The pressure of a 55th-rank soul master was no small matter. Shen An let out a muffled grunt as three soul rings materialized around him. The Nine-Leaf Sword Grass appeared, resonating with him as an unparalleled sharp sword intent shot into the sky.
At this level, Meng Shenji couldn't precisely control the pressure to target Shen An alone—even Ning Rongrong beside him was affected.
Ning Rongrong's face paled, and she quickly retreated to the side. If she stayed near Shen An any longer, she'd collapse before he did—after all, she was just a weak support-type soul master.
The combined pressure from Meng Shenji's soul power and Shen An's razor-sharp sword intent caused the ground around them to crack faintly, while dust hung suspended in the air as if frozen.
Yet, the most astonishing sight was Jerry. With earplugs in and eyes covered, it remained completely oblivious to the chaos outside. The pressure that could crush a hundred-year soul beast had no effect on it whatsoever.
Xue Beng, meanwhile, was utterly terrified. His face was ashen, and he kept muttering, "It's over... it's over... we're doomed."
Fifty levels of soul power pressure—what did that even mean? And those soul rings—one yellow, two purple—what kind of monster was this? Xue Beng knew he had messed with someone far beyond his league.
Meng Shenji no longer wanted to continue. At this level of pressure, even a Soul Emperor would kneel. If he pushed further and Shen An died, how would he face the Seven Treasures Glazed Tile Clan?
But Shen An sensed the pressure weakening, and the urge to break through only grew stronger. He knew he needed an external stimulus to push him further.
With a slightly twisted expression, he sneered, "Elder Meng, don't tell me this is all a Soul Douluo can muster? How disappointing!"
*Hmph!*
The pressure surged again—55, 58, 59...
Shen An felt as though he were submerged in deep-sea pressure, his bones on the verge of shattering, his breath stolen from his lungs.
Just as he was about to collapse, the Nine-Leaf Sword Grass seemed provoked—its blade erupted with a blinding cyan light, breaking free from Shen An's grip to stand beside him, its sword hum resonating endlessly.
Shen An's eyes also turned a deep cyan, mirroring the sword's radiance. In that moment, his will and the Nine-Leaf Sword Grass merged as one.
A sudden realization struck him.
The Nine-Leaf Sword Grass had once been nothing more than a humble blade of grass. It was only after the system bestowed it with the nature of a sword that it gained its unparalleled sharpness.
He had always assumed that this "sword nature" had merely granted it an indestructible blade. But he had overlooked one crucial detail—why, despite his limited swordsmanship experience, had he been able to wield such an extreme sword intent from the very beginning?
Now, under Meng Shenji's pressure, fused with the sword's will, he finally understood.
What truly made the Nine-Leaf Sword Grass a peak-tier martial soul wasn't its unbreakable blade—but the limitless sword intent it contained, capable of severing stars and moons.
The sword intent of a single blade of grass flooded Shen An's mind.
In that intangible moment, he seemed to see it—a lone blade of grass, rooted in the earth, yet slashing toward the cosmos.
This sword, born from insignificance, held the ambition to swallow heaven and earth.
This sword regarded itself as the absolute peak—what were stars and moons in comparison?
A surge of pride welled in Shen An's heart.
Before a Soul Douluo, wasn't he just like that blade of grass?
But one must remember—
A single blade of grass can cut down the stars!
At this moment, Shen An comprehended the Sword Intent of a Blade of Grass.
Though insignificant, it could still ascend to the pinnacle of the sword path.
Under pressure that had now surpassed the 60th rank, Shen An stood tall—his spine like unyielding steel, refusing to bend even slightly.
His lips parted slightly.
"Sever."
Extreme sword intent erupted from his body and the Nine-Leaf Sword Grass, their cyan light illuminating the surroundings.
In that instant—
Sword intent clashed against pressure!
A storm of blade energy shredded Meng Shenji's soul power pressure to nothingness.
'Not good—I can't dodge in time!'
Meng Shenji's expression changed drastically. This sword intent was actually targeting him—his pressure had been completely nullified, and in his haste, he hadn't even had time to mobilize his soul power properly.
He had never imagined that a Soul Elder could possess sword intent, much less that this sword intent could be so tangible it could inflict real damage.
The invisible sword intent enveloped him.
His ornate robes were shredded into tatters, his exposed skin lacerated with countless cuts—blood seeped out, leaving him in a pitiful state.
Even Jerry's beach chair and coconut couldn't withstand the sword intent—its sunglasses and earplugs shattered.
Blinking, it looked around in confusion. What happened? Why are there a few old men here... and that guy Tom blew up?
Meng Shenji's face was grim.
He, a Soul Douluo, had been wounded by a Soul Elder!
If he hadn't hastily reinforced his defenses with soul power, the damage would have been far worse.
Yet, instead of fury, all he felt was shock and regret.
For a Soul Elder to injure a Soul Douluo—what kind of monstrous talent was this?
Even if he hadn't been guarding intentionally, Shen An had still broken through 60 levels of pressure to unleash that sword intent and wound him.
Meng Shenji's heart was filled with remorse.
Why did I side with Shrek Academy and provoke Shen An that day?
No—I must find a way to reconcile. Ideally, I should try to recruit him for our Heaven Dou Royal Academy.
As for the idea of "eradicating the root of the problem"—Meng Shenji didn't even consider it.
Not only was he an honorable man by nature, but the mere presence of Ning Rongrong ensured he wouldn't dare entertain such thoughts.
Shen An's eyelids twitched as he took in Meng Shenji's bloodied state.
He quickly said, "Elder Meng, let's consider this matter settled. As we agreed earlier—you owe me a favor, and I'll overlook Xue Beng's actions."
Meng Shenji silently glanced at his own wounds before responding with a complicated tone, "Very well. My apologies for today's events. As one indebted to the royal family, I had to preserve their dignity."
"I keep my word. I owe you a favor—within reason, you may make one request of me."
His tone carried a hint of submission.
Meng Shenji had no doubt that Shen An would one day become a Titled Douluo—and when he did, he would undoubtedly stand among the very best.
He had no desire to make such an enemy for the royal family.
Bai Baoshan and Zhi Lin were equally stunned.
They had thought Tang San was a once-in-a-generation genius, but the young man before them surpassed him by an immeasurable margin.
Shen An was only a Soul Elder, yet he had comprehended a sword intent they couldn't even fathom—one that had wounded Meng Shenji!
Even if it was only a superficial injury, it proved just how extraordinary this sword intent was.
Now, the three of them finally understood why Xue Qinghe held Shen An in such high regard.
"And Xue Beng—you must take responsibility for your actions. Apologize to Shen An!" Meng Shenji barked, his gaze icy as he stared at the prince.
Xue Beng, still in shock at the sight of Meng Shenji's injuries, trembled as he stepped forward.
His voice quivered with remorse. "Shen An... I-I'm sorry. I shouldn't have provoked you. It was my fault... please forgive me."
Shen An gave him a dismissive glance. "Get lost. I don't have time to waste on you."
Xue Beng's face alternated between green and pale.
A crown prince, personally apologizing—only to be brushed off like trash.
In the end, Meng Shenji and the other two left with heavy hearts, dragging the despondent Xue Beng along.
The sky had darkened.
When Shen An arrived, the sun had been high—now, the sunset painted the horizon.
As the door creaked open, the first to step out was a certain dapper cat—Tom.
Tom pushed the door open, stood upright, and closed its eyes with an air of sophistication.
One paw rested behind its back while the other traced an elegant arc in the air, bowing gracefully.
A perfect demonstration of gentlemanly door-opening etiquette.
—"Your Highness, after you."