Chapter 222: Reencounter with the Holy Son

” How do you intend to transform the original crystal?” Ji Tianqing was actually concerned about many matters.

Anwen didn’t hide the matter; he pointed towards the Starborne Well and said, “I suppose you won’t let us perform the transformation here?”

Ji Tianqing shrugged. “Of course not—we definitely outmatch you.”

Anwen did not get angry but smiled faintly. “The original crystal we seek to transform is unique; it does not demand an excess of star power. The Starborne Well is not exclusive to this location—there are other mouth-like openings, albeit this one was by far the largest and most convenient. However, we rely more upon dawning star energy, and the other entrances prove much more fitting.”

This startled Ji profoundly: “More entrances?!”

“Indeed,” responded Anwen. “Do you not recall that you learned the existence of the vortex only from us? We have long outpaced those of mankind in exploration regarding the Vortex.”

“Very well,” Ji Tianqing gave a wave, “wishing you success.”

Anwen nodded and departed alongside Bakei Koteru toward the opposite direction.

Yet, Ji turned around urgently and shouted: “Thank you for my statue!”

Looking back, Anwen smiled. “Should your gratitude run deep, consider letting us utilize this Starborne Well.”

“You only possess one Tengu Yunyan Pearl after all?!”

“Frankly, the well itself fascinates me—I sense that secrets buried in the stars may reveal those of the world.”

Meanwhile, Qian Ye couldn’t help but shake his head, noting that Anwen exhibited signs of recklessness. Within the confines of the Starborne Well’s embrace one lost substantial power, left nearly at the mercy of the well. With the site frequented by high-ranking Empire elites, his endeavor seemed bordering on suicidal. Sure of Bake Koteru’s presence, he still recognized he held no control over the unpredictable girl and couldn’t divine the whims behind her blade.

Nevertheless, if the fiendish half-breed insisted on suicide—his important rank as one of Abyss’s inner few be damned—then who were they to interfere? Even so ignoring an opportunity like this did not seem rational.

As sunset descended upon Anwen and Bake Koteru on their leave, the others found hidden respite in a secluded grove for temporary encampment. Taking turns to stand vigil beside one another, Liuyi and Jing Tianqing ensured Qian Ye’s rest, necessary for recovering power. “Chickens bearing golden eggs,” laughed one, “must be cossetted to their fullest.”

Unquestioning their judgment Qian Ye instead devoted himself to cultivating; the efficacy from old Lu’s herbal draught on Tiansun pasture still thrummed within his bloodline. Given wise handling, even a leap past present boundaries before the spirit medicine wore off was attainable.

Silence hung heavy and undisturbed the entire night.

It was near dawn when Qian Ye, sensing a prickling sensation, opened his eyes. With a sharp *phzzt*, two streams of crimson gold lashed from his gaze. Overflowing with uncontainable essence, his sixth primary vortex filled with innumerable crystallizing particles swirled with undecipherable rhythm—indistinguishably bordering fluidity from crystallification.

In his seventh nascent node lay coiling pressure threatening rupture soon—within days, perhaps—and a path to birthing another vortex.

Qian Ye stretched, rising to watch auroral light bloom across horizons—an auspicious dawn of uncharted vitality.

Yet then, sudden thunder echoed: “Who’s there?!” it was, unmistakably, *Li Kuran’s* voice.

Then came silence, interrupted by violent energy flaring outward in an instant, accompanied by a dull bang—clear as the roar of energy rifles.

That puzzled Qian Ye. Didn’t either remember that, within the Vortex at least, they’d always taken special caution? Energy rifles inside the vortex would unleash disturbances of titanic scale—shock-waves rippling miles past their origin. That time when he’d barely survived activating his signature *Burymour*, their range surpassed a few hundred li. So whoever had fired the shot was neither Kuran li, nor Ji Tianqing.

Instantaneous, he rose at full speed.

Within the grove, a cobalt blur wove through shadowed canopies like lightning in daybreak mists. Multiple ebony-garbed warriors—arms flashing like moonlight on river eddies’ dance—closed swiftly upon Kuran Li. With synchronized precision, her movement perimeter shrank by second.

Though gripping her short blades tightly, she lunged in attempts to break out—a motion instantly nullified: anticipating such movements down to her very strike, the blacks merely defended with walls of blade weave that repelled even tempest winds—tight-kitted fortifications so seamless no droplet could permeate. And at each moment stalling her by mere heartbeats ensured surrounding warriors’ swift reinforcement to pounce en masse.

Knowing that once trapped escape proved nearly impossible, Li merely feint-touched her edge before retreating—redirecting toward the next assailant, ever evasive.

True: the thicket suited her better and those garbed ones, though inferior in pure combat mastery, matched elite reflex capabilities; despite individual disadvantages, one on one they held up surprisingly well to the assault, enduring multiple rounds even.

Yet, lurking unseen on her flank loomed one more—a sharpshooter, kneeling. A single prior discharge—scantly missing. Its latent presence now, poised yet unreleased tension built like unseen weights on invisible scales.

Qian Ye took in the whole tableau, calculating. Still stable—better hold intervention unless immediate risk arose—he turned to scout for Ji’s whereabouts silently.

Beyond that battlefield’s edge on opposing woods, Ji now contended against two shadow-cloaked mystics. Backed against them stood she—a lone figure beneath ancient trunks cracked mid-battle, and earth rent asunder into broken hillocks.

Ji stared straight at the foremost dark cloaked figure as his peer approached stealthfully from behind—silent despite rustling detritus beneath shuffling step after step, the sound of a loaded crossbolt snapping home beneath layered silks.

Forged magnificently, the repeater bore three compound arms, runes etching every inch—an artifact pulsating latent power. Even at this greater range, Ji’s distance from attacker merely a dozen paces—sleek as serpents, the bolt needed none second’s more charge time to seek true kill.

Tightening muscle and sinew, Ji readied her lunge—still fixed her sight unwavering upon the primary enemy while treating the unseen stalker as irrelevant backdrop.

The back enemy made move. Forward one. Forward again.

Qian Ye scoured over each angle calculating the field’s ebb. His stride surged as the lead figure’s pulse felt eerily opaque—cloaked far within his aura, a fighter beyond peer.

Senses humming with vampiric concealment gifts, he approached from her lateral unseen path. Even distant by several dozen paces, the dark-clad sensed disruption—facing his flank.

No hesitation. At point-blank range his aura erupted forth with unshackled force—one single slash downwards as Dongyue cleaved toward skull. The blow bore weight enough crush peaks. The opposing figure evaded in a reflexive arc. Yet its motion, once supple like water’s cascade stumbled briefly—hitched inexplicably.

Timing that fraction of disruption, Dongyue was suddenly slammed tip-first into the soil—a fist like cannon erupted from empty space—hurling toward his heart.

No space. No evasion. Only blunt confrontation. Qian Ye’s blow surged forth like unbreakable pillar—determination burned like inferno. It aimed to dominate strength with strength and crush enemy will by frontal breach.

The dark figure saw his intent. Enraged—he growled low: “Arrogant!” —counter-fisted back.

The clash sounded.

Then—BOOM. Bones cracked across body like thundercrackers. Unbroken rhythm of impact pressed harder as a storm of seismic pulses rang his every limb—a surge channelizing through an old bloodline’s brute force and mountain-splitting strike into every atom unleashed from bone marrow—shockingly direct!

A sharp grunt. Five steps back—each step met with immediate advance from Qian Ye. No gap between punches. His crushing force hammered without ceasing. Relentlessly.

So brutal, this onslaught intended not merely conquest but annihilation.

Yet—resistance did more than crumble—the opposition became like bottomless swamp—suffused depth, absorbing pressure through thick elasticity and returning titans-back upon pressure points—its retaliatory power strengthening still.

He took seven hits…then anchored. He would move no more.

Though wave upon crashing wave broke over it, this defense held unflinching as calm amidst storm tide.

Far beyond mere estimation—he was powerful, yet Qian Ye had yet one final move—he smiled slightly. Backpedal. Pull Dongyue free. In single fluid sweep—a silent cleaver swung down!

Light flashed from his strike. This was The Severance—a stroke faster still than lightning. His opponent’s evasion reflex attempted but faltered again—bound by invisible forces—caught flat footed.

His double forearms flashed forward intercrossed—emerging were layers of amethyst aura entwining in dense knots to deflect the blade’s cleaver edge.

A moment where impact hung suspended—blades sang with pressure—and then exploded into countless razor winds—ripping sky and soil with sharpness beyond flesh should suffer even glancing touch.

Silence.

Qian Ye had moved—yet did not flinch, though his cheek bared thin cuts where one erring shard skimmed skin. Blood bloomed.

In proximity, the cloak was shredded—hanging in torn remnants around the enemy—still he endured. The tatters fluttered as he slowly tore them off with practiced motion—and finally showed his face.

Framed in Qian Ye’s eyes…a man’s face.

He uttered a whisper: “Edouard?”

It stood none other than Countless Edouard, the Heir. A marked presence, infamous since first appearance in battle at Everfree bastion—it explained their recognition. Though perhaps even a first-rounder unfamiliar still couldn’t forget.

Edouard’s own aura pulsed, the violet blood mist rising from his frame held a strange sense of gravity…a pressure that stirred primal uneasiness deep beneath Qian Ye’s flesh. He hadn’t felt anything close—not for decades—certainly never after unlocking Aurum blood mists through the ancient scroll. Such intimidation…absently absent…entire lives…until now.

Edouard regarded him with still eyes, “Qian Ye?!”

Nod affirmatively.

The blood scion now drew his rapier sharply from its scabbard—one motion—fluidity to arrogance: he asked coldly. “I heard you once were of our clan’s own kind—carried the blessing of Bloodborn Current—I must ask: why not kneel before me?”

“Why don’t *you * kneel?” Qian Ye countered with ice scorn.

Edouard flared at once: “For your sake—for being a tainted blood—I will impart basic understanding: Each blood child’s lineage is mapped from The Current. From near origins stem might beyond imagination—only through proximity may power ascend in true rank; a sacred hierarchy as old as our people themselves.” He paused—“Wouldn’t a mongrel respect such decree…Would you dare rebel against cosmic law etched in ancestral stream for all eternity?”

Qian Ye laughed aloud: “Speaking of the current—tell me, Heir… Do you truly believe a *place*—*yours* or mine in Bloodbirth Stream—even matters for determining whose blood reign?”