Chapter 84

It was hard to say whether the old man had known the boy was watching below, and thus deliberately refused to yield a single step.

Or perhaps he had always been one of the elite among the newly ascended Sky Tower cultivators.

In any case, he was now brimming with spirit.

When he once possessed power, he had not felt any different from ordinary people; only after eighteen years of paralysis and returning to his peak—even stepping into an unprecedented realm—did he fully comprehend the exhilaration of leaping from the abyss to the summit.

Pei Ye drew his sword and hurled it fiercely into the sky; the old man curled a finger, and the blade floated gently into his hand.

The black cat, perched on his shoulder, cried out: “Don’t fight Him—run to the state capital! Wait for reinforcements from the Divine Capital!”

Yue Muzhou glanced at it: “Wouldn’t killing it be the same thing?”

The old man extended two withered fingers, lightly tracing the blade from hilt to tip, then flicked it with his thumb. Listening to the long, resonant hum of the sword, he let out a contented sigh.

“Come to the city tower to watch the sword!”

The old man spoke one phrase, then vanished in a blink—a fluttering shadow—only to reappear as a tiny black dot atop the ramparts, engaging the Immortal Lord in their second clash.

Pei Ye turned his head to look at the black cat on his shoulder and couldn’t help but chuckle.

The black cat shot him a cold glance: “What are you laughing at? No wonder you’re family.”

Pei Ye knew it was referring to his reckless aid to Jing Ziwang—something he had no moral ground for—so he simply fell silent.

The black cat’s emerald eyes fixed on the city wall and spoke coldly: “Then let’s go—kill Him.”

…

Fenghuai City Wall.

The Immortal Lord’s golden eyes regarded the approaching old man with indifference, his entire power systematically mobilizing.

In truth, that previous clash had exceeded His expectations.

Not merely in terms of underestimating the man’s strength, but also in surpassing the future He had foreseen before descending.

In that future, this thing should have had no capacity to resist.

The obstacles He faced should have come from elsewhere—perhaps that sword, which had already erased nearly half of His consciousness.

And this thing should not yet have reached the state of “awakening”; it was merely a potential threat, a latent hazard. His planned descent should have been sufficient to crush it in the cradle.

So why had it suddenly surged?

The Immortal Lord knew some link in the chain had failed—but now was not the time to fix it.

Now was the time to eliminate this thing.

The Immortal Lord breathed slowly; violet lightning sparked between the friction of his scales, coursing over his entire dragon body, while frostfire clung to his arms like the legendary divine general.

He stepped forward—and before him, the old man advanced with sword in hand.

This time, both sides unleashed their full strength.

Frostfire instantly blotted out the sky, like a vast curtain sweeping toward the tiny black-clad figure.

Yue Muzhou slashed his sword horizontally.

A razor-sharp, condensed sword qi surged straight at the Immortal Lord, utterly ignoring the frostfire that loomed around him.

This sword strike was utterly simple, utterly plain—its killing intent blinding.

If Ming Qi Tian had seen it, she would have instinctively gripped her sword hilt; but if Pei Ye had seen it, he would not have felt the same awe he had when watching Ming Qi Tian’s sword that night.

Partly because appreciating a sword requires a threshold—but more so because Ming Qi Tian and Yue Muzhou walked two entirely different paths.

Ming Qi Tian had trained since childhood in the sacred heartland of all sword arts, raised under the tutelage of a legendary Sword Lord, learning from the outset the most peerless sword techniques and the highest refined sword principles.

She was naturally the supreme sword prodigy, nurtured by the most magnificent achievements in sword history, and thus became truly peerless under heaven.

Precisely because of this, that night’s celestial sword strike of hers had left a deep mark in Pei Ye’s heart—for it was, in truth, the most beautiful form of “sword.”

Yue Muzhou was different.

At fourteen, Yue Muzhou had entered the bloody world of martial strife; his sword was forged in life-or-death duels, wielded a crude blade forged by a village blacksmith, and learned lowly sword techniques picked up from anywhere. During those years, he never pondered what a “sword” was.

The sword was merely a tool for killing; sword techniques were merely methods of killing.

Only after countless strikes accumulated, when the weapon became as natural as his own limbs, did he naturally enter the realm of “intent” and “principle.”

He had received no instruction from others—only his own half-life spent wandering between life and death alongside his sword.

Thus, even after ascending to higher levels, his sword retained an indelible crimson hue; Ming Qi Tian’s words that night—“chill and suppressed,” “asking the heart with blood”—were indeed the insight of a master.

Therefore, Yue Muzhou’s sword lacked the sublime, soaring quality, and never carried divine arts like the Seven Solar Sword Realm, painstakingly refined over generations. His sword was neither heavy nor noble—it was infused only with the ice and fire of his own nature, entirely forged by his solitary genius.

One glance, and you knew: this was Yue Muzhou’s sword!

The scales that had stood unmoved before Ming Qi Tian’s sword qi now shattered like dry straw; the Immortal Lord’s body was nearly severed at the waist.

The circling violet lightning and frostfire instantly surrounded the old man, clashing violently with his surrounding qi, as if two armies had heard the battle cry.

The Immortal Lord’s severed body turned soft as sand; he did not even attempt to reassemble his form. His upper torso continued battling Yue Muzhou, while the flesh and blood severed by the sword qi coalesced directly into sharp, spear-like shards, driving straight toward the old man.

Yue Muzhou did not retract his sword—he locked eyes with those majestic golden orbs, allowing one sharp shard to pierce his waist and abdomen, while simultaneously lifting his blade upward, slicing directly through the Immortal Lord’s throat.

Then his sword qi exploded, driving the dragon body downward like a meteor, the shattering qi pulverizing every tree and stone within dozens of zhang.

Dust rose like a colossal wave, instantly towering above the city walls. Such a spectacle made it seem not as if two bodies had fallen, but a true meteor had struck.

Explosions continued within the dust, the ferocity of the two bodies’ struggle evident in the surging airwaves that shot skyward.

This desperate battle lasted nearly fifteen minutes, after which several rapid, thin lines shot out from the swelling dust cloud, fragments flying free, gathering in midair to reform the Immortal Lord’s body.

But it seemed smaller by a full circle.

The old man then slowly rose from the smoke and dust; his injuries were far more severe—blood streamed down his chest and back, soaking his black robe into a slick, dark hue.

Yet his posture remained upright.

The Immortal Lord possessed perfect combat instincts—he should have been invincible in battle.

But the two humans he faced today had both inflicted undeniable harm upon Him.

Ming Qi Tian had wounded Him through the highest achievements of human cultivation civilization—the Sword Manual, the Seven Solar Sword Realm, the Shattered Heart Glass.

Yue Muzhou, however, leaned entirely toward the primal, wielding nothing but sword and qi as claws and fangs, engaging Him in the purest, most direct combat.

And yet—he had not fallen behind.