By the time Yang Hao figured out what the Soul Rain was, those black filaments were already floating above people’s heads. Only then did the human bears finally sense the unimaginably immense power contained within. This power wasn’t merely strong—it felt as though it shouldn’t even exist in this world.
Yang Hao clearly sensed that each seemingly tiny black thread contained energy as powerful as a nuclear explosion. The King Swordsmen’s formation was known throughout the universe as an incredibly formidable technique, yet the energy released by one activation of that formation might equal only a single black thread.
Yet now, millions upon millions of these threads floated across the sky. At this scale and magnitude, the energy was simply beyond anything humans could withstand.
By the time Yang Hao figured out what the “Rain of Souls” was, those black threads were already floating above people’s heads. It was only then that the Bearmen finally sensed the unimaginably powerful force within them—a force so immense it seemed like it shouldn’t even exist in this world.
Yang Hao clearly perceived that each seemingly delicate black thread contained energy akin to a nuclear explosion. The King’s Sword Formation of the King’s Sword Division was renowned across the universe for its unparalleled might, yet a single discharge of the formation might only equal the energy of one tiny black thread.
But now, millions of these threads filled the sky. Such scale, such energy—it was beyond any human capacity to withstand.
Yang Hao had only the meager forces of the Demon Bear Regiment and the nearly powerless Hao Sword Regiment. Even if he gave his life, he couldn’t possibly block such an overwhelming attack.
Moreover, everyone trapped here had nowhere left to flee. No matter where they ran, survival was impossible. Wang Mu had set up a death trap—a final gambit forged with his life, soul, decades of cultivation, and future existence.
Watching the panic around him, Yang Hao could only sigh. He no longer had the will to resist, simply waiting for the threads to descend and evaporate him in an instant.
In a few seconds, the first black thread would land on the tallest Bearman’s head. The black “Night Rain Like Threads” was about to fulfill its first purpose since its creation.
No one could change this outcome. No one.
Except for a god.
Just as Wang Mu reveled in the success of his technique and everyone else despaired, a beam of light shot down from the sky. It was dazzling beyond measure, as if tens of thousands of luminous streams had passed through a diamond, refracting into a brilliance beyond compare.
This light seemed to traverse the entire universe before arriving on this planet. Its speed was astonishing—within half a second, it enveloped everyone. Yang Hao, the Demon Bear Regiment, the Hao Sword Regiment—all were bathed in its glow.
Then, the black threads descended. But instead of striking flesh, they met the radiant light. The light appeared specifically tailored to counter the threads, their opposing energies merging in a strange, harmonious balance. White energy seeped into the threads, filling the darkness. Though Wang Mu’s “Night Rain Like Threads” was an abyssally dark technique, the light’s brilliance neutralized it completely.
The once-unstoppable “Rain of Souls,” the supposedly invincible “Night Rain Like Threads,” paled before this radiance. As the last thread was neutralized, the light dimmed but continued to warm everyone gently.
The Bearmen looked up and saw, at the source of the light, the faint outline of the colossal form of the Sacred Bear in the depths of space. Clearly, this light was the power of the Sacred Bear’s divine race—only a god’s strength could so perfectly save and protect its people.
When the Sacred Bears had been framed and sealed away by the empire, the Bearmen suffered endless humiliation at the hands of the nobility. But now, everything had changed. The divine race had awakened, and under their protection, the Bearmen would thrive like never before.
“Sacred Bear! Sacred Bear!! Sacred Bear!!!” The Demon Bear Regiment erupted in unified cheers, the burly Bearmen leaping with joy, grateful for their god’s intervention.
Amid the celebration, only Wang Mu stood in silent sorrow, staring blankly at the scene as if it couldn’t possibly be real. He couldn’t fathom why his decades of painstaking cultivation, why sacrificing ten years of his life, why one of the world’s most formidable sword techniques—none of it had worked.
Wang Mu didn’t understand that he stood on another’s land, opposing another god’s people. No matter how strong his backing, ultimate victory was never within his grasp.
As he stood dazed, Wang Mu suddenly felt a sharp pain in his chest—a pain so profound it reminded him of childhood, when his dearest companion had been taken from him, leaving him helpless in the dark, watching their retreating figure.
He looked down and saw what he had half-expected: a long iron spear, belonging to the Demon Bear Regiment, piercing clean through his chest. While Wang Mu had been distracted, Kevin had seized the moment to hurl the spear, striking true.
The thick spear trembled with each heartbeat, and Wang Mu felt his lifeblood—and with it, his dreams and glory—draining away.
“Well, I guess this is death,” Wang Mu muttered, running his fingers along the cold shaft. The chill reminded him of the first time he’d gripped a sword hilt. He looked up and saw the remnants of the King’s Sword Division escaping the satellite’s atmosphere, racing toward their fleet. He knew these survivors, preserved by his sacrifice, would fulfill his final wishes.
He flicked his sword, producing a clear, almost musical ring—a sound no one would ever hear again.
Then, with the last of his strength, he raised his sword and unleashed the final strike of his life.
**Divine Dragon Mirage Sword!!!**
The sky flashed like dawn.
Regardless of the day’s outcome, Yang Hao learned a bloody lesson: never corner a desperate enemy, lest they unleash unimaginable power. No one can oppose those who fight with nothing left to lose—not even a divine race like the Sacred Bears.
Wang Mu had been utterly defeated—from commander of an army to a lone warrior, his strongest technique shattered. He was dying, the Demon Bear Regiment’s spear having torn through his heart. Yet in his final moments, he wielded the most indomitable courage of all: the fearlessness of death.
No one knew how terrifying such a Wang Mu could be. But everyone saw him lift his sword. Though his energy was spent—drained by the “Night Rain Like Threads”—and though his gaze held only a sigh and a smile, he still moved.
Was he sighing for a world that had abandoned him? For never seeing another sunrise? For the spring breeze blooming wildflowers in his homeland, while his soul could only yearn from afar?
Yet Wang Mu struck. His motion was gentle, like a poet penning the most beautiful sonnet—so light it didn’t even stir the wind. This delicate, seemingly powerless technique wasn’t his own. It belonged to a legendary sword immortal who had once taught the Wang family three techniques—techniques that had brought them centuries of glory.
**Divine Dragon Mirage Sword!!**
Every member of the Wang family had studied it diligently, making it their ultimate weapon. But Wang Mu had never used it, believing a swordsman, like a poet, must wield only his own creations.
If any of his kin had been present, he might have proudly told them this was the first—and last—time he’d ever used another’s technique in battle.
It was his final glory.
The Divine Dragon Mirage Sword erupted in the sky, igniting the planet’s methane-rich atmosphere. Though his execution was clumsy and his power depleted, it was still the Divine Dragon Mirage Sword. From Wang Mu’s iconic short blade burst a blazing inferno—a dragon with jagged horns, flashing across the heavens.
Wang Mu smiled. The sky blazed.
Brilliant as dawn, yet now forever night.
Wang Mu died before witnessing the planet’s grandest spectacle. His body shattered into dust under the backlash of his own technique—a mighty sword art, uncontrolled, consuming its wielder.
But what he left behind was catastrophe. Yang Hao watched helplessly as disaster struck, knowing it was too late to stop even if he tried.
Today, Yang Hao’s plan had been to lure Wang Mu, capture him, and force the empire to retreat—avoiding further bloodshed. As Hunyuanzi’s military stratagems said, “The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.” Yang Hao didn’t fully grasp the meaning, but he knew one thing: if you can avoid a fight, why start one? Who actually enjoys war?
Yet in this world, no matter how perfect the plan, execution often goes awry—especially when surrounded by Bearmen whose brains are full of crap.
Today, the Demon Bear Regiment had fought with reckless abandon, especially Kevin. Fresh from his first major victory and drunk on the thrill of driving the imperial forces to retreat, he’d pursued Wang Mu’s sword division to the brink—provoking Wang Mu’s desperate, fatal counterstrike.
Even this disaster failed to teach Kevin the folly of his impulsiveness. After barely surviving thanks to the Sacred Bear’s divine intervention, he’d delivered the killing blow to Wang Mu, completely forgetting Yang Hao’s earlier orders to capture him alive.
Moreover, everyone caught beneath this rain now had no escape. No matter where they ran, there would be no path to survival. Wang Mu had set a deadly trap—an ultimate formation built upon his own life and soul, upon decades of cultivation and the remainder of his future life.
Looking at the panic on the faces around him, Yang Hao 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 him.
In just a few seconds, the first black thread would strike the tallest human bear. The black “Night Rain Like Threads” was finally about to claim its first victims since its creation.
No one could change this outcome. No one at all.
Except perhaps a god.
Just as Wang Mu felt exhilaration at the success of his technique, and just as despair overwhelmed everyone else, 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.
By the time Yang Hao understood what the “Rain of Souls” was, those black threads had already begun to drift, even hovering right above people’s heads. It was only then that the Bearmen finally sensed the unimaginably immense power within them—a power so overwhelming that it seemed as though it shouldn’t even exist in this world.
Yang Hao could clearly perceive that each seemingly delicate black thread contained energy comparable to a nuclear explosion. The King’s Sword Formation of the King’s Sword Division was renowned across the universe for its might, yet a single activation of it might only equal the energy of one tiny black thread.
But now, millions of these threads filled the sky. Such scale, such energy—it was beyond any human capacity to withstand.
Yang Hao had only the meager forces of the Demon Bear Regiment and the nearly powerless Hao Sword Regiment at his disposal. Even if he were to throw his own life into the fray, he couldn’t possibly intercept such an overwhelmingly powerful sword technique.
Moreover, there was no escape for those now trapped beneath this deadly shroud. No matter where they fled, survival was impossible. Wang Mu had set up a death trap—one forged with his own life, soul, decades of cultivation, and even his future existence.
Seeing the terror in the eyes of those around him, Yang Hao could only sigh. He had lost even the will to resist, resigned to the fate of being vaporized the moment those threads descended upon him.
In mere seconds, the first black thread would land on the tallest Bearman’s head. The black “Night Rain Like Threads” was about to fulfill its first purpose since its creation.
No one could change this outcome.
No one.
Except for the gods.
Just as Wang Mu was reveling in the success of his technique, and just as everyone else was succumbing to despair, a beam of light shot down from the heavens. It was radiant beyond measure, as if tens of thousands of luminous streams had passed through a diamond, refracting into a brilliance beyond compare.
This light seemed to traverse the entire cosmos before arriving on this planet. Its speed was staggering—within half a second, it enveloped everyone. Yang Hao, the Demon Bear Regiment, the Hao Sword Regiment—all were bathed in its glow.
Then, the black threads descended. But instead of striking flesh, they met the dazzling light. It was as though the radiance had come specifically to counter the dark threads. The two opposing energies collided, creating a strange, harmonious balance. The white energy seeped into the black threads, neutralizing their darkness. Despite the “Night Rain Like Threads” being an overwhelmingly sinister technique, the light’s brilliance was so overwhelming that it completely nullified the unstoppable sword art.
The Rain of Souls, once the bane of cultivators, and the Night Rain Like Threads, now deemed invincible—both paled in comparison to this divine radiance. As the last black thread was neutralized, the light dimmed but remained, gently warming those beneath it.
The Bearmen looked up and saw, at the source of the light, the faint outline of the colossal form of the Sacred Bears in the depths of space. It was clear—this light was the power of the Sacred Bears, the divine intervention of their gods. Only divine power could so perfectly save and protect their people.
When the Sacred Bears had been betrayed and sealed away by the empire, the Bearmen had suffered endless humiliation at the hands of the imperial nobility. But now, everything had changed. The gods had awakened, and under their protection, the Bearmen would become an indomitable race.
“Sacred Bears! Sacred Bears!! Sacred Bears!!!” The Demon Bear Regiment erupted in a thunderous roar, the burly Bearmen cheering and rejoicing at the divine intervention.
Amidst the jubilation, only Wang Mu stood in silent sorrow. He stared blankly at the scene before him, as though unable to believe what had just transpired. He couldn’t fathom why his decades of painstaking cultivation, why his willingness to sacrifice ten years of his life, why one of the world’s most formidable sword techniques—had all failed.
Wang Mu didn’t understand—he was standing on foreign soil, fighting against the chosen people of another god. No matter how powerful his backing, ultimate victory was never truly within his grasp.
As he stood there, lost in thought, he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his chest—a pain so profound it reminded him of the helplessness he had felt as a child, watching his dearest companion being taken away while he could only stare helplessly from the shadows.
Wang Mu looked down and saw what he had half-expected—a long iron spear, belonging to the Demon Bear Regiment, impaled through his chest.
While Wang Mu had been distracted, Kevin had seized the moment and hurled the spear, piercing him clean through. The thick spear trembled with each heartbeat, and Wang Mu could feel his lifeblood—and with it, his dreams and glory—slowly draining away.
“Well, I suppose this is death,” Wang Mu murmured. He touched the cold shaft of the spear, the sensation reminiscent of the first time he had gripped a sword hilt. He looked up and saw the remnants of the King’s Sword Division escaping the satellite’s atmosphere, racing back toward the fleet. He knew—these survivors, preserved by his sacrifice, would fulfill all his ambitions.
He flicked his sword once more. This time, the sound was far more melodious, almost pleasing—though there was no one left to appreciate it.
Then, with the last of his strength, he raised his sword and unleashed the final strike of his life.
**Divine Dragon Mirage Sword!!!**
The sky flashed as bright as dawn.
Regardless of the day’s outcome, it had taught Yang Hao a bloody lesson—never corner a desperate enemy, lest they unleash unimaginable power. No one can stand against a man who has nothing left to lose—not even gods like the Sacred Bears.
Wang Mu had been utterly defeated—from the commander of an entire legion to a lone warrior, even his strongest technique had been nullified. He was dying, the Demon Bear Regiment’s spear having torn through his heart. Yet in his final moments, he possessed the most indomitable courage of all—he no longer feared death.
No one knew how terrifying such a Wang Mu could be. But everyone saw him raise his sword. Though he had little energy left—his “Night Rain Like Threads” had drained him—and though his gaze held only resignation and a faint smile, he still struck.
Was he lamenting that the world had abandoned him? That he would never see another sunrise? That spring breezes would stir wildflowers in his homeland while his soul could only yearn from afar?
Yet Wang Mu still swung his sword—not with force, but with the grace of a poet penning the most beautiful sonnet. The motion was so light it didn’t even disturb the air. This was not Wang Mu’s style—it belonged to a legendary sword immortal who had once taught the Wang family three sword techniques, techniques that had brought them centuries of glory.
**Divine Dragon Mirage Sword!!**
Every member of the Wang family had studied it diligently, making it their ultimate combat technique—except for Wang Mu. He had always wielded his own sword, believing that a poet quoting another’s verse was a crime, and a swordsman should only use his own blade.
If any of his kin had been present, he might have proudly told them—this was the first and last time he had ever used another’s sword technique in battle.
And that, too, was a glory unique to Wang Mu.
The Divine Dragon Mirage Sword erupted in the sky, igniting the methane-rich atmosphere of the planet. Though his execution was unrefined and his power depleted, it was still the Divine Dragon Mirage Sword. From Wang Mu’s iconic short sword burst a blazing inferno—a dragon, horns raised, streaking across the heavens in a fleeting instant.
Wang Mu smiled.
And the sky blazed like dawn, before fading back into night.
Wang Mu died before witnessing the planet’s most spectacular sight. His body disintegrated into dust beneath the backlash of his own technique—a mighty sword art, uncontrolled, consuming its wielder.
But what he left behind was nothing short of catastrophe. Yang Hao could only watch helplessly as disaster unfolded—too late to stop it, even if he had tried.
Today, Yang Hao’s plan had been to lure Wang Mu, capture him, and force the empire to retreat—avoiding further bloodshed. As the old strategist Hunyuanzi had said, “The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.” Yang Hao didn’t fully grasp the meaning, but he knew one thing—if a fight could be avoided, it should be. Who in their right mind enjoyed war?
But in this world, no matter how perfect the plan, execution often went awry—especially when surrounded by Bearmen whose heads were filled with nothing but nonsense.
Today, the Demon Bear Regiment had fought with reckless abandon, especially Kevin. Thrilled by his first taste of victory and the chance to push the imperial forces into retreat, he had pursued Wang Mu’s sword division relentlessly—only to provoke Wang Mu’s desperate final strike.
Even this disaster hadn’t taught Kevin the folly of his impulsiveness. After being miraculously saved by the Sacred Bears’ divine intervention, he had still delivered the killing blow to Wang Mu, completely forgetting Yang Hao’s earlier orders to capture him alive.
Then the black threads fell—but instead of striking human bodies, they met the brilliant light. The light appeared to have come specifically for the threads. The two energies were opposites, and upon contact, they created a strange form of energy complementation. White energy gradually seeped into the threads, neutralizing the blackness. 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 technique.
By the time Yang Hao figured out what the “Rain of Souls” was, those black filaments were already drifting even above people’s heads. It was only then that the Bearmen finally sensed the unimaginably immense power within them—a power so overwhelming it seemed as though it shouldn’t even exist in this world.
Yang Hao could clearly perceive that each seemingly delicate black filament contained energy equivalent to a nuclear explosion. The King’s Sword Formation of the King’s Sword Division was renowned across the universe for its might, yet a single discharge from it might only equal the energy of one tiny black filament.
But now, millions of these filaments filled the sky. Such scale, such energy—it was beyond any mortal to withstand.
Yang Hao had only the meager forces of the Demon Bear Regiment and the nearly powerless Hao Sword Regiment at his disposal. Even if he threw his life into the effort, he couldn’t possibly block such a high-energy sword technique.
Moreover, everyone trapped beneath this onslaught had nowhere left to flee. No matter where they ran, survival was impossible. Wang Mu had set up a death trap—one that cost his own life, soul, decades of cultivation, and future existence to create.
Watching the panic around him, Yang Hao could only sigh. He no longer had the will to resist, resigned to the fate of being vaporized the moment those filaments touched his head.
In mere seconds, the first black filament would land on the tallest Bearman. The “Night Rain Like Threads” was about to fulfill its first act of destruction since its creation.
No one could change this outcome. No one.
Except for a god.
Just as Wang Mu reveled in the success of his technique and everyone else despaired, a beam of light shot down from the heavens. It was dazzling beyond measure, as if tens of thousands of luminous streams had passed through a diamond, refracting into a brilliance beyond compare.
This light seemed to traverse the entire cosmos before arriving on this planet. Its speed was staggering—within half a second, it enveloped everyone. Yang Hao, the Demon Bear Regiment, the Hao Sword Regiment—all were bathed in its glow.
Then, the black filaments descended. But they didn’t meet flesh—they met the radiant light. The light seemed tailor-made to counter the filaments, their opposing energies creating a strange, harmonious balance. White energy seeped into the filaments, neutralizing their darkness. Though Wang Mu’s “Night Rain Like Threads” was a technique of ultimate darkness, the light’s brilliance was overwhelming, neutralizing what was once an unstoppable sword art.
The Rain of Souls, which had slaughtered countless cultivators, and the supposedly invincible “Night Rain Like Threads”—both paled before this light. As the last filament was neutralized, the light dimmed but continued to warm those beneath it with a gentle glow.
The Bearmen looked up and saw, at the source of the light, the faint outline of the colossal form of the Sacred Bear in the depths of space. Clearly, this light was the power of the Sacred Bear’s divine race—only a god’s strength could so perfectly save and protect its people.
When the Sacred Bears had been framed and sealed away by the empire, the Bearmen had suffered endless humiliation at the hands of the nobility. But now, things were different. The divine race had awakened, and under their protection, the Bearmen would become an indomitable people.
“Sacred Bear! Sacred Bear!! Sacred Bear!!!” The Demon Bear Regiment erupted in unified cheers, the burly Bearmen leaping with joy, grateful for their god’s intervention.
Amidst the celebration, only Wang Mu stood in silent sorrow. He stared blankly at the scene before him, as if unable to believe what had happened. He couldn’t fathom why his decades of painstaking cultivation, why sacrificing ten years of his life, why one of the world’s most powerful sword techniques—none of it had worked.
Wang Mu didn’t understand that he stood on another’s land, opposing another god’s people. No matter how strong his backing, ultimate victory was never within his grasp.
As Wang Mu stood dazed, he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his chest—a pain so profound it felt like losing his dearest childhood companion, leaving him helpless, staring into the darkness as they walked away.
He looked down and saw what he had half-expected: a long iron spear, belonging to the Demon Bear Regiment, impaled through his chest.
While Wang Mu was distracted, Kevin had seized the moment to hurl the spear, piercing him clean through. The thick spear trembled with his heartbeat, and Wang Mu felt his lifeblood—and with it, his dreams and glory—slowly draining away.
“Well, I guess this is death,” Wang Mu muttered, running his fingers along the cold shaft, a sensation reminiscent of the first time he’d gripped a sword hilt. He looked up and saw the remnants of the King’s Sword Division fleeing the satellite’s atmosphere, racing toward their fleet. He knew these survivors, preserved by his sacrifice, would fulfill his final wishes.
Wang Mu flicked his sword, producing a clear, melodious ring—a sound no one would ever hear again.
Then, with the last of his strength, he raised his sword and unleashed the final strike of his life.
**Divine Dragon Mirage Sword!!!**
The sky flashed as bright as dawn.
Regardless of the day’s outcome, Yang Hao had learned a bloody lesson: never corner a desperate enemy, lest they unleash unimaginable fury. No one can oppose those who have nothing left to lose—not even a divine race like the Sacred Bears.
Wang Mu had been utterly defeated—from commander of an army to a lone warrior, his strongest technique shattered. He was dying, a gaping wound from the Demon Bear’s spear tearing through his heart. Yet in his final moments, he possessed the most indomitable courage of all: he no longer feared death.
No one knew how terrifying such a Wang Mu could be. But everyone saw him raise his sword. Though his energy was spent—drained by the “Night Rain Like Threads”—and though his killing intent had faded, his eyes held only a wistful smile.
Was he lamenting a world that had abandoned him? That he’d never see another sunrise? That spring breezes would stir wildflowers in his homeland while his soul could only yearn from afar?
Yet Wang Mu still struck. His motion was gentle, like a poet penning the most beautiful sonnet—so light it didn’t even stir the wind. This delicate, powerless swordplay wasn’t his own—it belonged to a legendary sword immortal who had once taught the Wang family three techniques, techniques that had brought them centuries of glory.
**Divine Dragon Mirage Sword!!**
Every member of the Wang family had studied it diligently, making it their ultimate combat art—except Wang Mu. He had always wielded his own techniques, believing that a poet quoting another’s verse was a crime, and a swordsman must only use his own blade.
If any of his kin had been present, Wang Mu might have proudly told them this was the first—and last—time he’d ever used another’s technique in battle.
It was his own unique glory.
The Divine Dragon Mirage Sword erupted in the sky, detonating on this methane-rich, flammable planet. Though his execution was clumsy and his power depleted, it was still the Divine Dragon Mirage Sword. From Wang Mu’s iconic short blade burst a roaring flame—a dragon, horns raised, flashing across the heavens.
Wang Mu smiled. The sky blazed.
Brilliant as dawn, yet now forever night.
Wang Mu died before witnessing the planet’s grandest spectacle. His body disintegrated into dust beneath the backlash of his own technique—a mighty sword art, uncontrolled, consuming its wielder.
But what Wang Mu left behind was pure catastrophe. Yang Hao could only watch helplessly as disaster struck—too late to stop it, even if he’d tried.
Today, Yang Hao’s plan had been to lure Wang Mu, capture the commander, and force the empire to retreat—avoiding further bloodshed. As Hunyuanzi’s military stratagems went, it was the “supreme art of war: to subdue the enemy without fighting.” Yang Hao didn’t fully grasp the meaning, but he knew one thing: if you can avoid a fight, avoid it. Who actually enjoys war?
But in this world, even the most perfect plans often go awry—especially when surrounded by Bearmen whose heads are full of nonsense.
Today, the Demon Bear Regiment had fought with reckless abandon, especially Kevin. Thrilled by his first taste of victory and driving the imperial forces into retreat, he’d chased Wang Mu’s swordsmen to the brink—only to provoke Wang Mu’s final, desperate strike.
Even this disaster didn’t teach Kevin the folly of his impulsiveness. After the Sacred Bear’s divine intervention saved them, Kevin had the audacity to deliver the killing blow to Wang Mu—completely forgetting Yang Hao’s earlier orders to capture him alive.
And the human bears saw, at the source of that light deep within the cosmos, the massive form of the Holy Bear faintly appearing and disappearing. Clearly, that beam of light had come from the divine power of the Holy Bear race. Only divine power could so perfectly rescue and protect its people.
Back when the Holy Bears were framed and sealed by the Empire, the human bears suffered endless humiliation from the imperial nobles. But now, the situation was completely different—the gods had awakened. Under their divine protection, the human bears would become the most enduring race in existence.
By the time Yang Hao figured out what the Soul Rain was, those black filaments were already floating above people’s heads. It was only then that the Bearmen finally sensed the unimaginably immense power within them—power so overwhelming that it seemed like it shouldn’t even exist in this world.
Yang Hao clearly perceived that each seemingly delicate black filament contained energy equivalent to a nuclear explosion. The King’s Formation of the King’s Sword Corps was renowned across the universe for its unparalleled might, yet a single activation of the King’s Formation might only equal the energy of one tiny black filament.
But now, millions upon millions of these filaments filled the sky. Such scale, such energy—it was simply beyond human endurance.
Yang Hao had only the meager forces of the Demon Bear Corps and the nearly powerless Hao Sword Corps at his disposal. Even if he threw his own life into the fray, he couldn’t possibly withstand such an overwhelming surge of energy.
Moreover, everyone trapped within this deluge had nowhere left to flee. No matter where they ran, there was no escape. Wang Mu had set up a death trap—one that used his own life, soul, decades of cultivation, and future existence to ensure absolute annihilation.
Watching the panic around him, Yang Hao could only sigh. He had lost even the will to resist, resigned to the fate of being vaporized the moment those filaments touched his head.
In mere seconds, the first black filament would land on the tallest Bearman. The black “Night Rain Like Threads” was about to fulfill its first act of destruction since its creation.
No one could change this outcome. No one.
Except for a god.
Just as Wang Mu reveled in the success of his technique and everyone else despaired, a beam of light shot down from the heavens. It was dazzling beyond measure, as if tens of thousands of luminous streams had passed through a diamond, refracting into a brilliance that defied description.
This light seemed to traverse the entire cosmos before arriving on this planet at an astonishing speed. In less than half a second, it enveloped everyone—Yang Hao, the Demon Bear Corps, the Hao Sword Corps—without exception.
Then, the black filaments descended. But instead of striking flesh, they met the radiant light. The light seemed tailor-made to counter the black filaments, their opposing energies creating a strange harmony. The white energy seeped into the filaments, filling the darkness with light. Though Wang Mu’s “Night Rain Like Threads” was an overwhelmingly dark and sinister technique, the light’s brilliance was so intense that it neutralized the unstoppable sword art.
The Soul Rain, once the bane of cultivators, and the supposedly invincible “Night Rain Like Threads” were no match for this divine radiance. As the last black filament was neutralized, the light dimmed but continued to bathe everyone in its gentle warmth.
The Bearmen looked up and saw, at the source of the light, the faint but unmistakable silhouette of the Sacred Bears in the depths of space. Clearly, this light was the power of the Sacred Bears—divine intervention to protect their people.
When the Sacred Bears had been framed and sealed away by the empire, the Bearmen had suffered endless humiliation at the hands of the nobility. But now, things were different. The gods had awakened, and under their protection, the Bearmen would thrive like never before.
“Sacred Bears! Sacred Bears!! Sacred Bears!!!” The Demon Bear Corps erupted in unified cheers, the burly Bearmen rejoicing at the divine salvation.
Amid the jubilation, only Wang Mu stood in silent despair. He stared blankly at the scene before him, as if unable to believe what had just happened. He couldn’t fathom why his decades of painstaking cultivation, his willingness to sacrifice ten years of his life, and one of the world’s most formidable sword techniques had all failed.
What Wang Mu didn’t understand was that he stood on another’s land, facing the subjects of another god. No matter how powerful his backing, ultimate victory was never guaranteed.
As Wang Mu stood dazed, a sudden, sharp pain pierced his chest—a pain so profound it felt like losing his dearest childhood companion all over again, leaving him helpless in the dark, watching them disappear.
He looked down and saw what he had half-expected: a long iron spear, the signature weapon of the Demon Bear Corps, impaling his chest.
While Wang Mu was lost in thought, Kevin had seized the moment to hurl the spear, striking true and running him through. The thick spear trembled with each heartbeat, and Wang Mu felt his lifeblood—and with it, his dreams and glory—slowly draining away.
“Well, I guess this is it,” Wang Mu muttered, running his fingers along the cold shaft. The chill reminded him of the first time he had gripped a sword hilt. He looked up and saw the remnants of the King’s Sword Corps escaping the satellite’s atmosphere, racing toward their fleet. He knew these survivors, preserved by his sacrifice, would fulfill his final wishes.
He flicked his sword once more, producing a clear, melodious ring—a sound no one would ever hear again.
Then, with the last of his strength, he unleashed the final sword stroke of his life.
**Divine Dragon Mirage Sword!!!**
The sky flashed as bright as dawn.
Regardless of the day’s outcome, it had taught Yang Hao a bloody lesson: never corner a desperate enemy, lest they unleash unimaginable fury. No one, not even a god like the Sacred Bears, could stand against someone with nothing left to lose.
Wang Mu had been utterly defeated—from commander of an army to a lone warrior, his strongest technique shattered. He was dying, a gaping wound in his chest where the Demon Bear Corps’ spear had torn through his heart. Yet in his final moments, he wielded the most indomitable courage of all: the fearlessness of death.
No one knew how terrifying such a Wang Mu could be. But everyone saw him raise his sword. Though his energy was spent—drained by the “Night Rain Like Threads”—and his killing intent gone, his eyes held only a wistful smile.
Was he lamenting a world that had abandoned him? The sunlight he’d never see again? The wildflowers blooming in his homeland, now only a memory?
Yet Wang Mu still struck. His motion was gentle, like a poet penning the most beautiful sonnet—so light it didn’t even stir the wind. This effortless, almost weightless swordplay wasn’t his own. It belonged to a legendary swordsman who had once taught the Wang family three techniques—techniques that had brought them centuries of glory.
**Divine Dragon Mirage Sword!!**
Every member of the Wang family had studied this technique, making it their ultimate weapon in battle. But Wang Mu had always refused. To him, a swordsman using another’s technique was like a poet plagiarizing—unforgivable.
If any of his kin had been present, Wang Mu might have proudly told them this was the first—and last—time he had ever used another’s swordplay in battle.
And that, too, was his own unique glory.
The Divine Dragon Mirage Sword erupted in the sky, igniting the methane-rich atmosphere of the planet. Though his execution was clumsy and his power depleted, it was still the Divine Dragon Mirage Sword. From Wang Mu’s iconic short blade burst a blazing inferno—a dragon with jagged horns, flashing across the heavens.
Wang Mu smiled. The sky blazed.
Brilliant as dawn, yet now forever night.
Wang Mu died before witnessing the planet’s grandest spectacle. His body disintegrated into dust under the backlash of the Divine Dragon Mirage Sword—a technique that consumed its wielder without sufficient control.
But what he left behind was pure catastrophe. Yang Hao could only watch helplessly as disaster unfolded—too late to stop it, even if he tried.
Today, Yang Hao’s plan had been to lure Wang Mu, capture him, and force the empire to retreat, avoiding further bloodshed. As Hunyuanzi’s military stratagems went, this was the “supreme art of war”—though Yang Hao didn’t fully grasp the meaning, he knew one thing: if you could avoid a fight, why start one? Who actually enjoyed war?
But in this world, even the most flawless plans could go horribly wrong—especially when surrounded by Bearmen whose brains seemed filled with nothing but mush.
Today, the Demon Bear Corps had fought with reckless abandon, especially Kevin. Fresh from his first taste of glory and the thrill of driving the imperial forces to retreat, he had pursued Wang Mu’s sword corps with suicidal fervor—only to provoke Wang Mu’s final, desperate strike.
Even this disaster failed to teach Kevin the folly of his impulsiveness. After being miraculously saved by the Sacred Bears’ divine intervention, he had the audacity to deliver the killing blow to Wang Mu, completely forgetting Yang Hao’s earlier orders to capture him alive.
Amidst this jubilation, only Wang Mu stood in sorrow, staring blankly at everything before him as if it were impossible. He couldn’t fathom how, after years of dedicated cultivation, after willingly sacrificing ten years of his life, even the most powerful sword techniques in the world had failed.
Wang Mu naturally couldn’t understand that he was now standing on another’s land, opposing the chosen people of another god. No matter how powerful Wang Mu’s backing might be, ultimate victory would remain beyond his grasp.
As Wang Mu stood lost in thought, he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his chest—an unbearable agony, like the moment in childhood when his dearest playmate was taken from him, leaving him helpless in the darkness, watching someone walk away.
By the time Yang Hao figured out what the Soul Rain was, those black threads had already begun to drift even above people’s heads. It was only then that the Bearmen finally sensed the unimaginably immense power within them—a power so overwhelming that it seemed as though it shouldn’t even exist in this world.
Yang Hao could clearly perceive that each of those seemingly delicate black threads contained energy comparable to a nuclear explosion. The King’s Sword Formation of the King’s Sword Division was renowned across the universe for its might, yet a single discharge of the formation might only equal the energy of one tiny black thread.
But now, millions of these threads filled the sky. Such scale, such energy—it was simply beyond human endurance.
Yang Hao had only the meager forces of the Magic Bear Regiment and the nearly powerless Hao Sword Regiment at his disposal. Even if he were to throw his own life into the fray, he couldn’t possibly withstand such an overwhelming attack.
Moreover, there was no escape for those now trapped beneath this deadly shroud. No matter where they fled, survival was impossible. Wang Mu had set up a death trap—one forged with his own life, soul, decades of cultivation, and the very essence of his future existence.
Watching the terror-stricken faces around him, Yang Hao could only sigh. He had lost even the will to resist, resigned to the fate of being vaporized the moment those threads touched his head.
In mere seconds, the first black thread would land on the tallest Bearman. The “Night Rain Like Threads” was about to fulfill its first act of destruction since its creation.
No one could alter this outcome.
No one.
Except for the gods.
Just as Wang Mu reveled in the success of his technique and despair gripped everyone else, a beam of light descended from the heavens. It was radiant beyond measure, as if countless streams of starlight had passed through a diamond, refracting into a brilliance that defied description.
This light seemed to traverse the entire cosmos before arriving on this planet. Its speed was staggering—within half a second, it enveloped everyone: Yang Hao, the Magic Bear Regiment, the Hao Sword Regiment—none were spared.
Then, the black threads fell. But instead of striking flesh, they met the dazzling light. It was as though the radiance had come specifically for them. The two opposing energies collided, creating an unexpected harmony—white energy seeped into the black threads, neutralizing their darkness. Despite the “Night Rain Like Threads” being an overwhelmingly sinister technique, the light’s brilliance was so absolute that it counterbalanced the unstoppable sword art.
The Soul Rain, once the bane of cultivators, and the “Night Rain Like Threads,” now deemed invincible—neither could withstand this divine radiance. As the last black thread dissolved, the light dimmed but remained, gently warming those beneath it.
And the Bearmen saw it—at the source of this light, deep in the cosmos, the colossal form of the Sacred Bear flickered into view. Clearly, this was the power of the Sacred Bear, the divine race. Only the gods could intervene so perfectly to save and protect their people.
When the Sacred Bears had been sealed away by the Empire’s treachery, the Bearmen suffered under the nobles’ cruelty. But now, everything had changed. The divine race had awakened, and under their protection, the Bearmen would thrive like never before.
“Sacred Bear! Sacred Bear!! Sacred Bear!!!” The Magic Bear Regiment erupted in unified cheers, their massive forms leaping with joy, grateful for the gods’ intervention.
Amidst the celebration, only Wang Mu stood in silent despair. He stared blankly at the scene before him, as though unable to comprehend what had just happened. He couldn’t fathom why his decades of painstaking cultivation, why sacrificing ten years of his life, why one of the world’s most formidable sword techniques—had all failed.
Wang Mu didn’t understand—he stood on foreign soil, opposing the subjects of another god. No matter how powerful his backing, ultimate victory was never guaranteed.
As he stood there, lost in thought, a sudden, sharp pain pierced his chest. It was an agony unlike any other—like the helplessness of watching a childhood companion torn away, leaving him staring into the darkness as they vanished.
Wang Mu looked down and saw what he had half-expected: a long iron spear, belonging to the Magic Bear Regiment, impaled through his chest.
While Wang Mu had been distracted, Kevin had seized the moment to hurl the spear, striking true. The thick shaft still trembled, making his heartbeat erratic. He could feel his lifeblood seeping away, and with it, years of dreams and glory.
“Well… I suppose this is death,” Wang Mu murmured. He touched the cold spear shaft, the sensation reminiscent of the first time he had gripped a sword hilt.
Looking up, he saw the remnants of the King’s Sword Division escaping the satellite’s atmosphere, racing toward their fleet. He knew these survivors—preserved by his sacrifice—would fulfill his final wishes.
Wang Mu flicked his sword once more. This time, the sound was almost musical, though no one remained to appreciate it.
Then, with the last of his strength, he raised his blade and unleashed the final sword strike of his life.
**Divine Dragon Mirage Sword!!!**
The sky ignited like dawn.
Regardless of the day’s outcome, it had taught Yang Hao a brutal lesson: never corner a desperate enemy, lest they unleash unimaginable fury. No one could oppose a man with nothing left to lose—not even the Sacred Bears.
Wang Mu had been utterly defeated—from a legion commander to a lone warrior, even his ultimate technique shattered. He was dying, the Magic Bear Regiment’s spear having torn through his heart. Yet in his final moments, he wielded the most indomitable courage of all—fearlessness in the face of death.
No one knew how terrifying such a Wang Mu could be. But everyone would witness it—his sword raised, his energy nearly spent from the “Night Rain Like Threads.” His killing intent was gone; his eyes held only a wistful smile.
Was he lamenting the world’s abandonment? The sunlight he’d never see again? The wildflowers blooming in his homeland, now only a memory?
Yet Wang Mu still struck. His motion was gentle, like a poet penning the most beautiful sonnet—so light it didn’t even stir the wind. This effortless, powerless swordplay wasn’t his own—it belonged to a legendary sword immortal who had once taught the Wang family three techniques. Just three, yet they had brought the family centuries of glory.
**Divine Dragon Mirage Sword!!**
Every member of the Wang family had studied it diligently, making it their ultimate combat technique—except Wang Mu. He had always forged his own path, believing that a poet quoting another’s verse was a crime, and a swordsman must wield only his own blade.
If any of his kin had been present, Wang Mu might have proudly told them: this was the first and last time he had ever used another’s sword technique in battle.
And that, too, was his own unique glory.
The Divine Dragon Mirage Sword detonated in the sky, igniting the planet’s methane-rich atmosphere. Though his execution was flawed and his power diminished, it was still the Divine Dragon Mirage Sword. From Wang Mu’s iconic short blade erupted a blazing inferno—a dragon, horns raised, streaking across the heavens.
Wang Mu smiled.
And the sky blazed.
Brilliant as dawn, yet now forever night.
Wang Mu died before witnessing the planet’s grandest spectacle. His body disintegrated first under the backlash of his own technique—a mighty sword art, uncontrolled, consuming its wielder.
But what he left behind was pure catastrophe. Yang Hao could only watch helplessly as disaster unfolded—too late to stop it, even if he had tried.
Today’s plan had been simple: lure Wang Mu, capture him, and force the Empire to retreat, avoiding further bloodshed. As Hunyuanzi’s military stratagems went, it was the ideal—”the supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.” Yang Hao didn’t fully grasp the meaning, but he knew one thing: if war could be avoided, it should be. Who in their right mind enjoyed battle?
But in this world, even the most flawless plans could go horribly wrong—especially when surrounded by Bearmen whose brains seemed filled with nothing but dung.
Today, the Magic Bear Regiment had fought with reckless abandon, particularly Kevin. Fresh from his first taste of glory and the thrill of driving the Imperial forces to retreat, he had pursued Wang Mu’s swordsmen with suicidal fervor—only to provoke Wang Mu’s final, desperate strike.
Even this disaster failed to teach Kevin the folly of his impulsiveness. After the Sacred Bears’ divine intervention had barely saved them, Kevin had the audacity to deliver the killing blow to Wang Mu—completely forgetting Yang Hao’s earlier orders about capturing him alive.
While Wang Mu was distracted, Kevin had seized the moment to throw the spear, striking Wang Mu’s chest straight through. The thick spear still vibrated, making Wang Mu’s heart race.
He felt his life slipping away with the blood, and with it, all his dreams and glory of the years.
“Yeah, guess it’s time to die,” Wang Mu muttered. He reached out and touched the spear shaft. The cold sensation was like the first time he had ever touched a sword hilt. Wang Mu looked up and saw the remaining members of the King Swordsmen flying out of the satellite’s atmosphere, speeding toward the fleet. He knew these remnants, saved at the cost of his life, would fulfill all his wishes.
Wang Mu plucked the sword again. This time, the sound was much better—almost pleasant, though no one would hear it now.
Then he raised his sword, mustering his last strength to unleash his final strike.
Divine Dragon 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 backed into a corner, an opponent might unleash power no one could foresee. No one can fight against someone willing to give their life—not even divine beings like the Holy Bears.
By the time Yang Hao figured out what the “Rain of Souls” was, those black threads had already spread, even floating right above people’s heads. It was only then that the Bearmen finally sensed the unimaginably immense power within them. This power wasn’t just overwhelming—it seemed as though it shouldn’t even exist in this world.
Yang Hao clearly perceived that each of those seemingly delicate black threads contained energy equivalent to a nuclear explosion. The King’s Sword Formation of the King’s Swordsmen was renowned across the universe for its unparalleled might, yet a single activation of the formation might only match the energy of one tiny black thread.
But now, millions of these threads filled the sky. Such scale, such energy—it was simply beyond human endurance.
Yang Hao had only a meager Demon Bear Regiment and the nearly powerless Hao Sword Regiment under his command. Even if he gave his life, he couldn’t possibly withstand such an overwhelmingly powerful sword technique.
Moreover, everyone trapped within this storm had nowhere to run. No matter where they fled, survival was impossible. Wang Mu had set up a death trap—one that used his own life, soul, decades of cultivation, and future existence to ensure absolute annihilation.
Watching the panic around him, Yang Hao could only sigh. He no longer even had the will to resist, simply waiting for the threads to descend upon him and face the fate of instant vaporization.
In mere seconds, the first black thread would land on the tallest Bearman’s head. The black “Night Rain Like Threads” was about to fulfill its first purpose since its creation.
No one could change this outcome. No one.
Except for a god.
Just as Wang Mu reveled in the success of his technique and everyone else despaired, a beam of light suddenly shot down from the heavens. This light was dazzling beyond measure, as if tens of thousands of luminous streams had passed through a diamond, refracting into a brilliance beyond compare.
The light seemed to traverse the entire cosmos before arriving on this planet. Its speed was astonishing—within half a second, it enveloped everyone. Yang Hao, the Demon Bear Regiment, the Hao Sword Regiment—all were bathed in its radiance.
Then, the black threads descended. But they didn’t meet flesh—they met the brilliant light. The light appeared to exist solely to counter the black threads, their opposing energies colliding and forming a strange, harmonious balance. The white energy gradually infused the threads, filling the darkness with light. Though Wang Mu’s “Night Rain Like Threads” was an extremely sinister and dark technique, the light’s overwhelming brilliance neutralized the supposedly unstoppable sword art.
The once-feared “Rain of Souls,” now hailed as the invincible “Night Rain Like Threads,” paled in comparison to this divine radiance. As the last black thread was neutralized, the light dimmed but continued to gently warm those beneath it.
The Bearmen looked up and saw, at the source of the light, the faint but unmistakable silhouette of the Sacred Bears in the depths of space. Clearly, this light was the power of the Sacred Bears—divine intervention to protect their people.
When the Sacred Bears had been framed and sealed away by the empire, the Bearmen suffered endless humiliation at the hands of the nobility. But now, things were different. The gods had awakened, and under their protection, the Bearmen would become an indomitable race.
“Sacred Bears! Sacred Bears!! Sacred Bears!!!” The Demon Bear Regiment erupted in unified cheers, the burly Bearmen rejoicing at the divine salvation.
Amidst the jubilation, only Wang Mu stood in silent despair. He stared blankly at the scene before him, as though it couldn’t possibly be real. He couldn’t fathom why his decades of painstaking cultivation, why sacrificing ten years of his life, why one of the world’s most powerful sword techniques—none of it had worked.
Wang Mu didn’t understand that he stood on another’s land, fighting against the subjects of another god. No matter how strong his backing, ultimate victory was nearly impossible.
As Wang Mu stood dazed, he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his chest—an agony akin to losing his dearest childhood companion, leaving him helpless, staring at their retreating figure in the dark.
He looked down and saw what he had half-expected: a long iron spear, the signature weapon of the Demon Bear Regiment, impaled through his chest.
While Wang Mu was distracted, Kevin had seized the moment to hurl the spear, piercing him clean through. The thick spear trembled with his heartbeat, and Wang Mu felt his lifeblood—and with it, his dreams and glory—slowly draining away.
“Well, I guess this is death,” Wang Mu muttered, running his fingers along the cold spear shaft. The chill reminded him of the first time he’d gripped a sword hilt. He looked up and saw the remnants of the King’s Swordsmen escaping the satellite’s atmosphere, racing toward the fleet. He knew these survivors, preserved by his sacrifice, would fulfill his final wishes.
Wang Mu flicked his sword again. This time, the sound was almost musical—beautiful, yet no one remained to appreciate it.
Then, with the last of his strength, he raised his sword and unleashed the final strike of his life.
**Divine Dragon Mirage Sword!!!**
The sky lit up as if at dawn.
Regardless of the day’s outcome, Yang Hao had learned a bloody lesson: never corner a desperate enemy, lest they unleash unimaginable power. No one could oppose someone willing to die—not even the divine Sacred Bears.
Wang Mu had been utterly defeated. From commander of an army to a lone warrior, even his strongest technique had been nullified. He was dying, the Demon Bear Regiment’s spear having torn his heart apart. Yet in his final moments, he possessed the most indomitable courage—he no longer feared death.
No one knew how terrifying such a Wang Mu could be. But everyone saw him lift his sword. Though his energy was spent—drained by the “Night Rain Like Threads”—and his killing intent gone, his eyes held only a wistful smile.
Was he lamenting the world’s abandonment? That he’d never see another sunrise? That spring breezes would stir wildflowers in his homeland while his soul could only yearn from afar?
Yet Wang Mu still struck. His motion was gentle, like a poet penning the most exquisite sonnet—so light it didn’t even disturb the air. This delicate, powerless swordplay wasn’t his own. It belonged to a legendary swordsman who had once taught the Wang family three techniques—three moves that had brought them centuries of glory.
**Divine Dragon Mirage Sword!!**
Every member of the Wang family had studied this technique, making it their ultimate weapon in battle. But Wang Mu had never used it before. To him, a swordsman borrowing another’s technique was like a poet plagiarizing—unforgivable.
If any of his kin had been present, Wang Mu might have proudly told them this was the first—and last—time he’d ever used another’s swordplay in battle.
It was his final honor.
The Divine Dragon Mirage Sword erupted in the sky, detonating across the methane-rich planet. Though his execution was clumsy and his power depleted, it was still the legendary technique. From Wang Mu’s iconic short sword burst a blazing flame—a dragon, majestic and horned, flashing across the heavens.
Wang Mu smiled. The sky blazed.
Brilliant as dawn, yet now forever night.
Wang Mu died before witnessing the planet’s grandest spectacle. His body disintegrated into dust under the backlash of the Divine Dragon Mirage Sword—a mighty technique, uncontrolled, consuming its wielder.
But what Wang Mu left behind was pure catastrophe. Yang Hao watched helplessly as disaster struck, unable to stop it—or perhaps, realizing too late that he should have.
Today, Yang Hao’s plan had been to lure Wang Mu, capture the commander, and force the empire to retreat—avoiding further bloodshed. As the strategist Hun Yuanzi put it, “The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.” Yang Hao didn’t fully grasp the meaning, but he knew one thing: if you could avoid a fight, why start one? Who actually enjoyed war?
But in this world, even the most flawless plans often go awry—especially when surrounded by Bearmen whose heads are filled with nonsense.
Today, the Demon Bear Regiment had fought with reckless enthusiasm, particularly Kevin. Fresh from his first major victory and the thrill of driving the imperial forces to retreat, he’d pursued Wang Mu’s swordsmen with abandon—only to provoke Wang Mu’s desperate, final strike.
Even this disaster failed to teach Kevin the folly of impulsiveness. After being miraculously saved by the Sacred Bears’ divine intervention, he’d delivered the killing blow to Wang Mu, completely forgetting Yang Hao’s orders to capture him alive.
No one could predict how terrifying Wang Mu might become now, but all would witness him raise his sword. Though his true energy was nearly depleted—exhausted by the previous “Night Rain Like Threads”—he no longer carried killing intent. In his eyes, only a smile remained, and a sigh.
Was it a sigh for a world that had abandoned him? A sigh for never seeing the morning sun again? A sigh for spring winds blooming wildflowers in his hometown, while he could only long for them in spirit?
Wang Mu struck.
It was as gentle as a poet writing a beautiful sonnet, so light that not even the wind stirred. This powerless, delicate sword movement wasn’t his own, but belonged to a legendary swordsman who once taught the Wang family three sword techniques—only three, yet enough to bring the Wang family centuries of glory.
Divine Dragon Sword!!
Every member of the Wang family studied it diligently, making it their ultimate weapon in battle. Yet Wang Mu had never used it. He always relied solely on his own techniques, believing that quoting another’s poetry was a crime, and likewise, a swordsman must forge his own path.
If any of his younger relatives had been nearby, Wang Mu might have proudly told them this was the first and last time he had ever used another’s sword technique in battle.
It was a glory uniquely his.
The Divine Dragon Sword roared in the air, on this planet filled with methane and flammable gases. Though his energy was weak and the technique clumsy, it was still the Divine Dragon Sword. From Wang Mu’s signature short sword burst a raging flame, like a mighty dragon soaring across the sky.
Wang Mu smiled, and the sky blazed with light.
Brilliant as dawn, yet night returned once more.
Wang Mu died, without even seeing the most spectacular sight on this planet. His body first exploded into dust under the Divine Dragon 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 the disaster unfolded, unable to stop it—or rather, it was already too late to do anything.
Yang Hao had planned to lure Wang Mu here, capture the commander in one swift move, and force the Empire to retreat, avoiding further battle. According to Hun Yuanzi’s strategy, this was called “winning without fighting.” Though Yang Hao didn’t fully understand the meaning, he clearly knew one thing—better not to fight at all if possible. Who truly enjoys war?
Thus, while many plans in this world seem perfect on paper, their execution often goes terribly wrong—especially when surrounded by human bears whose brains are full of nonsense.
By the time Yang Hao figured out what the “Rain of Souls” was, those black filaments were already floating right above people’s heads. It was only then that the Bearmen finally sensed the unimaginably immense power within them—a power so overwhelming that it seemed as though it shouldn’t even exist in this world.
Yang Hao could clearly perceive that each of those seemingly delicate black threads contained energy comparable to a nuclear explosion. The King’s Sword Formation of the King’s Sword Corps was renowned across the universe for its might, yet a single activation of it might only equal the energy of one tiny black filament.
But now, millions of these filaments filled the sky. Such scale, such energy—it was simply beyond human endurance.
Yang Hao had only the meager strength of the Demon Bear Corps and the nearly powerless Hao Sword Corps at his disposal. Even if he were to throw his own life into the effort, he couldn’t possibly withstand such an overwhelming sword technique.
Moreover, everyone trapped within this storm had nowhere left to flee. No matter where they ran, survival was impossible. Wang Mu had set up a death trap—one forged with his own life and soul, decades of cultivation, and the sacrifice of his future existence.
Watching the panic around him, Yang Hao could only sigh. He no longer even felt the urge to resist, simply waiting for the moment when the filaments would descend upon him and he would be instantly vaporized.
In just a few seconds, the first black thread would land on the tallest Bearman’s head. The “Night Rain Like Threads” was about to fulfill its first act of destruction since its creation.
No one could change this outcome.
No one.
Except for the gods.
Just as Wang Mu was reveling in the success of his technique, and just as everyone else was succumbing to despair, a beam of light suddenly shot down from the heavens. It was radiant beyond measure, as if tens of thousands of luminous streams had passed through a diamond, refracting into a brilliance that defied description.
This light seemed to have traversed the entire cosmos before arriving on this planet. Moving at an astonishing speed, it enveloped everyone within half a second—Yang Hao, the Demon Bear Corps, the Hao Sword Corps—none were spared its embrace.
Then, the black threads descended. But instead of striking flesh, they met the dazzling radiance. The light appeared to exist solely to counter the black filaments, their opposing energies colliding and forming a strange, harmonious balance. The white energy gradually infused the black threads, neutralizing their darkness. Despite the “Night Rain Like Threads” being an overwhelmingly sinister technique, the brilliance of the light was so potent that it completely nullified the unstoppable sword art.
The “Rain of Souls,” once feared as the bane of cultivators, and the “Night Rain Like Threads,” now hailed as invincible—neither could withstand this divine radiance. As the last black filament was neutralized, the light dimmed but remained, gently warming those it had saved.
And the Bearmen saw it—at the source of this light, deep in the cosmos, the colossal form of the Sacred Bear flickered in and out of view. It was clear: this radiance was the power of the Sacred Bear, the divine race. Only the might of gods could so perfectly protect their people.
When the Sacred Bears had been sealed away by the empire’s treachery, the Bearmen had suffered endless humiliation at the hands of the imperial nobility. But now, everything had changed. The divine race had awakened, and under their protection, the Bearmen would become an indomitable people.
“Sacred Bear! Sacred Bear!! Sacred Bear!!!” The Demon Bear Corps erupted in unified roars, the burly Bearmen leaping with joy, grateful for the gods’ intervention.
Amidst the jubilation, only Wang Mu stood in silent sorrow, staring blankly at the scene as if it were impossible. He couldn’t comprehend why his decades of painstaking cultivation, why the sacrifice of ten years of his life, why one of the world’s most formidable sword techniques—had all failed.
Wang Mu didn’t understand that he stood on another’s land, opposing another god’s people. No matter how much power he wielded, ultimate victory was never within his grasp.
As he stood there, dazed, Wang Mu suddenly felt a sharp pain in his chest—a pain so profound it reminded him of childhood, when his dearest companion had been taken from him, leaving him helpless in the dark, watching their retreating back.
He looked down and saw what he had half-expected: a long iron spear, one belonging to the Demon Bear Corps, impaled through his chest.
While Wang Mu had been lost in thought, Kevin had seized the moment to hurl the spear, striking true. The thick shaft still trembled, making Wang Mu’s heart skip. He could feel his lifeblood seeping away, and with it, years of dreams and glory.
“Well, I suppose this is death,” Wang Mu murmured, running his fingers along the cold spear shaft—a sensation as chilling as the first time he had gripped a sword hilt.
He looked up and saw the remnants of the King’s Sword Corps fleeing the satellite’s atmosphere, racing toward their fleet. Wang Mu knew these survivors, preserved by his sacrifice, would fulfill all his ambitions.
He flicked his sword once more, producing a sound far more melodious than before—a shame no one remained to appreciate it.
Then, with the last of his strength, he raised his blade and unleashed the final sword strike of his life.
**Divine Dragon Mirage Sword!!!**
The sky blazed as if at dawn.
Regardless of the day’s outcome, it had taught Yang Hao a bloody lesson: never corner a desperate enemy, lest they unleash unimaginable fury. No one could oppose a man who had nothing left to lose—not even a god like the Sacred Bear.
Wang Mu had been utterly defeated—from commander of an army to a lone warrior, his strongest technique shattered, his body pierced by the Demon Bear Corps’ spear. His heart was torn apart, his life fading. Yet in his final moments, he possessed the most indomitable courage of all: he no longer feared death.
No one knew how terrifying such a Wang Mu could be. But everyone saw him raise his sword. Though his energy was nearly spent—drained by the “Night Rain Like Threads”—and though his killing intent had vanished, his gaze held only a faint smile and a sigh.
Was he lamenting the world’s abandonment? That he would never see another sunrise? That spring breezes would stir wildflowers in his homeland, while his soul could only yearn from afar?
Yet Wang Mu still struck. His motion was as gentle as a poet’s brush, crafting the most beautiful sonnet—so light it didn’t even disturb the air. This effortless, powerless swordplay wasn’t his own. It belonged to a legendary sword immortal who had once taught the Wang family three techniques—three techniques that had brought them centuries of glory.
**Divine Dragon Mirage Sword!!**
Every member of the Wang family had studied it diligently, making it their ultimate weapon in battle. But Wang Mu had never used it before. To him, a swordsman borrowing another’s technique was like a poet plagiarizing—unforgivable.
If any of his kin had been present, he might have proudly told them this was the first—and last—time he had ever wielded another’s sword art in battle.
And that, too, was a glory unique to Wang Mu.
The Divine Dragon Mirage Sword erupted in the sky, detonating across this methane-rich, volatile planet. Though his execution was flawed and his power depleted, it was still the Divine Dragon Mirage Sword. From Wang Mu’s iconic short blade burst a roaring flame—a dragon, horns raised, flashing through the heavens.
Wang Mu smiled.
And the sky ignited.
Brilliant as dawn, yet now returning to night.
Wang Mu died before witnessing the planet’s grandest spectacle, his body disintegrating into dust under the backlash of his own technique. A mighty sword art, uncontrolled, consumes its wielder.
But what Wang Mu left behind was pure catastrophe. Yang Hao could only watch helplessly as disaster unfolded—too late to stop it, even if he had tried.
Today’s plan had been simple: lure Wang Mu, capture him, and force the empire to retreat. As Hun Yuanzi’s military stratagems said, “The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.” Yang Hao didn’t fully grasp the meaning, but he knew one thing—if you could avoid battle, you should. Who actually enjoyed war?
But in this world, even the most flawless plans often go awry—especially when surrounded by Bearmen whose heads are filled with nothing but reckless bravado.
Today, the Demon Bear Corps had fought with unbridled enthusiasm, especially Kevin. Fresh from his first taste of glory and the thrill of driving the imperial forces to retreat, he had recklessly pursued Wang Mu’s sword corps—only to provoke Wang Mu’s final, desperate strike.
Even this disaster couldn’t make Kevin realize his impulsiveness. After being miraculously saved by the Sacred Bear’s divine intervention, he had still delivered the killing blow to Wang Mu, completely forgetting Yang Hao’s orders to capture him alive.
Some lessons, it seemed, had to be learned the hard way.
Even such a disaster wasn’t enough to make Kevin realize how reckless his impulsiveness had been. After the Holy Bear’s divine intervention barely saved them, Kevin still took advantage of the situation, delivering the fatal blow to Wang Mu. He had completely forgotten Yang Hao’s earlier instructions about capturing Wang Mu alive.
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