Chapter 168 — The Lingering Hatred of a Thousand Years, To Be Severed by This Sword!

The sound of a dragon’s roar shook heaven and earth. At this moment, Ao Liu was fighting as though staking his very life, and Ling Miaogong was the same — the Earth Spirit Deity naturally possessed a degree of power granted by his domain, yet now both of them were consumed by a blazing wrath they could no longer suppress—

This was not a contest of strength on the surface, but a struggle of life and death!

Cultivation was merely the foundation.

There are those who, with a single measure of strength, cannot bring it forth; and there are those who, even at the cost of their lives, can unleash tenfold from that same measure.

Cultivation determined the circulation of one’s Primordial Qi, the control one held over one’s own body.

But the true outcome lay in the command of Cloud Seals, the mastery of techniques and arts — whether one’s martial skill was refined, one’s Dharma treasures mighty, one’s divine abilities profound.

Heaven’s timing, Earth’s advantage, and Human will — even temperament itself, whether fearless or hesitant — all of these directly determined victory or defeat. At this instant, Ao Liu had all but ignited the pure dragon blood in his veins, his body surging with power. He struck fiercely, his dragon claw vast as a mountain, sweeping toward the man before him.

Silently.

The strike was so fast that sound itself could not catch up.

Layer upon layer of clouds exploded outward, pushed aside by the immense force, then folded and condensed again in rippling shockwaves.

Even the aftershock alone was enough to obliterate the body of a cultivator at the Innate Primordial Qi stage.

The sheer velocity stirred the Primordial Qi of Heaven and Earth — a move that was, in itself, no different from a grand divine ability. The man’s expression changed abruptly. He crossed his arms before him to block the furious assault. Ao Liu’s dragon claw tightened slightly; lightning surged across his scales, and with his own body as the conduit, he unleashed a single move — [Self-Sacrificing Thunder] — which crashed down upon the man with destructive force.

The man’s armor, seemingly refined from auspicious clouds, was shattered outright. His once-composed features twisted in agony. He struggled, but among all races, the dragon bloodline’s physical might far surpassed the rest — and at this moment, Ao Liu’s fury made that power utterly monstrous.

He could not break free.

“Die well!!!”

Amid Ling Miaogong’s furious shout, his blade had already descended — it scraped past Ao Liu’s dragon scales and struck squarely upon the man’s shoulder.

The armor upon the man’s body withstood that savage blow only through sheer force, bursting forth with a crimson cloud of qi.

Yet even so, faced with two Earth Spirit Deities erupting with strength near that of a True Lord, he could no longer endure. His body trembled, and he half-knelt upon the ground.

The man tried to struggle, but Ao Liu had already coiled around him. The dragon’s claw seized his Primordial Spirit, pinning it down so that even his Dharma Image True Body could not move. In Ling Miaogong’s hand, the war blade stretched over a thousand meters long — not because it could not grow larger, but because this length and weight allowed the perfect balance of speed and precision. At that moment, he loosened his right hand, letting the tail of the massive weapon crash heavily onto the ground.

With a thunderous boom, Qi surged outward like drifting clouds. The weight of the weapon slackened slightly, giving the pinned man a fleeting breath of relief.

The blade’s edge bit into his shoulder, while its long handle pressed against the earth, forming a triangular brace with the man’s half-kneeling body.

Ling Miaogong’s face twisted in wrath.

Stroking his beard, he raised his right foot.

Under the man’s frozen gaze, he brought it down viciously — stamping directly onto the midpoint of that triangular structure. A deafening roar burst forth, and this was no mere illusion. For what fell was not merely Ling Miaogong’s foot — he was the Earth Spirit Deity, the Lord of the Mountains of the Central Plains. In his fury, it was as if the weight of every mountain in Zhongzhou had risen into the heavens—

—and now came crashing down together!

To move mountains and fill seas — this was no fanciful phrase, but a true divine art capable of suppressing immortals and sealing gods!

Under that single stomp, the weight of all the mountains of Zhongzhou became a tangible force, pouring violently into the blade.

The war blade erupted with a roar that sounded like dragons and tigers crying in unison.

The man bellowed in fury: “Ling Miaogong — you dare!!!”

The man’s shout turned into a scream in the blink of an eye. The simplest of techniques — yet the greater the power behind it, the greater its destructive force.

The weight of countless mountains of Zhongzhou crashed down upon that blade handle.

In that instant, the strike’s destructive force soared to the very limit of strength itself.

There was no resistance at all.

The immortal armor — along with the man’s entire right arm — was cleaved clean off by the edge of the blade!

His face turned deathly pale and twisted in agony. Propping himself up with his left hand, he revealed that his earlier submission to the ground had been deliberate — a feigned defeat meant to let his palm touch the earth, to lure the two of them closer. Yet he had not anticipated that Ling Miaogong, the Earth Spirit Deity of Zhongzhou, would show such ruthless decisiveness — to draw upon the concept of the weight of all Zhongzhou’s mountains!

His palm pressed against the ground. With a furious roar, he drew upon the lingering demonic qi left behind by the many fiends once slain throughout Zhongzhou, forcing it to erupt.

His expression became ferocious.

Ao Liu did not retreat or evade, while Ling Miaogong’s pupils contracted. He swung his blade backward, stepping sharply away to guard himself.

He was not of the dragon race.

He was no creature who, even in its youth, could bathe unharmed in the molten fires beneath the sea.

Yet after the man’s roar, nothing happened. Even Ao Liu, who had braced himself to take the blast head-on, froze in confusion. The man muttered, disbelievingly, “Gone? How… how can that be? How is that possible… how could that be!?”

“The effect of the altar was to draw the sword — at most, it could slay demons. But where did the lingering demonic qi and miasma go?”

“Where did their flesh and blood go!?”

“Where have they gone?!”

“What kind of heretical divine ability is this?!”

No matter how enraged or bewildered he became, the plan to detonate the corrupted qi and flesh, using the blast to force Ling Miaogong and Ao Liu back, had already failed. He could only struggle free from Ao Liu’s grasp — at the cost of tearing away great portions of his Dharma Image True Body — and, battered and disheveled, attempt to flee.

The Lianyang Sword was, for once, remarkably well-behaved.

Utterly so.

It did not join in the battle raging at the True Lord level above.

But this docility was not born of temperament — it came from another cause. When Qi Wuhuo borrowed its power to unleash that sword strike, under the vast divine might of Heaven and Earth Manifestation Technique, the blade had transformed into a river of blood. The sword had devoured even the flesh and essence of countless demons and fiends, their remains all swept into that crimson current.

Not a trace of miasma or demonic filth was left behind. It was as though the sword had gone mad with hunger — devouring everything without the slightest discrimination.

It consumed it all.

Then, as the divine ability of Heaven and Earth Manifestation Technique collapsed, the Lianyang Sword, which had been feasting so greedily, was forced back into its original form.

Now, faint traces of blood still glimmered along its blade, as it rested quietly at the side of the young Daoist. Qi Wuhuo reached out and brushed its surface. The bloodlight was clear and refined — yet only a thread of it remained, as if the sword had swallowed the corpses and blood of ten thousand demons and still managed to recover just a sliver of its former strength.

The young Daoist could scarcely imagine what this sword would be like in its prime.

It seemed that only in the state of Heaven and Earth Manifestation — when that one sword shattered legions of demons — could the Lianyang Sword’s true might be revealed.

Yet now, the sword itself appeared somewhat unwell.

It gave a faint, weary hum.

It was as though it had starved for a thousand, even eight hundred years — living under Lu Chunyang’s hand, surviving only on bits of scallion-topped tofu — then starved again for several hundred more, not even a spoon of millet porridge to be had. Having long since gone mad from hunger, it was suddenly fed a feast beyond measure.

Clearly… it had overeaten.

The bloodlight still shimmered across its blade, refusing to fade.

And after this gluttonous indulgence, all of its former arrogance, wildness, and madness were gone.

It now exuded the languid air of someone who had eaten too much and was sprawled in a reclining chair beneath the sun — utterly lazy, unwilling even to glance at the battle raging in the heavens above. When facing Qi Wuhuo, it even seemed to shed much of its former hostility.

Just then, the young Daoist felt a tremor run through the mirror at his side — the mirror bestowed by the Northern Emperor began to shine.

But this time, the resonance did not come from the Northern Pole Exorcism Court.

After the Lianyang Sword had devoured the demonic qi, it had not refined it. The sword seemed to crave only slaughter and blood; the miasma and corrupted essence of demons were things it could not digest, and so it naturally expelled them. Yet that expelled corruption was then drawn into the mirror. Now, the mirror shimmered faintly with flowing light. Artifacts connected to the Northern Emperor were all, in some way, tied to the subjugation of demons and the purging of evil.

Once, this ancient mirror had been an ordinary object, its surface corroded with green patina.

Only after Qi Wuhuo’s contact with the Northern Pole Exorcism Court had the mirror begun to reveal traces of a different aura.

But now, it was different still — as if the devouring and annihilation of those evil spirits had awakened it.

The young Daoist watched as layer upon layer of soft light spread across the mirror’s surface, the copper rust finally fading away completely.

Qi Wuhuo felt a sharp sting at his wrist; a drop of his blood fell upon the mirror.

—or perhaps, it was that this ancient mirror, which had lain dormant for countless ages beneath the constellation of the Oxherd, had chosen him of its own accord.

The mirror changed once more; it was no longer what it had been.

The mirror measured eight inches across. Upon its back appeared the image of a Qilin crouching in repose, surrounded on four sides by Tortoise, Dragon, Phoenix, and Tiger, arranged according to the Four Directions. Beyond the four beasts were inscribed the Eight Trigrams, and beyond those, the Twelve Celestial Branches. The true forms of the Twelve Yuan Stars manifested faintly within. Outside them were etched twenty-four characters circling the rim — written in the style of ancient clerical script, every stroke intact, forming living spiritual lines.

Yet at this moment, only a few threads of light gleamed faintly upon its surface; the various auspicious figures on the reverse side remained dim, unawakened. Aside from this transformation, there was nothing extraordinary.

The young Daoist merely fastened the mirror to his waist once more, as he always did.

The Northern Pole Exorcism Court still had not established contact.

This was a calamity engulfing all realms — not only the Divine Martial Dynasty’s Nine Provinces of the human race. Save for him, all of the Northern Court’s war generals were locked in battle on the front lines.

And above, the combat in the heavens had already reached its peak.

Because none had foreseen the existence of the mysterious Lianyang Sword, the man now found himself in utter disarray — his Dharma Image True Body collapsing, his right arm severed. Just as he thought the situation could grow no worse, a dragon’s roar resounded again.

Another azure dragon coiled down from the skies.

The man’s eyes flashed — he darted toward the young Dragon King who had just quelled the disaster of the floodwaters and arrived to lend aid, calling out:

“My friend — it’s me! It’s me!”

“Your dearest friend — Yue Lianqing, it’s me!”

“Your father and Ling Miaogong have been deceived by someone — they suddenly turned their blades against me!”

“Hurry and talk to them! If there’s some misunderstanding, we can explain it clearly!”

Yue Lianqing swiftly closed in on the young azure dragon, his figure that of a man missing one arm — yet in truth, it was a feint. Without hesitation, he struck, aiming to seize him. But that azure dragon did not retreat, did not dodge. Yue Lianqing sneered inwardly. Still so trusting… so naïve. No wonder you met with calamity…

Yet as his palm descended, something felt wrong!

The strike met resistance — a surge of power from the waters of the Jing River, the divine current belonging to the Dragon King’s mantle, directly repelling his blow!

He… has become the Jing River Dragon King?

He went there himself?!

Someone like him…?

Yue Lianqing’s thoughts froze for a single heartbeat.

He lifted his gaze just in time to see the azure dragon’s form disperse into mist — and before him stood a pale-faced youth, eyes blazing like twin flames. He met the attack head-on, trading wound for wound; as Yue’s palm struck him, his dragon claw pierced straight into Yue Lianqing’s abdomen. “Traitor— you deserve death!!!”

Ao Wulie arrived in haste — his armor shattered, his body bloodied, his long spear broken in half.

It was clear that in that brutal battle just moments ago, as the Jing River Dragon King, he had charged at the very front.

When a man stops fleeing from his duty, that is the moment he truly becomes an adult.

Yue Lianqing muttered incoherently, even as the combined assault of Ling Miaogong and Ao Liu bore down upon him. His immortal armor absorbed the final blow, giving him a chance to stagger free and flee in a wild rush. But the force of their strikes hurled him downward; crashing heavily into the ground, he found himself — by pure misfortune — flung into the very area where the young Daoist stood.

Disheveled. Defeated.

Yue Lianqing, his arm severed, his expression twisted with fury, could hardly believe how completely his calculations had failed.

Why?!

Why did everything turn out like this?

Why are they all fighting as if their lives mean nothing?

Why does the monk not retreat? Why does the Daoist not yield? Why do the soldiers fight to the death?!

Ao Wulie, you useless wretch — how could your personality suddenly change so drastically?!

Why… why?!

And that young Daoist — where in the heavens did he come from?!

Who could have created such a person?!

Coughing violently, Yue Lianqing struggled to his feet. His armor split apart, dissolving into clouds of crimson vapor that drifted away, revealing his true form beneath — battered and broken.

The young Daoist’s pupils shrank sharply.

Yue Lianqing.

Clad in black, wearing crimson dragon robes.