Wilson and his subordinates surged forward, riding their swords like arrows released from a divine bow.
Wind screamed past them as the land below blurred into streaks of color.
They were fast.
Too fast for ordinary cultivators to track.
The battlefield was close.
Then—
The air ahead twisted.
Black shadows emerged from the clouds, blocking their path.
"Stop."
A cold voice echoed.
Figures clad in dark robes stepped forward, their auras oppressive and sharp. Sinister spiritual energy rolled off them like smoke.
Black Cloak members.
Wilson's eyes narrowed.
Five of them stood at the Fifth Realm.
Three more—
at the Sixth Realm.
"They're intercepting us," one subordinate shouted.
Before anyone could react—
SHIIING!
Blades were drawn.
One of the attackers stepped forward, his sword radiating brutal force. Spiritual energy surged violently as he swung without hesitation.
A massive sword slash tore through the sky.
Wilson shifted slightly.
Just slightly.
The slash grazed past him—
But behind him—
Blood sprayed.
Two subordinates were struck midair, their sword lights shattering as they were sent flying.
"Formation!" someone cried.
Too late.
The enemy pressed forward, killing intent flooding the sky.
Then—
Something passed through them.
So fast that even the Sixth Realm
cultivators failed to react.
No sound.
No warning.
Just a cold streak of intent.
A heartbeat later—
Several Black Cloak members froze.
Their eyes widened.
Blood blossomed from their chests.
Thud.
Thud.
Bodies fell from the sky.
Dead.
Only then did the sound arrive—
TWANG.
Wilson's bowstring vibrated.
His black bow hummed softly, as if dissatisfied.
An arrow of condensed spiritual energy had already vanished into the distance.
"You talk too much," Wilson said coldly.
The remaining enemies panicked.
"An archer—!"
Before the words finished—
Another flash.
Another twang.
A Fifth Realm cultivator was pierced straight through the heart, his blade slipping from numb fingers as he fell.
The sky turned silent.
Wilson did not slow down.
He shot again.
And again.
Each arrow was invisible.
Each shot was fatal.
Rain of death fell from the sky.
The surviving subordinates stared in awe, fear, and reverence.
This—
This was why he was called Wilson the Great Archer.
"Do not stop," Wilson commanded calmly.
"We're late already."
They surged forward once more, leaving corpses and drifting blood behind them.
Far away, at the battlefield—
Sword light clashed with mad crimson blades.
And Wilson's arrows were already on their way
At the border battlefield—
Blood soaked the ground.
Broken weapons lay scattered like fallen leaves, and the air was heavy with killing intent. At the center of the ruined field stood an old man, his breathing steady but strained.
Leo's grandfather.
His robe was torn, stained red, yet his back remained straight.
Before him stood two figures wrapped in sinister red spiritual energy—
Mad Blade Cultivators, both at the Seventh Realm.
Their eyes burned with madness.
Behind the old man, his army still stood.
Wounded. Exhausted.
But intact.
He glanced over his shoulder once.
They're still alive… he thought.
Then he looked forward again.
Surrounded.
Cut off.
No retreat.
The old man exhaled slowly.
"So this is how it ends," he murmured.
His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.
Light gathered.
He stepped forward and drew the blade fully from its sheath.
SHIIING—
The battlefield fell unnaturally silent.
He raised the sword and slowly traced a circle in the air.
Runes of pale silver light followed the blade's path, forming an ancient formation.
"Moonlight Sword Style…"
The two mad blade cultivators froze.
Their instincts screamed.
Danger.
Death.
"…Third Form," the old man continued calmly.
The light intensified.
"Annihilation."
The world seemed to pause.
Moonlight poured down from nowhere, flooding the battlefield in cold brilliance.
The two mad blade cultivators were locked in place, their bodies stiff as if bound by invisible chains.
They felt it.
The overwhelming power of the sword.
But retreat was impossible.
With furious roars, they raised their blades and formed defensive stances, crimson energy surging wildly.
Too late.
They had underestimated the slash.
The sword fell.
A crescent of moonlight tore through
the battlefield.
The earth split.
The sky screamed.
One mad blade cultivator was cleaved apart instantly, his body erased beneath the radiant slash.
The other was struck head-on, his chest shattered, his body sent crashing into the ground—
half-dead, barely clinging to life.
Silence followed.
The moonlight faded.
The old man stood motionless.
Then—
His sword slipped from his hand.
Clang.
His knees buckled.
The spiritual energy within him was gone.
Completely exhausted.
He had used everything.
As his vision dimmed, he lifted his head slightly.
"…Wilson," he whispered.
Far away, arrows screamed through the sky.
And fate rushed closer.