By the time Yang Hao figured out what the Soul Rain was, those black filaments had already begun drifting overhead. Only then did the people finally sense the unimaginable power contained within them. This force was not simply powerful—it felt as though it should not even exist in this world.
Yang Hao clearly sensed that each of these seemingly tiny black threads contained energy as intense as a nuclear explosion. The King Swordsman Corps’ King Formation was renowned across the universe for its might, yet a single release of that formation might equal no more than just one of these black threads.
Yet now, millions upon millions of these threads floated across the sky. At this scale and with this level of energy, no human could possibly withstand it.
Yang Hao had only a single Spirit Bear Squad and a Hao Sword Squad, nearly powerless in the face of such might. Even if he sacrificed his life, he could never block an attack of such magnitude all at once.
Moreover, everyone now trapped beneath the rain had nowhere left to run. No matter where they fled, death was inevitable. Wang Mu had set a deadly trap—sacrificing his own life and soul, using decades of cultivation and his future life to create an inescapable fate.
As Yang Hao looked around at the terrified faces, he could only sigh. He no longer even felt the will to resist, simply waiting for the moment when the threads would fall upon him and instantly vaporize his body.
In just a few seconds, the first black thread would strike the tallest Spirit Bear. The black “Night Rain Like Threads” was finally about to claim its first lives since its creation.
No one could change this outcome. No one at all.
Except for gods.
Just as Wang Mu was rejoicing in his successful technique, just as everyone else was falling into despair, a beam of light shot down from the sky. This light was dazzling beyond imagination, like the brilliance of ten thousand beams of light refracted through diamonds.
It seemed as though this ray of light had crossed the entire universe, traveling a vast distance to reach this planet. Its speed was astonishing—it enveloped everyone in less than half a second. Whether it was Yang Hao, the Bear Demon Gang, or the Sword Gang, all were wrapped in this radiant glow without exception.
Then, the black threads fell—but instead of striking human bodies, they met this brilliant light. The light appeared to have come precisely for the black threads. The two energies were opposites, and upon contact, they formed a strange complementary balance. White energy gradually entered the threads, filling the darkness. Although Wang Mu’s “Night Rain Like Threads” was an extremely dark and sinister technique, the light carried an overwhelming brilliance, powerful enough to neutralize the unstoppable sword art.
The Soul Rain, once feared for slaughtering cultivators and known as the seemingly invincible “Night Rain Like Threads,” was now no match for this divine radiance. When the last black thread was neutralized, the light dimmed but remained gentle, warming the people.
And the Spirit Bears saw clearly—high in the depths of the cosmos, at the source of the light, was the massive body of the Holy Bear, faintly visible. Obviously, that beam of light had come from the divine power of the Holy Bears. Only divine power could so perfectly rescue and protect its people.
When the Holy Bears were once framed and sealed by the Empire, the Spirit Bear race suffered endless humiliation from the imperial nobles. But now, the situation was completely different. The gods had awakened, and under their protection, the Spirit Bears would become the most enduring race.
“Holy Bear! Holy Bear!! Holy Bear!!!” The Demon Bear Troop erupted in unison. These rugged, burly Spirit Bears leaped with joy, grateful for the gods’ arrival.
Amid this celebration, only Wang Mu stood in sorrow. He stared blankly at everything before him, as if none of it could possibly be real. Wang Mu could not understand—why, after years of hard cultivation, why, after willingly sacrificing ten years of his life, why the most powerful sword technique in the world had still failed.
Of course, Wang Mu would never understand that he was now standing on someone else’s land, fighting against the chosen people of another god. No matter how powerful Wang Mu’s backing might be, ultimate victory would always remain beyond his reach.
As Wang Mu stood lost in thought, he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his chest. It was a pain like the loss of his childhood’s dearest playmate, leaving him helpless, watching others walk away into darkness.
Wang Mu looked down and saw what he had already expected—there, piercing his chest, was a long iron spear, one belonging to the Demon Bear Gang.
While Wang Mu was distracted, Kevin had seized the moment to throw the spear, striking Wang Mu straight through the chest. The thick spear still vibrated, making Wang Mu’s heart tremble.
He felt his life slipping away with the blood, and with it, all his dreams and glory.
“Hmm, guess it’s time to die,” Wang Mu muttered. He reached out and touched the spear shaft. The coldness felt just like the first time he had touched a sword hilt. Wang Mu lifted his head and saw, above him, the remaining members of the King Swordsman Corps flying beyond the satellite’s atmosphere, rushing quickly toward their fleet. Wang Mu knew these survivors, whom he had saved with his life, would fulfill all his wishes.
Wang Mu plucked his sword again. This time, the sound was much better—almost pleasant. Unfortunately, no one would be there to appreciate it.
Then he raised his sword, using the last of his strength, and released the final strike of his life.
Shenlong Qijian!! (Divine Dragon’s Mysterious Sword!!!)
The sky lit up as if dawn had arrived.
No matter the outcome of this day, it taught Yang Hao a bitter lesson: never push a desperate enemy too far, for cornered foes may unleash forces no one can foresee. No one can stand against someone willing to give their life—not even divine beings like the Holy Bears.
Just like Wang Mu now—he had been utterly defeated. From commanding an entire legion to now fighting alone, even his strongest sword technique had been shattered. He was on the brink of death, a famous *Mao Xiong Corps* spear piercing his chest, the wound as wide as a bowl, tearing through his heart. Wang Mu was truly in his twilight, yet he had gained the most unbreakable courage—he no longer feared death.
No one could predict how terrifying such a Wang Mu might be, but all would see him raise his sword. Though he had little energy left—his “Night Rain Like Threads” had drained him completely—though he no longer radiated killing intent, his eyes held only a smile and a sigh.
Was it a sigh for the world that had abandoned him? A sigh for the morning sun he would never see again? A sigh for the wildflowers blooming in spring back home, which he could only long for in spirit?
Yet Wang Mu struck. As gently as a poet writing a beautiful sonnet, his sword moved lightly, not even stirring the wind. This soft, powerless technique was not his own—it belonged to a great sword immortal who once taught the Wang family three sword techniques, which brought the Wang clan centuries of glory.
Shenlong Qijian!!
Every member of the Wang family had studied it diligently, making it their ultimate weapon in battle. Yet Wang Mu had never used it—he always believed that quoting another’s poem was a crime for a poet, and likewise, a swordsman should wield only his own sword.
If there had been any descendants nearby, Wang Mu might have proudly told them this was the first and last time he ever used another’s sword technique in battle.
That was Wang Mu’s unique honor.
Shenlong Qijian exploded in the sky, on this planet filled with methane and flammable gases. Though his energy was insufficient and his movements clumsy, it was still the Divine Dragon’s Mysterious Sword. From Wang Mu’s signature short sword, a roaring flame erupted, like a mighty dragon with horns and claws, flashing through the air.
Wang Mu smiled, and the sky blazed.
Bright as dawn, yet followed by another night.
Wang Mu died. He never even saw the most spectacular sight on this planet before fading away. His body first exploded into dust beneath the Divine Dragon’s Mysterious Sword. Without sufficient power to control such a mighty technique, it turned against him.
But what Wang Mu left behind was undoubtedly a catastrophe. Yang Hao watched helplessly as this disaster unfolded, unable to stop it—or rather, it was already too late even if he wanted to.
Yang Hao’s plan today had been to lure Wang Mu in, capture the commander, and force the Empire to withdraw, thus avoiding further war. As the ancient saying went, the highest form of warfare is to defeat the enemy’s strategy. Though Yang Hao didn’t fully understand its meaning, he at least knew one thing clearly: better not to fight if it could be avoided. Who really enjoys war?
Indeed, many plans in this world seem perfect, but when put into action, they often go terribly wrong—especially when surrounded by Spirit Bears whose heads are filled with nonsense.
Today, the Magic Bear Squad had fought with excessive zeal. Particularly Kevin, who had tasted victory for the first time and driven the imperial forces into retreat. He recklessly chased after Wang Mu’s swordsmen, ultimately provoking Wang Mu’s final, lethal strike with his own life.
Even such a tragedy failed to teach Kevin the cost of his recklessness. After the Holy Bear’s divine intervention barely saved them, Kevin still took the opportunity to deliver the fatal blow to Wang Mu, completely forgetting Yang Hao’s earlier orders to capture Wang Mu alive.
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