The nine swords drain the nine martial leaders dry.
Their bodies shrivel in moments, spirit and vitality ripped away until nothing remains but husks, and then even those collapse into dust. As the swords complete their harvest, a violent shockwave erupts outward, space itself buckling under the release.
Kaelan lifts one hand.
A translucent barrier forms instantly, vast and seamless, and the shockwave slams into it and disperses harmlessly. Without hesitation, Kaelan strikes forward, Etheric mana surging like a tide, smashing into the barrier that still encloses the swords.
The sky darkens.
A tribulation cloud forms above, thick with thunder and law. Issac and Nyra attack at the same time, divine light and twilight authority crashing down together, yet the barrier only trembles, refusing to break.
Thunder descends.
Tribulation lightning hammers the barrier again and again, but it holds.
Below, the nine swords begin to sink.
Slowly. Inevitably.
In Kaelan's soul vision, the truth reveals itself. The swords are not merely descending—they are anchoring. Each blade is bound by an unseen chain that stretches upward, piercing the sky, the Inner Void, and extending beyond the world itself.
Kaelan's eyes narrow.
Though he has advanced to the fourth stage with the aid of his true blood, the void beyond the world remains hidden even from him. Yet he does not need to see the other end of those chains.
He knows where they lead.
The Sword Immortal World.
Understanding strikes him with brutal clarity. This was the purpose all along. The Sword Immortal did not send the nine swords merely to observe or to test. They were seeds—anchors meant to bind this world, to lock it onto the trajectory of invasion.
Now, somewhere beyond the void, the Sword Immortal World has begun its hunt.
The attacks do not stop.
Kaelan, Issac, and Nyra strike again and again, pouring power into the barrier, forcing the laws of the world itself to resist. The barrier shudders, cracks flicker across its surface, but it does not collapse. The swords continue to descend, half-buried now, their chains pulling relentlessly.
Then—
A second sun rises in the morning sky.
Its light spills across the world, strange and unfamiliar, but none of the three spare it a glance. Their focus remains locked on the sinking swords.
Still, they attack.
Still, they fail.
The swords vanish beneath the ground, driving deeper, toward the very core of the world. The barrier finally dissolves—not broken, but rendered meaningless as its purpose slips beyond reach.
At that moment, Isla arrives.
Her presence bends the air, a full fourth-stage aura unfolding as she joins them without a word. She casts Kaelan a sharp look.
Together, the four pour their power downward, attempting to sever the chains, to tear the anchors free.
It is not enough.
The swords reach the world's origin.
Silence follows.
Without exchanging words, they move.
They erupt from the ground, streak upward through shattered air, pierce the clouds, pass the sky islands, and enter the Inner Void. They continue onward until they reach the very edge of the world itself.
There, they stop.
They cannot see the other end of the chains—but they can feel it.
The world is moving.
Slowly, inexorably, it is being drawn along the chains, dragged toward something vast and predatory beyond the void.
Grim expressions settle across their faces.
For Issac and Nyra, it is the weight of the unknown.
For Kaelan, it is something sharper.
Regret.
For the second time in his life, excessive caution—fear of death, fear of overstepping—has cost him everything that mattered. And both times, the shadow behind that failure bears the same name.
"The Sword Immortal."
Nyra breaks the silence first. "What lies at the other end of those chains?"
Issac frowns. "It could be anything."
"Perhaps a world like ours," Isla says calmly.
Issac's expression darkens. "Then our world is being invaded?"
Nyra exhales slowly. "Issac, do you remember? Several decades ago, the world screamed—twice, separated by years. After the second scream, these swords appeared not long after."
Kaelan's gaze remains fixed on the invisible chains stretching into the void. "Then there is no doubt," he says evenly. "Our world is already under invasion."
A heavy silence follows.
Nyra finally asks, "What should we do?"
Isla answers without hesitation. "Prepare. Strengthen ourselves. Strengthen the world."
She then adds, her tone sharpening, "Do not look so grim. This is not only a calamity—it is also an opportunity."
They exchange glances, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Plans are not finalised, but directions are set. Soon after, they part ways.
Isla returns to her newly formed divine kingdom, her aura already beginning to reshape its laws. Nyra and Issac ascend back to their sky island, their thoughts focused on refining the Divine Pool and accelerating their path toward true godhood.
Kaelan descends alone.
He returns to the vast crater left behind by Nyxarin's self-destruction. The snow around it is scorched and fractured, the ground warped by divine force. The surviving third-stage cultivators remain scattered across the battlefield—some sitting, some lying where they fell.
Declan moves among them, quietly handing out healing medicines.
When they notice Kaelan, those still conscious struggle to rise.
Kaelan lifts a hand.
Soft light spills outward, his mana transforming into pure healing radiance. It washes over the battlefield, knitting flesh, restoring vitality, stabilising spirits. In moments, pain fades, and exhaustion recedes.
"Return to your respective territories and recuperate," Kaelan says. "What happened today will be discussed later."
Relief passes through the group.
Kaelan then bends, lifting Ariel effortlessly, and gathers Declan close. Minyu lies unconscious nearby, his brow tightly furrowed, his expression strained as if locked in a silent struggle. Kaelan picks him up as well.
They depart.
Moments later, they arrive withinthe Tang Kingdom. As Kaelan steps into the palace, Li Xueyao, Yuelan, and An Qiumei appear almost at once, drawn by his presence.
After explaining to them.
Soon after, Kaelan leaves again, returning to the wizard tower at the centre of the Seven Elemental Lake.
Inside the quiet chamber, he lays Minyu carefully on the bed.
From his spirit space, Kaelan takes out the black crystal.
He studies it, probing gently with his soul.
"A fragment of a godhead," he murmurs.
His expression hardens.
Kaelan places a hand on Minyu's chest, and his consciousness pours forward—slipping past flesh, passing spirit, and entering Minyu's spirit space directly.
Inside, the space is in turmoil.
Minyu is locked in a struggle with Nyxarin, the two wills colliding again and again, tearing at the fabric of the spirit space itself. The moment Kaelan arrives, both freeze.
Minyu turns toward him, relief flashing across his face.
"Lord Kong, you're here. Please—help me take Nyxarin down. He's trying to seize my body."
Nyxarin says nothing, only watching Kaelan with a measured, unreadable gaze.
Kaelan inhales slowly.
Then his hand moves.
An enormous etheric hand manifests, not reaching for Nyxarin—but closing around Minyu.
Before Minyu can even react, Kaelan rips him free.
Minyu's consciousness is torn from his own spirit space, dragged out by force, and severed cleanly from the body. The spirit space collapses inward as Kaelan withdraws, carrying Minyu's consciousness with him.
Nyxarin remains behind.
Kaelan never intended to strike Nyxarin.
He needs Nyxarin.
Minyu, however, is expendable.
More than that, Kaelan has already sensed the truth. Minyu is not of this world. Not like the others. Not like Ariel. Not like even Nyxarin.
Holding Minyu's struggling consciousness in his grasp, Kaelan does not hesitate. His will descends, cold and absolute, and begins to read.
Memories unfold.
A different sky.
A different world.
The Heavenly Spirit World.
A civilisation of gods and cultivators, radiant and ancient—until the Crimson Empire descended. Endless red banners. Warships blotting out the heavens. Gods falling one after another.
Minyu's true name surfaces.
Galen.
A god of that world was struck down during the invasion. At the moment of death, a fragment of his godhead tore free, crossing the void, falling blindly into this world.
Picked by Nyxarin later.
Kaelan closes his eyes.
The struggle ends.
When he opens them again, Minyu's consciousness is gone—erased, dispersed, leaving nothing behind. The body on the bed lies still, empty, alive but hollow.
Kaelan turns.
Nyxarin now sits calmly within the reconstructed spirit space, his posture relaxed, his eyes sharp.
"What do you want from me?" Nyxarin asks.
Kaelan smiles.
"I want to give you an opportunity," he says evenly.
"An opportunity to become a god."
Nyxarin's pupils contract, just slightly.
At the same moment—far across the void, in another world Kaelan once invaded—the story of his second clone accelerates toward its own turning point.
Olden City breathes steam.
It coils above rooftops and chimneys, a perpetual fog born from boilers, pistons, and pressure valves, hanging low like a second sky that never clears. Gears grind somewhere beyond sight, whistles shriek in the distance, and the city moves with the heavy rhythm of iron and heat.
In a narrow alleyway, the steam thins.
Lantern light spills across wet cobblestone, revealing a body sprawled at an unnatural angle. Naked. Pale. Female. Stitch marks crawl across her skin—arms, legs, torso—each thread blackened, uneven, and brutally functional, as if the body were never meant to be beautiful, only assembled.
Two detectives stand over her in silence.
One crouches, gloved fingers hovering above the seams without touching, eyes tracing the pattern with mounting dread. The other keeps his notebook open but forgets to write, his jaw clenched as he stares at the familiar work.
The same stitches.
The same precision.
The same cruelty.
Outside the alley, patrolmen form a barrier, batons crossed, voices sharp as they force the crowd back. Steam rolls around their boots as citizens gather behind the line, craning their necks, whispering in alarm.
"It's her again."
"No—another one."
"Third time this month…"
Fear ripples through the crowd faster than the fog. Mothers pull children close. Factory workers glance over their shoulders. The name no one wants to say hovers on every tongue.
Three murders.
Same markings.
Same city.
Olden City exhales, and the steam carries dread through its streets.