The Insatiable Power, and the Savage Tournament.
The scene shifted.
And a therapeusis was born, vanishing fiercely upwards colliding with the firmament like a cosmic tide. And it was hardly just powerful: It was unequivocal. The air trembled around it, the ground moaned under its weight, and for a time even reality itself seemed to quail in its presence.
In the meantime, far up above, the sky turned an unnatural dark. Tendrils of black lightning wrapped themselves around a single place, twining, undulatinglike living serpents. About the energy collected, coagulated, Densified, weighty, to a distinct manner.
A figure emerged.
A humanoid form, wrapped in a writhing obscurity, warping the very space around it by the fact of its existence. It had no mouth, no eyes, no hint of a face, yet it radiated an evil that you could feel—the black embodiment of destruction.
It took a step forward.
A single step.
And the sky shattered.
Beneath the weight of its being the world shook. Dark lightning erupted outward, searing its path through the cosmos and devouring all in its wake. This was something that had to be, something that was against the God Almighty himself.
Then, without warning—
The figure rushed toward it—a line of shadow luminance, a dart of death to the oncoming force still spilling from the fruit.
The force should have obliterated that berry.
But the opposite happened.
The force did not break.
Instead, it swallowed up the dark figure.
SHOT BY CHOICE
The black light writhed and thrashed like a wounded beast, but the force only sharpened, until it devoured every vestige of it. It was feeding, evolving.
Then — as if the force had coalesced —
It fixed its gaze on Hangfang.
Hangfang froze, standing rooted in place. All of the sudden, it felt like too much — a smothering haze of unfathomable dread. An unseen weight slammed down on him, pulverizing his thoughts, his reactions, his will to fight into powder.
It was death, itself, coming for him.
And he could do nothing.
The gang lunged for him, a tsunami of extinction ready to swallow him whole.
But at that very moment—
His own sword unleashed a geyser of blood-red energy that formed into a shadow next to him.
A sharp, furious voice rang out.
"Are you insane!?"
"This is the Blood Sword Spirit!"
Hanfang's vision sharpened into sharp focus. The daze receded, replaced by a cold, lethal clarity. The Blood Sword Spirit landed on his blood sword and directly merged into the weapon.
He gritted his teeth.
He tightened his grip on the Blood Sword. His stance steadied.
He charged.
The force settled at the same time — twisting, curling, coiling, forming.
It smiled with its brand-new face.
It raised a hand.
Dark energy swirled within its palm, taking shape into a gargantuan, bladed construct—an eternally bleeding sword of primordial chaos. The blade stirred with hunger, hungry for the swing of each reality aflame as it was swept asunder.
The battle began.
Steel met chaos.
Each skirmish sent ripples across the battlefield.
Their blows landed with full impact, fracturing the ground beneath and sending splintering cracks outward. Every step was fatal, every blow meant to annihilate the foe.
The air burned with power. Space itself warped.
Aware he wouldn't be able to outmuscle it, Hangfang switched on Smoke Path.
The world shattered in that sound, and the heavy mists tore loose, hauling the field of war into its maws by the whole of its storming shadows. Then there was no visibility.
But something was wrong.
Even through the thick fog, Hangfang could feel it—the presence was still watching him.
His heart pounded.
Then, he moved.
He circled the figure, slipping around the smoke like a ghost.
And then—
He struck.
The one most strong ability—Soul Devour.
As the figure let out a sound only a nightmare could produce, sounding as though its entire understanding were being ripped from its existence and devoured in one sweeping motion. The blackness writhed, it twisted — and it was gone.
Silence.
Hangfang had won.
But victory came at a cost.
At the moment his hand had touched that entity, a shocking pain flared through him.
His entire right arm — its bones, its muscles, its flesh — was gone.
It wasn't severed. It wasn't burned.
And just like that, it was gone.
His nerves screamed, pain finding every register of his flesh. He stumbled, his vision fading. The world tilted. He nearly collapsed.
At the last moment, he forced himself to his feet.
But—
Something unnamed surged up behind him.
Dark. Cold. Merciless.
Its presence so overwhelming that his body abruptly stiffened, every instinct in him screaming to flee.
He turned.
Before him loomed a man in robes black and silver.
His black hair cascaded over his shoulders like a waterfall of shadows. The red-tinged eyes gleamed with the cutting sheen of liquid steel: penetrating, analytical, lethal.
A sword of stalked metal, somewhat smaller than his full height, appeared when he raised his right hand. The blade pulsed with coiled energy, waiting to be unleashed.
The man spoke.
His voice was calm. Unshaken. Absolute.
"I am Yan Xiao."
His gaze did not waver.
"That spirit you just had—that's mine."
A sudden shift. The atmosphere turned el
ectric.
He gripped his blade tighter.
"Hand it over."
A step forward.
The ground below him split open.
"Or you're going to die here."
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