Few truly understood Wang Mu, and even within the Wang family, he was an anomaly—middle-aged, yet without a wife or children, showing no obsession with sword techniques, nor any particular hobbies. He seemed to live merely to exist, cold and solitary.
But only Wang Mu himself knew that he was a poet—a true poet. He did not write with a pen; instead, everything around him—glances, smiles, even swords—could compose his poetic verses about the night.
And now, upon realizing he had been deceived into a trap, and seeing the mockery in the eyes of the two younger adversaries before him, Wang Mu was seized by poetic inspiration. He longed to pour out this poetry into the world.
He drew his sword.
It was a darkness that covered the heavens and earth, sudden and without warning, spreading like quicksilver toward Yang Hao. In that single sword strike, Yang Hao could already smell the scent of death—his heart was gripped with a terror he had never before experienced.
Although Yang Hao’s strength had grown rapidly, he still lacked experience and was, overall, a novice—especially when it came to swordplay, which he barely understood. Remember when he first witnessed Master Situ Hai’s Eleventh Sword, he had been utterly astonished. Yet that Eleventh Sword held countless variations and profound secrets, so complex that Yang Hao could barely comprehend them.
But now, facing Wang Mu’s “Nightfall,” Yang Hao felt a true chill. He could see the sword’s trajectory, predict the range of the blade, even estimate the strength behind it. Yet what filled him with despair was the sensation of being bound within the night itself, unable to move.
Yang Hao could only stare helplessly at the sky as ink-black energy descended like a net, swallowing all light, even driving the sun itself into hiding, chased away by the icy breath of death.
Yang Hao had no sword in hand, nor could he draw one. Wang Mu’s “Nightfall” was not merely a sword technique—it was a spell that controlled the mind and spirit, capable of paralyzing Yang Hao’s movements and eroding his will to survive.
This was swordplay as art—needing no flashy techniques, yet achieving the most devastating results.
This sudden strike from Wang Mu had completely overwhelmed Yang Hao. No matter how much his power had grown, no matter how unmatched his current alchemical skills were, in that single moment, Yang Hao was powerless to resist, even powerless to continue living.
His only fate seemed to be to sink into the night, suffocated and trapped by the overwhelming aura of death.
Yang Hao stood speechless, unable even to cry for help, unable to call upon Kevin, who lay unconscious nearby.
The black veil completely engulfed the spot where Yang Hao stood. Suddenly, with a low grunt from Wang Mu, a flash like dying light flickered within the darkness, and the air itself seemed to die. There was nothing left—just emptiness and silence.
Even the wind could not survive.
But Yang Hao did.
His survival was purely by luck—not even his own luck. As the “Nightfall” descended and Yang Hao found himself trapped beyond escape, a sudden mist formed in the air beside him—it was Maya, who had already spiritualized. Maya sensed Yang Hao’s peril and immediately exerted all her strength, using the Great Sage’s Guidance to pull Yang Hao back by three steps.
Those three steps saved Yang Hao. Although “Nightfall” was overwhelming, it could not cover an infinite area. When Yang Hao was pulled away, he looked back at the spot where he had stood moments before—there was not even a trace of dust, no lingering aura of his presence. His heart turned ice-cold.
It was at that moment that Yang Hao finally understood: the world was filled with countless experts. Even if he had made great progress in cultivation, even if he could create the finest elixirs, without mastery of sword techniques, he could never stand against true masters. It was this realization that led Yang Hao to vow to learn the finest sword arts in the world.
On the other side, Wang Mu was no less shocked. When the black veil cleared, he was stunned to see Yang Hao still standing, his wrist trembling slightly. Wang Mu, filled with hatred for Yang Hao’s mockery and deception, had unleashed his deadliest move. Few had ever escaped his “Nightfall.” Yet Yang Hao, without fanfare, had slipped out of death’s grasp—an impressive feat indeed, explaining how he had slain Wang Tao and seized three ancient swords.
Wang Mu immediately resolved to kill Yang Hao today; otherwise, this man would surely become a grave threat to both the Wang family and the Ten Sword Styles. He gripped his sword tightly, gathered his energy, and prepared to unleash the second strike of “Nightfall.”
“Wait!!” Yang Hao, having just escaped, saw Wang Mu preparing to strike again and shouted desperately, “Hold on! Wait a minute!”
“Why?” Wang Mu did not lower his blade, “Want to surrender? It’s too late for that.”
“Surrender to you? Don’t be ridiculous,” Yang Hao replied solemnly, “Have you ever seen someone pierced by a thousand arrows?”
Wang Mu, puzzled by Yang Hao’s words, shook his head coldly, “No.”
“No?” Yang Hao suddenly grinned eerily, “Then today, you’ll get to see it.” As he spoke, he took Kevin and Maya and used the Feihua Shadowless Step, instantly vanishing hundreds of meters away.
Wang Mu had no intention of letting him escape so easily. Just as he was about to pursue, he suddenly noticed something strange—an unusual number of tiny specks had appeared in the sky before him. They were dense, countless—like swarms of insects.
But in a place like this, how could there be insects? Of course, it was another of Yang Hao’s traps. A few seconds later, Wang Mu saw the specks growing larger and clearer. Finally, they revealed themselves—not black dots, but thousands of steel lances, each with an extremely sharp tip. Like lightning, they rained down from the sky, targeting only one person—Wang Mu.
This was the second phase of Yang Hao’s elaborate plan. Not only had he sent Kevin to lure Wang Mu to this methane-rich area, but he had also hidden the entire Demon Bear Corps nearby, in case Wang Mu proved too strong to handle alone.
And now, it had finally come into play. After escaping Wang Mu’s “Nightfall,” Yang Hao had sent a signal into the distance. The hidden Demon Bear Corps immediately launched their attack, starting with their ultimate weapon—the Iron Spear Formation of the “Three Formations & Kill.”
Ten thousand spears flew at once!
Each iron spear, capable of piercing through flesh and bone, tore through the heavens like dragons, flying directly and accurately toward Wang Mu with an unstoppable force.
In the universe, every faction had its own way of evaluating battle formations, but whether it was the Imperial Privy Council or ordinary swordsmen, all understood the Demon Bear Corps’ strength.
Individually, the warriors of the Demon Bear Corps were no match for elite imperial sword experts. A single disciple from a traditional sword school could easily defeat ten of them.
But that didn’t mean the Demon Bear Corps were weak. Quite the opposite—they were especially effective when facing imperial sword masters.
The Demon Bear Corps were the epitome of overwhelming numbers. The “Three Formations & Kill” was essentially a swarm tactic capable of burying even the greatest experts.
The first formation, the Iron Spear Array, involved specially trained Bear Warriors hurling heavy iron lances with all their might. Each spear weighed over a hundred kilograms, and when launched in parabolic arcs and accelerated by gravity, the force upon impact was unimaginable.
For top experts, a single iron spear meant little—they could either block or dodge. But what if thousands of spears were launched together? With varying speeds and trajectories, they could cover hundreds of meters, making it impossible to defend against every direction. Even the fastest reflexes would be useless.
This was exactly the situation Wang Mu now faced. Confident in his own abilities, he had followed Kevin here, thinking he could easily subdue Yang Hao. But he had never expected Yang Hao to have such a hidden force waiting.
If Wang Mu had been prepared, his strength would have allowed him to evade the Iron Spear Array. Unfortunately, he had never heard of such a tactic from the Demon Bear Corps. By the time he realized what was happening, the black dots had already transformed into deadly iron spears, and in just a few seconds, they would strike Wang Mu directly.
Even if Wang Mu was powerful, he could only block a portion of the spears. The rest would pin him down on this satellite, ending his life.
What a tragic fate for a legendary swordsman—to die on a planet used solely for storing Bear Clan excrement. Truly, a death unworthy of his name.
Therefore, Wang Mu refused to die. He was determined not to.
Just as the iron spears screamed toward him and everyone else believed Wang Mu had no chance of resistance, he suddenly gripped his black short sword, raised both arms, and let out a strange, piercing cry.
From his body erupted a wave of black mist, spreading like ink in water, rapidly enveloping the surrounding area in darkness.
This was another technique of Wang Mu’s “Nightfall” sword style. As Yang Hao did not know, a complete sword art naturally included not only offensive techniques but also defensive ones—just like the Five Words Formula of the Dan Ding Sect, which balanced attack and defense. This defensive technique of Wang Mu’s was the culmination of his entire life’s mastery, the very essence of “Nightfall.”
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