This was no mere handful of individuals, but a gathering of elite warriors from numerous great sects—an unspoken alliance that had formed without prior arrangement. Yet despite their simultaneous assault, they were swiftly decimated. Little Rascal wasted not a single ounce of effort, his movements swift and ruthless, like a hawk pouncing on prey, unleashing carnage. Blood splattered intermittently as he cleanly dispatched his foes.
With every beat of his Kun Peng wings, several opponents exploded, shattered by the sheer force of his runes. The crackling lightning enveloping his body surged outward, reducing many to charred husks that plummeted to the ground.
“Enough of this slaughter! Form the formation!” the Rain Clan warriors roared, unable to tolerate his rampage. In mere moments, they had already lost twenty to thirty men.
A dozen beast bones materialized, radiating dazzling light like celestial stars, rumbling as they rotated and aligned in the void before vanishing, replaced by a hazy glow that shrouded the battlefield. Normally, a few powerful primordial bone artifacts would suffice to set up a killing array, yet the Rain Clan had deployed over a dozen—a meticulously complex formation designed to annihilate Little Rascal.
From all directions, gray flood dragons surged upward, spewing divine beams that transformed into a rain of light, cascading forward. The air hissed as the luminous downpour, crackling like lightning and piercing like divine arrows, blanketed the sky in a terrifying spectacle. Each of the twelve rune bones represented the remains of an ancient direbeast—flood dragons—and together, they formed an unstoppable suppression.
The onlookers trembled. Was this not a sect-suppressing formation? Twelve direbeast bones fused into a grand array—even legendary pure-blooded beasts would likely be crushed beneath its might.
Thunder rumbled as the gray flood dragons coiled through the mist, forming a draconic siege that sealed the heavens and earth. Who could withstand such slaughter? The combined might of twelve direbeasts was a force capable of slaying even the most supreme experts.
Little Rascal indeed felt the pressure. Even his formidable physique ached as the flood dragons constricted him one after another, their light-rain projectiles piercing his flesh.
“Boom!” The Holy Terror erupted. Who was he? A true breaker of limits, a prodigy unrivaled in the Blood-Moving Realm within this power-suppressed land. With a violent shudder, his runes detonated, shattering the dragons coiled around him. Relying on his peerless physique, he tore through the direbeasts barehanded.
Blood sprayed as dragon after dragon fell. Like a demon god, Little Rascal rampaged through the formation, unstoppable. With each leap and slash, gray flood dragons were bisected, painting the battlefield crimson.
The crowd was awestruck. What kind of monstrous strength was this? To slay ancient direbeasts barehanded—was he truly a pure-blooded creature? Rumors about the Holy Terror abounded, but few had witnessed his prowess firsthand. Those who entered the Hundred Shattered Mountains knew—but the sealed experts among them had all been slain by him!
With each dragon he felled, cracks spiderwebbed across the primordial bones. The battle intensified, and the Rain Clan’s faces darkened with dread.
“He could truly rival Yi’er in his prime. Had they been of the same age, it would have been a legendary clash—unless suppressed by the power of the Dual-Pupils.”
“Yi’er possesses more than just the Dual-Pupils. He has other invincible means—there is no need for concern.”
In that moment, the Rain Clan’s leaders whispered comparisons. Little Rascal’s strength had exceeded their expectations, chilling them to the bone.
“Boom!” Finally, with a sweep of his hands, Little Rascal summoned a towering purple Lion-Dragon, crackling with lightning, that devoured the remaining gray flood dragons in a single gulp.
“Crack!” The twelve rune bones shattered, their mighty artifacts destroyed.
“What?!” Not only the Rain Clan quaked—every onlooker felt their hairs stand on end. This was sheer, unstoppable dominance.
“Bang!” Little Rascal lunged forward. The Lion-Dragon, now tinged with golden light and as massive as a mountain, surged ahead, pinning the Rain Clan beneath its might.
“Ah—!”
“No—!”
Their screams were cut short. The Lion-Dragon’s divine technique, now evolved beyond its former self, was unstoppable. Under the guidance of Thunder Ancestor Mu Yan, it had become a supreme killing art.
Charred corpses littered the ground. None who were struck survived.
In the real world, within the Rain Clan’s estate, dozens screamed, coughing blood. Some even had their brows split open, bleeding profusely—their spirits suffering devastating wounds.
The estate trembled. How could so many of their elites fall simultaneously? The massacre in the Void God Realm had repercussions—some might never fully recover.
Back in the initial realm, Little Rascal bathed in blood, slaughtering the Rain Clan until only Yu Feng remained. He seized the man and tore him apart—not just ripping off an arm, but splitting him clean in two. The crimson spray, paired with the child’s innocent face, sent shivers through the crowd.
Was this the price of attacking the Sky Mending Pavilion? If this child were allowed to grow, with his monstrous talent, he might one day rebuild a world-shaking sect atop those ruins.
Many trembled at the thought. The rumors were true—he could rival pure-blooded creatures!
“Kill him!” someone bellowed. A barrage of crimson needles shot forth, radiant and deadly.
“What—Soul-Severing Needles?!” The crowd recoiled in terror. These were infamous—a single strike would annihilate not just the victim’s avatar in the Void God Realm, but their real-world consciousness as well.
Little Rascal dodged, refusing to engage recklessly. The scarlet needles whizzed past like scorpion stings from the underworld.
“Soul-Severing Needles are demonic artifacts forged in the Void God Realm. If struck, one perishes here—and their true body dies in reality,” murmured Bird Grandpa.
The Void God Realm was a training ground for the spirit, mirroring reality. Its higher realms, controlled by ancient clans and kingdoms, were rich in treasures and ideal for cultivation. The direbeast blood and artifacts brought here by the sects originated from those sacred lands—even Tuoba’s Four Young Master’s Emberflame Silkworm had been tamed there.
These needles were infamous, crafted from materials unique to this realm and imbued with fragments of cosmic order. Few could resist them—they were a death sentence for both avatar and true self. Yet their materials were exceedingly rare, nearly extinct in this era.
“Tuoba Clan—truly an ancient lineage, to possess such a thing!” someone gasped, retreating in fear.
Little Rascal observed carefully, refusing to charge blindly. The crimson needles returned, howling through the air. He hurled a ten-thousand-pound boulder at them—only for the needles to pierce clean through.
“Incredible!” He was genuinely shaken. This was a true demonic artifact—one misstep, and he’d perish.
“Tuoba Clan, thank you for this gift. I’ll repay you someday!” Little Rascal roared.
His hands wove through the air, purple lightning coalescing into an ancient cauldron—a feat that stunned the crowd. To shape destruction into creation was a divine art few could fathom. Though he hadn’t fully mastered it, the display was awe-inspiring.
The thunder-cauldron hummed, drawing in the crimson needles. A halo of violet light manifested behind Little Rascal as he sat cross-legged, refining the artifact.
“Retrieve the needles!” the Tuoba Clan panicked, activating their runes to reclaim their treasure.
Other sects seized the opportunity, attacking while he was immobilized.
But a black tidal wave erupted behind Little Rascal—a massive fish’s tail churning the waters, sweeping them all away.
“Now! Take them back!”
It was too late. Within the lightning cauldron, twelve crimson needles lay still, subdued.
“Refine!” Little Rascal’s brow glowed as runes enveloped the demonic artifact, claiming it as his own.
“Run!” The crowd scattered in terror. With the needles in his hands, the Holy Terror could slaughter them all—both here and in reality.
“Killing you isn’t worth these,” Little Rascal sneered, rising. He understood their true value—a weapon to intimidate the entire Void God Realm.
Each needle could only be used once before its order dissipated. He’d save them for high-ranking sect elders—wasting them here would be foolish.
He soared, blocking the golden exit path. None could flee unless they passed through—and the Holy Terror granted no quarter.
“You disappoint me. A few killing formations and needles—hardly enough to entertain me,” he taunted, drenched in blood.
“Boom!” Finally, he unleashed the Kun Peng’s divine technique in full. Black tidal waves engulfed the battlefield, clashing against the formations.
The great sects had deployed sect-suppressing arrays, primordial runes blazing, but in the initial realm, all power was capped at the Blood-Moving Realm’s limits.
Ancient sects were formidable—their formations could slay pure-blooded beasts—yet the Holy Terror remained unshaken. He had hunted down Zhujian and Flood Dragons, capturing the young of direbeasts. Here, he was truly invincible.
The battle ended in a storm of blood. Every elite from the participating sects lay dead, the earth dyed red.
Countless spectators—nobility, sect elders—stood dumbfounded. In such a short time, the great sects had been exterminated, not a single survivor left.
In the real world, clans erupted in outrage. Many coughed blood, their injuries severe—some might not recover for months.
Back in the initial realm, a radiant glow descended from the heavens, delivering an artifact to Little Rascal. A stone tablet materialized beside him, inscribed with glowing text.
“He… set a record?!”
“How is this fair? He slaughtered so many like a demon god—and gets rewarded for it?!”
The crowd erupted.
“What is that artifact? It looks terrifying—could it be some heaven-defying treasure?”
Word spread swiftly. Among the spectators were disciples of the fallen sects, now fleeing to report back.
“What?! After slaughtering us all, he broke a record and obtained a mysterious artifact? *Cough*—!”
In the real world, sect leaders vomited blood in rage. Was there no justice? They had become mere stepping stones, a tragic footnote in his legend.
“I’m going to die from fury—*cough*!”
Blood sprayed as their wounds worsened.
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