Xuan Gong's reactions were sharp—faster than most—but in that instant, even he couldn't keep up with Daoist Baishu's speed.
Before his mind could process what was happening, the ghostly figure identical to Daoist Baishu darted past him, snatching the scroll right out of his hands. Holding it in one palm, the phantom stopped directly before Zhao Zhi.
Zhao Zhi, still seated cross-legged on the floor, didn't even have time to react. His eyes widened instinctively as Daoist Baishu unrolled the scroll. The painting within flared open—and from its surface burst a dazzling sword shadow.
Startled, Zhao Zhi tried to rise, but the sudden eruption of sword energy forced the black mist around him to harden instantly, condensing into the shape of a ghostly guardian that wrapped around his body, shielding him from the strike.
Xuan Gong spun around, his hand flashing out to grab the phantom. But his fingers passed straight through—it was nothing but mist and light.
He turned at once, rushing down the steps toward the real Daoist Baishu.
The true Baishu still stood in his original spot, hands raised in a spell gesture, eyes half-shut in concentration. When Xuan Gong charged, the Daoist made no move to defend himself.
Bang!
Xuan Gong's palm slammed into his chest, sending him hurtling out of the great hall. The old minister nearby stumbled backward, trembling with fear.
Xuan Gong's body flickered, splitting into afterimages as he followed in pursuit. In the blink of an eye, he was outside on the white stone steps. He reached down and crushed Daoist Baishu's neck with one hand.
After confirming the Daoist's life force was extinguished, Xuan Gong turned and rushed back into Qianwu Hall.
But the phantom of Daoist Baishu still hadn't faded. It remained in place, holding the scroll in one hand, while the sword shadow within had pierced straight into Zhao Zhi's forehead. The ghostly figure shielding Zhao Zhi trembled violently—it was clearly about to shatter.
"Your Majesty!"
Xuan Gong shouted, alarmed. He stepped forward, but before he could move again, the phantom lunged ahead. The sword shadow shot forward like a bolt of lightning, piercing clean through Zhao Zhi's skull and shattering the ghostly apparition.
The old minister collapsed to the ground, eyes bulging, staring at the phantom in disbelief as though he were witnessing a spirit descend upon the mortal realm.
Even Xuan Gong froze. For the first time in years, he didn't know what to do.
"Wicked tyrant, scourge of the world—unworthy of the title of king! Heaven may not take you, but Fengxia Mountain will!"
The phantom Daoist's voice thundered through the hall. His body of light scattered into countless streaks of silver-white radiance that poured back into the scroll.
The painting's surface burst into a brilliant glow. The sword shadow drew back, tugging something ethereal from Zhao Zhi's body—a second Zhao Zhi, pale and transparent like a wandering soul.
Xuan Gong appeared beside Zhao Zhi in an instant, his hand forming a blade. He slashed through the sword shadow with all his strength.
This time, the strike connected. The sword shadow shattered, the light flashed once more, and the scroll dropped to the ground.
Zhao Zhi's body jerked violently. He fell backward, striking the dragon throne, while his ghostly double was sucked back into his body.
Silence filled the great hall. Only Zhao Zhi's ragged breathing broke the stillness.
Xuan Gong blinked, regaining his senses. He kicked the scroll across the floor, sending it clattering away, then crouched beside Zhao Zhi, trying to support him.
Zhao Zhi's face turned deathly pale. A mouthful of blood burst from his lips, splattering across the floor. His body went limp, drained of all strength.
"H-he… he…" Zhao Zhi stammered, his voice trembling, eyes filled with naked fear.
"He's dead, Your Majesty," Xuan Gong said quickly. "I snapped his neck myself—he's truly gone."
He spoke with forced calm, though his own heart was pounding. Never had he imagined Daoist Baishu capable of such a terrifying method.
Zhao Zhi turned to the old minister, eyes wide, blood trickling from his mouth. "Quick… call… the Grand Master…" he gasped between labored breaths.
…
Far away, deep beneath Qingxiao Mountain, within the Underground Spiritual Lake, Li Qingqiu suddenly opened his eyes.
He could feel it—the strange and sinister aura that had lingered for days had abruptly vanished. Confusion flickered in his gaze.
'Did something happen?' he wondered.
Across the lake, Xu Ning also opened her eyes. She, too, had sensed that eerie energy, though her perception was not as sharp as his.
"Master," she said softly, "on our way back, we met a Daoist named Baishu from Fengxia Mountain in South Chu. His cultivation wasn't weak, and he went alone toward Zhenyang Imperial City. Could it be… he succeeded?"
"Fengxia Mountain?" Li Qingqiu raised an eyebrow. "Hard to say for now. We'll know for sure in a few days."
As the Sect Master, he was well-informed about the world's martial sects. He had read of Fengxia Mountain before—a sacred place of the Twin Saints before the founding of the Great Li Dynasty, with deep historical roots. It was said Fengxia Mountain didn't just possess martial legacies but also strange arts—and even knowledge of alchemy. He had once considered sending disciples there to build relations and learn more about their alchemical techniques.
Xu Ning nodded, though uncertainty lingered. In her view, Daoist Baishu's strength was nowhere near enough to kill the Emperor. The man's courage was admirable—but his odds were slim.
Her mind drifted to the memory of her duel with Zhao Zhi. Since reaching the seventh layer of the Nurturing Essence Realm, she had believed that besides her master, no one could match her. But the Emperor's power—and those demonic soldiers—had shaken that belief to its core. For the first time, she had felt helpless.
She looked up at Li Qingqiu. "Master, how many layers must I reach in the Supreme Purity and Primordial Harmony Sutra before I have the power to change the world's fate on my own?"
Li Qingqiu met her gaze. "Perhaps at the ninth layer," he said calmly.
"Perhaps…" Xu Ning murmured, her expression dimming slightly.
Li Qingqiu didn't comfort her. She was no longer a child. Every cultivator must face hardship and despair on their own. Adversity was as much a part of cultivation as enlightenment itself.
Still, even as he sat in silence, Li Qingqiu found himself pondering the same question.
Did he truly have the strength to end Zhao Zhi and Xuan Gong's schemes once and for all?
…
Not long after Xu Ning and the others returned, word spread like wildfire across the land—the Seven Provinces Alliance had been utterly defeated. Carrier pigeons from noble families flew day and night, spreading the news far and wide, and soon it reached Qingxiao Sect as well.
The Emperor. The demonic soldiers. These two names became the most discussed topic among the disciples. Many of them clenched their fists in anticipation, waiting for their Sect Master to give the order to descend the mountain—just like before—so they could once again go out to save the world.
But as more information trickled in, that enthusiasm began to fade. The disciples learned that Xu Ning herself had crossed blades with the Emperor—and that she had chosen to withdraw. That alone was enough to prove his martial power exceeded even hers.
Then there was Li Sifeng, who couldn't keep his mouth shut. He vividly described to everyone just how terrifying those demonic soldiers had been.
Their bodies were impervious to blades and spears. Their strength was monstrous, their speed like lightning, and they felt no pain. Even worse, they could devour a warrior's inner energy.
How could anyone possibly fight such creatures?
The most terrifying part was the sheer number of them. The Emperor commanded tens of thousands of such soldiers!
Even a True Disciple at the third layer of the Nurturing Essence Realm admitted that facing a single demonic soldier in one-on-one combat would take everything he had—and even then, victory wouldn't come quickly. But on a real battlefield, there would be no such one-on-one fight.
As these reports spread through the sect, the disciples began to truly understand how dreadful the Emperor and his demonic army were. Anxiety crept into their hearts.
'Since ancient times, good has always triumphed over evil. So why hasn't this evil been destroyed yet?'
If even Qingxiao Sect—the foremost martial sect in the world—felt such pressure, what of the rest of the provinces? Across the land, more and more civilians, merchants, and martial sects abandoned their homes, fleeing far from Zhenyang City.
Li Qingqiu, while cultivating, noticed something strange. The ominous aura he had sensed from afar had vanished for several days—but now, it had returned. That could only mean one thing: the Emperor was still alive.
At midday that day—
The halfway terrace of Qingxiao Mountain was overflowing with people. Around the newly renovated Martial Debate Platform, a massive crowd gathered. On the stage stood Shen Yue, hands clasped behind his back, eyes closed, breathing steady. He didn't carry a sword.
This duel had been arranged long before Xu Ning and the others returned. After careful discussion among the elders, it was decided not to cancel it. They needed this battle to restore morale—to show the disciples that even if Qingxiao Sect could not save the world, they could at least protect themselves.
Shen Yue took this match seriously. He had arrived early and was already waiting.
The seven Hall Masters, their Vice Masters, and all the elders had come to watch. Even high-ranking nobles stood among the onlookers. Among the discussions of who was stronger—the Sword God or the Sect Master—there was one name that kept surfacing: the Emperor.
The fall of the Seven Provinces Army had left the world uncertain. No one knew what would happen next. No one knew who, if anyone, could kill the Emperor.
Though few dared to speak it aloud, every disciple secretly wished for their Sect Master to act. In their hearts, Li Qingqiu was already the strongest under heaven.
Bai Ning'er, having heard about the duel, rushed back from the Spirit Mine to watch. He stood beside Han Lang, Jiang Zhaoxia's disciple, the two of them chatting excitedly.
Zhao Zhen, Li Yang, Yuan Li, and Zhao Linglong stood shoulder to shoulder, discussing the upcoming battle. Mostly it was Zhao Zhen and Li Yang talking, while the other two listened intently.
Ji Ya and Yang Lin stood with three others on the opposite side, their eyes fixed on the platform, eagerly awaiting Li Qingqiu's arrival.
Li Sifeng stood with Pei Miao and Li Sijin. Scanning the crowd, he spotted Cheng Xiu and Cheng San. Cheng San waved his arm energetically, face beaming.
Li Sifeng smiled and nodded back. His gaze met Cheng Xiu's—she gave him a gentle smile, radiant and calm, like a flower blooming quietly in the crowd.
A faint melancholy stirred in Li Sifeng's chest. He knew Cheng Xiu's feelings for him. But he also knew they were not meant to be. He couldn't offer her a peaceful life. His heart longed for a path of battle and glory, not one bound by love.
Still, things had turned out well. Both Cheng siblings had joined Qingxiao Sect. Even if he were gone someday, his senior brother would look after them.
With that thought, he turned away and began chatting casually with the woman beside him.
Cheng Xiu also withdrew her gaze. She understood—their connection had ended. There was a trace of sadness, but no regret. She had her own goals now, and her future would not be defined by love, but by the path she chose to walk.
Zhang Yuchun soon arrived, laughing and talking with several noble families. Disciples from the Spirit Management Hall escorted them, and as they passed, others stepped aside respectfully.
Xu Ning approached the platform and looked up. "Senior Shen," she said, "why don't I go first?"
Shen Yue didn't open his eyes. "My opponent is your master," he said calmly. "I'll spar with you another time."
Xu Ning pouted slightly. She felt he was avoiding a fight with her. If he lost to her, he might not have the courage to challenge her master afterward. Losing to the Sect Master, however, would be his second defeat—far easier to swallow.
As more and more people gathered, even the forests along the mountain path were filled with noise. Disciples crowded every vantage point they could find. Even those far away—who could only make out Shen Yue's faint silhouette—watched with eager excitement. It had been a long time since Qingxiao Sect was this lively.
Many young geniuses watched Shen Yue not only with respect but with burning ambition. Today, they thought, one day they too would stand there—challenging the Sword God before all.
Among the sea of faces stood Zhang Ping. He was unremarkable, alone, and silent. Ever since learning that Chu Jing had ties to the Demonic Sect, he had withdrawn from his peers, wary of forming close bonds.
Suddenly—
Cry!
A piercing eagle's cry echoed across the sky, silencing the crowd. Every head turned upward.
A massive black shadow circled high above the clouds. A heartbeat later, a streak of blinding sword light cut through the air, merging with the sunlight as it descended.
Clang!
A sword stabbed into the Martial Debate Platform with a resonant metallic hum, releasing a shockwave that rippled through the air. And then, from the heavens, a figure descended and landed precisely atop the sword's hilt.
It was Li Qingqiu.
His arrival sent the entire mountain into an uproar.
Thunderous cheers erupted from all directions, shaking the trees and startling flocks of birds into flight. The echo of their wings faded into the distance, leaving only the resounding chant of the disciples—
"Sect Master!"
The Sect Master had descended from the heavens.