Immortal Paladin

344 Turning of the Sky

[POV: Feng Shuren]

Feng Shuren dropped from his wind-touched lizard like a gust made flesh and came down beside Kang Nuan in a spray of sand. The Evernight wind clawed at his robes; his saber hummed faintly at his hip. From this vantage, he could see the tide of the undead crawling toward the Riverfall Continent. They were a dark surge that blurred the lines between soldier and corpse. The enemy warships had fallen silent in their bombardment, Riverfall’s own vessels hung back, guns cooling after the furious salvoes. Above them, dragons answered dragons; the sky had become a torn cloth strewn with fire and claw.

If today ended in blood, Feng Shuren thought, then he would settle his personal affairs first.

He bowed his head to the matriarch and spoke with the awkward courtesy of a man not practiced in flatteries. “Matriarch Kang, I owe you my life. If not for you, Bai Rong would have finished me off that moment, yet you convinced him otherwise with your… feminine wiles.”

Kang Nuan’s glare was immediate and lethal; the amusement at his clumsy compliment lived only half a beat on her face. Feng Shuren pushed on, taking his honor seriously. “Tell me where to strike, and I will commit. I will repay you with my blade.”

She smirked, her voice low and dangerous. “If we survive this, I’ll share a drink with you. Or perhaps I will bear your seed.”

Feng Shuren smiled at her words. “That’s unexpected. I thought the young matriarch took no taste for men.”

“My clan seeks only the strong,” she said bluntly. “You are strong.”

He looked to the horizon then, cautious. “And Patriarch Bai Rong?”

Kang Nuan shrugged, the motion casual as a blade flick. “He is an old monster. He cares only for himself. He delights in owning others. A portion of my cultivation rose through our dual cultivation, I do not deny that, but most of my strength came from sweat and iron, not his favors.”

Feng Shuren nodded. The confession landed oddly light; he had expected more rancor. Instead, a cold, shared understanding passed between them. He felt the echo of his own grievance; it flared bright and ugly. “If you wish to fight Da Wei, my saber and my army are at your command.”

“You misunderstand,” Kang Nuan said, nostrils flaring. “My quarrel is not with Da Wei. He is divine power incarnate; I respect that. If I could, I would harvest his disciples to strengthen my clan. No… My anger is directed only to one man, and I won’t let my anger blind me again.” Her eyes burned. “Nongmin. I will kill him if it means dying for it.”

Feng Shuren’s memory sharpened, the old wound opening like a tide. The late emperor’s humiliation of the Wind Clan had not been a single slight but a slow unthreading, fathers dragged away, honors stripped, and cities punished for daring to be proud. He found himself answering with a quiet heat. “I am the same.”

The realization that they were kin in grievance, both forged into leaders by loss, altered how he viewed the matriarch. Her scars, the bare arms and the hard line along her navel were maps of battles survived. He found, with a measure of surprise, that he liked her: not coyly, not lustfully, but as a man recognizes an equal in the furnace of war.

Kang Nuan’s tone sharpened into business. “You ask where to commit battle,” she said, testing him. “Tell me, Feng Shuren, Tempest Touch, Patriarch of the Wind Clan, strategist renowned for guile… where should we strike so we may force the Emperor’s hand?”

Feng Shuren swept his gaze across the battlefield. Where dragons clustered, so did the lines of aerial command; where dragons flew in pride, so did the Riverfall King’s influence. He pointed without hesitation toward the densest knot in the sky, a dark riot of scaled wings over the Riverfall heartlands where the drakes circled like sentries. “There,” he said. “Where the dragons mass. We must cut down the King of Riverfall, Ren Xun. If we fell him, we either draw Nongmin into anger or force him to reveal his position. The Riverfall King’s death would create chaos in their ranks and pry information from those who survive.”

Kang Nuan’s lips curled. “And Bai Rong?” she asked, eyes flicking to the trapped White Clan patriarch sitting like a pale thorn in Ren Xun’s cage.

Feng Shuren’s expression went thin and calculating. “Freeing Bai Rong from Ren Xun’s formation array would fracture Ren Xun’s command structure. His formation holds him as a lynchpin; break that balance, and their morale collapses. Even a twisted man like Bai Rong can be a useful blade if it cuts a rope for us.”

She laughed then, a cold, sharp sound like struck metal. “You would use him.”

“We will use whatever tilts the war to our favor,” Feng Shuren answered. “Ren Xun falls, the dragons falter, and Nongmin’s place within Da Wei’s court would be compromised. We take every advantage we can get, and no exceptions.”

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[POV: Kang Nuan]

Beside Kang Nuan, Feng Shuren adjusted the reins of his wind-touched lizard, his eyes tracing the skies, where dragons and warships danced a deadly waltz of qi and fire. The war had stretched too long to their disadvantage, and she could feel its fatigue in her bones, yet the hunger for battle did not wane. If she had her way to change things the way they were, she would have done better in quelling the rebellion that had been simmering within the Empire.

She broke the silence first. “What do you think of our chances in this war?”

Feng Shuren exhaled through his nose, the wind coiling around his armor like a living spirit. “We’ve been locked in a stalemate for a century. Now, after Da Wei’s trap at Mount Qingshi, the scales finally tilt against us. We have more powerful experts, true, but they have sharper blades and tighter ranks. If we can strike at the heart and take down a key figure, the balance can still shift.”

Kang Nuan nodded with a faint and wolfish smile playing on her lips. “Then we will strike.”

Her qi surged through her meridians as she shouted in Qi Speech, her voice reverberating across the sands like thunder: “KANG WARRIORS, WE MARCH!”

The ground trembled as hundreds of armored warriors raised their spears, their bronze and crimson armor glinting faintly in the twilight. The Kang Clan lowered their shields, dispelling the defensive barrier that cloaked them. Hidden among them were Ninth Realm cultivators, their power suppressed, waiting for the moment to erupt like volcanoes in flesh.

Feng Shuren’s grin cut across his face like lightning. “I have an idea! Tempest Riders, give our brothers and sisters a ride!”

With a fluid motion, he vaulted onto his lizard’s back and offered his hand to her. “Come, Matriarch.”

Kang Nuan smirked, clasping his hand as she leaped up behind him. “You heard the man!”

The Kang warriors roared in unison, clambering onto the wind-touched lizards of the Wind Clan. In a storm of wind and qi currents, they burst from the sands, unfurling their wings made of formations and wind. It was a cavalry of tempests and wrath.

Feng Shuren’s voice carried through the rushing wind. “To victory!”

The formation surged forward, a wedge of storm-charged cavalry cutting through the horizon. Below them, the Fourth Realm beasts they’d brought along charged as shock troops, crashing into the undead lines and parting them away as they took the lead.

“Fog formation!” Feng Shuren commanded.

Instantly, their presence vanished into the shimmering haze. The world became distorted and blurred as their qi masked sound and movement. Dragons roared overhead, their breath scorching the ground and killing the undead, but the Wind Clan riders weaved effortlessly through death itself. If stray elemental blasts struck near, talismans and protective treasures shimmered in response, shielding rider and mount alike.

Through the chaos, Kang Nuan’s gaze locked on Ren Xun, the so-called Dragon King of Riverfall.

He stood among a tide of undead, his glaive humming with power, his expression eerily serene. Behind him, the cage of formations that imprisoned Bai Rong pulsed faintly. The trapped patriarch screamed like a beast denied freedom, but Ren Xun did not so much as glance at him.

Kang Nuan felt her lip curl. ‘Borrowed power,’ she thought with disdain, sensing the unnatural resonance in Ren Xun’s aura. ‘A false elevation. Pathetic.’

Still, power was power. And she, too, was not above using every weapon at her disposal. She flexed her gauntleted hands, the Fists of Asura, treasures of her clan that had drawn blood from gods and demons alike.

“Brace yourself!” Feng Shuren called, hands forming a seal. The winds thickened beneath her feet. “The wind blesses you… Go forth, warrior!”

Kang Nuan bent her knees and leaped into the storm.

Her qi flared, and her body became a comet of flame and gold. “FIGHTING SPIRIT: TRAMPLING OX!”

The spectral image of a great ox thundered around her as she plummeted toward Ren Xun. But before her strike could land, a glyph of cold light flashed underfoot. The formation seized her midair, freezing her solid in a shell of ice.

Ren Xun’s calm voice carried across the battlefield. “If you’re going for a surprise attack, perhaps don’t shout.”

He turned, only for Feng Shuren to burst from the haze behind him, saber gleaming with tempest energy. “Too late for that!”

Their blades clashed, sparks and draconic qi bursting in waves. Ren Xun’s floating scales intercepted each blow like living shields, turning Feng’s strikes aside one after another.

“Yes,” Ren Xun said, as though pleased. “Just like that.”

The air shimmered crimson. Blood mist exploded outward, not his, but the riders’. Three Wind Clan warriors fell, their bodies torn by slicing scales that moved faster than wind.

From beneath the shadows of the lizards, Kang Warriors burst forth, their spears blazing. “FOR THE CLAN!”

Ren Xun made another hand seal. Fire and lightning erupted in all directions, vaporizing half a dozen attackers. Feng Shuren twisted aside, deflecting a volley of scales with his saber as he shouted, “Back! He’s weaving arrays with every step!”

The frost around Kang Nuan shattered as she roared, qi surging anew. “FIGHTING SPIRIT: SOARING PHOENIX!”

Her body became flame incarnate, wings of pure qi bursting from her back as she rocketed forward. Feng Shuren reappeared at her flank, blades converging from opposite sides.

Ren Xun turned his head slightly, unbothered. He parried Feng’s saber with one hand, and with the other, raised his glaive.

Then he inhaled deeply.

The sound that followed was not breath, but the sky itself gasping. His chest expanded, his veins glowed gold, and when he exhaled, a torrent of draconic flame erupted from his mouth, a cataclysmic storm of light and annihilation descending upon Kang Nuan.

The world vanished into white fire.

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[POV: Xun Li]

The scent of burning metal and blood mingled in the air, rising like incense to a god of slaughter. Xun Li stood atop his sun chariot as it rumbled through the scarred battlefield, its wheels glowing faintly from the heat of the runes inscribed within. Ahead, the Seeker Clan’s war machines and the White Clan’s undead soldiers pressed forward in an iron tide, mowing through the broken remains of Da Wei’s forward line.

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He surveyed the chaos with narrowed eyes.

When it came to numbers, the Seven Imperial Clans could no longer boast what they once did. What they had now were the scraps… elite, yes, but scattered and few. The Lu Clan had been the only one with a proper army, drilled and disciplined over centuries. But Bai Rong had ruined that. He had slain the Lu Patriarch and defiled the man’s legacy by raising his soldiers as undead.

If Xun Li had a chance to redo it, he would have slit Bai Rong’s throat himself before allowing that arrogance to fester.

But what was done was done. While he hated to admit it, losing Bai Rong at the current juncture of the war would be a more severe blow than losing Lu Wang.

Still, he would make do. He always did.

“Push forward!” he shouted over the roar of the chariots. “Drive them into the woods!”

The sun chariots surged ahead, pulled by mechanical steeds powered by compressed spiritual energy. When they reached the forest’s edge, Xun Li raised a hand. “Unleash the sun-kissed metal familiars!”

The cultivators of the Seeker Clan obeyed instantly. Dozens of metal giants unfurled from storage treasures, their plated limbs hissing with spiritual pressure. With thunderous steps, the golems charged into the enemy ranks.

“Fire! Fire at them! Don’t let those things close in!” cried one of Da Wei’s soldiers from the treeline.

The air cracked with gunfire, those strange projectile weapons that Riverfall had grown so fond of. But the bullets clanged uselessly against the golems’ metallic hides. A few soldiers screamed when one golem seized them by the chest and crushed them like insects.

“Fall back! Spirits, fall back—!”

“Help—argh!” another voice choked out before an undead blade impaled him through the ribs.

Xun Li leaped from his chariot and landed lightly on a high tree branch. The canopy here was thick. It was a perfect cover against the bombardments of the Riverfall vessels above. It was why he had chosen this path.

From his vantage point, he watched as his golems and undead swarmed through the forest like a living tide. The enemy soldiers broke ranks, stumbling and screaming as the Seeker cultivators cut through them with precision. These were not warriors by birth, but they wielded ancient treasures with deadly skill.

“Such chaos,” Xun Li muttered to himself. “A century of stalemate, and this is what we’ve become.”

Below him, one soldier broke away from the melee, limping, rifle trembling in his hands. He barely raised it before Xun Li descended.

A single stroke was all it took, and the soldier’s head fell.

Another tried to run.

Xun Li flicked his wrist, and his sword shot forward like a beam of moonlight, piercing the man’s back. The soldier crumpled without a sound.

The Seeker Patriarch stood still for a moment, his blade dripping scarlet onto the roots below.

“Pathetic,” he murmured to no one in particular. “Does Da Wei not care for the life of his people, sending in rabbles like this with little cultivation?”

The battlefield was a canvas of smoke and ruin. The scent of burnt iron clung to the air, and the horizon glowed with the reflection of distant explosions. Xun Li walked through it with a grim stillness, the sunlight glinting faintly on his wooden arm. The limb was no ordinary prosthetic. It pulsed faintly with golden veins, alive with the condensed radiance of the sun.

The Seeker Clan’s craftsmanship had always been their pride. Their ancestors once served the Sun Empire, and though the empire was long gone, its fire still burned in their relics. Every pulse from his arm reminded Xun Li that he carried both the burden and brilliance of that legacy.

He stopped when he saw a shattered formation of Riverfall soldiers. They had been a cannon unit once, their metal carriages now molten ruins. With one effortless swing of his sword, he had dismantled their defenses. The wind carried the scent of ozone and scorched flesh.

Only one soldier remained alive.

Xun Li stepped closer, his boots crushing embers underfoot. “Where’s Da Wei?” he asked flatly.

The soldier trembled, clutching his rifle like a child would hold a toy. “N-No… spare me, I have children…”

Xun Li’s gaze darkened. “Truly… Pathetic,” he muttered, disgust curling in his tone. “You would beg for mercy simply because you spawned progeny? Do you not have pride in your station? Shame?”

The man’s lips quivered as he stammered another plea. Xun Li raised his blade, only for metal to clash against metal.

A flash of lightning and a gust of wind pushed him back. His blade was intercepted by a young man with sharp blue eyes and hair like spun gold.

“It’s called surviving,” said the newcomer with a calm grin. “The name’s Yuen Fu, disciple and loyal servant of Da Wei.”

Xun Li’s lips curved into a rare smile. “A disciple, you say? Then you’re precisely what I need.” He raised his sword again, his wooden arm glimmering faintly with light. “I’ll make it quick. Lose a leg and tell me where your master is.”

He struck.

Yuen Fu vanished in a streak of lightning, appearing behind him, blade crackling with thunder. Xun Li parried without even looking, his arm flaring with solar heat as sparks flew. Their blades collided again and again, light against lightning, the sound like hammers striking anvils.

Yuen Fu’s breathing grew heavier. “You’re… no slack, huh?”

Xun Li tilted his head. “Strange. You’re supposed to be Seventh Realm. How—”

A whisper cut through the air behind him.

“Realm is not everything.”

Xun Li spun just in time to deflect a sword wreathed in violet fire. The strike nearly severed his shoulder; the purple flames licked at his sun-forged arm, darkening the wood. A figure stepped out of the smoke. He was tall with eyes like burning coals, and his aura was heavy and oppressive.

“Who are you!?” Xun Li demanded, feeling the man’s killing intent crawl across his skin.

“Lu Gao,” the man replied coldly. “Disciple of Da Wei. His Hell Paladin.”

Behind him, Yuen Fu groaned. “Man, you had to make an entrance like that? He even asked your name. You win. Again.”

“Not everything is a competition, Brother Yuen,” Lu Gao said, eyes never leaving Xun Li.

Without another word, the duo attacked.

Xun Li became wind. His blade danced between them, weaving an invisible pattern of death. He parried Lu Gao’s cursed flames with sweeps of radiant light, the clash creating bursts of gold and violet that scorched the ground. Yuen Fu struck from the flanks, his movements a blur of thunderbolts and arcs of electric light.

The three warriors moved faster than mortal eyes could follow, a storm within the storm.

Xun Li ducked, slashed upward, and the air screamed as his sword carved a solar arc. Yuen Fu blocked with a lightning-wrapped spear, the collision detonating in a shower of light. Lu Gao took advantage, stepping in with a downward strike that nearly split Xun Li’s shoulder.

Xun Li twisted mid-air, the solar veins of his wooden arm flaring to life. “Solar Burst!” he shouted, releasing a shockwave of golden energy that sent both disciples sliding back.

Yuen Fu wiped blood from his lip, grinning. “Guess you’re the real deal, huh, old man.”

“Old?” Xun Li scoffed, steadying his stance. “That’s just rude…”

…

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[POV: Deng Wuying]

Hidden amidst the veil of clouds, Deng Wuying twirled her parasol lazily, its fabric shimmering faintly with silver inscriptions that pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat. The distant booms of cannons and roars of dragons reached her ears as nothing but dull whispers, the kind of noise one might hear when half-awake. She yawned, long and ungraceful, stretching her arms above her head.

“That’s rather unlady-like of you, Sister Wuying,” said the towering man beside her, his voice as calm as a temple bell. “It’s no wonder your fellow sisters pick on you.”

“Hah,” Deng Wuying chuckled, unashamed. “They pick on me because I’m ordinary looking. Nothing divine or ethereal about me, unlike them with their glowing eyes and celestial hair. I suppose it offends their sensibilities that I dare exist without a halo.”

Wei Qigang, ever the stoic warrior-monk, folded his massive arms. “You are a cultivator of the Tenth Realm, the Endless Path. If you cannot control something as simple as yawning, perhaps your training needs to be… refined.”

“Oh, please.” Deng Wuying flicked her parasol shut with a snap. “Our cultivation was forced upon us, a shortcut made by the Heavenly Master. We ascended too quickly, without the years needed to temper our hearts. My mortal habits cling to me because I let them. I see no shame in that.”

She floated slightly higher into the mist, her eyes following the chaotic dance of war below. Beams of light from Riverfall cannons streaked through the sky; the undead surged in waves; dragons fell in blazing arcs of crimson and blue.

“So what now?” she asked, glancing sidelong at her companion. “The commander of this little operation has gone quiet. Does that mean we have free rein? I could end this quickly if I took down their leader… Ren Xun, wasn’t it? He looks quite the strapping young man.”

“He’s married,” said Wei Qigang evenly.

“Too bad,” she replied with a faint smirk.

“I believe we should focus on something else.”

“Oh?” Her parasol spun again, catching faint motes of sunlight through the clouds.

Wei Qigang’s golden eyes scanned the sky. “The fleet. Those flying vessels of Riverfall… Among them, there must be someone of importance, perhaps even Emperor Nongmin himself. If we remove a figure of renown, their morale will collapse. This Ren Xun is… nothing…”

Deng Wuying almost rolled her eyes. “You and your obsession with—”

But her words froze in her throat. A sudden tremor of killing intent rippled through the air. It was sharp, pure, and predatory.

“DEFEND!” she shouted instinctively.

“Bronze Temple!” roared Wei Qigang, slamming his palms together. A massive bronze Buddha flared into existence around them, serene and radiant. It was an immortal construct of defense.

But serenity was shattered in an instant.

From nowhere, a vast, fanged, and hungry maw clamped down on the Buddha’s shoulder, half-devouring it. Deng Wuying’s pupils dilated as she summoned her familiars, spectral eyes that spun in formation around her. The mist burst apart, revealing the attacker.

It was… a cat.

A small, black cat. Barely the size of a child’s head, its fur seemed to absorb light, its grin stretching impossibly wide.

“Is that—”

The cat’s mouth twisted, its fangs rotating like drill blades. The Bronze Buddha groaned and cracked.

“What in—!”

Deng Wuying gathered wind qi into her palm and struck with a force that split clouds. The shockwave hurled the creature back, but instead of dying, the cat melted. It turned into a quivering blob of shadow, half-feline, half-nightmare.

“Meow,” it said, almost playfully.

And then the Bronze Buddha shattered.

Blood-red threads erupted through the air, slicing the clouds apart. They came from nowhere, yet they were everywhere, strings that shimmered with ghostly malice. Each strand pulsed with the power of an Eleventh Realm, the touch of a Perfect Immortal!

“Those threads—!” Deng Wuying raised her parasol, spinning it furiously. “Wind Spiral Cutter!”

Razor-sharp gales slashed outward, colliding with the threads. The air screamed, yet the threads only halted. They were neither cut nor broken, as they stubbornly maintained their shape.

Wei Qigang grimaced. “Even your parasol can’t sever them?”

“Of course not! Those are Immortal-grade treasures, like my parasol!” she snapped.

In a desperate gambit, she performed a wind-swapping technique, her form flickering, trading places with the shadow-cat. The crimson threads whirled down, slicing the creature into ribbons.

For a brief second, Deng Wuying thought it was over.

Then the shreds floated, catching the breeze.

“Meow… meow… meow?” came the soft sound, childlike and mocking.

The black cat reformed, stretching lazily midair as though waking from a nap. Its teeth gleamed like ivory daggers.

Wei Qigang clenched his fists. “This presence… It’s not mortal.”

“No,” Deng Wuying whispered, her eyes narrowing as her parasol began to glow faintly with runes of defense. “Those threads are immortal-grade treasures… and that cat is an immortal-grade familiar.”

She took a deep breath as the cat’s eerie grin widened once more.

“We’re being attacked,” she said grimly, “by a powerful expert.”

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[POV: Wei Qigang]

Excitement bled into Wei Qigang’s heart like a long-forgotten hunger reawakened. His blood roared with anticipation, his muscles thrummed with the joy of impending battle. Whoever this mysterious attacker was, they deserved the full measure of his might and all the power that the Heavenly Master had carved into his flesh and soul.

He cracked his neck once, his eyes glinting like polished bronze. “Ogre blood that flows within my veins… answer my call…”

The air trembled. Black marks rippled across his skin, jagged and pulsing like living tattoos. His hair hardened into strands of metal, and his body began to glow faintly with golden heat. With one hand, he called forth his weapon, a massive, single-edged greatsword forged from an immortal ore, its edge singing a hymn of war.

His Qi Sense spread out like a stormfront, scanning the dozens of red threads weaving through the sky. They shimmered with immortal power, enough to slice mountains apart. They closed in.

“Sister Wuying,” Wei Qigang said, his voice deep as thunder, “bestow to me your blessings.”

Deng Wuying sighed, flipping open her parasol. “Fine. Blessings of the wind, empower thee—”

Her words ended as a tempest rose. Wind wrapped around his limbs, his speed and strength surging. Wei Qigang swung his sword once, and the world split. Each stroke carved through several threads, severing them in bursts of light and sound.

But their enemy was faster.

The black cat vanished… no, it folded into the air itself… and suddenly reappeared behind Deng Wuying. Its maw opened, expanding grotesquely, fangs dripping with dark mist, ready to bite her head off.

If not for her reflexes, she would have died then and there. She performed a hand sign, and their positions switched instantly.

“Perish, you foul creature of the dark!” Wei Qigang roared, swinging his sword down.

The blade cleaved the familiar cleanly in half. Yet from its bisected form, the shadows twisted and reformed. One half became the same cat again, small and unassuming, while the other half…

The other half became a man.

He was impossibly young for the aura he carried. His skin was pale as moonlight, his eyes a deep void. Around his neck fluttered a bright red scarf that seemed almost alive, its ends writhing like serpents in the wind.

A Perfect Immortal.

Wei Qigang grinned… It was a wide, feral grin that bared his teeth. His pulse raced. “At last…”

But before he could charge, the young man’s lips moved, his voice calm and resonant like the toll of a temple bell. “Fall.”

The word commanded reality.

Wei Qigang’s world tilted, his balance vanished as if the sky itself rejected him. He plummeted, struggling to reorient himself. His immense strength meant nothing; the command had twisted the laws of flight around him.

Deng Wuying, ever quick, performed another hand sign. Their positions swapped once more, saving him from a deadly drop. She reappeared higher up with a movement technique, spinning her parasol and sending a storm of cutting winds downward.

Wei Qigang roared, regaining his footing in the air, and swung his sword. His strike split the heavens; the force behind it could have torn through a fortress.

But the immortal simply stood there. His red scarf danced and flickered, and in that same motion, Wei Qigang’s flesh split open. Dozens of cuts appeared across his bronze-hardened skin, each shallow but stinging.

He pressed on through the pain and connected a blow, only for his sword to pass through the man like mist.

Deng Wuying’s wind-blade followed, cleaving through the sky, but it, too, phased through him.

Wei Qigang’s eyes narrowed. “Trickery. An illusion.”

He turned on instinct, swinging behind him. His sword met resistance, the true form. The man’s scarf caught his blade, the fabric shimmering with immortal power. The two clashed, a Perfect Immortal against a Child of the Heavenly Master.

Then, the illusion that had stood before them twisted into a cat again. The cat exploded into a surge of cursed energy with black fire and malice.

Wei Qigang cried out as his vision went white. Blindness. He swung wildly, relying on instinct. The air split, trees snapped, and lightning of qi flared from his blade. Something slammed into his shoulder. It was a strike he didn’t see coming, and the world flipped upside down.

He crashed through the forest canopy, hitting the ground hard enough to crater it. Dust and splinters filled the air.

He groaned, forcing his eyes open. Standing atop his shoulder, calm and composed, was the pale young man with the red scarf.

Even in defeat, Wei Qigang felt joy. His blood boiled with battle-euphoria. He laughed, hoarse but sincere.

“What…” he said between breaths, his teeth bared in a grin, “…what is your name, warrior?”

The young man’s scarf fluttered once as he looked down at him.

“Hei Mao,” he said quietly, “disciple of Da Wei.”