Before an ocean of spectators, the two apex predators of this realm strode forward: Sheldon Soulsby of the Infinite Soul Demon Sect and Linden Cloudridge of the Mystic Sky Sword Sect. Heavenly Immortal, Level Seven, against Heavenly Immortal, Level Seven—the single duel that would steer the fate of the entire campaign.
Sheldon’s demonic essence erupted, coiling into a night-black serpent so massive it bore nine fanged heads. Each maw hissed with hunger as the creature inhaled the world—air, light, even color—into its cavernous throats.
Across the field, Linden raised his sword intent to its perfect apex. Man and blade fused, becoming a sky-splitting arc of cyan steel that blazed upright like dawn piercing midnight.
Nine serpent heads lunged, some spewing corrosive hellfire, others looping in constricting knots or howling with mind-shattering shrieks.
The sword aura answered as a silver river from the stars, splitting into rain-sharp shards, then re-gathering into a single needle that sought the beast’s every hidden joint. With each collision, the land quaked as though planets had collided, shockwaves shredding the clouds before they could even thunder.
The ground buckled, splintered, then melted to magma under the pressure of huge forces colliding.
What raged between the two masters was no longer mere swordplay or sorcery. It was doctrine hammering doctrine, law smashing against law.
Every roar from the nine-headed serpent dragged rivers of gloom from the underworld; space warped, soil boiled, and whole ridges liquefied to lava.
The monster was not simple energy. It carried within each scaled plate the wrath of countless sacrificed souls, resentment congealed into armor.
Any ordinary Heavenly Immortal cultivator who drifted too near risked instant madness under that tidal malice.
Linden’s sword aura answered with purifying radiance. It rose like a midsummer sun, every ray scorching corruption to ash.
He was in full concentration, merging with his sword as one. Each slash, thrust, and parry distilled the deepest secrets of the Mystic Sky Sword Manual—ancient, austere figures that, at the final instant, always found the serpent’s solitary weak scale and stabbed truth through deceit.
“Sheldon Soulsby! Your reign of butchery ends today!” Linden’s voice rang like struck steel, echoing over the war-torn plain.
The cyan sword aura suddenly tightened, shrinking from a ten-thousand-foot tidal wave into a single hundred-foot ray, so condensed its glow folded inward, darkening to deep jade. That razor of focused light flashed, almost teleporting, straight for the largest of the serpent’s nine slavering heads.
“Linden Cloudridge, do not be arrogant! You think you can judge me?!” Sheldon roared, every syllable rumbling like thunder through the smoky sky.
Even as the words left his lips, the center head of his nine-headed serpent split wide.
A jet of demonic essence, compressed into a nearly pitch-black spear of light, burst forth and lunged straight toward the jade-green sword arc racing down from above.
The collision detonated with a world-tearing boom, an impact so deafening it seemed to rip the heavens open. This single clash dwarfed every exchange that had come before.
Bright light swallowed the battlefield. A circular shockwave billowed outward, flinging sword sect and demon sect disciples alike into the air like dolls tossed by a cyclone.
Those caught closest simply vanished, ground to dust inside the rolling storm of energy.
High above, even Jared felt the sturdy spatial barrier around him quiver as though the sky itself were a wobbling mirror.
When the radiance finally drained away, more than half of the nine-headed serpent’s phantom had faded, and two of its smaller skulls dissolved into drifting smoke.
Sheldon’s body was death-pale. Black blood stained one corner of his mouth, and the aura around him sputtered like a candle struggling in the wind.
Across the void, the turquoise sword-rainbow shattered. Linden, now visible, clutched his blade as his arm trembled.
Hairline cracks spider-webbed the ancient sword’s surface, and the fabric over his chest hung in tatters, revealing an inner vest whose glow had nearly gone out. Gold blood traced the edge of his lips, each breath jagged and shallow.
The two masters hovered in silence, eyes locked—exhaustion, gravity, and a flicker of unmasked dread mirrored in both gazes.
