yang Hao laughed maniacally: “Si Tu Hai, I’ve outdone you. It took eight of you to bring me down!!”
Si Tu Hai, barely clinging to life, watched the reckless yet indomitable Yang Hao and smiled faintly.
Thus, the all-out battle between the eight presiding elders and Yang Hao concluded in mutual devastation. The outcome: Yang Hao grievously wounded, three elders severely injured. By comparison, the Elder Council had suffered even greater losses—now, only Wu Yi remained unscathed.
But let it not be forgotten—from beginning to end, the Elder Council had always held the upper hand.
The three hundred elders and eight presiding elders held an overwhelming advantage in both numbers and power. The Hidden Dragon Pavilion relied solely on the individual prowess of Si Tu Hai and Yang Hao.
But even that prowess had reached its limit. The final outcome seemed unchanged.
Wu Yi, his body charred black, was fortunate that his core remained unharmed. He glanced back at his own side—their condition was pitiful, devoid of the transcendent grace they once wielded while killing.
Gnashing his teeth in fury, Wu Yi pointed at Yang Hao, who was slowly rising: “I will kill you. I will kill everyone here. None of you will escape. Not a single one can evade the wrath of the elders.”
“Then who,” Yang Hao wiped the blood from his lips, his eyes gleaming with amusement—not the bitter smile of one at death’s door, but genuine confidence, as if gazing down upon mortals from the clouds, “can escape Yang Hao’s wrath?”
He De’s group had already gathered by Yang Hao’s side like beams of light. The masters of the Alchemy Sect were destined to be forever etched into history.
“Kill!! Kill!!!” Wu Yi, his hair disheveled, roared madly.
The three hundred elders struck in unison, and the Dragon Bless Legion fell like wheat before a scythe.
“He De!” Yang Hao called.
He De raised his great axe and swung it with all his might at the empty space before him. The Golden-Splitting Cleave, like the most merciless parting between lovers, slashed through the void.
All of He De’s power was drained by this single strike.
A massive wormhole, accompanied by violent spatial fluctuations, appeared. Through its transparent yet distorted view, the other side revealed the Alchemy Sect’s cavern—Yang Hao’s bow aimed directly at the Supreme’s physical body.
Yang Hao drew his bow. The Fury Arrow of the Blazing Fusion Bow was fully drawn, poised to strike. Its tip pointed unerringly at the Supreme’s form.
The wind stilled. Time froze.
Everything came to a standstill.
No further commands were needed. The elders’ swords could no longer be swung.
In this world, gods existed—but they were imprisoned. Those who imprisoned the gods became the sole deity. The elders worshipped with all their hearts the divine being now in Yang Hao’s crosshairs—the Supreme.
The master of the cosmos, the unshakable pinnacle of existence—even the nine presiding elders could only prostrate at his feet.
And now, Yang Hao aimed the most powerful divine artifact in the universe at him.
Who dared move?
Who was not afraid?
Yang Hao uttered words that sent even greater chills down their spines: “I’m injured. I can’t hold on much longer.”
Indeed, Yang Hao’s hands trembled. He appeared weak, swaying from blood loss.
Wu Yi’s lips cracked as he bit down hard. He wanted to say:
“If you can’t hold on, then lower the bow.”
But that was impossible. If Yang Hao could no longer hold on, the only thing left was to release—to loose the arrow, to send this fury-laden strike, one that required four elders to intercept, hurtling toward the Supreme’s defenseless, spiritless body.
Wu Yi even felt the urge to kneel and beg.
But Yang Hao remained composed. Today’s standoff was a death trap—one that could only be escaped by embracing death to find life. His fingers held the bowstring firmly. Despite Hun Yuanzi’s countless demands to release it, even using his authority as a master to pressure him, Yang Hao refused. For the first time, he defied his master.
Because Yang Hao bore responsibility. The ring bestowed upon him by the old Sword Saint was a duty—one spanning five thousand years. This legacy was not merely the passing of power, but the charge to protect the Hidden Dragon Pavilion and its unseen dragons.
Yang Hao could shoot—but he would not. The time was not yet right.
In his most exhausted, weakest voice, he advised Wu Yi: “Elder, today’s battle has left us all weary.”
Weary indeed. The battlefield was littered with the wounded, including seven of the eight presiding elders—among them, the barely breathing Tiance Elder. Today’s battle, the Hidden Dragon Pavilion’s last stand, had pushed the Elder Council to its limits. They had paid a price and nearly shattered the Pavilion’s final line of defense.
But they were weary.
“Go back,” Yang Hao continued to advise. “There will be other days.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?” Wu Yi’s question was one Yang Hao often heard.
“I do,” Yang Hao replied. “I am the heir of the Alchemy Sect. I am the leader of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion. This is what I must do.”
Wu Yi’s pupils contracted, his gaze at its most piercing. Yet Yang Hao remained as steady as an unshakable statue.
At last, Wu Yi understood—today’s situation had completely reversed. Yang Hao had revealed his trump card, and it was an unbeatable one. No matter what price the elders were willing to pay, the Supreme was their bottom line. Even if all three hundred elders perished, even if the nine presiding elders died, the Supreme could not fall. The destruction of the Supreme’s body would mean the overturning of the Elder Council, the collapse of the cosmic order.
Wu Yi turned. The wind rustled through the bare branches of the forest. He saw Si Tu Hai, his body a mangled ruin, blood flowing like a river. He saw the swordsmen of the Dragon Bless Legion sitting on the ground, supporting one another, their blood mingling as if they were one.
He also saw the stunned expressions of the elders. He knew—this battle was lost. Though the enemy’s victory was pyrrhic, the Elder Council had been defeated.
Defeat must be acknowledged.
Wu Yi wearily waved his hand. The elders shuddered, some unwilling to believe, yet forced to accept.
The few elders still capable of action sighed deeply, gathered together, and erected a mobile barrier. As radiant light erupted from it, the three hundred elders and eight presiding elders vanished, leaving behind a sea of blood and a shattered star system—yet ultimately, they had achieved nothing.
Only before departing did Elder Wu Yi say to Yang Hao: “Young man, do not forget—there is still tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Yang Hao nodded. “Every tomorrow is the beginning of another bloody battle.”
As Si Tu Hai collapsed weakly, the cold wind whistled through the gaping hole in his chest, swirling within his body—yet he felt no pain. The sight before him allowed him to finally lay down his burdens. He reclined comfortably on the grass, beckoning Yang Hao and the others with his gaze.
Everyone could see—this was Si Tu Hai’s final moment.
Once a youthful, unrivaled genius swordsman, he was now a middle-aged man on death’s doorstep. His sword remained, his sword intent endured—yet all the sword arts of the world were but child’s play in his eyes.
Si Tu Hai had grasped the essence of the sword. He was the god of swordsmanship, a peak none could surpass.
But he was about to die.
His shattered body could no longer bear his weight.
Si Tu Hai asked Long Yun: “Who am I?”
Long Yun drove his broadsword into the ground and roared: “You are Si Tu Hai—the universe’s greatest wandering swordsman!”
“And your friend. Your brother.” Si Tu Hai laughed. “I never seduced a brother’s wife. Long Yun, your wife came to me—but I didn’t take her. All these years, perhaps she’s been waiting for you to find her.”
Long Yun’s expression twisted: “You didn’t—?”
“I didn’t.” Si Tu Hai nodded. “Aside from Chang Rong, there were no other women.”
Long Yun inhaled sharply, his eyes filled with regret—the kind that could never be undone. He could have kept this friend. He could have kept his wife. But jealousy and rage had robbed him of any chance to start anew.
Si Tu Hai’s gaze drifted until it landed on He De. The old bear stood there, his height nearly matching Si Tu Hai’s seated form. Si Tu Hai smiled: “Old friend…”
“Old friend.” Tears welled in He De’s eyes.
“How I miss those days. Together, we were invincible.” Si Tu Hai coughed up blood as he laughed.
“We still are.” He De reached out, as if to grasp Si Tu Hai’s fading life, but it was futile. “You are invincible.”
“The world is unfair. We were injured together, yet you returned to the peak of the Holy Domain long ago. I remained as I was.” Si Tu Hai sighed. “Too late now, isn’t it? Too late.”
“I had help,” He De said.
“I never did.” Si Tu Hai shook his head bitterly. “Old bear… will you help me?”
He De stiffened. He closed his eyes, but the tears flowed regardless. This aged saint, who had weathered countless storms, thought his tears had long dried—yet the last were reserved for today.
Gripping his axe, he stomped the ground—once, twice—before finally nodding: “Yes. I will help you.”
Satisfied, Si Tu Hai turned to Yang Hao, raising his hand with great effort.
He seized Yang Hao’s hand—the one bearing the black ring. To Yang Hao’s surprise, Si Tu Hai said nothing. Instead, a surge of power, vast and turbulent, poured from Si Tu Hai’s fingertips into Yang Hao’s body.
Yang Hao was caught off guard, but soon, that power and its accompanying thoughts settled into his mind and flesh as if finding a new home.
Yang Hao clenched his teeth to suppress his grief. He sensed it—this power, this spiritual imprint, was the essence of swordsmanship Si Tu Hai had grasped at life’s end. It was Si Tu Hai’s entire legacy, the passing of wisdom from one generation’s genius to the next.
And the secrets of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion—the means to unlock its hidden barriers—Si Tu Hai imparted them all to Yang Hao.
Such secrets needed no words.
When the transfer was complete, Yang Hao, overwhelmed by sorrow, nearly collapsed: “Why, Si Tu Hai? Why?”
Why bestow all this upon Yang Hao? Why pass a lifetime’s worth of hard-won enlightenment, unreservedly, to a young man?
The wind stilled. Time froze.
Everything came to a standstill.
No command needed to be issued; the elders could no longer raise their swords.
The arrows wreathed in raging flames, accumulated from fire, fury, and hatred, transformed into black, malevolent fire in the air, surging once more with unstoppable momentum toward Wu Yi.
The four presiding elders stepped forward again to intercept them. But the boundless heat waves, like vengeful spirits, enveloped them. The black, malevolent flames were even fiercer than before, and upon contact, they began to recoil and consume.
Even more despairing was Yang Hao’s Shadow Moon, which had already transformed into a thousand-mile killing current, rushing toward them.
The most formidable assassination technique in history, driven by a peak expert of the Holy Domain and propelled by the thousand-year Sword Pill of the Alchemy Sect, was about to tear the blocking elders to shreds.
This time, the elders dared not underestimate it. At least three completely uninjured elders summoned their treasures—one even a divine artifact—to block Shadow Moon.
But the explosive fireballs fell ten times in succession upon the elders’ heads.
Even the ever-calculating Tian Ce Elder had not anticipated that Yang Hao would unleash so many killing moves simultaneously. He poured his entire life’s cultivation into suppressing the explosion, barely containing its devastation around himself.
Yet half of this elder’s body had been blown apart, his life hanging by a thread.
For the first time, an elder had been grievously wounded before their eyes, and the entire Elder Council erupted in horrified cries.
Yang Hao, like a moth drawn to flame, charged into the midst of the elders.
“I’ll kill you!!!” Black Wind and Rong Wei, consumed by rage, immediately closed in for the kill.
But what awaited them was an endless torrent of fire-based arcane principles. The most potent black malevolent flames in the known world erupted from Yang Hao’s body, transforming him into a god of fire, chanting an ancient song of utmost desolation. With every step he took, the malevolent flames grew stronger and higher.
Eight elders were engulfed in these flames, trapped in a dire predicament.
The three hundred elders tried to turn back to aid them, but they were held off by He De and the Dragon Guard Legion.
All that could be seen were eight figures writhing within the flames—no sound, no fluctuations of power. Yang Hao’s inferno had formed a domain of his own, one where no outsider could intervene.
Could it be? Could the Elder Council, standing for centuries, truly be defeated? Could the so-called pinnacle elders of the universe truly be annihilated in these raging flames, destroyed by Yang Hao alone?
They were the disciples of the Supreme, the strongest among the elders. To kill them, one must first ask why they had become the strongest.
Within the malevolent flames, the eight suddenly erupted with light—power imprinted upon their souls. This power fused together like the first glimmer of dawn at the world’s creation, yet carrying an inconceivable radiance.
The light was brief but overwhelming. When it burst forth, it purified the eight and extinguished the malevolent flames entirely.
Yang Hao, now like a disarmed warrior, stood exposed before them. At least five elders struck in unison. Yang Hao, having exhausted all his tricks, spat a mouthful of blood and was sent flying through the air.
Yet even then, Yang Hao laughed wildly: “Si Tu Hai, I’ve surpassed you. It took eight of them to bring me down!!”
Si Tu Hai, barely clinging to life, watched the reckless yet indomitable Yang Hao and smiled faintly.
Thus, the all-out battle between the eight elders and Yang Hao ended in mutual devastation. The result: Yang Hao grievously wounded, three elders severely injured. By comparison, the Elder Council suffered greater losses—only Wu Yi remained unscathed.
But let it not be forgotten—from the very beginning until now, the Elder Council had always held the upper hand.
Three hundred elders and eight presiding elders—whether in numbers or power, they held an overwhelming advantage. The Hidden Dragon Pavilion relied solely on the individual prowess of Si Tu Hai and Yang Hao.
But even that prowess had reached its limit. The final outcome seemed unchanged.
Wu Yi, his body scorched black but his core unharmed, turned to see his own forces in wretched condition, devoid of their usual transcendent grace in battle.
Gnashing his teeth in fury, Wu Yi pointed at Yang Hao, who was slowly rising: “I will kill you. I will kill everyone here. None of you will escape. Not a single one can evade the wrath of the elders.”
“Then who,” Yang Hao wiped the blood from his lips, his eyes gleaming with amusement—not the bitter smile of despair, but genuine confidence, as if gazing down upon the world from the clouds, “can escape Yang Hao’s wrath?”
He De and his companions had already appeared beside Yang Hao like streaks of light. The masters of the Alchemy Sect were destined to be forever etched in history.
“Kill!! Kill!!!” Wu Yi, his hair disheveled, roared madly.
The three hundred elders struck in unison, and the Dragon Guard Legion fell like wheat before a scythe.
“He De!” Yang Hao called.
He De raised his great axe and swung it with all his might at the empty air before him. The Golden-Splitting Strike, like the cruelest severance between lovers, cleaved through space itself.
All of He De’s power was drained in that single swing.
A massive wormhole erupted with violent fluctuations. Through its transparent, distorted passage, the other side revealed the Alchemy Sect’s sanctuary—and directly opposite Yang Hao, the Supreme’s physical body.
Yang Hao drew his bow. The Flaming Fury Arrow of the Blazing Fusion Bow was fully drawn, ready to unleash. The arrow’s tip was aimed squarely at the Supreme’s body.
The wind stilled. Time froze.
Everything came to a standstill.
No further commands were needed. The elders’ swords could no longer be swung.
In this world, gods existed—but they were imprisoned. Those who imprisoned the gods became the only gods. The elders worshipped with all their hearts the deity now in Yang Hao’s crosshairs beyond the wormhole.
The Supreme!
The master of the universe, the unshakable pinnacle of existence—even the nine presiding elders could only prostrate themselves at his feet.
Yet now, he was being targeted by the most powerful divine artifact in the cosmos, wielded by Yang Hao.
Who dared move?
Who was not afraid?
Yang Hao uttered words that sent even greater chills down their spines: “I’m injured. I can’t hold on much longer.”
Indeed, Yang Hao’s hands trembled. He seemed weak, swaying from blood loss.
Wu Yi’s lips cracked as he bit down hard. He wanted to say:
“If you can’t hold on, then lower the bow.”
But that was impossible. If Yang Hao could no longer hold on, the only thing left was to release—to loose the arrow, to send this fury-laden strike, one that required four elders to block, straight into the Supreme’s defenseless, spiritless body.
Wu Yi even felt the urge to kneel and beg.
But Yang Hao remained calm. Today’s situation was a death trap—one with no escape except through desperate measures. His fingers held the bowstring firmly. Even as Hun Yuanzi repeatedly urged him to let go, even threatening him with his master’s authority, Yang Hao refused. For the first time, he defied his master.
Because Yang Hao had a responsibility. The ring bestowed upon him by the old Sword Saint was a duty—one passed down for five thousand years. This legacy was not just the transfer of power, but the charge to protect the Hidden Dragon Pavilion and its unseen dragons.
Yang Hao could shoot—but he would not. The time was not yet right.
In the most exhausted, weakest voice, he advised Wu Yi: “Elder, today’s battle has left us all weary.”
Weary indeed. The battlefield was littered with the wounded—even seven of the eight presiding elders, including the barely breathing Tian Ce Elder. Today’s battle, the Hidden Dragon Pavilion’s stand, had pushed the Elder Council to its limits. They had paid a price and nearly shattered the Pavilion’s final line of defense.
But they were weary.
“Go back,” Yang Hao continued. “There will be other days.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?” Wu Yi asked—a question often posed to Yang Hao.
“I do,” Yang Hao replied. “I am the heir of the Alchemy Sect. I am the leader of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion. This is what I must do.”
Wu Yi’s pupils contracted, his gaze sharpening to its peak. Yet Yang Hao remained as composed and steady as an unshakable statue.
Finally, Wu Yi understood. The situation had completely reversed. Yang Hao had revealed his trump card—one that guaranteed victory. No matter what price the elders were willing to pay, the Supreme was their bottom line. Even if all three hundred elders perished, even if the nine presiding elders fell, the Supreme could not be toppled. The destruction of his body would mean the collapse of the Elder Council and the complete upheaval of the cosmic order.
Wu Yi turned. The wind rustled through the bare branches of the forest. He saw Si Tu Hai, his body a mangled ruin, blood pooling like a river. He saw the swordsmen of the Dragon Guard Legion sitting on the ground, supporting one another, their blood mingling as if they were one.
He also saw the dazed expressions of the elders. He knew this battle was lost. Though the enemy’s victory was pyrrhic, the Elder Council had still lost.
To lose was to admit defeat.
Wu Yi wearily waved his hand. The elders shuddered, some unwilling to believe, yet forced to accept.
The few elders still capable of action sighed deeply, gathered, and formed a mobile barrier. As brilliant light erupted from it, the three hundred elders and eight presiding elders vanished, leaving behind a sea of blood and a shattered star system—yet ultimately, they had achieved nothing.
Only before departing did Elder Wu Yi say to Yang Hao: “Young man, do not forget—there is still tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Yang Hao nodded. “Every tomorrow is the start of another bloody battle.”
When Si Tu Hai collapsed weakly, the cold wind whistled through the gaping hole in his chest, swirling within his body—yet he felt no pain. The sight before him allowed him to finally lay down his burden. He settled comfortably onto the grass, beckoning Yang Hao and the others with his gaze.
Everyone could see—this was Si Tu Hai’s final moment.
Once a brash, unrivaled genius swordsman in his youth, he was now a middle-aged man on the brink of death. His sword remained, his sword intent remained. To him, all sword techniques in the world were but child’s play.
Si Tu Hai had mastered the essence of the sword. He was the god of swordsmanship, the pinnacle none could surpass.
Yet he was about to die.
His shattered body could no longer bear his weight.
Si Tu Hai asked Long Yun: “Who am I?”
Long Yun drove his broadsword deep into the earth and roared: “You are Si Tu Hai—the universe’s greatest wandering swordsman!”
“And your friend. Your brother.” Si Tu Hai laughed. “I never seduced a brother’s wife. Long Yun, your wife came to me, but I didn’t take her away. All these years, she might have been waiting for you to find her.”
Long Yun’s expression twisted: “You didn’t…?”
“I didn’t.” Si Tu Hai nodded. “After Chang Rong, there were no other women.”
Long Yun inhaled sharply, his eyes filled with regret—the kind that could never be undone. He could have kept both his friend and his wife, but jealousy and rage had robbed him of any chance to make amends.
Si Tu Hai’s gaze drifted until it landed on He De. The old bear stood there, nearly eye-level with the seated Si Tu Hai. Si Tu Hai smiled: “Old friend…”
“Old friend.” He De’s eyes brimmed with tears.
“I miss those days. Together, we were invincible.” Si Tu Hai coughed up blood as he laughed.
“We still are.” He De reached out, as if to grasp Si Tu Hai’s fading life, but it was futile. “You are invincible.”
“The world is unfair. We were injured together, yet you returned to the peak of the Holy Domain long ago. I… only now.” Si Tu Hai sighed. “Too late, isn’t it? Too late.”
“I had help,” He De said.
“I never did.” Si Tu Hai shook his head bitterly. “Old bear… will you help me?”
He De stiffened. He closed his eyes, but the tears flowed anyway. This weathered old saint had thought his tears long dried—yet the last drop was shed today.
Gripping his axe, he stomped the ground—once, twice—before finally nodding: “Yes. I will help you.”
Satisfied, Si Tu Hai turned back to Yang Hao. With great effort, he raised his hand.
He clasped Yang Hao’s hand—the one bearing the black ring. To Yang Hao’s surprise, Si Tu Hai said nothing. Instead, a surge of power and thought erupted from Si Tu Hai’s fingertips, flooding into Yang Hao’s body.
Yang Hao was caught off guard, but soon, that power and consciousness seemed to find a new home, merging seamlessly within his mind and flesh.
Yang Hao clenched his teeth to stifle his grief. He sensed it—this power, this spiritual imprint, was the essence of swordsmanship Si Tu Hai had grasped at life’s end. It was all of Si Tu Hai’s might, the legacy of one genius swordsman to another.
And the secrets of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion—the means to unlock its hidden barriers—Si Tu Hai passed them all to Yang Hao.
Such secrets needed no words.
When the transfer was complete, Yang Hao, overwhelmed with sorrow, nearly collapsed: “Why, Si Tu Hai? Why?”
Why bestow all this upon Yang Hao? The wisdom bought with a life, the culmination of a lifetime—why give it all, unreservedly, to a young man?
The arrow wreathed in raging flames, the arrow accumulated from fire, fury, and hatred, transformed into black, malevolent flames in midair, surging once more with unstoppable momentum toward Wu Yi.
The four presiding elders stepped forward again to intercept it. But the boundless waves of heat, like vengeful ghosts, enveloped them. The black, malevolent flames, even fiercer than before, began to backlash the moment they made contact.
Even more despairing was Yang Hao’s Shadowmoon, which had already transformed into a thousand-mile killing current, rushing toward them.
The most formidable assassination technique in history, driven by a peak master of the Holy Domain and propelled by the thousand-year sword elixir of the Alchemy Sect, was about to tear the blocking elders to shreds.
This time, the elders dared not underestimate it. At least three completely uninjured presiding elders summoned their treasures, one of which was even a divine artifact, managing to block Shadowmoon.
But the explosive fireballs fell ten times in succession upon the elders’ heads.
Even the ever-calculating Tian Ce Elder had not anticipated that Yang Hao would unleash so many killing moves simultaneously. He poured his entire life’s cultivation into suppressing the explosive flames, barely managing to contain them around himself.
Yet half of this elder’s body had already been blown to pieces, his life hanging by a thread.
For the first time, a presiding elder had been grievously wounded before their eyes, and the entire Elder Council erupted in horrified cries.
But Yang Hao, like a moth drawn to flame, truly flew into the midst of the presiding elders.
“I’ll kill you!!!” Black Wind and Rong Rui, consumed by rage, immediately closed in for the kill.
What awaited them, however, was an endless torrent of fire-based arcane principles. The most powerful black, malevolent flames in the known world poured forth from Yang Hao’s body, transforming him into a god of flames, chanting an ancient song of utmost desolation. With every step he took, the malevolent flames grew higher and stronger.
Eight presiding elders were engulfed by these flames, trapped in dire straits.
The three hundred elders tried to turn back to aid them, but they were held off by He De’s group and the Dragon Bless Legion.
All that could be seen were eight figures writhing within the flames, their voices unheard, their power fluctuations imperceptible. Yang Hao’s inferno had formed a domain of his own, one where no outsider could intervene.
Could it be that the Elder Council, which had endured for centuries, was truly about to fall? Could the presiding elders, hailed as the pinnacle of the universe, truly be annihilated within these raging flames, by Yang Hao’s hand alone?
They were the disciples of the Supreme One, the strongest among the elders. To kill them, one must first ask why they had become the strongest.
Within the malevolent flames, these eight suddenly erupted with radiance—the power imprinted upon their souls. This power fused together like the first glimmer of dawn at the world’s creation, yet carried an inconceivable brilliance.
These lights, brief yet overwhelming, cleansed the eight elders of the flames’ corruption and extinguished the malevolent fire entirely.
Yang Hao, now like a warrior stripped of his weapons, stood exposed before the eight. At least five presiding elders struck in unison, forcing Yang Hao, who had already exhausted his tricks, to cough up blood as he was sent flying through the air.
Yet even then, Yang Hao laughed wildly: “Si Tu Hai, I’ve outdone you. It took eight to bring me down!!”
Si Tu Hai, who was barely clinging to life, watched the reckless yet indomitable Yang Hao and managed a faint smile.
Thus, the all-out battle between the eight presiding elders and Yang Hao concluded in mutual devastation. The outcome: Yang Hao was severely wounded, while three elders were grievously injured. By comparison, the Elder Council had suffered far greater losses. Now, the only one left unscathed seemed to be Wu Yi.
But let it not be forgotten—from beginning to end, the Elder Council still held the upper hand.
The three hundred elders and eight presiding elders held an overwhelming advantage in both numbers and power. The Hidden Dragon Pavilion relied solely on the individual prowess of Si Tu Hai and Yang Hao.
But even that prowess had reached its limit. The final outcome seemed unchanged.
Wu Yi, his body charred black but his core unharmed, glanced back at his comrades, their wretched state a far cry from the transcendent grace they once displayed when killing.
Gnashing his teeth in fury, Wu Yi pointed at Yang Hao, who was slowly rising: “I will kill you. I will kill everyone here. None of you will escape. Not a single one can evade the wrath of the elders.”
“Then who,” Yang Hao wiped the blood from his lips, his eyes gleaming with amusement—not the bitter smile of despair, but genuine confidence, as if he were gazing down upon mortals from the clouds, “can evade Yang Hao’s wrath?”
He De and his companions had already gathered by Yang Hao’s side like beams of light. The masters of the Alchemy Sect were destined to be forever etched into history.
“Kill!! Kill!!!” Wu Yi, his hair disheveled, roared madly.
The three hundred elders unleashed their attacks, and the Dragon Bless Legion fell like wheat before a scythe.
“He De!” Yang Hao called.
He De swung his great axe with all his might, cleaving through the void before him. The Sundering Gold technique, as merciless as a lover’s final severance, tore through space itself.
Every ounce of He De’s power was drained by that single strike.
A massive wormhole, accompanied by violent spatial distortions, appeared. Through its transparent yet warped aperture, the other side revealed the Alchemy Sect’s sanctum—and directly opposite Yang Hao, the Supreme One’s physical body.
Yang Hao drew his bow. The Flaming Fury Arrow of the Blaze Bow was fully drawn, ready to unleash its wrath. Its tip was aimed squarely at the Supreme One’s body.
The wind stilled. Time froze.
Everything came to a standstill.
No further orders were needed. The elders’ swords could no longer be swung.
In this world, gods existed—but they were imprisoned. Those who imprisoned the gods became the only gods. The elders worshipped with all their hearts the deity now in Yang Hao’s crosshairs beyond the wormhole.
The Supreme One!
The master of the universe, the unshakable pinnacle of existence—even the nine presiding elders could only prostrate themselves at his feet.
And now, Yang Hao had the universe’s most powerful divine artifact trained upon him.
Who dared move?
Who was not afraid?
Yang Hao uttered words that sent even greater chills down their spines: “I’m injured. I can’t hold on much longer.”
Indeed, his hands trembled. He seemed weak, swaying from blood loss.
Wu Yi’s lips cracked as he bit down hard. He wanted to say:
“If you can’t hold on, then lower the bow.”
But that was impossible. If Yang Hao could no longer hold on, the only thing left was to release—to loose the arrow, to send this wrathful projectile, which required four elders to intercept, straight into the Supreme One’s defenseless, spiritless body.
Wu Yi even felt the urge to kneel and beg.
But Yang Hao remained calm. Today’s standoff was a death trap, an inescapable dead end. The only way out was to stake everything on a desperate gamble. His fingers held the bowstring firmly. Even as Hun Yuanzi repeatedly urged him to let go, even threatening him with his master’s authority, Yang Hao refused. For the first time, he defied his master.
Because Yang Hao had a responsibility. The ring bestowed upon him by the old Sword Saint was a duty—one that had lasted five thousand years. This legacy was not just the passing of power, but the charge to protect the Hidden Dragon Pavilion and its unseen dragons.
Yang Hao could shoot—but he would not. The time was not yet right.
In his most exhausted, weakest voice, he advised Wu Yi: “Elder, today’s battle has left us all weary.”
Weary indeed. The battlefield was littered with the wounded, including seven of the eight presiding elders—among them, the barely breathing Tian Ce Elder. Today’s battle, the Hidden Dragon Pavilion’s last stand, had pushed the Elder Council to its limits. They had paid a price and nearly shattered the Pavilion’s final defenses.
But they were weary.
“Go back,” Yang Hao continued. “There will be other days.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?” Wu Yi’s question was one Yang Hao had heard often.
“I do,” Yang Hao replied. “I am the heir of the Alchemy Sect. I am the leader of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion. This is my duty.”
Wu Yi’s pupils contracted, his gaze reaching its peak intensity. Yet Yang Hao remained as steady as an unshakable statue.
At last, Wu Yi understood. The tables had turned completely. Yang Hao had revealed his trump card—one that guaranteed victory. No matter what price the elders were willing to pay, the Supreme One was the Elder Council’s bottom line. Even if all three hundred elders perished, even if the nine presiding elders fell, the Supreme One could not be toppled. The destruction of his body would mean the collapse of the Elder Council, the overturning of the universe’s order.
Wu Yi turned. The wind whistled through the barren branches of the forest. He saw Si Tu Hai, his body a mangled ruin, his blood a river. He saw the swordsmen of the Dragon Bless Legion sitting on the ground, supporting one another, their blood mingling as if they were one.
He also saw the stunned expressions of the elders. He knew this battle was lost. Though the enemy’s victory was pyrrhic, the Elder Council had been defeated.
Defeat must be acknowledged.
With a weary wave, Wu Yi signaled retreat. The elders shuddered, some unwilling to believe, yet forced to accept.
The few presiding elders still capable of action sighed deeply, gathered, and erected a mobile barrier. As radiant light erupted from the formation, the three hundred elders and eight presiding elders vanished, leaving behind a sea of blood and a shattered star system—yet ultimately, they had achieved nothing.
Before departing, Wu Yi locked eyes with Yang Hao: “Young man, remember—there is always tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Yang Hao nodded. “Every tomorrow is the start of another bloody battle.”
As Si Tu Hai slumped to the ground, the cold wind whistled through the gaping wound in his chest, swirling within his body—yet he felt no pain. The sight before him allowed him to finally set down his burdens. He lay comfortably on the grass, beckoning Yang Hao and the others with his gaze.
All could see—this was Si Tu Hai’s final moment.
Once a brash, peerless genius swordsman, he was now a middle-aged man on death’s doorstep. His sword remained, his sword intent remained. To him, all the world’s sword techniques were but child’s play.
Si Tu Hai had mastered the essence of the sword. He was the god of swordsmanship, unrivaled, the pinnacle of the blade.
Yet he was about to die.
His shattered body could no longer bear his weight.
Si Tu Hai asked Long Yun: “Who am I?”
Long Yun drove his broadsword into the earth and roared: “You are Si Tu Hai, the universe’s greatest wandering swordsman!”
“And your friend. Your brother.” Si Tu Hai laughed. “I never seduced a brother’s wife. Long Yun, your wife came to me—but I didn’t take her. All these years, she might have been waiting for you.”
Long Yun’s expression twisted: “You didn’t…?”
“I didn’t.” Si Tu Hai nodded. “After Chang Rong, there were no other women.”
Long Yun inhaled sharply, his eyes filled with regret—the kind that could never be undone. He could have kept this friend. He could have kept his wife. But jealousy’s fury had robbed him of any chance to make amends.
Si Tu Hai’s wandering gaze settled on He De. The old bear stood tall, nearly eye-level with the seated swordsman. Si Tu Hai smiled: “Old friend…”
“Old friend.” He De’s eyes glistened.
“I miss those days. Together, we were invincible.” Si Tu Hai coughed up blood as he laughed.
“We still are.” He De reached out, as if to grasp Si Tu Hai’s fading life, but in vain. “You are invincible.”
“The world is unfair. We both got hurt, but you returned to the Holy Domain’s peak so quickly. Me? Only now.” Si Tu Hai sighed. “Too late, isn’t it? Too late.”
“I had help,” He De said.
“I never did.” Si Tu Hai shook his head bitterly. “Old bear… will you help me?”
He De stiffened. He shut his eyes, but tears flowed regardless. This weathered old saint had thought his tears long dried—yet the last were shed today.
Gripping his axe, he stomped the ground—once, twice—before nodding: “Yes. I’ll help you.”
Satisfied, Si Tu Hai turned to Yang Hao, raising a trembling hand.
He clasped Yang Hao’s black-ringed hand. To Yang Hao’s surprise, Si Tu Hai said nothing. Instead, a surge of power—vast and turbulent—poured from Si Tu Hai’s fingertips into Yang Hao’s body.
Caught off guard, Yang Hao soon felt that power and consciousness settle within him, merging with his mind and flesh.
Yang Hao clenched his teeth to stifle his grief. He realized—this power, this spiritual imprint, was the essence of swordsmanship Si Tu Hai had grasped at life’s end. It was Si Tu Hai’s legacy, the passing of one generation’s genius to the next.
And the secrets of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion, the keys to its hidden barriers—Si Tu Hai entrusted them all to Yang Hao.
Such secrets needed no words.
When the transfer was complete, Yang Hao, overwhelmed by sorrow, nearly collapsed: “Why, Si Tu Hai? Why?”
Why bestow all this upon Yang Hao? Why pass a lifetime’s worth of hard-won wisdom, unreservedly, to a young man?
The ruler of the universe, an unshakable throne. Even the Nine Great Elder Stewards could only kneel before him.
The arrows wreathed in raging flames, accumulated from fire, fury, and hatred, transformed into black, malevolent fire in midair, surging toward Wu Yi once more with unstoppable momentum.
The four presiding elders stepped forward again to intercept them. But the boundless waves of heat, like vengeful ghosts, enveloped them. The black, malevolent flames, even fiercer than before, began to backlash the moment they made contact.
Even more despairing was the fact that Yang Hao’s Shadow Moon had already transformed into a thousand-mile killing current, rushing toward them.
The most formidable assassination technique in history, driven by a peak master of the Sacred Domain and propelled by the thousand-year sword elixir of the Alchemy Sect, was about to tear the obstructing elders to pieces.
This time, the elders dared not underestimate it. At least three completely uninjured elders summoned their treasures, one of which was even a divine artifact, managing to block Shadow Moon.
But the explosive fireballs fell ten times in succession upon the elders’ heads.
Even Elder Tian Ce, who had never miscalculated before, had not anticipated that Yang Hao would unleash so many killing moves simultaneously. He poured his entire life’s cultivation into suppressing the explosive flames, barely managing to contain them around himself.
Yet half of this elder’s body had already been blown to pieces, his life hanging by a thread.
For the first time, an elder had been grievously wounded before their eyes, and the entire Elder Council erupted in horrified cries.
But Yang Hao, like a moth drawn to flame, charged straight into the midst of the elders.
“I’ll kill you!!!” Black Wind and Rong Rui, consumed by rage, immediately closed in to attack.
But what awaited them was an endless torrent of fire-based arcane techniques. The most potent black, malevolent flames in the known world erupted from Yang Hao’s body, transforming him into a god of fire, singing an ancient, desolate hymn. With every step he took, the malevolent flames surged higher and stronger.
Eight elders were engulfed in these flames, trapped in a dire predicament.
The three hundred elders wanted to turn back to aid them, but they were held at bay by He De and the Dragon Guard Corps.
All that could be seen were eight figures writhing within the flames, their voices unheard, their power undetectable. Yang Hao’s inferno had formed a domain of his own, one that no outsider could interfere with.
Could it be that the Elder Council, which had endured for centuries, was truly about to fall? Could the elders, hailed as the pinnacle of the universe, truly be annihilated within these raging flames, destroyed by Yang Hao alone?
They were the disciples of the Supreme, the strongest among the elders. To kill them, one must first ask why they had become the strongest.
Within the malevolent flames, the eight suddenly erupted with light—a power imprinted upon their very souls. This power fused together like the first glimmer of dawn at the beginning of the world, yet it carried an inconceivable brilliance.
The light was brief but overwhelming. When it burst forth, it cleansed the eight elders of all corruption and extinguished the malevolent flames entirely.
Yang Hao, now stripped of his defenses, stood exposed before the eight. At least five elders struck in unison, and Yang Hao, having exhausted all his tricks, spat a mouthful of blood as he was sent flying through the air.
Yet even then, Yang Hao laughed maniacally: “Si Tu Hai, I’ve surpassed you. It took eight of them to bring me down!!”
Si Tu Hai, barely clinging to life, watched the reckless yet indomitable Yang Hao and smiled faintly.
Thus, the all-out battle between the eight elders and Yang Hao ended in mutual devastation. The outcome: Yang Hao was severely wounded, while three elders were grievously injured. By comparison, the Elder Council had suffered even greater losses. Now, the only one seemingly unharmed was Wu Yi.
But let it not be forgotten—from the very beginning until now, the Elder Council had always held the upper hand.
The three hundred elders and the eight presiding elders held an overwhelming advantage in both numbers and power. The Hidden Dragon Pavilion relied solely on the individual prowess of Si Tu Hai and Yang Hao.
But even that prowess had reached its limit. The final outcome seemed unchanged.
Wu Yi’s body was scorched black, though his core remained intact. He turned to survey his comrades—their wretched state a far cry from the transcendent grace they once displayed when executing their foes.
Gnashing his teeth in fury, Wu Yi pointed at Yang Hao, who was slowly rising to his feet: “I will kill you. I will kill everyone here. None of you will escape. Not a single one will evade the wrath of the elders.”
“Then who,” Yang Hao wiped the blood from his lips, his eyes gleaming with amusement—not the bitter smile of one at the brink of despair, but the confident grin of one looking down upon the world from the clouds, “can escape Yang Hao’s wrath?”
He De and his companions had already gathered by Yang Hao’s side like beams of light. The masters of the Alchemy Sect were destined to be forever etched into history.
“Kill!! Kill!!!” Wu Yi, his hair disheveled, roared madly.
The three hundred elders unleashed their attacks, and the Dragon Guard Corps fell like wheat before a scythe.
“He De!” Yang Hao called.
He De raised his great axe and swung it with all his might at the empty space before him. The Golden-Splitting Strike, as ruthless as a lover’s final severance, cleaved through the void.
Every ounce of He De’s power was drained by that single swing.
A massive wormhole, accompanied by violent spatial distortions, appeared. Through its transparent yet warped aperture, the other side revealed the Alchemy Sect’s sanctuary—and directly opposite Yang Hao stood the Supreme’s physical body.
Yang Hao drew his bow. The Fury Arrow of the Blazing Bow was fully drawn, ready to unleash its wrath. The arrow’s tip was aimed squarely at the Supreme’s body.
The wind stilled. Time froze.
Everything came to a standstill.
No further commands were needed. The elders’ swords could no longer be swung.
Gods existed in this world, but they were imprisoned—and those who imprisoned them became the only gods. The elders worshipped with all their hearts the deity now in Yang Hao’s crosshairs beyond the wormhole.
The Supreme!
The master of the universe, an existence none could challenge—even the nine presiding elders could only prostrate themselves at his feet.
And now, Yang Hao was pointing the most powerful divine artifact in the universe at him.
Who dared move?
Who was not afraid?
Yang Hao uttered words that sent even greater chills down their spines: “I’m injured. I can’t hold on much longer.”
Indeed, Yang Hao’s hands trembled. He appeared weak, swaying as if on the verge of collapse from blood loss.
Wu Yi’s lips were parched, his teeth clenched. He wanted to say:
“If you can’t hold on, just lower the bow.”
But that was impossible. If Yang Hao could no longer hold on, the only thing left for him to do was release—to loose the arrow, to send that flame-wreathed projectile, a strike that required four elders to block, straight into the Supreme’s defenseless, spiritless body.
Wu Yi even felt the urge to kneel and beg.
But Yang Hao remained calm. Today’s confrontation was a death trap, an inescapable dead end. The only way out was to fight with the desperation of one already doomed. His fingers held the bowstring firmly. Even as Hun Yuanzi repeatedly urged him to let go, even as his master’s authority pressed down on him, Yang Hao refused. For the first time, he defied his master.
Because Yang Hao had a responsibility. The ring bestowed upon him by the old Sword Saint was a duty—one that had spanned five thousand years. This legacy was not merely the transfer of power, but the charge to protect the Hidden Dragon Pavilion and its unseen dragons.
Yang Hao could shoot—but he would not. The time was not yet right.
In his most exhausted, weakest voice, he advised Wu Yi: “Elder, today’s battle has left us all weary.”
Weary indeed. The battlefield was littered with the wounded, including seven of the eight presiding elders—among them Elder Tian Ce, who was on the brink of death. Today’s battle, the Hidden Dragon Pavilion’s last stand, had pushed the Elder Council to its limits. They had paid a price and nearly shattered the Pavilion’s final defenses.
But they were weary.
“Go back,” Yang Hao continued. “There will be other days.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?” Wu Yi asked—a question Yang Hao had heard many times before.
“I do,” Yang Hao replied. “I am the heir of the Alchemy Sect. I am the leader of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion. This is my duty.”
Wu Yi’s pupils contracted, his gaze sharpening to its peak intensity. Yet Yang Hao remained as composed and steady as an unshakable statue.
Finally, Wu Yi understood. The situation had completely reversed. Yang Hao had revealed his trump card—one that guaranteed victory. No matter what price the elders were willing to pay, the Supreme was their bottom line. Even if all three hundred elders perished, even if the nine presiding elders fell, the Supreme could not be toppled. The destruction of the Supreme’s body would mean the collapse of the Elder Council, the overturning of the universe’s very order.
Wu Yi turned. The wind rustled through the bare branches of the forest. He saw Si Tu Hai, his body a mangled ruin, lying in a pool of blood. He saw the swordsmen of the Dragon Guard Corps sitting on the ground, supporting one another, their blood mingling as if they were one.
He also saw the dazed expressions of the elders. He knew—this battle was lost. The enemy had won, albeit at great cost, but the Elder Council had lost.
To lose was to concede.
Wu Yi wearily waved his hand. The elders shuddered, some unwilling to believe, yet forced to accept.
The few elders still capable of action sighed deeply, gathered together, and formed a mobile barrier. When the radiant light of the barrier erupted, the three hundred elders and the eight presiding elders vanished, leaving behind a battlefield drenched in blood and a shattered star system—yet ultimately, they had achieved nothing.
Just before departing, Elder Wu Yi looked at Yang Hao and said, “Young man, do not forget—there is still tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Yang Hao nodded. “Every tomorrow is the beginning of another bloody battle.”
As Si Tu Hai slumped to the ground, a cold wind whistled through the gaping hole in his chest, swirling within his body—yet he felt no pain. The sight before him allowed him to finally set down his burden. He lay comfortably on the grass, beckoning Yang Hao and the others with his gaze.
Everyone could see—this was Si Tu Hai’s final moment.
Once a reckless, unrivaled genius swordsman in his youth, he was now a middle-aged man on the brink of death. His sword remained, his sword intent remained. To him, all the sword techniques in the world were but child’s play.
Si Tu Hai had mastered the essence of the sword. He was the god of swordsmanship, a peak none could surpass.
Yet he was about to die.
His shattered body could no longer bear his weight.
Si Tu Hai asked Long Yun, “Who am I?”
Long Yun drove his broadsword into the ground and roared, “You are Si Tu Hai—the universe’s greatest wandering swordsman!”
“And your friend. Your brother.” Si Tu Hai laughed. “I never seduced a brother’s wife. Long Yun, your wife came to me once, but I didn’t take her away. All these years, she might have been waiting for you to find her.”
Long Yun’s expression twisted. “You didn’t…?”
“I didn’t.” Si Tu Hai nodded. “Aside from Chang Rong, I’ve never been with another woman.”
Long Yun inhaled sharply, his eyes filled with regret—the kind that could never be undone. He could have kept both his friend and his wife, but jealousy and rage had robbed him of that chance forever.
Si Tu Hai’s gaze wandered until it settled on He De. The old bear stood there, his height nearly matching Si Tu Hai’s seated form. Si Tu Hai smiled. “Old friend…”
“Old friend.” Tears welled in He De’s eyes.
“I miss those days. Together, we were invincible.” Si Tu Hai coughed up blood as he laughed.
“We still are.” He De reached out, as if to grasp Si Tu Hai’s fading life, but it was futile. “You are invincible.”
“The world is unfair. We were both injured, yet you returned to the Sacred Domain’s peak long ago. I… only now.” Si Tu Hai sighed. “Too late, isn’t it? Too late.”
“I had help,” He De said.
“I never did.” Si Tu Hai shook his head bitterly. “Old bear… will you help me?”
He De stiffened. He closed his eyes, but the tears flowed regardless. This weathered old sage, who thought he had shed his last tear long ago, had saved his final drop for today.
Gripping his axe, he stomped the ground—once, twice—before finally nodding. “Yes. I will help you.”
Satisfied, Si Tu Hai turned back to Yang Hao. With great effort, he raised his hand.
He grasped Yang Hao’s hand—the one bearing the black ring. To Yang Hao’s surprise, Si Tu Hai said nothing. Instead, a surge of power, vast and uncontainable, flowed from Si Tu Hai’s fingertips into Yang Hao’s body.
Yang Hao was caught off guard, but soon, that power and its accompanying thoughts settled into his mind and flesh as if finding a new home.
Yang Hao clenched his teeth to stifle his grief. He could sense it—this power, this spiritual imprint, was the essence of swordsmanship Si Tu Hai had grasped at the brink of death. It was Si Tu Hai’s entire legacy, the passing of one generation’s genius to the next.
And the secrets of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion, the keys to its hidden barriers—Si Tu Hai bequeathed them all to Yang Hao.
Such secrets needed no words.
When the transfer was complete, Yang Hao, overwhelmed with sorrow, nearly collapsed. “Why, Si Tu Hai? Why?”
Why entrust all this to Yang Hao? Why pass a lifetime’s worth of hard-won wisdom, everything he had, unreservedly to a young man?
Who dares move?
Who dares not fear?
Yang Hao spoke a sentence that chilled everyone’s hearts even further: “I’m injured. I can’t hold on much longer.”
Indeed, Yang Hao’s hands trembled. He looked weak, as if he might collapse at any moment from blood loss.
Wu Yi’s lips were dry and cracked, his teeth biting into them. He desperately wanted to say:
“If you can’t hold on, just lower the bow.”
The flaming arrows, the arrows accumulated from fire, rage, and hatred, transformed into black malevolent flames in the air, surging once more with unstoppable momentum toward Wu Yi.
The four presiding elders stepped forward again to intercept them. But the boundless waves of heat, like vengeful spirits, enveloped them. The black malevolent flames were even fiercer than before, and upon contact, they began to backlash.
Even more despairing was Yang Hao’s Shadow Moon, which had already transformed into a thousand-mile killing current, rushing toward them.
The most formidable assassination technique in history, driven by a peak master of the Holy Domain and propelled by the thousand-year sword elixir of the Alchemy Sect, was about to tear the blocking elders to pieces.
This time, the elders dared not underestimate the threat. At least three uninjured elders summoned their artifacts, including even a divine weapon, to block Shadow Moon.
Yet, the explosive fireballs fell ten times in succession upon the elders’ heads.
Even the ever-calculating Elder Tian Ce had not anticipated that Yang Hao would unleash so many killing moves simultaneously. He poured his entire life’s cultivation into suppressing the explosive flames, barely managing to contain them around himself.
But half of this elder’s body had already been blasted to pieces, his life hanging by a thread.
For the first time, an elder had been grievously wounded before their eyes, and the entire Elder Council erupted in horrified cries.
Yet Yang Hao, like a moth drawn to flame, flew straight into the midst of the elders.
“I’ll kill you!!!” Black Wind and Rong Rui, consumed by fury, immediately closed in for the kill.
But what awaited them was an endless torrent of fire-based arcane techniques. The most powerful black malevolent flames in the known world poured forth from Yang Hao’s body, transforming him into a god of fire, chanting an ancient song of utmost desolation. With every step he took, the malevolent flames grew stronger and more intense.
Eight presiding elders were engulfed by these flames, trapped in a dire predicament.
The three hundred elders tried to turn back to aid them but were held off by He De’s group and the Dragon Guard Legion.
All that could be seen were eight figures writhing within the flames, their voices unheard, their power fluctuations imperceptible. Yang Hao’s inferno had formed a domain of his own, one that no outsider could interfere with.
Could it be that the Elder Council, which had endured for centuries, was truly about to fall? Could the so-called pinnacle masters of the universe, the presiding elders, truly be annihilated within these raging flames, destroyed by Yang Hao alone?
They were the disciples of the Supreme One, the strongest among the elders. To kill them, one must first understand why they had become the strongest.
Within the malevolent flames, the eight suddenly erupted with a radiant light—a power imprinted upon their very souls. This power fused together like the first glimmer of dawn at the world’s creation, yet it carried an inconceivable brilliance.
These lights, brief yet overwhelming, cleansed the elders’ bodies and extinguished the malevolent flames entirely.
Yang Hao, now like a disarmed warrior, stood exposed before the eight. At least five elders struck in unison, and Yang Hao, having exhausted all his tricks, spat a mouthful of blood as he was sent flying through the air.
Yet even then, Yang Hao laughed maniacally: “Si Tu Hai, I’ve surpassed you. It took eight of you to bring me down!!”
Si Tu Hai, barely clinging to life, watched the reckless yet indomitable Yang Hao and managed a faint smile.
Thus, the all-out battle between the eight presiding elders and Yang Hao ended in mutual devastation. The outcome: Yang Hao was severely wounded, while three elders were critically injured. By comparison, the Elder Council had suffered greater losses. Now, the only one seemingly unharmed was Wu Yi.
But let it not be forgotten—from beginning to end, the Elder Council had always held the upper hand.
The three hundred elders and eight presiding elders held an overwhelming advantage in both numbers and power. The Hidden Dragon Pavilion relied solely on the individual prowess of Si Tu Hai and Yang Hao.
But even that prowess had reached its limit. The final outcome seemed unchanged.
Wu Yi’s body was scorched black, though his core remained intact. He glanced back at his own forces, their condition pitiful, devoid of the usual transcendent grace they displayed when killing.
Gnashing his teeth in fury, Wu Yi pointed at Yang Hao, who was slowly rising: “I will kill you. I will kill everyone here. None of you will escape. Not a single one can evade the wrath of the elders.”
“Then who,” Yang Hao wiped the blood from his lips, his eyes gleaming with amusement—not the bitter smile of despair, but genuine confidence, as if he were gazing down upon all from the clouds, “can escape Yang Hao’s wrath?”
He De’s group had already gathered by Yang Hao’s side like beams of light. The masters of the Alchemy Sect were destined to be forever etched into history.
“Kill!! Kill!!!” Wu Yi, his hair disheveled, roared madly.
The three hundred elders unleashed their attacks, and the Dragon Guard Legion fell like wheat before a scythe.
“He De!” Yang Hao called.
He De raised his great axe and swung it with all his might at the empty space before him. The Golden-Splitting Strike, as merciless as the final severance between lovers, cleaved through the void.
Every ounce of He De’s power was drained by that single swing.
A massive wormhole, accompanied by violent spatial fluctuations, appeared. Through its transparent yet distorted view, the other side of space revealed the Alchemy Sect’s sanctuary—and directly before Yang Hao, the Supreme One’s physical body.
Yang Hao drew his bow. The Flaming Bow’s wrathful arrow was fully drawn, ready to unleash destruction. The arrow’s tip was aimed squarely at the Supreme One’s body.
The wind ceased. Time stood still.
Everything froze in place.
No further commands were needed. The elders’ swords could no longer be swung.
In this world, gods existed—but they were imprisoned. Those who imprisoned the gods became the only gods. The elders worshipped with all their hearts the deity now in Yang Hao’s crosshairs.
The Supreme One!
The master of the universe, the unshakable pinnacle of existence—even the nine presiding elders could only prostrate themselves at his feet.
And now, Yang Hao was pointing the most powerful divine weapon in the universe at him.
Who dared move?
Who was not afraid?
Yang Hao uttered words that sent chills down their spines: “I’m injured. I can’t hold on much longer.”
Indeed, his hands trembled. He appeared weak, swaying from blood loss.
Wu Yi’s lips were parched, his teeth clenched. He wanted to say:
“If you can’t hold on, just lower the bow.”
But that was impossible. If Yang Hao could no longer hold on, the only thing he could do was release—to loose that arrow, filled with power, an arrow that required four elders to block, straight at the Supreme One’s defenseless, spiritless body.
Wu Yi even felt the urge to kneel and beg.
But Yang Hao’s expression remained calm. Today’s situation was a deadlock, a fight to the death—the only way out was to risk everything for survival. His fingers held the bowstring firmly. Even as Hun Yuan Zi repeatedly urged him to let go, even threatening him with his master’s authority, Yang Hao refused. For the first time, he defied his master.
Because Yang Hao had a responsibility. The ring bestowed upon him by the old Sword Saint was a duty—a legacy spanning five thousand years. This inheritance was not just the passing of power, but the charge to protect the Hidden Dragon Pavilion and its unseen dragons.
Yang Hao could shoot—but he would not. The time was not yet right.
In his most exhausted, weakest voice, he advised Wu Yi: “Elder, today’s battle has left us all weary.”
Weary indeed. The battlefield was littered with the wounded, including seven of the eight presiding elders—among them, the barely breathing Elder Tian Ce. Today’s battle, the Hidden Dragon Pavilion’s battle, had pushed the Elder Council to its limits. They had paid a price and nearly shattered the Hidden Dragon Pavilion’s final line of defense.
But they were weary.
“Go back,” Yang Hao continued. “There will be other days.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?” Wu Yi asked—a question often posed to Yang Hao.
“I do,” Yang Hao replied. “I am the heir of the Alchemy Sect. I am the leader of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion. This is my duty.”
Wu Yi’s pupils contracted, his gaze sharpening to its peak. Yet Yang Hao remained as composed and steady as an unshakable statue.
Finally, Wu Yi understood. The situation had completely reversed. Yang Hao had revealed his trump card—one that guaranteed victory. No matter what price the elders were willing to pay, the Supreme One was their bottom line. Even if all three hundred elders perished, even if the nine presiding elders died, the Supreme One could not fall. The destruction of his body would mean the collapse of the Elder Council, the complete upheaval of the universe’s order.
Wu Yi turned. The wind rustled through the bare branches of the forest. He saw Si Tu Hai, his body a mangled ruin, blood pooling around him. He saw the swordsmen of the Dragon Guard Legion sitting on the ground, supporting one another, their blood mingling as if they were one.
He also saw the dazed expressions of the elders. He knew—this battle was lost. Though the enemy’s victory was pyrrhic, the Elder Council had still lost.
To lose was to concede.
Wu Yi wearily waved his hand. The elders shuddered, some unwilling to believe, yet forced to accept.
The few elders still capable of action sighed deeply, gathered together, and formed a mobile barrier. As radiant light erupted from the barrier, the three hundred elders and eight presiding elders vanished, leaving behind a blood-soaked battlefield and a shattered star system—yet ultimately, they had achieved nothing.
Before departing, Elder Wu Yi looked at Yang Hao and said, “Young man, don’t forget—there is still tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Yang Hao nodded. “Every tomorrow is the beginning of another bloody battle.”
As Si Tu Hai slumped to the ground, a cold wind whistled through the gaping wound in his chest, swirling within his body—yet he felt no pain. The sight before him allowed him to finally release his burdens. He lay comfortably on the grass, beckoning Yang Hao and the others with his gaze.
It was clear to all—this was Si Tu Hai’s final moment.
Once a reckless, unrivaled genius swordsman in his youth, he was now a middle-aged man on the brink of death. His sword remained, his sword intent remained—yet all the sword techniques in the world were but child’s play in his eyes.
Si Tu Hai had mastered the essence of the sword. He was the god of swordsmanship, the pinnacle none could surpass.
But he was about to die.
His shattered body could no longer bear his weight.
Si Tu Hai asked Long Yun: “Who am I?”
Long Yun drove his broadsword into the ground and roared, “You are Si Tu Hai—the universe’s greatest wandering swordsman!”
“And your friend. Your brother.” Si Tu Hai laughed. “I never seduced a brother’s wife. Long Yun, your wife came to me—but I didn’t take her. All these years, she might have been waiting for you to find her.”
Long Yun’s expression twisted: “You didn’t…?”
“I didn’t.” Si Tu Hai nodded. “Aside from Chang Rong, I never had another woman.”
Long Yun inhaled sharply, his eyes filled with regret—the kind that could never be undone. He could have kept this friend. He could have kept his wife. But jealousy and rage had robbed him of any chance to start over.
Si Tu Hai’s gaze drifted until it settled on He De. The old bear stood there, nearly as tall as the seated Si Tu Hai. Si Tu Hai smiled. “Old friend…”
“Old friend.” He De’s eyes brimmed with tears.
“I miss those days. Together, we were invincible.” Si Tu Hai coughed up blood as he laughed.
“We still are.” He De reached out, as if to grasp Si Tu Hai’s fading life, but it was futile. “You are invincible.”
“The world is unfair. We both got hurt, but you returned to the Holy Domain’s peak so quickly. Me? Only now.” Si Tu Hai sighed. “Too late, isn’t it? Too late.”
“I had help,” He De said.
“I never did.” Si Tu Hai shook his head bitterly. “Old bear, will you help me?”
He De stiffened. He closed his eyes, but the tears flowed anyway. This weathered old saint, who thought he had cried all his tears, had saved his last for today.
Gripping his axe, he stomped the ground—once, twice—before finally nodding. “Yes. I’ll help you.”
Satisfied, Si Tu Hai turned to Yang Hao, raising his hand with great effort.
He clasped Yang Hao’s hand—the one bearing the black ring. To Yang Hao’s surprise, Si Tu Hai said nothing. Instead, a surge of power and thought erupted from Si Tu Hai’s fingertips, flooding into Yang Hao’s body.
Yang Hao was caught off guard, but soon, the energy and memories settled within him, merging with his mind and flesh.
He clenched his teeth to stifle his grief. He could sense it—this power, this spiritual imprint, was the essence of swordsmanship Si Tu Hai had grasped at the brink of death. It was Si Tu Hai’s legacy, the passing of one genius swordsman to another.
And the secrets of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion, the keys to its hidden barriers—Si Tu Hai bequeathed them all to Yang Hao.
Such secrets needed no words.
When the transfer was complete, Yang Hao, overwhelmed with sorrow, nearly collapsed. “Why, Si Tu Hai? Why?”
Why entrust all this to Yang Hao? Why pass a lifetime’s worth of hard-earned wisdom, everything he had, unreservedly to a young man?
Wu Yi even had the urge to kneel and beg him.
The arrows wreathed in dense flames, accumulated from fire, fury, and hatred, transformed into black, malevolent fire in the air, surging toward Wu Yi once more with unstoppable momentum.
The four presiding elders stepped forward again to intercept them. But the boundless waves of heat, like vengeful ghosts, enveloped them. The black malevolent flames, even fiercer than before, began to backlash the moment they made contact.
Even more despairing was the fact that Yang Hao’s Shadow Moon had already transformed into a thousand-mile killing current, rushing toward them.
The most formidable assassination technique in history, driven by a peak Saint Realm expert and propelled by the Dan Ding Sect’s thousand-year Sword Pill, was about to tear the blocking elders to shreds.
This time, the elders dared not underestimate it. At least three completely uninjured presiding elders summoned their treasures, including even a divine artifact, to block Shadow Moon.
Yet the explosive fireballs fell ten times in succession upon the elders’ heads.
Even the ever-calculating Tian Ce Elder had not anticipated that Yang Hao would unleash so many killing moves simultaneously. Pushing his life to the limit, he poured all his strength into containing the explosive flames around himself.
But half of this elder’s body had already been blown to pieces, his life hanging by a thread.
For the first time, a presiding elder had been grievously wounded before their eyes, and the entire Elder Council erupted in horrified cries.
Yang Hao, like a moth drawn to flame, charged into the midst of the presiding elders.
“I’ll kill you!!!” Black Wind and Rong Lui, consumed by rage, immediately closed in for the kill.
But what awaited them was an endless torrent of fire-based arcane techniques. The most potent black malevolent flames in the known world poured forth from Yang Hao’s body, transforming him into a god of fire, chanting an ancient, desolate hymn. With every step he took, the malevolent flames surged higher and stronger.
Eight presiding elders were engulfed by these flames, trapped in a dire predicament.
The three hundred elders tried to turn back to aid them but were held off by He De’s group and the Dragon Guard Corps.
All that could be seen were eight figures writhing within the flames, their voices unheard, their power undetectable. Yang Hao’s inferno had formed a domain of his own, one that no outsider could interfere with.
Could it be that the Elder Council, which had endured for centuries, was truly about to fall? Could the presiding elders, hailed as the pinnacle of the universe, truly be annihilated within these raging flames, destroyed by Yang Hao alone?
They were the disciples of the Supreme, the strongest among the elders. To kill them, one must first understand why they had become the strongest.
Within the malevolent flames, the eight suddenly erupted with radiance—power imprinted upon their very souls. This power fused together like the first glimmer of dawn at the world’s creation, yet it carried an inconceivable brilliance.
The light was brief but overwhelming. When it burst forth, it purified the eight elders and extinguished the malevolent flames entirely.
Yang Hao, like a warrior stripped of his weapons, stood exposed before the eight. At least five presiding elders struck in unison, and Yang Hao, having exhausted all his tricks, spat a mouthful of blood as he was sent flying through the air.
Yet even then, Yang Hao laughed maniacally: “Si Tu Hai, I’ve surpassed you. It took eight of them to bring me down!!”
Si Tu Hai, barely clinging to life, watched the reckless yet indomitable Yang Hao and managed a faint smile.
Thus, the all-out battle between the eight presiding elders and Yang Hao concluded in mutual devastation. The outcome: Yang Hao grievously wounded, three elders severely injured. By comparison, the Elder Council had suffered even greater losses. Now, the only one seemingly unharmed was Wu Yi.
But let it not be forgotten—from beginning to end, the Elder Council still held the upper hand.
The three hundred elders and eight presiding elders held an overwhelming advantage in both numbers and power. The Hidden Dragon Pavilion relied solely on the individual prowess of Si Tu Hai and Yang Hao.
But even that prowess had reached its limit. The final outcome seemed unchanged.
Wu Yi, his body charred black but his core unharmed, glanced back at his comrades, their wretched state a far cry from their usual transcendent demeanor when executing others.
Gnashing his teeth in fury, Wu Yi pointed at Yang Hao, who was slowly rising to his feet: “I’ll kill you. I’ll kill everyone here. None of you will escape. Not a single one can evade the wrath of the elders.”
“Then who,” Yang Hao wiped the blood from his lips, his eyes gleaming with amusement—not the bitter smile of one cornered, but genuine confidence, as if gazing down upon mortals from the clouds, “can escape Yang Hao’s wrath?”
He De and his companions had already taken their places beside Yang Hao like streaks of light. The experts of the Dan Ding Sect were destined to be forever etched into history.
“Kill!! Kill!!!” Wu Yi, his hair disheveled, roared madly.
The three hundred elders struck as one, and the Dragon Guard Corps fell like wheat before a scythe.
“He De!” Yang Hao called.
He De raised his great axe and swung it with all his might at the empty space before him. The Sundering Gold Slash, like the cruelest farewell between lovers, cleaved through the void.
Every ounce of He De’s strength was drained by that single swing.
A massive wormhole appeared, accompanied by violent spatial distortions. Through the transparent yet warped image of the wormhole, the other side revealed the Dan Ding Sect’s sanctuary—and directly opposite Yang Hao, the Supreme’s physical body.
Yang Hao drew his bow. The Fury Arrow of the Blazing Bow was fully drawn, poised to strike. Its tip was aimed at the Supreme’s body.
The wind stilled. Time froze.
Everything came to a standstill.
No further commands were needed. The elders’ swords could no longer be swung.
In this world, gods existed—but they were imprisoned. Those who imprisoned the gods became the only gods. The elders worshipped with all their hearts the deity they prostrated before—the very one now in Yang Hao’s crosshairs.
The Supreme!
The master of the universe, the unshakable pinnacle of existence. Even the nine presiding elders could only grovel at his feet.
And now, Yang Hao had the universe’s most powerful divine artifact trained on him.
Who dared move?
Who wasn’t afraid?
Yang Hao uttered words that sent chills down their spines: “I’m injured. I can’t hold on much longer.”
Indeed, his hands trembled. He seemed weak, swaying from blood loss.
Wu Yi’s lips cracked as he bit down hard. He wanted to say:
“If you can’t hold on, just lower the bow.”
But that was impossible. If Yang Hao could no longer hold on, the only thing left for him was to release—to loose the arrow, to send that fury-laden projectile, one that required four elders to intercept, straight into the Supreme’s defenseless, spiritless body.
Wu Yi even felt the urge to kneel and beg.
But Yang Hao remained composed. Today’s confrontation was a deadlock, a no-win scenario—except by embracing death to find life. His fingers held the bowstring firmly. Even as Hun Yuan Zi repeatedly urged him to let go, even threatened him with his master’s authority, Yang Hao refused. For the first time, he defied his master.
Because Yang Hao had a duty. The ring bestowed upon him by the old Sword Saint was a responsibility—one passed down for five thousand years. This legacy was not just the transfer of power but the charge to protect the Hidden Dragon Pavilion and its unseen dragons.
Yang Hao could shoot—but he would not. The time was not yet right.
In his most exhausted, weakest voice, he advised Wu Yi: “Elder, today’s battle has left us all weary.”
Weary indeed. The battlefield was littered with the wounded, including seven of the eight presiding elders—among them the barely breathing Tian Ce Elder. Today’s battle, the Hidden Dragon Pavilion’s last stand, had pushed the Elder Council to its limits. They had paid a price and nearly shattered the Pavilion’s final defenses.
But they were weary.
“Go back,” Yang Hao continued. “There will be other days.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?” Wu Yi’s question was one Yang Hao had heard often.
“I do,” Yang Hao replied. “I am the Dan Ding Sect’s heir. I am the Hidden Dragon Pavilion’s leader. This is what I must do.”
Wu Yi’s pupils contracted, his gaze sharpening to its peak. Yet Yang Hao remained as steady as ever, like an unshakable statue.
Finally, Wu Yi understood. The tables had turned completely. Yang Hao had revealed his trump card—one that guaranteed victory. No matter what price the elders were willing to pay, the Supreme was the Elder Council’s bottom line. Even if all three hundred elders perished, even if the nine presiding elders died, the Supreme could not fall. The destruction of the Supreme’s body would mean the collapse of the Elder Council, the overturning of the universe’s order.
Wu Yi turned. The wind rustled through the bare branches of the forest. He saw Si Tu Hai, his body a mangled ruin, blood pooling around him. He saw the Dragon Guard Corps’ swordsmen sitting on the ground, supporting one another, their blood mingling as if they were one.
He also saw the dazed expressions of the elders. He knew—this battle was lost. Though the enemy’s victory was pyrrhic, the Elder Council had been defeated.
Defeat must be acknowledged.
Wu Yi wearily waved his hand. The elders shuddered, some disbelieving yet forced to accept.
The few presiding elders still capable of action sighed deeply, gathered, and erected a mobile barrier. As radiant light erupted from the barrier, the three hundred elders and eight presiding elders vanished, leaving behind a blood-soaked battlefield and a shattered star system—yet ultimately, they had achieved nothing.
Before departing, Wu Yi looked at Yang Hao and said, “Young man, don’t forget—there is still tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Yang Hao nodded. “Every tomorrow is the start of another bloody battle.”
As Si Tu Hai collapsed onto the grass, the cold wind whistled through the gaping hole in his chest, swirling within his body—yet he felt no pain. The sight before him allowed him to finally set down his burden. He lay comfortably on the grass, beckoning Yang Hao and the others with his gaze.
It was clear to all—this was Si Tu Hai’s final moment.
Once a brash, unrivaled genius swordsman in his youth, he was now a middle-aged man on the brink of death. His sword remained, his sword intent remained. To him, all the world’s sword techniques were but child’s play.
Si Tu Hai had mastered the essence of the sword. He was the god of swordsmanship, the pinnacle none could surpass.
Yet he was about to die.
His shattered body could no longer bear his weight.
Si Tu Hai asked Long Yun: “Who am I?”
Long Yun drove his broadsword into the ground and roared, “You are Si Tu Hai—the universe’s greatest wandering swordsman!”
“And your friend. Your brother.” Si Tu Hai laughed. “I never seduced a brother’s wife. Long Yun, your wife came to me, but I didn’t take her away. All these years, she might have been waiting for you to find her.”
Long Yun’s expression twisted: “You didn’t…?”
“I didn’t.” Si Tu Hai nodded. “Apart from Chang Rong, I never had another woman.”
Long Yun inhaled sharply, regret flashing in his eyes—the kind of regret that could never be undone. He could have kept both his friend and his wife, but jealousy and rage had robbed him of any chance to make amends.
Si Tu Hai’s gaze drifted to He De. The old bear stood there, his height matching Si Tu Hai’s seated form. Si Tu Hai smiled: “Old friend…”
“Old friend.” Tears welled in He De’s eyes.
“I miss those days. Together, we were invincible.” Si Tu Hai coughed up blood as he laughed.
“We still are.” He De reached out, as if to grasp Si Tu Hai’s fading life, but it was futile. “You are invincible.”
“The world is unfair. We were injured together, yet you returned to the Saint Realm’s peak long ago. I… only now.” Si Tu Hai sighed. “Too late, isn’t it? Too late.”
“I had help,” He De said.
“I never did.” Si Tu Hai shook his head bitterly. “Old bear… will you help me?”
He De stiffened. He closed his eyes, but the tears flowed regardless. This weathered old saint, who thought he had shed his last tear long ago, had saved his final drop for today.
Gripping his axe, he stomped the ground—once, twice—then nodded. “Yes. I will help you.”
Satisfied, Si Tu Hai turned to Yang Hao, raising his hand with great effort.
He grasped Yang Hao’s hand—the one bearing the black ring. To Yang Hao’s surprise, Si Tu Hai said nothing. Instead, a surge of power and thought, vast and unstoppable, poured from Si Tu Hai’s fingertips into Yang Hao’s body.
Yang Hao was caught off guard, but soon, the energy and consciousness settled into his mind and flesh as if finding a new home.
Yang Hao clenched his teeth to stifle his grief. He sensed it—this power, this spiritual imprint, was the essence of swordsmanship Si Tu Hai had grasped at life’s end. It was Si Tu Hai’s entire legacy, a passing of the torch from one genius swordsman to the next.
And the secrets of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion, the means to unlock its hidden barriers—Si Tu Hai bequeathed them all to Yang Hao.
Such secrets needed no words.
When the transfer was complete, Yang Hao, overwhelmed with sorrow, nearly collapsed: “Why, Si Tu Hai? Why?”
Why entrust all this to Yang Hao? The wisdom bought with a life, the culmination of a lifetime—why bestow it all, unreservedly, upon a young man?
Because Yang Hao had a duty. The ring bestowed upon him by the old sword saint was a symbol of responsibility—a duty passed down for five thousand years. This inheritance was not just the passing of power, but the responsibility to protect the Hidden Dragon Pavilion and those unseen dragons who would never meet again.
Yang Hao could fire the arrow—but he could not. Not yet.
In a weary, feeble voice, he urged Wu Yi: “Master, today’s battle has left us all exhausted.”
They were indeed exhausted. The battlefield was littered with the wounded. Even among the Eight Stewards, seven were injured, including Tian Ce Yuan Lao, who was barely alive. This battle had pushed the Elder Council to their limit. They had paid a heavy price and nearly crushed the Hidden Dragon Pavilion’s final defenses.
But they were tired.
“Go back,” Yang Hao continued. “There will be other days.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?” Wu Yi asked—a question often posed to Yang Hao.
“I do,” Yang Hao replied. “I am the heir of the Dan Ding Sect. I am the leader of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion. This is what I must do.”
Wu Yi’s pupils constricted. The murderous light in his eyes reached its peak. But Yang Hao remained calm, steady—almost like an unshakable statue.
The arrows wreathed in raging flames, accumulated from fire, fury, and hatred, transformed into black, malevolent fire in midair, surging toward Wu Yi once more with unstoppable momentum.
The four presiding elders stepped forward again to intercept them. But the boundless heatwaves, like vengeful ghosts, enveloped them. The black, malevolent flames were even fiercer than before, and upon contact, they began to backlash.
What was even more despairing was Yang Hao’s Shadow Moon, which had already transformed into a thousand-mile killing current, rushing toward them.
The most formidable assassination technique in history, driven by a peak master of the Sacred Domain and propelled by the thousand-year sword elixir of the Alchemy Sect, was about to tear the blocking elders to pieces.
This time, the elders dared not underestimate it. At least three uninjured presiding elders summoned their treasures, including even a divine artifact, managing to block Shadow Moon.
But the explosive fireballs fell ten times in succession upon the elders’ heads.
Even the ever-calculating Tian Ce Elder had not anticipated that Yang Hao would unleash so many killing moves simultaneously. He poured his entire life’s cultivation into suppressing the explosive flames, barely managing to contain them around himself.
Yet half of this elder’s body had already been blown to pieces, his life hanging by a thread.
For the first time, a presiding elder had been grievously wounded before their eyes, and the entire Elder Council erupted in shock.
Yang Hao, like a moth drawn to flame, charged into the midst of the presiding elders.
“I’ll kill you!!!” Black Wind and Rong Wei, consumed by rage, immediately closed in for the kill.
But what awaited them was an endless torrent of fire-based arcane arts. The most powerful black malevolent flames in the known world poured from Yang Hao’s body, transforming him into a god of fire, chanting an ancient song of utmost desolation. With every step he took, the malevolent flames surged higher and stronger.
Eight presiding elders were engulfed by these flames, trapped in a dire predicament.
The three hundred elders tried to turn back to aid them but were held off by He De and the Dragon Guard Legion.
All that could be seen were eight figures writhing within the flames—no sound, not even the slightest ripple of power. Yang Hao’s inferno had formed a domain of his own, one that no outsider could interfere with.
Could it be that the Elder Council, which had endured for centuries, was truly about to fall? Could the so-called pinnacle masters of the universe, the presiding elders, truly be annihilated within these raging flames, by Yang Hao’s hand alone?
They were the disciples of the Supreme One, the strongest among the elders. To kill them, one must first understand why they had become the strongest.
Within the malevolent flames, the eight suddenly erupted with radiance—the power imprinted upon their souls. This power fused together like the first glimmer of dawn at the world’s creation, yet it carried an inconceivable brilliance.
The light was brief but overwhelming. When it burst forth, it cleansed the eight of all corruption and extinguished the malevolent flames entirely.
Yang Hao, now like a disarmed warrior, stood exposed before the eight. At least five presiding elders struck in unison, and Yang Hao, having exhausted all his tricks, spat blood as he was sent flying through the air.
Yet even then, Yang Hao laughed maniacally: “Si Tu Hai, I’ve surpassed you. It took eight of you to bring me down!!”
Si Tu Hai, barely clinging to life, watched the reckless yet indomitable Yang Hao and smiled faintly.
Thus, the all-out battle between the eight presiding elders and Yang Hao ended in mutual devastation. The outcome: Yang Hao grievously wounded, three elders severely injured. By comparison, the Elder Council had suffered greater losses. Now, the only one seemingly unharmed was Wu Yi.
But let it not be forgotten—from the very beginning until now, the Elder Council had always held the upper hand.
Three hundred elders and eight presiding elders—whether in numbers or power, they held an overwhelming advantage. The Hidden Dragon Pavilion relied solely on the individual prowess of Si Tu Hai and Yang Hao.
But even that prowess had reached its limit. The final outcome seemed unchanged.
Wu Yi’s body was scorched black, though his core remained unharmed. He looked back at his comrades, their wretched state a far cry from the transcendent grace they once displayed when executing their foes.
Gnashing his teeth in fury, Wu Yi pointed at Yang Hao, who was slowly rising: “I will kill you. I will kill everyone here. None of you will escape. Not a single one can evade the wrath of the elders.”
“Then who,” Yang Hao wiped the blood from his lips, his eyes gleaming with amusement—not the bitter smile of one at death’s door, but genuine confidence, as if he were gazing down upon mortals from the clouds, “can evade Yang Hao’s wrath?”
He De and his companions had already gathered by Yang Hao’s side like streaks of light. The masters of the Alchemy Sect were destined to be forever etched into history.
“Kill!! Kill!!!” Wu Yi, his hair disheveled, roared madly.
The three hundred elders unleashed their attacks, and the Dragon Guard Legion fell like wheat before a scythe.
“He De!” Yang Hao called.
He De raised his great axe and swung it with all his might at the empty space before him. The Golden-Splitting Strike, as merciless as the final severance between lovers, cleaved through the void.
All of He De’s power was drained in that single swing.
A massive wormhole, accompanied by violent spatial fluctuations, appeared. Through its transparent yet distorted view, the other side revealed the Alchemy Sect’s sanctuary—and directly before Yang Hao, the physical body of the Supreme One.
Yang Hao drew his bow. The Fury Arrow of the Blazing Bow was fully drawn, poised to strike. Its tip was aimed squarely at the Supreme One’s body.
The wind stilled. Time froze.
Everything came to a standstill.
No further commands were needed. The elders’ swords could no longer be swung.
In this world, gods existed—but they were imprisoned. Those who imprisoned the gods became the only gods. The elders worshipped with all their hearts the deity enshrined within the wormhole, the one now in the crosshairs of Yang Hao’s wrathful arrow.
The Supreme One!
The master of the universe, the unshakable pinnacle of existence—even the nine presiding elders could only prostrate themselves at his feet.
And now, he was being targeted by the most powerful divine artifact in the cosmos, wielded by Yang Hao.
Who dared move?
Who was not afraid?
Yang Hao uttered words that sent chills down their spines: “I’m injured. I can’t hold on much longer.”
Indeed, his hands trembled. He seemed weak, swaying from blood loss.
Wu Yi’s lips were parched, his teeth biting into them. He wanted to say:
“If you can’t hold on, just lower the bow.”
But that was impossible. If Yang Hao could no longer hold on, the only thing he could do was release—to loose that arrow, filled with power, an arrow that required four presiding elders to intercept, now aimed at the defenseless, spiritless body of the Supreme One.
Wu Yi even felt the urge to kneel and beg.
But Yang Hao remained calm. Today’s situation was a death trap, an inescapable dead end. The only way out was to embrace death to find life. His fingers held the bowstring firmly. Even though Hun Yuanzi repeatedly urged him to let go, even threatened him with his master’s authority, Yang Hao refused. For the first time, he defied his master.
Because Yang Hao had a responsibility. The ring bestowed upon him by the Old Sword Saint was a duty—a legacy spanning five thousand years. This inheritance was not just the passing of power but the obligation to protect the Hidden Dragon Pavilion and its unseen dragons.
Yang Hao could shoot—but he would not. The time was not yet right.
In his most exhausted, weakest voice, he advised Wu Yi: “Elder, today’s battle has left us all weary.”
Indeed, they were weary. The battlefield was littered with the wounded, including seven of the eight presiding elders—among them, the barely breathing Tian Ce Elder. Today’s battle, the Hidden Dragon Pavilion’s last stand, had pushed the Elder Council to its limits. They had paid a price and nearly shattered the Pavilion’s final defenses.
But they were weary.
“Go back,” Yang Hao continued. “There will be other days.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?” Wu Yi asked—a question often posed to Yang Hao.
“I do,” Yang Hao replied. “I am the heir of the Alchemy Sect. I am the leader of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion. This is my duty.”
Wu Yi’s pupils contracted, his gaze sharpening to its peak. Yet Yang Hao remained as composed and steady as an unshakable statue.
Finally, Wu Yi understood. The situation had completely reversed. Yang Hao had revealed his trump card—one that guaranteed victory. No matter what price the elders were willing to pay, the Supreme One was their bottom line. Even if all three hundred elders perished, even if the nine presiding elders died, the Supreme One could not fall. The destruction of his physical form would mean the collapse of the Elder Council, the overturning of the cosmic order.
Wu Yi turned. The wind rustled through the bare branches of the forest. He saw Si Tu Hai, his body a mangled ruin, blood pooling around him. He saw the swordsmen of the Dragon Guard Legion sitting on the ground, supporting one another, their blood mingling as if they were one.
He also saw the dazed expressions of the elders. He knew—this battle was lost. The enemy had won, though at great cost. But the Elder Council had lost.
To lose was to concede.
Wu Yi wearily waved his hand. The elders shuddered, some unwilling to believe, yet forced to accept.
The few presiding elders still capable of action sighed deeply, gathered together, and formed a mobile barrier. When the radiant light erupted from the barrier, the three hundred elders and eight presiding elders vanished, leaving behind a battlefield drenched in blood and a shattered star system—yet ultimately, they had achieved nothing.
Before departing, Elder Wu Yi looked at Yang Hao and said, “Young man, don’t forget—there is still tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Yang Hao nodded. “Every tomorrow is the start of another bloody battle.”
As Si Tu Hai slumped to the ground, a cold wind whistled through the gaping wound in his chest, swirling within his body—yet he felt no pain. The sight before him allowed him to finally set down his burdens. He lay comfortably on the grass, beckoning Yang Hao and the others with his gaze.
Everyone could see—this was Si Tu Hai’s final moment.
Once a reckless, unrivaled genius swordsman in his youth, he was now a middle-aged man on the brink of death. His sword remained, his sword intent remained. To him, all the sword arts of the world were but child’s play.
Si Tu Hai had mastered the essence of the sword. He was the god of swordsmanship, a peak none could surpass.
Yet he was about to die.
His shattered body could no longer bear his weight.
Si Tu Hai asked Long Yun: “Who am I?”
Long Yun drove his broadsword into the ground and roared, “You are Si Tu Hai—the universe’s greatest wandering swordsman!”
“And your friend. Your brother.” Si Tu Hai laughed. “I never seduced a brother’s wife. Long Yun, your wife came to me once, but I didn’t take her away. All these years, she might have been waiting for you to find her.”
Long Yun’s expression twisted: “You didn’t…?”
“I didn’t.” Si Tu Hai nodded. “Aside from Chang Rong, there were no other women.”
Long Yun inhaled deeply, his eyes filled with regret—the kind that could never be undone. He could have kept this friend. He could have kept his wife. But jealousy and rage had robbed him of any chance to start over.
Si Tu Hai’s gaze drifted until it settled on He De. The old bear stood there, his height matching Si Tu Hai’s seated form. Si Tu Hai smiled. “Old friend…”
“Old friend.” He De’s eyes brimmed with tears.
“I miss those days. Together, we were invincible.” Si Tu Hai coughed up blood as he laughed.
“We still are.” He De reached out, as if to grasp Si Tu Hai’s fading life, but it was futile. “You are invincible.”
“The world is unfair. We were both injured, but you returned to the Sacred Domain’s peak long ago. I… only now.” Si Tu Hai sighed. “Too late, isn’t it? Too late.”
“I had help,” He De said.
“I never did.” Si Tu Hai shook his head bitterly. “Old bear… will you help me?”
He De stiffened. He closed his eyes, but the tears flowed anyway. This weathered old sage, who thought he had shed his last tear long ago, had saved his final drop for today.
Gripping his axe, he stomped the ground—once, twice—before finally nodding. “Yes. I will help you.”
Satisfied, Si Tu Hai turned to Yang Hao. With great effort, he raised his hand and grasped Yang Hao’s hand—the one bearing the black ring.
To Yang Hao’s surprise, Si Tu Hai said nothing. Instead, a surge of power and thought erupted from Si Tu Hai’s fingertips, flooding into Yang Hao’s body.
Caught off guard, Yang Hao soon felt the energy and memories settle within him, merging with his mind and flesh.
He clenched his teeth to keep from wailing in grief. He had sensed it—this power, this spiritual imprint, was the essence of swordsmanship Si Tu Hai had grasped at the brink of death. It was his life’s culmination, the passing of a genius swordsman’s legacy to the next.
And the secrets of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion, the means to unlock its hidden barriers—Si Tu Hai imparted them all to Yang Hao.
Such secrets needed no words.
When the transfer was complete, Yang Hao, overwhelmed with sorrow, nearly collapsed. “Why, Si Tu Hai? Why?”
Why entrust all this to Yang Hao? The wisdom bought with a life, the entirety of his existence—why give it all, unreservedly, to a young man?
Wu Yi turned his head. The wind just happened to pass through the forest, rustling the bare branches. He looked at Situ Hai, whose blood had turned the ground crimson, his body reduced to a pile of flesh. He saw the swordsmen of the Long You Legion sitting on the ground, supporting each other, their blood mingling until they seemed like one.
He also saw the elders’ stunned gazes. He understood—they had lost. Though the enemy had barely won, the Elder Council had still lost.
To lose was to accept it.
Wu Yi wearily raised his hand. The elders trembled, some disbelieving, yet unable to deny it.
The few remaining capable stewards sighed deeply, gathered together, and formed a mobile barrier. When brilliant light erupted from the barrier, the three hundred elders and eight stewards vanished, leaving behind a battlefield soaked in blood and an entire shattered star system. They had failed.
But before leaving, Elder Wu Yi looked at Yang Hao and said, “Young man, don’t forget—there is still tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Yang Hao nodded. “Each tomorrow is the beginning of another blood-soaked battle.”
As Situ Hai slumped to the ground, the cold wind blew through the gaping wound in his chest, swirling inside him. He no longer felt pain. Before him, everything had settled. He could finally relax, release the burden on his shoulders. Comfortably, he leaned back on the grass, calling Yang Hao and the others with his gaze.
Everyone could see—this was Situ Hai’s final moment.
Once a young prodigy, a peerless swordsman, now an aging man approaching death. His sword remained, his sword intent undiminished. In his eyes, all martial arts in the world were but children’s toys.
Situ Hai had mastered the ultimate sword principles. He was the god of swordsmanship, unmatched, the pinnacle of sword arts.
But he was dying.
His shattered body could no longer support his weight.
Situ Hai asked Long Yun: “Who am I?”
Long Yun plunged his broadsword into the earth before him and roared: “You are Situ Hai, the greatest wandering swordsman in the universe.”
“And your friend, your brother,” Situ Hai laughed. “I never seduced your wife. Long Yun, your wife came to me, but I didn’t take her. Perhaps all these years, she has been waiting for you to come find her.”
Long Yun’s expression changed drastically: “You didn’t…”
“I didn’t,” Situ Hai nodded. “Since Chang Rong, I’ve had no other woman.”
Long Yun took a deep breath. Regret filled his eyes—a regret that could never be undone. He could have kept this friend, could have kept his wife, but jealousy and rage had robbed him of a second chance.
Situ Hai’s gaze drifted, and he happened to see He De. The bear-like old man stood there, nearly at eye level with the seated Situ Hai. Situ Hai smiled: “Old friend…”
“Old friend,” tears welled in He De’s eyes.
“I really miss those days. We were invincible together.” Situ Hai laughed, coughing up a few mouthfuls of blood.
“We still are invincible,” He De reached out, trying to grasp Situ Hai’s fading life, but in vain. “You are invincible.”
“The world is so unfair. We were both wounded, but you returned to the peak of the Sacred Realm so early. I’ve only reached it now.” Situ Hai sighed. “Too late… isn’t it? Too late.”
“I had help,” He De said.
“I was always alone,” Situ Hai shook his head bitterly. “Old bear, will you help me?”
He De trembled. He closed his eyes, but couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. This old sage, weathered by time, thought his tears had long since dried. But the final drop had been saved for this day.
He gripped his axe, stomped the ground—again and again—before finally nodding: “Yes. I will help you.”
Situ Hai was satisfied. He turned his gaze back to Yang Hao. With great effort, he raised his hand.
He grasped Yang Hao’s hand—the one wearing the black ring. To Yang Hao’s surprise, Situ Hai said nothing. Instead, a surge of power flowed from Situ Hai’s fingertips into Yang Hao’s body.
Caught off guard, Yang Hao soon felt that energy and consciousness settle into his mind and body like finding a new home.
Yang Hao had to grit his teeth to prevent himself from crying out in grief. He had sensed it—the power, the spiritual intent—was the ultimate sword principle Situ Hai had only just grasped in his final moments. It was the full might of the previous generation’s prodigy, passed on to the next.
And with it came the secrets of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion, the activation of hidden barriers. Situ Hai had fully transferred everything to Yang Hao.
So many secrets required no words.
When the transmission was complete, Yang Hao was nearly overwhelmed with sorrow: “Why? Situ Hai? Why?”
Why give all this to Yang Hao? Why hand over everything—his life’s wisdom, his entire being—to a young man?
Situ Hui did not answer. He simply let his hand drop in resignation, then flipped his palm, drawing a dazzling arc through the air: “Long sword… still in hand!”
“Haa!” Elder Hode responded like thunder, and with one swing of his axe, severed Situ Hai’s head.
Thus died the strongest swordsman in the world.
The cold wind howled twice, then vanished into the forest corner. The sun had already set.
Yang Hao suppressed his grief and said to Hode, “Take everyone, including the Dragon Blessing Legion, and return to the spaceship first. I still have something to do.”
Hode nodded and went to help Qing Li and the others. Though these sword masters were still alive, they were gravely injured and would need time to recover.
Kan Ling, fearing that Yang Hao might be too heartbroken, took his hand.
“It’s okay,” Yang Hao patted her face gently. “I’ll be back soon.”
Under the influence of the Doomsday’s gravity cabin, the group soon vanished beyond the atmosphere. Yang Hao used his spiritual sense to scan the entire planet, confirming that no one else remained alive.
A flame burst from his fingertip, engulfing Situ Hui’s body. The fire wrapped around the bloodied corpse, consuming every inch of flesh.
“What a pity,” Hun Yuanzi sighed.
Sadness filled Yang Hao’s eyes as he stared at the flames—the most unwelcome fire he had ever seen. Despite having mastered the Fire Essence and the Sword Essence, he felt no joy.
As Situ Hai’s body burned into ashes, a faint trace of life energy suddenly emerged from his back—a secret key to the core sect’s hidden barrier of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion. This hidden barrier had almost no gaps, except for this one, which served as the key to unlock it. To conceal this, Situ Hai had shielded his body over it, ensuring that no one could detect the hidden barrier on this planet unless the corpse was burned to dust.
And no one would ever know what secrets lay within this barrier.
Using the final transmission from Situ Hai, Yang Hao activated the barrier woven from over ten secret techniques.
A secret that had spanned countless centuries was finally revealed before his eyes.
As Yang Hao stepped through the colorful, radiant doorway, he could hardly believe what he saw.
Inside the barrier sat two hundred individuals—two hundred people of different ages and races.
Their only commonality: all two hundred had already reached the Saint Realm.
Two hundred sword saints, two hundred Saint-level experts—this was the true power of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion, and the ultimate legacy passed on by the old sword saint and Situ Hai to Yang Hao.
When the Hidden Dragon Pavilion star system was attacked, these people did not appear.
When the Dragon Blessing Legion was nearly wiped out, they did not appear.
Even when Situ Hui was killed, they still did not appear.
Because these were the true hidden dragons—the “hidden dragons who never meet unless summoned.”
Yang Hao was astonished. He never imagined that there were people in this world who could watch their comrades die without intervening, sitting here motionless, without even a flicker of spiritual fluctuation.
“Situ Hui is dead,” Yang Hao said, his astonishment turning into anger. If these people had acted earlier, even if they couldn’t turn the tide, at least the Elder Council would have suffered heavy losses.
Yang Hao’s voice only caused everyone to look at him. But these people, like iron, were cold and unresponsive. Whether old or young, they simply stared at Yang Hao and the black ring on his finger.
“Why didn’t you come out earlier?” Yang Hao raised his voice, clearly displeased. “Situ Hai died protecting you. Why didn’t you rush out and fight the elders to the death? Don’t the Hidden Dragons have any passion?”
A senior asked, “Who are you?”
“I am Yang Hao, the new inheritor of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion.”
“So you are Yang Hao!” The elder was surprised. Even the two hundred Saint-level experts, who had remained indifferent, now looked at him closely, eager to see what the suddenly rising “Undying War God” looked like.
Moreover, Yang Hao was now the leader of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion, with the authority to command any individual here. With such a force at his command, he could be considered the second strongest power after the Elder Council.
“Why didn’t you attack earlier?” Yang Hao pressed on, still deeply pained by Situ Hui’s death.
“One of us outside would not have rushed out to save him,” the elder replied. “Because Situ Hui was a death warrior. Their sole duty was to protect the real hidden dragons. Their mission was to ensure the Hidden Dragon Pavilion never perished—a secret to its survival for five thousand years…”
“You mean hiding like turtles is the secret to surviving five thousand years?” Yang Hao’s anger flared. These people’s mindset was too far removed from his own.
“If we had rushed out earlier, what would have happened?” the elder asked.
Yang Hao hesitated for a moment. “Perhaps the Elder Council would have lost seventy percent of their forces. I could have at least eliminated two executives, and Situ Hai… he might not have died.”
“And then?”
Even hesitating, Yang Hao had to admit, “You might all have been wiped out.”
“Exactly,” the elder nodded. “The secret to the Hidden Dragon Pavilion’s survival for five thousand years is right here. Each of us has experienced the most painful failures in the world. We no longer seek failure, so we refuse to engage in futile attempts. True passion is merely the helplessness of a hero at the end of his road.”
“So Situ Hui was just a sacrificial pawn to buy your survival?”
“No,” the elder said bitterly. “Situ Hui only bought us some time. If you hadn’t appeared, we would still have died.”
“How did you know I would come?” Yang Hao asked, puzzled.
“We didn’t know,” the elder replied. “But one thing all failures understand is that battles often turn around at the last moment. So the Hidden Dragon’s death warriors will hold out until the very end.”
“What is the meaning of your survival? What was the meaning of Situ Hai becoming a death warrior? Was it just for the Hidden Dragon Pavilion’s survival over the next thousand years?” Yang Hao asked pointedly.
“The final battle,” the elder knelt before Yang Hao, and the two hundred Hidden Dragon warriors all knelt. “Leader, the final battle is when we will give our passion. The Hidden Dragons will not die in vain. We are all waiting for that day.”
Yang Hao understood. Suddenly, he understood everything.
These people before him had once, like Hun Yuanzi, charged forth passionately for revenge, only to eventually suffer complete devastation and lose everything. Therefore, the current Hidden Dragons were silent, withdrawn. But silence was not permanent. This silence was meant to be exchanged for a future eruption. In the final battle, they would pour out all their passion, using all their strength to repay those who had died for them.
“Never meet unless summoned.”
As Yang Hao prepared to leave the barrier, two hundred voices simultaneously intoned.
“Long sword…” Yang Hao waved his hand. “Still in hand.”
“Long sword still in hand!!”
This was the Hidden Dragon’s response.
In the sixty-seventh year of the Emperor Heroic Era, the Hidden Dragon Pavilion star system was destroyed by the Elder Council’s full-scale assault. Over 1,500 planets lost their energy, and the Hidden Dragon Pavilion suffered heavy damage. Half of the Eight Dragon Blessing Legions were lost, and the universe’s top wandering sword master, Situ Hai, perished. Meanwhile, the Elder Council also paid a heavy price, with about fifty elders killed, seven executive elders injured, and the Tian Ce Elder severely wounded, nearly losing his combat capability.
On the surface, the Elder Council’s operation seemed like a great victory—the Hidden Dragon Pavilion had been crushed. Yet beneath the apparent calm, undercurrents surged. The true power in the universe had already been inherited. The balance of power between Yang Hao and the Elder Council was subtly shifting.
The final battle against Elder Mountain was imminent.
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