This wasn’t even the worst outcome. What truly devastated Wang Mu was that after their overwhelming victory, the Ming forces continued their relentless pursuit, determined to annihilate the entire King’s Blade Division.
Wang Mu understood all too well that the King’s Blade Division and the Celestial Fleet were the only assets keeping the Wang family standing tall in the empire. Though the empire appeared strong on the surface, it was already on the brink of collapse. If the empire were to crumble one day, how could the Wang family survive in a universe teeming with formidable rivals? Without the Blade Division and their private army, they had nothing left to rely on. No matter how crushing today’s defeat was, the Blade Division absolutely could not be wiped out. Even if it meant sacrificing himself, Wang Mu would ensure the flame of the Blade Division lived on.
And so, under the relentless barrage of bombardment, Wang Mu turned back. Though the Blade Division had suffered heavy losses, about thirty percent of its members had survived, and combined with those who remained with the fleet, the core strength still remained. Wang Mu intended to draw the enemy’s fire himself, buying time for his subordinates to escape.
Kevin, that big dumb bear, never knew when to stop. When he spotted Wang Mu emerging from the storm of blue bubble-like projectiles, he was overjoyed and immediately ordered his troops to redirect all their firepower toward him.
Wang Mu stood alone against thousands of those devastating blue “fart bombs”—an impossible task for anyone. Worse still, the stench released upon their explosion was enough to make anyone surrender on the spot.
Even with the defensive techniques of his “Nightfall” swordplay, Wang Mu was still blasted into disarray. Left with no choice, he pulled out a silver object from his scepter and forcefully injected it into his own heart.
In an instant, a violent black aura erupted from Wang Mu’s body—so thick it was visible to the naked eye. It spread like a suffocating force, as if it could suck the very air from the surroundings. His hair turned stark white in an instant, and his eyes gleamed with a bloodthirsty madness.
Yang Hao recognized that look immediately and shouted in shock, “Super Warrior Hormone! He injected Super Warrior Hormone!”
The words sent a chill through everyone present. Super Warrior Hormone was the latest technological product of the Galactic Empire—a forbidden drug. When injected, it instantly restructured the body, granting the user ten times their usual strength. But the side effects were so severe that it was often said to trade ten years of life for tenfold power.
Wang Mu was already old, yet he had still injected himself with the hormone. It was clear he was fighting for his life now. With his power suddenly amplified, the force behind his black short sword became unstoppable—not only deflecting the fart bombs from the Demon Bear Corps but also unleashing a new technique.
As the saying goes, “Do not pursue a desperate foe.” It’s a timeless truth because when pushed to the brink, an opponent can unleash an extraordinary burst of strength, potentially reversing the entire situation.
And Wang Mu was already a top-tier master. Rumors placed his combat power beyond Level 15, making him virtually unmatched in this star system. After injecting the Super Warrior Hormone, his strength became incalculable. Forget the Demon Bear Corps—even if Yang Hao, Maya, and everyone else combined their powers, they still wouldn’t stand a chance against him.
What’s more, Wang Mu was now preparing to unleash a technique he had never before used in battle—his ultimate finisher: “Night Rain Like Threads.”
Wang Mu had always viewed his swordsmanship as poetry—a composition with beginnings, transitions, and conclusions. But when he created “Night Rain Like Threads,” he realized that what he had thought was an endless poem had finally reached its end. In the “Night Rain” sword style, this technique was the finale—the period at the end of the verse.
A swordsman’s ultimate technique naturally embodies their lifetime of cultivation, infused with all their energy. No matter when it was used, such a move had the power to overturn the heavens and reverse the tides of battle.
Wang Mu had never used this technique before—not because it was ineffective, but because “Night Rain Like Threads” was simply too powerful, to the point of being unnecessary. When the Imperial Army marched, no enemy could stand in their way, making it rare for Wang Mu to even draw his sword, let alone resort to his ultimate move.
But now, things were different. Wang Mu’s glory had reached its final chapter. His subordinates, his army—all had been defeated, and in the most humiliating way possible. His own life teetered on the edge of the abyss. He had no face left to return to the flagship, even though he knew that if he did, he could order a full bombardment and obliterate the entire Holy Bear Star. But what dignity would there be in fleeing alone after losing his Blade Division?
His sole focus now was ensuring the remnants of the Blade Division escaped safely. And so, he fought with everything he had.
Wang Mu condensed all his combat power, all his qi, into a single strike—”Night Rain Like Threads.” A name so poetic, yet carrying nothing but death.
Yang Hao watched as Wang Mu, now hovering midair like a madman, tore open a patch of black clouds around himself. With each swing of his short sword, the dark mass expanded, threatening to blot out the sky. Wang Mu’s power had reached its absolute peak—his form no longer resembled a man, but a demon.
A demon!
Yang Hao didn’t yet grasp the severity of this technique, nor could he foresee what was about to unfold. He simply stared, mesmerized by the eerie, mesmerizing display of swordsmanship.
With a flick of his blade, Wang Mu whispered four words:
“Night Rain Like Threads.”
Though his voice was barely audible, his body seemed to drain of all strength. His eyes dulled, his limbs stiffened, and the overwhelming energy that had surged within him moments before now poured entirely into the black cloud.
The cloud darkened to an inky black, thick as ink, yet pulsating with an unsettling, violent aura—as if some ancient beast slumbered within, ready to awaken and wreak havoc upon the world.
And awaken it did—far sooner than anyone could have imagined.
As Wang Mu closed his eyes in resignation—as if unwilling to witness the devastation—the black cloud suddenly expanded and burst apart in midair.
*Pop!*
The sound was as soft as a soap bubble bursting. But the world itself seemed to shudder in response. The black cloud shattered into countless fine threads—thinner than willow catkins, lighter than drizzle—floating down like an oily rain toward Yang Hao and the others.
Every corner of the battlefield, stretching for kilometers, was now filled with these drifting black threads.
Those caught beneath them—especially the bear-men—had no idea of the danger. Some even opened their mouths, thinking it was actual rain, eager to drink it in.
Only Hun Yuanzi, ever cautious, had been watching Wang Mu’s movements from the start. As the threads began to descend, he paled in horror.
“That’s Soul Rain! No—worse than Soul Rain! My god, how can such a thing exist?!”
“Soul Rain?” Yang Hao knew Wang Mu was fighting desperately, but he still couldn’t grasp the severity.
But for Hun Yuanzi, the mere name “Soul Rain” was enough to strike terror.
In the age of immortal cultivators, alongside the orthodox sects, there had been those who practiced unorthodox methods—often labeled as demonic sects (distinct from the Dual Cultivation Sect). Though some among them were powerful, their rogue practices never allowed them to rise to prominence.
Yet one such faction had once developed a weapon so devastating that, though never acknowledged by the orthodox sects, it wreaked havoc upon the world.
Soul Rain.
The so-called Soul Rain was born when a cultivator harvested the vengeful spirits of the dead, using their power to summon a rain of malevolent souls upon the battlefield. At its peak, this technique had once slaughtered thousands of orthodox cultivators in a single strike. Eventually, the orthodox sects united to eradicate the demonic sect responsible, and Soul Rain vanished from history.
But Wang Mu’s technique bore an eerie resemblance—even surpassing the original in power.
Few knew that Wang Mu’s creation had indeed been influenced by Soul Rain. Most believed the technique had died with its creators, forgetting that greed persists even among the so-called righteous.
Fragments of the Soul Rain’s secrets had survived, passed down through the ages, eventually landing in the hands of a certain elder within the Council. After Wang Mu’s repeated achievements, the Council “rewarded” him with these fragments—knowing full well no one could master them.
Yet fate works in mysterious ways. Though Wang Mu was no genius in swordsmanship, he somehow deciphered the secrets of Soul Rain.
Thus, he created “Night Rain Like Threads”—a technique so vicious and powerful that he dared not use it, both for fear of the Council’s reprisal and his own inability to control it.
But today, with nothing left to lose, he unleashed it without restraint.
Wang Mu knew all too well that the King’s Swordsmen Corps and the Heavenly King Fleet were the sole foundations allowing the Wang family to remain unshaken within the Empire. Though the Empire appeared mighty, it was in fact on the brink of collapse. If one day the Empire disintegrated, how could the Wang family survive in a universe teeming with powerful rivals? They had no other support besides the Swordsmen Corps and their private army. Therefore, no matter how devastating Wang Mu’s defeat today had been, the Swordsmen Corps absolutely could not be destroyed—even if it meant sacrificing Wang Mu himself, the flame of the Corps must be preserved and passed on.
Therefore, amidst increasingly intense bombardments, Wang Mu turned back. Although the Corps had suffered heavy losses today, about thirty percent of its members had survived. Combined with the portion remaining aboard the fleet, the core strength of the Corps still remained intact. Thus, Wang Mu resolved to use himself as bait, drawing enemy fire so his subordinates could escape.
Kevin, that big clumsy bear, never knew how to think flexibly. When he spotted Wang Mu emerging from the cluster of blue energy bubbles, his heart leapt with joy. He quickly ordered his men to turn their weapons around, aiming every cannon directly at Wang Mu.
Wang Mu, alone against over a thousand powerful blue “fart shells,” was already beyond any normal person’s capacity to handle. Worse still, the stench from the exploding shells was so unbearable it could make anyone surrender instantly.
Though Wang Mu employed the defensive techniques of the “Nightfall” sword style, he could not avoid being battered relentlessly. With no other choice, he pulled a silver object from his staff and forcefully injected it into his own heart.
Suddenly, a violent surge of black energy erupted from Wang Mu’s body. This dark aura was actually visible to the naked eye, spreading outward and creating a suffocating sensation, as though it were absorbing all the surrounding air. Wang Mu’s hair turned completely white in an instant, and his eyes burned with a bloodthirsty gleam.
That gaze was all too familiar to Yang Hao. He gasped in shock and shouted, “Super-Warrior Hormone! He injected the Super-Warrior Hormone!!”
This exclamation startled everyone present. The Super-Warrior Hormone was a recent technological product of the Galactic Empire, a forbidden drug. When injected into the human body, it could instantly restructure the user’s physiology, unleashing ten times their original power. However, due to its severe side effects, it was commonly known as a trade of ten years of one’s life for tenfold strength.
Wang Mu, already advanced in age, had injected this hormone, clearly indicating he had reached his final desperate moment. With his power suddenly enhanced, the strength of his black short sword erupted to its fullest. Not only did he repeatedly deflect the fart shells from the Bear Corps, but he also began to unleash a new technique.
As the saying goes, “Don’t press a desperate foe too hard”—this is a timeless truth. When cornered, enemies often unleash extraordinary power, making it highly possible for the situation to turn around completely.
Moreover, Wang Mu himself was an elite expert, reputed to have surpassed the fifteenth level of combat power. In this entire star system, there was practically no one capable of opposing him. After injecting the Super-Warrior Hormone, his combat strength became even more unfathomable. Not only could he easily overwhelm the Bear Corps, but even if Yang Hao, Maya, and all the others combined their total strength, they still might not be able to match Wang Mu.
Even more so, Wang Mu was about to unleash a technique he had created but never used in battle before—his ultimate move: “Night Rain Like Threads.”
Wang Mu had always treated his sword techniques like poetry—naturally containing beginnings, developments, transitions, and conclusions. As his swordplay evolved, when he finally created the move “Night Rain Like Threads,” he suddenly realized that the endless epic he had believed in had reached its end. His poetic sword art had come to a close. Within the “Night Rain” sword style, “Night Rain Like Threads” marked the final point, the ultimate conclusion.
A sword technique regarded as a final move by a swordsman naturally embodied a lifetime of cultivation and every ounce of energy. Therefore, no matter when it was used, it possessed the power to reshape the heavens and earth, completely overturning the battlefield.
Wang Mu had never used this move—not because it lacked power, but because “Night Rain Like Threads” was simply too powerful, excessively so. During the Empire’s military campaigns, no matter how formidable the enemy, the Imperial fleet would crush through them like an icebreaker. Wang Mu rarely even needed to draw his sword, let alone unleash his ultimate technique.
But now was different. Wang Mu’s glory had reached its final twilight. His subordinates and his army had been defeated, defeated so shamefully that he could barely bring himself to speak of it. His life had been driven to the edge of a cliff. He could no longer face returning to the flagship. Though he knew that if he could just make it back aboard, he could launch a full barrage and destroy the entire Saint Bear Planet, what dignity would remain for a commander who had lost his Corps to flee alone?
His sole focus now was to ensure the surviving members of the Swordsmen Corps escaped safely from the battlefield. Therefore, he had no choice but to go all out. This all-out effort would push him to his absolute limit.
Wang Mu gathered all his combat power and inner energy into a single strike—this “Night Rain Like Threads.” A name filled with poetic beauty, yet carrying deadly intent.
Yang Hao watched as Wang Mu, suspended in midair like a madman, tore open a black cloud around himself. With each violent swing of his short sword, the black cloud expanded, threatening to blot out the sky. At this moment, Wang Mu’s power had reached its peak. His appearance in the air no longer resembled a human—it resembled a demon.
A human demon!
Yang Hao did not yet understand the true might of Wang Mu’s move, nor could he imagine what was about to happen. He simply stared blankly, completely mesmerized by that eerie and dazzling swordplay.
Then Wang Mu gently vibrated his sword and uttered four words: “Night Rain Like Threads!”
Though spoken softly, the moment those words left his lips, Wang Mu’s body seemed to be drained of all strength. His eyes instantly dulled, his entire body stiffened, and the energy that had surged to its peak moments ago flowed entirely into that black cloud. The cloud had become so dark it was impossible to see through, like ink, yet brimming with ominous and violent energy, as though an ancient beast lay hidden within, ready to awaken and wreak havoc upon the world at any moment.
The beast would awaken—and it would do so faster than anyone could imagine.
After his strength was completely drained, Wang Mu sighed and closed his eyes, as if unwilling to witness the devastation about to unfold. Immediately following this motion, the black cloud before him suddenly expanded and gently exploded into the air.
Puff!
As soft as popping a soap bubble. Yet the entire world changed color. That black cloud, upon exploding, transformed into countless threads of black silk. These threads were finer and lighter than willow fluff, drifting down like an oily rain, heading straight toward Yang Hao and the others.
Across every corner of the world, within several kilometers, black threads floated everywhere.
Those enveloped by the threads, especially the bear-people, did not yet realize their danger. They mistook the falling threads for actual rain and even opened their mouths to catch a few drops.
Only Hun Yuanzi was utterly terrified. The old man was always the most cautious and careful. Ever since Wang Mu began his move, he had been watching intently. Only when the threads began to drift downward did he fall into despair: “That’s Soul Rain! No, even worse than Soul Rain! Oh heavens, how can such a thing even exist!”
“What’s Soul Rain?” Yang Hao naturally knew Wang Mu was in a desperate situation, but he couldn’t yet see how dangerous it could be.
But for Hun Yuanzi, the mere mention of Soul Rain was enough to send chills down his spine. In the ancient cultivation era, besides the orthodox sects, there were many unorthodox practitioners—generally known as the “evil sects” (distinct from the orthodox alchemical sects). Although these sects also had powerful experts, they were mostly self-taught and never achieved great influence. However, one particular sect had developed a terrifying artifact. Though not recognized by the orthodox sects, it had caused unimaginable chaos in the world.
This wasn’t even the worst outcome. What truly devastated Wang Mu was that after Ming’s overwhelming victory, they still relentlessly pursued, intent on annihilating the entire King’s Blade Division.
Wang Mu knew all too well that the King’s Blade Division and the Celestial Fleet were the only assets keeping the Wang family standing tall in the empire. Though the empire appeared strong, it was on the verge of collapse. If the empire were to crumble one day, how could the Wang family survive in a universe teeming with formidable forces? Without the Blade Division and their private army, they had nothing else to rely on. No matter how crushing today’s defeat was, the Blade Division absolutely could not be wiped out. Even if it meant Wang Mu’s own death, he had to ensure the division’s legacy endured.
Thus, under the relentless barrage of bombardment, Wang Mu turned back. Though the Blade Division had suffered heavy losses, about thirty percent of its members had survived, and combined with those who remained with the fleet, the core strength still remained. Wang Mu intended to draw enemy fire himself, allowing his subordinates to escape.
Kevin, that big oaf, never thought things through. When he spotted Wang Mu emerging from the storm of blue bubble-like projectiles, he was overjoyed. He immediately ordered his men to turn their cannons and focus all fire on Wang Mu.
Wang Mu stood alone against over a thousand devastating blue “fart bombs”—an impossible task for anyone. Worse still, the stench released upon detonation was enough to make anyone surrender on the spot.
Even with the defensive techniques of his “Nightfall” swordsmanship, Wang Mu was blasted to pieces. Left with no choice, he pulled a silver object from his scepter and forcefully injected it into his own heart.
Instantly, a violent black aura erupted from Wang Mu’s body—visible to the naked eye and suffocating in its intensity, as if it could suck the air from the surroundings. His hair turned stark white, and his eyes gleamed with a bloodthirsty madness.
Yang Hao recognized that look immediately and shouted in shock, “Super Warrior Hormone! He injected Super Warrior Hormone!!”
The revelation sent chills through everyone. Super Warrior Hormone was a recent technological product of the Galactic Empire—a forbidden drug. When injected, it instantly restructured the body, granting the user ten times their usual power. But the side effects were so severe that it was often said to trade ten years of life for tenfold strength.
Wang Mu, already advanced in age, had resorted to injecting himself with this substance, signaling that he was now fighting for his life. With his power amplified, the force behind his black shortsword surged to terrifying levels. Not only did he deflect the Magic Bear Corps’ attacks, but he also unleashed a new technique.
As the saying goes, “Do not pursue a desperate foe,” for when cornered, an enemy can unleash unexpected strength, potentially reversing the tide of battle.
And Wang Mu was no ordinary foe. Rumored to have surpassed the 15th level of combat power, he was unmatched in this star system. With the Super Warrior Hormone coursing through him, his strength became incalculable. The Magic Bear Corps, Yang Hao, Maya—none of them stood a chance against him now.
Worse still, Wang Mu was about to unleash a technique he had never used in battle before—his ultimate, self-created finisher: “Night Rain Like Threads.”
Wang Mu had always viewed his swordsmanship as poetry—with beginnings, transitions, and conclusions. But when he created “Night Rain Like Threads,” he realized that what he thought was an endless poem had reached its final verse. This technique was the end, the period, the conclusion of his “Night Rain” swordsmanship.
A swordsman’s ultimate technique embodies their life’s mastery, their full power condensed into a single strike. At any moment, such a move could overturn the heavens and reverse the course of battle.
Wang Mu had never used this technique before—not because it was weak, but because “Night Rain Like Threads” was too powerful, too excessive. The Imperial Army had always crushed its enemies like an icebreaker plowing through frozen seas, leaving Wang Mu no need to even draw his sword, let alone resort to his final technique.
But now, everything had changed. Wang Mu’s glory had reached its twilight. His subordinates, his army—all had been defeated, humiliatingly so. His own life hung by a thread. He had no face left to return to the flagship, even if he knew that doing so would allow him to obliterate the Holy Bear Star with a full barrage. But what dignity was there in fleeing alone after losing his division?
His sole focus now was ensuring the remnants of the Blade Division escaped safely. And so, he fought with everything he had.
Wang Mu channeled all his combat power, all his qi, into a single strike—”Night Rain Like Threads.” A name so poetic, yet so deadly.
Yang Hao watched as Wang Mu, now hovering midair like a madman, tore open a patch of black clouds around himself. With each swing of his shortsword, the dark mass expanded, threatening to blot out the sky. Wang Mu’s power had reached its peak—his form no longer human, but demonic.
A monster!
Yang Hao didn’t yet grasp the danger of this technique, nor could he foresee what was coming. He simply stared, mesmerized by the eerie, mesmerizing swordsmanship.
With a flick of his blade, Wang Mu whispered four words:
“Night Rain Like Threads.”
Though his voice was barely audible, his body seemed to drain of all strength. His eyes dulled, his limbs stiffened, and the immense energy that had surged within him moments before now poured into the black clouds. The mass darkened to an inky, unfathomable depth, seething with malice—as if an ancient beast slumbered within, ready to awaken and wreak havoc upon the world.
And awaken it did—far sooner than anyone could imagine.
As Wang Mu closed his eyes in resignation, unwilling to witness the devastation, the black cloud suddenly swelled—then burst apart in the sky.
*Pop.*
A sound as soft as a soap bubble bursting. Yet the world itself seemed to shudder. The black cloud shattered into countless fine threads—thinner than willow catkins, lighter than mist—drifting down like an oily rain upon Yang Hao and the others.
Every corner of the battlefield, for kilometers around, was now filled with these black threads.
The Magic Bear Corps, unaware of the danger, mistook it for actual rain. Some even opened their mouths, eager to drink.
Only Hunyuanzi, ever cautious, had been watching Wang Mu’s movements from the start. As the threads descended, he paled in horror.
“That’s… Soul Rain! No—worse than Soul Rain! My God, how can such a thing exist?!”
“Soul Rain?” Yang Hao knew Wang Mu was desperate, but he didn’t understand the gravity of the situation.
To Hunyuanzi, however, the mere name “Soul Rain” was terrifying. In the era of immortal cultivators, alongside orthodox sects, there existed rogue practitioners—heretics (distinct from the Dual Cultivation Sect). Though some were powerful, their unorthodox methods prevented them from achieving true dominance.
Yet one faction had once created a weapon so devastating it plunged the world into chaos—Soul Rain.
Soul Rain was born from the extraction of vengeful spirits from the dead, condensed into raindrops of malevolence. At its peak, it had slaughtered thousands of orthodox cultivators in a single strike. Eventually, the righteous sects united to eradicate the heretics, and Soul Rain vanished from history.
Yet Wang Mu’s technique bore eerie similarities—even surpassing it in power.
Few knew that Wang Mu’s creation had indeed been influenced by Soul Rain. Though the world believed the technique lost, greed ensured fragments of its secrets survived—even within the so-called righteous factions.
Somehow, remnants of Soul Rain’s teachings had fallen into the hands of the Council of Elders. After Wang Mu’s repeated achievements, they “rewarded” him with the forbidden knowledge—knowing full well no one could master it.
Yet fate had other plans. Wang Mu, never a prodigy in swordsmanship, somehow deciphered the technique.
Thus, he forged “Night Rain Like Threads”—a move of unparalleled destruction. But lacking the strength to wield it and fearing the Council’s wrath, he had never dared use it.
Until today.
Now, with nothing left to lose, Wang Mu unleashed it upon the world.
Yet Wang Mu’s move now bore striking similarities to Soul Rain—even surpassing it in power.
This was not the most severe consequence. What truly devastated Wang Mu was that after Ming’s overwhelming victory, they continued their relentless pursuit, intent on annihilating the entire King’s Blade Division.
Wang Mu understood all too well that the King’s Blade Division and the Celestial Fleet were the only assets that allowed the Wang family to stand firm in the empire. Though the empire appeared strong on the surface, it was on the brink of collapse. If the empire were to crumble one day, how could the Wang family survive in a universe teeming with formidable forces? Without the Blade Division and their private army, they had nothing to rely on. No matter how devastating today’s defeat was, the Blade Division must not perish. Wang Mu would rather die himself than let the flame of the Blade Division be extinguished.
Thus, under the relentless bombardment, Wang Mu turned back. Though the Blade Division had suffered heavy losses, about thirty percent of its members had survived, and combined with those who remained with the fleet, the core strength still remained. Wang Mu intended to draw enemy fire himself, allowing his subordinates to escape.
Kevin, the big oaf, never thought twice. When he spotted Wang Mu emerging from the barrage of blue bubble-like projectiles, he was overjoyed and immediately ordered his troops to redirect their firepower toward Wang Mu.
Wang Mu stood alone against thousands of devastating blue “fart bombs,” a challenge beyond anyone’s capability. Worse still, the stench from the explosions was so overpowering that it could make anyone surrender on the spot.
Even with the defensive techniques of his “Nightfall” swordsmanship, Wang Mu was battered beyond recognition. Left with no choice, he retrieved a silver object from his scepter and forcefully injected it into his own heart.
Suddenly, an intense black aura erupted from Wang Mu’s body—visible to the naked eye and suffocating in its spread, as if it could drain the surrounding air. His hair turned stark white in an instant, and his eyes gleamed with a bloodthirsty ferocity.
Yang Hao recognized that gaze immediately and shouted in shock, “Super Warrior Hormone! He injected Super Warrior Hormone!”
The revelation sent chills down everyone’s spine. The Super Warrior Hormone was the latest technological product of the Galactic Empire—a forbidden drug. When injected, it instantly restructured the body, granting the user ten times their usual strength. However, due to its severe side effects, it was often described as “trading ten years of life for tenfold power.”
Wang Mu, already advanced in age, had resorted to injecting himself with this hormone, signaling his final, desperate stand. With his power amplified, the force behind his black short sword became unstoppable—not only deflecting the fart bombs of the Demon Bear Regiment but also unleashing a new technique.
As the saying goes, “Do not pursue a desperate foe,” for when cornered, an opponent may unleash an extraordinary burst of strength that could reverse the tide of battle.
Moreover, Wang Mu was already a top-tier master, rumored to have surpassed the 15th level of combat power. In this star system, no one could rival him. With the Super Warrior Hormone coursing through his veins, his strength became immeasurable. Not only were the Demon Bear Regiment’s fighters no match for him, but even if Yang Hao, Maya, and all their allies combined their strength, they still wouldn’t stand a chance.
And now, Wang Mu was about to unleash a technique he had never used in battle before—his ultimate finisher: “Night Rain Like Threads.”
Wang Mu had always viewed his swordsmanship as poetry—with beginnings, transitions, and conclusions. But when he created “Night Rain Like Threads,” he realized that this seemingly endless poem had reached its final verse. This technique was the end, the full stop, the conclusion of his swordsmanship.
A swordsman’s ultimate technique naturally embodies their lifetime of cultivation and all their energy. Thus, this move possessed the power to overturn the heavens and reverse the course of battle at any moment.
Wang Mu had never used this technique before—not because it was ineffective, but because “Night Rain Like Threads” was simply too devastating, to the point of being unnecessary. When the Imperial Army marched, no opponent, no matter how strong, could withstand their unstoppable advance. Wang Mu rarely needed to fight, let alone resort to his ultimate move.
But now, everything had changed. Wang Mu’s glory had reached its twilight. His subordinates, his army—all had been defeated, and in a manner too humiliating to speak of. His life hung by a thread, and he had no face left to return to the flagship. Though he knew that if he could just make it back, he could order a full bombardment and obliterate the Holy Bear Star, what dignity would he have left if he fled alone after losing his Blade Division?
His sole focus now was ensuring the remnants of the Blade Division escaped safely. Thus, he had no choice but to fight with everything he had.
Wang Mu channeled all his combat power, all his qi, into a single strike—”Night Rain Like Threads.” A name so poetic, yet brimming with lethal intent.
Yang Hao watched as Wang Mu, now hovering midair like a madman, tore open a patch of black clouds around himself. With each swing of his short sword, the dark mass expanded, threatening to blot out the sky. Wang Mu, now radiating power at its peak, no longer resembled a man—but a demon.
A demon!
Yang Hao didn’t yet grasp the severity of Wang Mu’s technique, nor could he foresee what was about to unfold. He simply stared, mesmerized by the eerie, mesmerizing swordsmanship.
With a flick of his blade, Wang Mu whispered four words: “Night Rain Like Threads.”
Though his voice was barely audible, his body seemed drained of all strength. His eyes dulled, his limbs stiffened, and the overwhelming energy that had surged within him moments earlier now poured entirely into the black clouds. The mass darkened to an inky, unfathomable hue, seething with unrestrained malice—as if an ancient beast lurked within, ready to awaken and wreak havoc upon the world.
And awaken it did—far sooner than anyone could have imagined.
As Wang Mu closed his eyes in resignation, unwilling to witness the devastation, the black clouds abruptly expanded and burst apart in the sky.
*Pop!*
The sound was as soft as a soap bubble bursting. Yet the world itself seemed to shudder. The black mass shattered into countless fine threads—thinner than willow catkins, lighter than drizzle—floating down like an oily rain toward Yang Hao and the others.
Every corner of the battlefield, stretching for kilometers, was now filled with these drifting black threads.
Those caught beneath them—especially the bear-men—remained oblivious to the danger. Some even opened their mouths, thinking it was actual rain, eager to drink it in.
Only Hun Yuanzi, ever cautious, had been watching Wang Mu’s movements closely from the start. As the threads began to descend, despair gripped him. “That’s Soul Rain! No—it’s even worse than Soul Rain! My God, how can such a thing exist?”
“What’s Soul Rain?” Yang Hao knew Wang Mu was fighting desperately, but he couldn’t fathom the true horror of this technique.
To Hun Yuanzi, however, the mere name “Soul Rain” was terrifying enough. In the era of immortal cultivators, alongside orthodox sects, there existed those who practiced forbidden arts—often labeled as demonic (distinct from the Alchemy-Dual Cultivation Sect). Though some among them were powerful, their unorthodox methods prevented them from reaching true dominance.
Yet one faction had once developed a weapon so devastating that, though never acknowledged by the orthodox sects, it plunged the world into chaos.
That weapon was Soul Rain.
Soul Rain was born from the extraction of vengeful spirits from the dead, condensed into raindrops of malevolent energy. At its peak, it had once slaughtered thousands of orthodox cultivators in a single strike. Eventually, the orthodox sects united to eradicate this demonic sect, and Soul Rain vanished from history.
Yet Wang Mu’s technique bore an uncanny resemblance—even surpassing the original in power.
Few knew that Wang Mu’s creation had indeed been influenced by Soul Rain. Though the world believed the demonic sect and its techniques had been wiped out, greed ensured that fragments of its knowledge survived—even falling into the hands of certain elders within the Council.
After Wang Mu’s repeated achievements, the Council bestowed upon him the secrets of Soul Rain—less as a reward and more as a meaningless gesture, since no one could master it.
Yet fate had other plans. Though Wang Mu was no genius in swordsmanship, he somehow deciphered the forbidden technique.
Thus, he independently developed “Night Rain Like Threads”—a move of unparalleled savagery and power. But lacking sufficient strength and fearing the Council’s wrath, he had never dared use it.
Until today.
Now, with nothing left to lose, Wang Mu unleashed it in full.
Thus, fragments of the Soul Rain techniques had survived in the hands of some cultivators. Though no one in later generations had successfully mastered them, these techniques had been passed down, eventually even reaching the hands of one of the Elder Council’s elders. After Wang Mu’s several achievements, the Elder Council granted him the Soul Rain techniques as a reward. It was merely a way to hand him something no one could use. Who could have imagined that fate would intervene—Wang Mu, though never considered a prodigy in swordsmanship, was able to understand the Soul Rain techniques.
Thus, Wang Mu was able to independently create the terrifying and immensely powerful move “Night Rain Like Threads.” However, due to his insufficient combat strength and fear of the Elder Council discovering his secret, he had never dared to use it—until today, when he had cast aside everything, he finally unleashed it.
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