As Duke Qian Ye ranked among the most prestigious figures standing in the Everlasting Eclipse, it was indeed a humiliating prospect to require no fewer than eight or nine adversaries to provide him with a slight challenge. After all, he held only the title of Viscount today—a mere stone throw away from the rank of High Duke.
Yet boasting was never his kind. He stood defiant against odds unforgiving, his legend spreading across nations, where even the most skilled, if trailing in his wake in cultivation, would find themselves cornered by his Void Flashes and world-breaking techniques—terrors woven into nightmares for countless opponents.
Nontheless, Magor was no different. She allowed a moment of unease to show upon her face before regaining full composure. “Rest assured, my Lord, I will return.”
Qian Ye’s eyebrows raised slightly in genuine amusement. “I’m that good to you?”
“This very moment I see nothing admirable here; it’s merely because of yourself that brings me this faith.”
Even Marquis Minghai could not help but feel defeated by comparisons when faced with her unabashed audacity on devotion.
Qian Ye then assigned the launching of aerial skiffs to ferry the mass of prisoners over to the Empire’s jurisdiction—in turn transporting them towards Yonluo. With only some hundred soldiers keeping several thousand war prisoners docile in shackles, this escort mission primarily fell under Tatum’s jurisdiction.
Upon the understanding of freedom upon arrival at Yondluo in exchange for ransom, prisoners quieted and abandoned any rebellious thoughts, willingly mounting the airships out of Blacksun Vale into departure.
Qilian regrouped the remnant troops, received additional reserves both in soldiers and resources, and finally broke camp, advancing further into the core of Blacksun Vale. Following this replenishing, Qilian’s forces barely surpassed six ten thousand men. Yet in this heartland, thousands of dark kindreds were amassed in number exceeding tenfold. Such was the sheer recklessness, pitted in opposition that veteran generals under Commander Liu Chengyun, felt dread gnaw at their bones.
But Magor did not return to see any of this before Qian Ye faced another string of deadly sieges.
The darkness faction gathered overwhelming force after force, seeking to stall Qian Ye’s advance and trap his expedition. And this battle was different. Qian Ye himself had begun meeting real struggle. None of these enemies would foolishly play the part of Lagos.
It came instead to successive ambushes—besieged mid-field, ducal generals now stood alongside a coven of Margraves. United in strategy with seamless synergy, their formations left nearly no opening. Again and again, Qian Ye found himself unleashing his Void Step and titanic techniques in succession—such as Fix Heaven Below—to harm merely two or three among their vanguard aristocracy.
Battle wore on. The wounds Qian Ye suffered deepened in severity, and every move designed for overpowering the dark lords left him scarred and diminished, though foes too would flee as soon as the tide turned.
Before escape-oriented foes of that kind, Qian Ye found his abilities useless despite the many times he forced Lagos himself to flee while wounded nearly past breath. Yet now opponents had learned: even light damages signaled swift retreat—the perfect guard, not letting the smallest crack form an opening for annihilation.
In this moment came the darkbloods’ nature unveiled—the eternal aversion to mortal ends.
In five clashes through seven tiring cycles, with each confrontation Qian shattered another wave blocking his path, each time crushing down an aristocrat of dukedom ranks. Still his losses mounted. Though the Empire strove desperately, sending replacements from the far reaches of all provinces and strongholds, no reinforcement would truly patch the grievous costs their war effort bore with every crimson-drenched sunset battle. But the enemy losses were nearly fourfold that of Imperial forces—an incredible rate unmatched since Prince Song Zining’s golden days battling darkness forces alone prior to Nachtomi’s emergence.
A record so glorious in blood-soaked brilliance made old brass-knuckled generals in the Empire’s military councils clench teeth grit in admiration, while sending every scrap scrounged across all warfront supplies and bodies alike into the insatiable abyss Blacksun’s campaigns became.
Though the end was victory yet again, just like Qian asserted, how their general captured fate differed.
Where Song Zining mastered precision—each stratagem designed for every minute angle until his entire operation left the dark forces walking into deadly ambushes with the illusion that they walked to triumph—once forced off his oracle-guidance by Nachtomi’s rise, his advantage relied on fortified warfare grinding against the tide.
In contrast, simplicity ruled in Qian Ye’s warfare doctrine—plugging forces toward a central thrust, aiming straight upon command of all enemies. His mere being, locked in single-combat with legions of dark warriors, became gravity enough for the Three Sacred Generals to range freely upon battlefield peripheries. Here would their swords carve through dark blood nobility of baron and viscount rank alike.
While at times numerical superiority and power advantage belonged not to Qian, he still somehow managed endurance past breaking, trading grievous injury blow for blow—only ending when enemy forces collapsed, never him standing with sword still drawn. This endurance in mutual wounds left even Three Sacred Generals fearful with icy realization each time they laid wary gazes upon Qilian’s ever-multiple deepening wounds, and every one more irreversible in their depth.
This sight awakened in them, old whispers—of Zhao Jundù. Long past memory recalled: that mad god-like being of battle once stood atop blood-soaked plains, where even flame turned black with his consuming fury, once so bright.
At this image unfolding like a resurrected myth—could their hearts do anything less but recoil as Qian now resembled their once-dreaded Zhao?
Perhaps due to countless prior defeats he inflicted—or perhaps the Empire’s very return towards this contested inner region had summoned a reckoned storm. At last, Qien encountered ten-thousand strong soldiers led by an especially distinct foe. And even for him, hardened in a thousand mortal trials, he stood now bearing unease—true weight and gravity forming across furrowed browlines.
What appeared in Qian’s gaze bore form and name: Storm of Wrath.
Within the Hall Of Ten Legendary Firearms, Storm of Wrath held higher fame even in excess over Manjusaka, the second gun in fame’s scale.
Ever since its last carrier vanished without a wielder, so too had interest around Manjusaka. Not so for this four-barreled rectangular monstrosity; its singular structure was unmistakably unmistakable. Held previously by Nachtonia during his battle that challenged even a King of Calm Wisdom in full combat stance, lately, its fame burned yet higher into myth.
Spotted Storm of Wrath, but where stood the awaited sovereign behind legend?
Eyes followed its bearer with a question unanswered: who stood before Qian at this juncture was one striking noble among bloodkin—a male so young in countenance that his youth seemingly only just crossed threshold into adulthood’s first bloom.
Features sculpted in impossible symmetry: high proud nostrils casting noble shadow upon chiseled cheeklines, his presence radiated in youth—peak power reached while endless growth potential promised even fiercer future.
Identifying armor bearing bat sigil clenching sword between bared fangs, this stranger was undoubtedly of noble descent from Movius Clan bloodline—and possibly heir of Azure King himself, for else how gain Nachtomi’s sacred trust with such vital relic weapon?
A murmr in Empire’s hallow halls surfaced into Qian’s memory: that whispers told Nachtonia as the incarnation awakened of some ancient forgotten over-architect reborn; long ties intertwined between this reborn identity and the now-Azure-bloodline scions before their ages faded into forgotten myth.
Yet no reason surfaced clear within, but loathing unbidden rose from Qian’s deep within as he beheld young and handsome—mirroring ancient Azure Ruler—clad in vampire’s regalia of High dukeliness. Without root or cause, irrational, this resentment welled forth spontaneous and unavoidable—it was hate.
Qian led formations forth, steady marching onward beyond the black kind’s first range periphery of volley, raising gloved hand. The entire legion stilled and array deployed in position. Then from the vanguard rose alone his single person to glide aloft until stopping directly above their opposing general’s battlefront, as if he alone dismissed ten thousand waiting shadows below.
“She is not here. Why does Storm remain?”
Pride answered from enemy ranks.
“How dare you question the Emperor thus? Wish to know Emperor’s matters…? You must best me, Sani’on!”
Golden eyes narrowed, gaze slowly rove across the opposing vampire noble figure in appraisal.
“You know of this much, indeed… What about Dreamer?”
“Many know indeed—but Dreamer was sacred relic, one among parliament’s Triune Arcane Tools entrusted in none but Emperor’s hands alone.”
“Fair claim—that bladed thing is yours? Truth told—this Storm itself tests your skill to carry it.”
Though new to fame, Sani’on had already established a reputation built over several decades; in blood race terms very early yet, yet well a century had past through his unliving heart.
At this derision, Sani’on found his composure crumbling. Roars rose as fury unfurled:
“If none other deserve this relic—what does it take that even I, deemed barely worthy?”
“You.”
“By what merit!”
As Sani’on inhaled breath for scorn and laugh united—
…a shadow flickered.
His vision wavered; for the moment—Qian appeared blurry and insubstantial before solid once more.
Impossible—A flash from Void!
Too late.
Qian was upon him—mere breath length separated them.
Sani’on nearly howled that no battle-coordination existed—would any abandon three Sacred Field Generals and leap straight towards heartland where four Glory-Grade Margraves were present beside him?
Yet, this foe dared attempt it, knowing not the presence surrounding their target, blind of ducal prestige or blind even to Storm’s own threat? All such inquiries passed unthought, left suspended amid rising crisis.
With thunder breaking air, sword after unrelenting sword rained like tempest upon Sani’on’s head in sequence.
Silver blade drawn. Arcane flashes weaved defensive curtain thick with slashing lights and counterblades—intercepting each descending stroke by inches of steel.
…until the sixth.
And the very seventh.
Each block drained strength anew; at this point trembling hands betrayed Sani’on.
Under frail shell of mortal form stood not mere being but an adult nightmare from void, bearing arms of colossal force.
Like a Spiderkin Regret he must’ve battled—such strength, impossible. He suddenly remembered, that technique…
Eight Methods of Sublime Stillness. His final strike?
“Assist me!”
Forget pride, forget bearing or name.
In this heart camp stood over a dozen noble lords—including, among them, none less than FOUR Glory Rankers whose abilities had the authority to rival duels even between Sani’on and a foe of Qian’s prowess.
They knew their general too thoroughly—always valuing pride first; thus, reluctant at first intervention unless he himself called upon reinforcements.
Yet Qian rushed the moment so relentlessly swift that already, the seventh had broken into eighth technique buildup—moment of fateful impact arriving all too fast.
All could perceive in that instant—the shift within Qian Ye’s presence turning ethereal, elusive, space folding inward subtly as reality around him warped in resonance of some impending force about to burst. The moment had reached threshold.
Now all understood—premonition and dread shared among every seer and high noble eye witnessing the transformation: that Qian elevated once again to a level none yet seen, reality contorting already without attack—his mere being about to unleash force too terrifying for words.
Sani’on no longer even wished to test this.
He now understood the wounds inflicted upon Lagos in that fatal strike which once seemed his equal disgrace—the impossible narrow escape.
This juncture decided everything: not one Glory noble present had doubt on one thing; they must halt, before completion, the eighth descent.
Simultaneously, they unleashed the full wrath of their attacks—each lashing forth in a dazzling spectacle with blades of light and orbs of destructive energies aimed precisely in unison toward Qian himself.
Light flared—void flickered.
Again nothing remained—Qian had slipped into the gap beyond mortal reach again… all attacks flying astray.
Then—Sani’on spun sharply around as realization struck like lightning.
There in the space behind, materialized—Qian, blade high overhead at the beginning of the eighth swing.
Eastpeak fell like god’s wrath.
In split instants—freak wind burst. A flash behind. The strike landed. Spider-lord fell screaming in two. Through center, a fatal strike laid bare.
Even as one hundred meters away, having narrowly evaded his own end—Sani’on now had neither pride left, nor relief… only raw, crimson fury flooding within. Before his eyes, not at his very core but before every general, retainer—his own prized subordinate and key aide… severed—fallen to crimson ruin, while his breath still labored from flight and heart still trembled in survival.
Blood—only raw blood now filled mind and veins alike—searing beyond pain, demanding recompense with crimson coin.
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