At that same moment, far away in the Myriad Sword Mountains, the headquarters of the Mystic Sky Sword Sect braced for catastrophe.
The once serene peaks, where sword energy danced among white cranes, were gone. In their place boiled devil clouds that blotted the sun, each surge spawning phantom beasts that clawed at the sky.
Shouts, explosions, clashing steel, and the tortured hum of an overworked defense formation merged into a brutal symphony that shook the entire range.
As it turned out, the Infinite Soul Demon Sect had joined hands with the Melded Beastkin Sacred Sect, hurling their full strength into a surprise assault on the Mystic Sky Sword Sect.
It was, without a doubt, an all-out attack!
At the vanguard floated Sheldon Soulsby, leader of the Demon Sect. Finger-shaped bruises still branded his cheek, and his aura had dimmed, yet hatred burned within him hotter than magma.
Behind him marched a disciplined legion: dozens of Heavenly Immortal Realm Level Five elders, hundreds of powerful enforcers, and tens of thousands of low-level Demon Sect disciples, each slotting into a precise demonic battle formation.
From their banners and bone cauldrons poured wailing spirits, weaving a ghostly domain several kilometers wide. The howls gnawed at the Sword Sect’s defense formation, corroding light and stone alike.
More terrifying still, a second figure hovered at Sheldon’s side.
A billowing black cloak hid his form; only twin eyes of green fire burned within the hood. The pressure he released easily surpassed Sheldon’s by a hair, especially since his cultivation was at Top Level Heavenly Immortal Realm Level Seven.
The man was none other than Mordain Frostgrave, the reclusive elder of the Infinite Soul Demon Sect.
Clearly, the Demon Sect had emptied its deepest vaults to wipe out the Mystic Sky Sword Sect once and for all.
Meanwhile, the Myriad Beast Sect forces were commanded by Garth Thornscale, and their power was just as terrifying.
Thousands of Melded Beastkin warriors, fused with claws, horns, and scales, charged the front, roaring as they met sword energy and various arrays head-on.
Many fought with drug-bright eyes, their veins swollen by Frenzied Blood Pills that traded sanity for murderous strength.
Garth himself towered fifteen feet high, draped in dark-red scales. His black-flamed war axe hacked at a vital node of the array, each blow shaking valleys.
Several Melded Beastkin leaders, their bodies likewise augmented by demonic rituals, flanked him like living siege engines.
Within the Mystic Sky Sword Sect, only the age-old Big Dipper Demon-Suppressing Array kept disaster at bay.
Seven sword peaks, aligned with the northern constellation, blazed to life and braided colossal beams into a shield that spanned miles. Countless micro-blades darted across the shield’s surface, carving through encroaching demonic aura and spectral beasts in a ceaseless silver tide.
Every disciple and elder inside the sect had already taken to their stations, pouring life and spirit into the embattled array.
Linden Cloudridge stood upon the highest ledge of the mountain gate, his face bloodless, a fresh ribbon of crimson trembling at the corner of his mouth.
Old wounds throbbed beneath newer gashes, yet his spine refused to bow. In both hands, he raised the Sect Leader’s weapon, the Mystic Sky Sword, its dusk-blue edge alive with silent thunder. He poured strand after strand of refined sword essence into the array’s spinning heart, guiding it as though storm and stone answered only to him.
Across the surrounding sword peaks, the elders worked their stations, some anchoring array nodes atop their respective peaks, others leading disciples into whirling sword arrays that blocked every breach the enemy punched through.
Sword light fell like silver rain, lancing, weaving, exploding in sheets that turned night into a colorless dawn. Regardless, the disciples of the Mystic Sky Sword Sect fought with uncanny unity.
Three, sometimes five blades formed a miniature array, each group holding against Melded Beastkin brutes or Demon Sect zealots that outnumbered them three-to-one.
Alas, there were simply too many foes.
Demonic aura gnawed at the barriers, while Melded Beastkin muscle hammered gaps wider, piling pressure on every summit.
Under the bombardment, the grand array’s light-screen shuddered and dimmed, issuing a teeth-grinding creak with each strike.
Alarms flared from every foundation stone. Repair teams sprinted along collapsing catwalks, patching one breach only to hear the next siren wail in the distance.
“Mr. Cloudridge, Heavenly Axis Peak has lost over one-third integrity; Elder Wesson is gravely wounded!”
“Demonic forces mass outside Shimmering Light Peak. Elder Leedle requests immediate reinforcement!”
“Melded Beastkin members have pierced the sword-energy barrier at Southeastern Point and are inside the outer quarters; Mr. Cuspert is holding them back with a handful of people!”
Bad news came like sleet—sharp, endless, numbing.
Mystic Sky Sword Sect’s members were fierce, but they were exhausted. Days of battle without real rest had bled color from their faces and strength from their wrists.
By contrast, the Demon Sect and the Melded Beastkin Sacred Sect had arrived fresh, reserves stacked in waves that crashed harder each time.
