With a swirling force sucking him into deep space, his vision turned black but only for a moment as in the next, he was standing in a lush verdant meadow full of bright yellow flowers.
He took a moment to sit down on the grass and calm himself, extending his divine senses as he did so. It would be unwise to not keep his guard up.
He took out the sword Han Wutian had forged for him and examined it carefully.
Starting from the scabbard, it was a beautiful piece of art. A pitch black leather decorated with detailed illustrations of a hundred ferocious monsters and beasts in a golden-orange ink.
As for the sword, the craftsmanship was exquisite, to say the least.
The sword was long and slim, with a broad double-edged blade. Its hilt was covered in thick leather, and the cross guard was encrusted with dark red gemstones.
The sword itself was pure black and exceptionally heavy, at least for Han Xuanyuan's semi-mortal body.
Despite its weight, the blade was extremely sharp. Just a light swing of the blade caused a slight tear to appear in the air, revealing a small section of deep space.
At the end of the hilt, Han Wutian's family crest, the character for "vast," was engraved.
But before he could examine the rest of the items Han Wutian gave him, he picked up motion not far away with his divine senses.
There were about a dozen people, all in the Origin Realm, and they were encircling him.
'So teleportation can also be tracked,' he thought as he got up and returned the scabbard to his spatial ring, taking out the sword art manual in its stead.
It was a small white jade, about the size of his fingernail. The way to comprehend the sword technique was to insert his divine senses into the jade and decipher its internal structure with a special universal code that Han Wutian taught him.
But he had no time to do so in the old-fashioned way.
So he cut a small opening on his wrist and slipped the jade into his vein where it shuttled through his arm and settled somewhere around his shoulder.
He did this as his divine senses were most concentrated in his body, so if he could just allocate some of his mental power to comprehending the sword technique internally, he could achieve breakthroughs in the middle of the battle.
With a bit of luck and the element of surprise, he may make it out of the skirmish alive.
Just as he was done with this little procedure, he could see from his divine senses constantly ringing him mental alarms that his prospective assailants were already tightly packed in position around him.
Realizing that there was probably no room to talk his way out of this situation, he firmed his grip on the sword and tried to awaken his battle force once more.
Through his previous experiences, he determined that the sure-fire method for acquiring battle force is to increase one's excitement for battle to the limit, whether it be naturally, or artificially.
So as he circulated his spiritual power around his nervous system, he could feel the fervor for a good fight surging throughout his body, his blood boiling in excitement
With these emotions peaking, a black mist slowly seeped out of his body, covering his skin and clothes like a fog.
From it emerged a thin, faint white line that slowly floated across his body, like a cloud in the sky.
As the single lined Origin Realm battle force covered his body, his attackers realized that they had been discovered and no long concealed their auras.
With their swords raised and battle techniques being charged, they charged towards Han Xuanyuan from all sides.
At this moment, he comprehended the first level of the first form of the sword art manual - The Skyless Sword Art.
The first form was called Covering the Sky and it represented the cultivator's primal desire to achieve greatness by all means possible.
Whether it be by empowering oneself and sweeping through the endless heavens with sheer force, or using the most despicable tactics to achieve victory and bury all those that oppose oneself.
This is Covering the Sky, cutting apart those at the top and claiming the throne for one's own dominion.
The first level contains three stages, Cognition Conformity, Self Motion, and Sword Motion
Han Xuanyuan's fingers tightened around the hilt of his black longsword, its crimson crystals glinting ominously in the dim light. His breathing became heavy as the eleven cultivators closed in, their red metal armor clinking softly, silver swords reflecting the golden hues of the vast plain. They did not know who he was. They had merely been sent to apprehend him, yet their gazes held the certainty of an inevitable kill.
Han Xuanyuan's heart pounded. His one-lined Battle Force—nothing but a thin gray line within the black mist that covered his body—was barely enough to let him endure the initial onslaught. His opponents stood in the middle stages of the Origin Realm. With each step they took, their aura pressed down like a mountain, suffocating and crushing him. If not for his sheer willpower, his knees would have already buckled.
A sharp whistle cut through the air as the first strike came. A gleaming sword blurred toward his neck. Han Xuanyuan ducked low, feeling the wind shear against his cheek as the blade missed him by a hair. But before he could even counter, the flat of another enemy's sword slammed into his ribs, sending him sprawling across the grass, rolling through yellow flowers that were instantly stained red with his blood that spilled not from his flesh but from his mouth, his innards were instantly crushed by the impact and regurgitated out.
He had no time to think. His instincts screamed as he twisted his body mid-roll, narrowly avoiding another downward smash that embedded itself into the earth where his head had been. Pushing off the ground with his left arm, he launched himself backward, eyes sharp despite the dizziness clouding his vision.
Blood dripped from a gash across his side, yet the pain was nothing compared to the terror of battle. His enemies were relentless, their sword techniques refined and exotic, each strike unpredictable.
Just at this moment, the part of his mind that he had allocated towards comprehending the sword art had produced results, the Cognition Conformity.
It was a mechanism through which he could circulate his energy in a precise sequence to generate a unique energy field. This field interacts with the aura disparity between him and those around them due to their differing cultivation bases, magnifying this aura several times over and transforming it into an invisible pressure.
By leveraging this amplified pressure, he could enhance his strength, effectively boosting his combat power by drawing upon his enemies very presence.
His mind raced in excitement as he realized the weight of this breakthrough, his aura surged as he utilized this new technique, pushing back against the overwhelming suppression.
When the next attack came, his sword met it with a resonance that had not been there before. The cultivator staggered, momentarily confused. Han Xuanyuan felt it too—his aura was more than it should have been, the sheer force shocking even himself. He capitalized on that hesitation, slashing diagonally, forcing his enemy to retreat. A minor victory, but a victory nonetheless.
Another came from behind, sword stabbing straight for his back. His divine senses tingled at the back of his mind. The spiritual extension of his soul detected a shift in air pressure, a subtle killing intent, and even before his conscious mind registered it, his body reacted. Twisting, he parried—but not before another enemy slammed a boot into his shoulder, sending him crashing into the dirt again.
He coughed violently, the taste of iron thick in his mouth. Even with Cognition Conformity, his physical disadvantage was immense. He needed more.
The other half of his mind had read into something miraculous, something that would give him a real chance to survive.
Breathing heavily, he felt his body instinctively adapt to the instructions his mind gave. The second level of the first stage of Covering the Sky had awakened, it was a movement technique that built upon Cognition Conformity.
Taking full advantage of the artificially boosted pressure, this technique called Self Motion boosted his agility and dexterity. Decreasing the force pulling down on his body and making him feel lighter than ever before. Allowing him to be more nimble and quicker on his feet.
A sword thrust came at his ribs—he leaned back, just enough that the blade missed by a mere whisper. Another slash, aimed for his thigh—he twisted his knee unnaturally, the blade sliding past harmlessly. His movements were no longer just evasions; they were precise calculations of survival.
With a sudden burst of speed, he shot forward, slipping between two enemies who barely registered his motion before he was behind them. His sword lashed out—a clean cut. A deep wound tore across one of their arms, blood spurting. But not a kill.
Their eyes widened in realization. He was adapting. He was no longer an easy target.
Yet his body was reaching its limit. His arms felt heavy, muscles screaming in protest. He was still too weak.
His enemies turned around to land a double kick on his chest, he could feel his sternum cracking, no, he could also hear it, and so could his enemies
The pressure was immense. Three enemies attacked simultaneously. One from the front, one from behind, and one from the side.
His sword trembled as he blocked the first strike, but the sheer force made his arms go numb. The second cultivator slashed down, aiming for his leg, while the third thrust toward his heart. There was no time to react.
In that moment of desperation, his sword intention surged, and the transformative divine senses optimized the spiritual energy flowing through his sword, making it move as though it had come alive
But that wasn't the end. He had comprehended the third stage - Sword Motion.
It was a grandiose slashing technique that fully exploited all the power available from Cognition Conformity, enhancing the force behind each of his attacks exponentially.
His grip tightened. His sword became weightless in his hands, no longer just a weapon but an extension of his very being. With one fluid motion, he parried the first attack, redirecting the blade into the second attacker's path. The clang of steel meeting steel rang out as sparks flew.
He turned, twisting his body mid-air, and for the first time, his sword cut with true lethality. The first enemy staggered, looking down at his chest in disbelief. Blood seeped from a deep gash. A mortal wound.
A single kill.
The battle didn't stop. Ten enemies remained, their expressions turning grim. They no longer saw him as prey. They saw him as a threat.
The rushed towards him and he them. Metal clashed against metal as sparks flew, he slashed his blade against the one coming in from the front, used his other hand to punch one from the side and once the was over, land a kick straight onto the groin of the person coming in from behind.
His body screamed in pain. Every muscle felt like it was being torn apart. But the thrill of battle, the sheer bloodthirst, pushed him forward. His battle force, responding to his desperation, evolved. A second gray line formed within the mist that shrouded him, thickening, strengthening.
His movements became faster. His slashes heavier. He was still outmatched, still weaker, but not entirely helpless.
One of the cultivators, a man with a deep scar across his jaw, rushed him with a furious roar, sword arcing down like a guillotine. Han Xuanyuan countered, but the impact nearly shattered his wrist. He barely managed to deflect, yet even as he did, another sword came from his blind spot—
The blade was inches from his neck. Time slowed.
He saw the blade, his pupils dilating before contracting rapidly and shrinking to pinpricks, he could not move, he was too slow, his mind was filled with panic.
But then, something changed.
The black mist around him churned violently, the two gray lines surging with power. In an instant, a third line appeared, thick and pulsing with raw energy. It, alongside the two other lines, gathered around his neck like armor, and when the sword struck—it stopped.
A screech of metal against something even harder caused sparks to fly. The cultivator's expression turned from confidence to utter disbelief. His killing strike had been nullified.
Han Xuanyuan exhaled sharply. This breakthrough had saved his life.
The battle had only just truly begun with him only now being able to contest against these guys on equal footing, but Han Xuanyuan already felt his body nearing its limit. His breath came in ragged gasps, his wounds weeping crimson as the ten armored disciples closed in around him. Each movement felt like wading through a mire of pain and exhaustion, but he could not afford to falter.
They were laughing now, sneering at his weakness. "A mere mortal dares to resist us?" one of them mocked, his silver sword gleaming under the midday sun. The others joined in, their voices merging into a cruel chorus.
Gritting his teeth, Han Xuanyuan forced himself to move, dodging to the side as a sword slashed where his head had been a moment ago. His divine senses flared, warning him of another strike from behind. He twisted his body just in time, barely avoiding disembowelment, but not before a shallow cut opened along his ribs.
Pain sharpened his mind. His Transformative Divine Senses activated instinctively, enhancing his focus and sword intent. He had to think faster, move smarter, or he would die here.
Cognition Conformity, the first stage of Covering the Sky, had allowed him to magnify his aura by leveraging the very power of his enemies. He had learned to turn their strength against them, but it was not enough. The second stage, Self Motion, granted him speed and agility beyond his limits. Yet even with that, he was barely surviving. Sword Motion, the third stage, had completely overhauled his attack power but it could barely serve as an offensive equalizer. His black battle force, now reinforced with three lines, crackled with energy, lessening the gap between him and the enemy, but he still could not afford to take things lightly.
A sword thrust came at his chest. He parried, but the impact sent tremors through his arms. His opponent pressed forward, forcing him back step by step. Behind him, another disciple lunged with a vicious downward slash. His Oppressive Divine Senses flared, slowing the attack just enough for him to shift his position. The sword grazed his shoulder instead of cleaving him in half.
He could not win in a direct clash. He had to be cunning.
His mind raced. His enemies relied on formation fighting—if he could break their coordination, he might stand a chance. He flicked his sword, sending a feint toward one of the weaker disciples. The man flinched, giving Han Xuanyuan an opening. He surged forward, slashing at his opponent's wrist, severing fingers and forcing him to drop his sword. A scream rang out, disrupting the rhythm of their assault.
A momentary victory, but it was not enough.
Another enemy took advantage of his overextension, slicing toward his back. Han Xuanyuan reacted on instinct, channeling his Penetrative Divine Senses. A sharp pulse of spiritual force shot outward, staggering his attacker for half a breath. It was all the time he needed. He spun, his blade finding flesh. The cultivator barely had time to cry out before his throat was cut open.
A second kill. But now the others were furious.
They swarmed him with renewed ferocity. He could only dodge, weave, block—but every movement drained him further. He was being hunted, his body aching under the relentless assault. He lashed out with wild desperation, managing to wound one of them across the leg, but another struck him across the back. His Battle Force absorbed the worst of it, but he could feel his strength waning.
Was this where he died?
No.
He forced himself to breathe, to push past the agony. His sword was his only hope. He had comprehended Sword Motion, the final stage of the first level of Covering the Sky. It was not just a technique—it was a will, a force beyond simple skill. His sword intention flared, merging with his divine senses. His strikes became sharper, his control absolute.
He would make every movement count.
He let them come. He let them believe they had him cornered. Then, when one of them lunged, he sidestepped at the last possible moment, his sword flashing in a precise arc. The enemy's chest split open, a spray of blood staining the grass.
Three dead.
But there were still eight left. And he was barely holding on.
He needed another advantage. His Transformative Divine Senses expanded, enveloping the battlefield. Every breath of wind, every shift in movement—he perceived it all. He saw his enemies' patterns, the subtle tells before each strike.
They thought him exhausted. They thought he was barely hanging on. He would use that against them.
Feigning weakness, he staggered, lowering his sword. One of the stronger disciples took the bait, stepping in to finish him. In that instant, Han Xuanyuan surged forward, his blade slipping past his opponent's guard. A clean stab through the gut. The cultivator gasped, eyes still wide in disbelief, he fell to the ground.
Four dead.
The others hesitated for the first time.
He could not give them a chance to recover. Pressing his advantage, he lashed out again, his movements flowing like water. His sword was no longer just a weapon—it was an extension of his will. His divine senses guided him, making each strike deadly.
He was approached by the rest altogether, surrounding him and slashing at him from all sides. Two from the front, four from behind.
But he did something none of them expected him to. He performed a smooth pirouette, turning back and slashing all four of the swords behind him in one graceful motion.
But as he blocked the blows that were now in front of him, two more came chopping down from behind him.
This was his plan, his Penetrative Divine Senses shot forth from the ground, piercing straight through the jaw of one of the disciples, spraying blood all across the ground and some onto his fellow's face who was lucky enough to have his sword block the divine sense attack.
Another enemy fell, clutching his mutiliated jaw.
Five.
But the remaining six were adapting. They spread out, attacking from multiple angles. Han Xuanyuan's Oppressive Divine Senses slowed one down, but not enough. A blade slipped past his defense, stabbing into his thigh. He gritted his teeth, biting back a cry of pain. His hands never stopped moving. His sword reversed its grip, cutting down the attacker right in his heart, the sword entering from his back and piercing through his chest before he could even withdraw his weapon.
Six.
His vision blurred. Blood loss was catching up to him. He forced his divine senses to their limit, creating a web of awareness. He felt another attack coming from behind and barely managed to block it. His body screamed in protest, but he could not stop now.
He dodged, countered, struck—each movement a battle of life and death. Another enemy's wrist was severed, his scream cut short as Han Xuanyuan drove his sword straight through his neck, blood shot into the sky like water from a hand-shower before the neck exploded entirely and sent the head flying due to the special enchantment on his sword.
Seven.
The last four surrounded him. He could barely stand, his breaths shallow. But he refused to fall.
They came at him together, a coordinated final assault. Han Xuanyuan's sword met theirs, his divine senses predicting their every move. He fought like a man possessed, trading wounds for openings. A stab through the ribs to claim another kill. A slash across his shoulder in exchange for cutting down another.
Eight. Nine.
Two left.
His strength was failing, but they were also wary. He had taken too many of their comrades. They hesitated.
He took advantage of that moment of doubt. With a final tidal flow of battle force, now numbering four, he lunged, his blade piercing the second-to-last disciple's chest directly without him even being able to react. The man's sword fell from his hand as his grip loosened and his body fell as Han Xuanyuan retracted his sword.
Ten.
The last enemy trembled, backing away. Han Xuanyuan's gaze burned with exhaustion and defiance. "Come," he rasped.
The man hesitated—and Han Xuanyuan struck. His sword, fueled by the last dregs of his strength, cut across the final enemy twice in an X-pattern, blood splattering all over his face as the man fell down to the ground, dead, seeping blood into the ground.
Eleven.
The battlefield fell silent. Han Xuanyuan stood amidst the corpses, his body swaying. He had won.
But the moment he relaxed, an unforgiving and god-forsaken burst of headache shot across his head, knocking him out instantly.