The sheer, staggering scale of the power the sword had casually dumped into Lordi finally made a terrifying kind of sense.
This wasn't just any spirit energy; this was the refined, liquified Foundation Stage power of a cultivator who had transcended the Qi Refinement stage entirely, a realm of power he could barely comprehend, let alone hope to contain in his current body.
It turned out the Sword of Red Run wasn't just convinced; it was utterly devoted. This wasn't a mere trickle of power; it was a king's ransom, the complete strand of its own Foundation stage realm strength, gifted with the reckless, loving generosity of a true believer. The damn thing really, truly thought he was Krogh Hanz, and in its simplistic, murderous worldview, its master's "regression" after his failed Cosmic Path ascension was just a temporary setback to be solved by pouring an ocean of power into a teacup.
But then, the AllFullOS system did what it did best: it treated the impossible as a simple processing task. As it began to systematically refine the cataclysmic Foundation Stage Spirit Essence, Lordi felt the searing, destructive flood morph into a controlled, torrential river of pure, attainable power. The sensation was utterly euphoric. His cultivation strength didn't just increase; it surged, it skyrocketed, exploding from the just-entry of the Seventh Layer Qi Refinement Stage all the way to the layer's absolute peak. Power coursed through his newly tempered meridians not like a trickle, but like a tidal wave, a feeling of profound, invincible strength that was so intense it almost made the whole near-death experience worth it.
Just as the tide of power from the system's refinement was cresting, flooding Lordi's senses with the pleasure of his cultivation strength rocketing to the peak of the Seventh Layer. A tremor in the earth, faint and dismissible at first, quickly escalated into a distinct, rhythmic pounding that grew with horrifying, predatory rapidity. It was the violent, seismic vibrato of someone moving with extreme, unhinged speed, each footfall cracking the serene peace of the cherry blossom grove like a hammer shattering stone. Then came the voice, a teasing, seductive melody that tore through the cultivated stillness and iced the blood in his veins despite the newfound power surging within him.
"There!"
"You!"
"Are!"
The sweet voice sang out, each word a separate, honeyed note that slithered into his ears. It was a seductive caress that somehow held the absolute chill of the grave. Hearing that voice, Lordi's mind slammed back into his skull like a frantic bird beating itself against the bars of its cage. Pure, undiluted panic, cold and sharp, flooded his gut, a stark contrast to the warm surge of spirit energy.
What the actual fuck! It's her!
His internal monologue was a scream of sheer, pants-shitting terror.
Shirley Quinn.
And then the beauty emerged, a stunning, nightmare figure materializing from the deepest shadows between the cherry trees. Her attire was a whisper of midnight gauze, a scandalous, almost insulting wisp of fabric that clung to every devastating curve and hid precisely nothing of consequence. It was less clothing and more a provocative suggestion, a deliberate frame for the sexy masterpiece of her body. And at the center of that allure were her breasts, full and heavy and stunningly bare but for a few artful strands of the dark fabric. They swayed and shuddered with each powerful, graceful step she took, a hypnotic rhythm of flesh that was both profoundly alluring and utterly, mind-bendingly terrifying in its violent incongruity. Her skin was a mesmerizing moon-pale, a stark canvas for the cascade of raven-black hair that streamed behind her like a banner of night as she closed the distance with a speed that was anything but human.
In this moment, Lordi had no fucking clue how Shirley had managed it, but she had clearly and temporarily suppressed Cade Barret's soul with some unknown, horrifying method. Although the left side of her face still bore the rough, brutal marks of their last encounter, her voice was no longer the chaotic alternation between male and female; it had coalesced into a single, chillingly recovered tone that was all her own—deeply charming, impossibly seductive, and sweet as wine.
The killing intent radiating from her was a physical wave, a suffocating perfume of rose petals and rot that was sharp enough to taste, metallic and cold on his suddenly paralyzed tongue. It clashed violently with the blatant, aggressive sexuality of her form, a dissonance so profound it threatened to shatter his reasoning mind. Every base instinct he possessed screamed at him to flee, to fight, to do anything—but his body, held in the system's cultivation override, remained a stone anchor, utterly refusing the commands of his terror-stricken soul.
The devastating beauty threw her head back and laughed, a sound of crystalline madness that danced through the grove, perverting the serene setting. Her beautiful, insane eyes locked onto his, and in their depths, he saw a bottomless, ravenous hunger. It was the look of something that had been starving for an eternity and had finally, finally spotted its next meal.
"My precious little rabbit," she sang, her voice a lullaby from a nightmare. "Have you been waiting just for me?" She took another step, the jasmine and grave-soil scent of her washing over him.
In one fluid, terrifying motion, she raised her hand. Her fingers were long and elegantly cruel, tipped with nails sharpened to glistening, razor points that caught the dappled moonlight. A faint, violet energy, corrupt and shimmering with pure malice, began to coalesce around her fingertips, humming with the unmistakable power to unmake him utterly.
"Don't look so frightened, my love," she purred, now only a dozen paces away and closing fast. "I've searched for so very long for you…... my naughty, naughty Lordi Payne…"
Oh! FUCK! SHIT! DAMN!
The word was a triple-shot of pure, undiluted dread that exploded in Lordi's mind, a silent scream that echoed the sheer, pants-shitting terror seizing his entire being. Shirley hadn't just found him; she had spoke his true name. The game was up. It was over. He was a dead man, paralyzed and waiting for the finishing blow.
Then, there was a flicker.
A single, instantaneous pulse of crimson light, so impossibly fast it was less a sight and more a searing scar upon his vision. It appeared in the space between him and his hunter—a perfect, vertical line of pure, visceral red that screamed of absolute cutting intent—and then it was gone, vanished as if it had never been.
In that same incomprehensible, infinitesimal fraction of a second, he felt a new presence materialize at his side. It wasn't a warmth, but a profound absence of temperature, a void that pulled at the very air and light around it. The Sword of Red Run was there, hovering just beside his paralyzed form, its matte-crimson blade now gleaming with a terrible, freshly honed sheen, as if it had been meticulously oiled for this very purpose. It thrummed with a low, deeply satisfied hum, a sound that vibrated in Lordi's bones.
His eyes, wide with a terror that had not yet had time to even process the miraculous interruption, could only watch the scene unfold.
Shirley's devastating, full-tilt charge had frozen completely. She was a perfect statue of exquisite carnality captured in mid-motion, one foot forward, her body arched for the kill, her deadly hand still outstretched with its crackling violet energy. The seductive, predatory smirk was still etched onto her perfect face, but the light in her dark, mad eyes had shifted. The rampant insanity was gone, replaced in an instant by a blank, profound, and utterly final confusion.
Then, the suspended moment shattered.
Her form did not fall; it collapsed in a way that defied physics and sanity. It was a horrifying, geometric disintegration, as if an invisible, infinitely sharp grid had passed through her entire being in a microsecond.
Her body separated into a cascade of thumb-sized, perfectly cubed segments of pale flesh. They didn't slump; they simply lost all cohesion, toppling over one another in a silent, grisly cascade. It was like watching a statue of sand being struck by a silent, devastating wind.
The cubes pattered onto the mossy forest floor with a soft, meaty, utterly grotesque rain. The most shocking thing, the detail that seared itself into Lordi's brain with chilling, permanent clarity, was the utter and complete lack of blood. Not a single drop of crimson stained the vibrant green moss. Each tiny piece of flesh was desiccated, gray, and utterly drained of all vitality and moisture, as if it had been buried in a desert for a decade. The devil sword hadn't just killed her; it had consumed her entirely in that infinitesimal flash of contact, drinking every last drop of her essence, her Qi, her spirit, and her very lifeblood, leaving behind nothing but sterile, geometric leftovers.
"HOW DARE YOU DISTURB MY MASTER'S SACRED CULTIVATION?!" the Sword of Red Run roared into the suddenly silent grove, its voice a blast of raw fury that shook the cherry blossoms from the trees. It scanned the area with its palpable intent, sweeping over the pile of meat-cubes a few times, but finding no other meat sack presence, no "naughty Lordi Payne" it had just heard mentioned. "YOU DESERVED TO DIE TEN THOUSAND DEATHS! A SINGLE, SWIFT ENDING WAS A MERCY YOU DID NOT EARN!"
And just like that, its fury abated. Dismissive, the sword born simply assumed the words of the now-vanquished, half-souled "female meat-sack" were nothing but the incomprehensible ravings of a complete lunatic, utterly unworthy of any further concern or intellectual scrutiny. The name meant nothing; only the threat to its master's focus had mattered.
Thank abyss... Lordi's mind gasped, the relief so violent it was almost a separate pain. This magnificent, murderous idiot is also a complete mental retard! It only recognized the perceived threat and the alien sword intent, not the actual fucking name of any cultivator! Well, Lordi had, through no virtue of his own, stumbled through another cataclysmic peril.
It was in that moment of dizzying, unbelievable reprieve that a strange, fleeting pang of something almost like empathy for the mighty, poweful Krogh Hanz crossed Lordi's mind.
That poor bastard.
After all, they were both now members of a truly exclusive club: individuals whose lives constantly hung in the balance based on the staggering, brain-dead naivety of their most powerful companions. Well, at least Krogh only had to deal with a homicidally loyal sword. Lordi had to manage that and the reckless, spectacularly retarded GENEROUS FREE GIFTS of the AllFullOS system.