The gentle chorus of birdsong filled the tranquil forest. A soft breeze danced through the emerald canopy, carrying with it the fragrance of blooming wildflowers. Underneath the boundless blue sky, the land seemed untouched by time — serene, pure, and alive.
Beasts and animals roamed freely beneath the dappled sunlight. Rabbits foraged between the roots of ancient trees, and deer grazed by a crystal stream. It was a paradise so harmonious that it could only have been painted by the hands of gods.
Then—
Bzzt…! Bzzt…! Bzzt…!
A sudden surge of energy tore through the air. Blinding light and crackling thunder swallowed the peaceful forest whole. Startled birds scattered in all directions, and even the fiercest of beasts fled into the shadows.
At the heart of the disturbance, a glowing formation blazed into existence — intricate runes swirling in perfect symmetry. In the next instant, it flickered… and vanished without a trace.
Where the formation once stood, a figure now lay upon the grass.
She was breathtaking — as though a celestial being had fallen into the mortal world. Her robe shimmered in hues of soft sky-blue, her silvery hair cascading like moonlight over the earth. Even unconscious, her presence alone silenced the world around her.
A gentle frost aura rippled from her body, but unlike before, it carried a soothing warmth — a divine contradiction. Curious creatures approached her without fear: a small bird perched upon her hair, while a timid rabbit nestled against her lap.
Slowly, the woman stirred.
Her long lashes trembled as her silvery eyes fluttered open, reflecting the heavens above. She sat up weakly, rubbing her temple. Even the smallest of her gestures radiated elegance.
"Where… am I?" she whispered softly, her voice like a faint melody carried by the wind.
This woman — was Chu Yueli, the one who had escaped the collapsing vault of the Moon Empress.
Fragments of memory crashed back into her mind — the light, the chaos… and the face of him — the man who had pushed her into the formation so that she could live.
Her breath trembled. Her vision blurred. Then, tears began to fall.
Her fingers clenched the grass beneath her as quiet sobs shook her frame.
"What is the use of this strength of mine…"
"If I couldn't even be with you…"
Her voice broke.
Then — her eyes fell upon the blade lying beside her.
The sword's surface gleamed faintly, as if responding to her grief. She reached out with trembling hands, cradling it close.
"Tachikaze… Mihawk…" she murmured, her voice barely audible.
"I'll be sure… to take good care of it."
Her thumb brushed along the edge of the blade — Severing Wind, in her tongue — the weapon he had entrusted to her.
A warm frost aura pulsed outward, mingling with the forest's life. The once-cautious animals now gathered around her — birds, rabbits, even a small deer — as if drawn to the divine purity she emanated.
It reminded her of her sister — Little Fairy. In the past, her cold frost aura had repelled all life; now, she had finally achieved the same gentle warmth her sister once possessed.
Wiping away her tears, Chu Yueli rose gracefully to her feet. The sunlight caught her silvery hair, making it shimmer like liquid moonlight. She fastened the sword at her waist and gazed toward the distant horizon.
There was no hesitation in her heart — only resolve.
She took a deep breath and leapt into the sky. Her figure ascended, surrounded by a halo of serene frost that left trails of luminous mist in her wake. Wherever she passed, the air felt purified — touched by a lingering sense of peace and sorrow.
Her destination was clear.
Even if she was too late — even if it was only to confirm what her heart already knew — she had to go there.
Before she returned to her sect… before she sought her sister… she would find him.
And so, with her heart heavy yet unwavering, Chu Yueli soared across the heavens toward—
Gao Ling City.
===================
Beneath the Ancient Temple of the Moon Empress
The air beneath the temple was thick with tension. Dust and incense smoke drifted in the dim light, mingling with the heavy scent of anticipation.
Mo Jianfeng stood beside the teleportation formation, his face calm on the surface — but his hands, hidden within his sleeves, trembled slightly. Around him, attendants and elders waited in silence, their gazes fixed upon the dormant array.
Eight hours.
It had been eight long hours since the final ten entered the formation. Not a sound had emerged since.
Outside the temple, an ocean of spectators pressed against the guarded perimeter — disciples, warriors, sect masters, and mercenaries alike. The streets of Gao Ling City, once bustling with trade and song, were now choked with greed and fear. Everyone waited for the one who would emerge… and for the slaughter that would surely follow.
Rumors whispered through the crowd:
"They say only one will survive."
"The treasure of the Moon Empress… enough to change the fate of an empire."
"If that swordsman lives, no one can take it from him…"
Inside the temple, however, there was no whispering — only the low hum of tension.
The sect masters of the Blue Wind Empire stood shoulder to shoulder, their eyes glinting like daggers beneath the dim light. Powerful Sky Profound Realm experts flanked them, ready to strike at the slightest provocation. Not a single one trusted another.
Even the city lord could feel it — the storm of killing intent barely restrained by formality.
He sighed quietly. "So this is what our Empire has become," he thought bitterly. He had already prepared a route of escape; the moment the formation opened, he would flee with his household. No treasure was worth being crushed between wolves.
Across the city, disciples of every major sect had been dispatched to monitor suspicious movements. Orders were strict — no one was to enter or leave without permission.
One of the outer elders approached with a report.
"Are there any movements within the temple?"
A disciple bowed. "None, Elder. Our men are in the crowd, watching closely. But… we've noticed something strange."
The elder frowned. "Strange?"
"Yes. We've spotted individuals bearing the insignia of the Sacred Grounds."
"What?!" The elder's voice dropped, sharp and cold. "The Sacred Grounds? Here? Why would they lower themselves to meddle in a mere empire's tomb?"
The disciple nodded grimly. "Our sources suggest their disciples have been stationed here since the heavenly phenomenon appeared months ago. Once word of the treasure spread, more of them arrived… though they remain in the shadows. They wouldn't dare step openly into this matter — it would tarnish their reputation."
"Hmph." The elder spat to the side. "So they won't enter openly, but they'll steal from the shadows. Typical of those self-proclaimed divines. Keep your eyes on them. If that treasure falls into their hands, not even the Emperor himself could protect us."
Before the disciple could reply, the floor beneath them began to tremble.
BZZZT…!
A surge of ancient power rippled through the chamber. The formation — long silent — flared to life once more. Golden runes ignited, spiraling outward as if awakening from centuries of slumber.
The sect masters immediately stepped back, forming a loose ring around the array. Every eye was sharp, every weapon half-drawn.
The city lord's breath hitched. "It's starting…"
Then, from within the dazzling light, a silhouette began to form — tall, straight, and utterly calm amidst the storm of energy.
The radiance faded. The air grew still.
And when the light finally vanished… the chamber was filled with stunned silence.
A man stood at the center of the formation — black hat, crimson shirt, and a massive obsidian sword strapped across his back. His golden eyes glimmered faintly beneath the brim, sharp as hawk's talons.
Someone gasped.
Then, as if on cue —
"Dracule Mihawk?!"
The shout echoed through the hall.
Gasps and murmurs rippled like wildfire. Even the most composed of elders took a step back, their auras flaring in instinctive caution.
The man's gaze swept across the gathered crowd — sect masters, disciples, and opportunists alike — all frozen under the weight of his presence.
A faint, amused smirk curved his lips.
"So many scavengers," he murmured softly, voice cutting through the air like the edge of a blade.
"Waiting for corpses to rise, are you?"
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Dracule Mihawk — the Greatest Swordsman of the Empire — had returned from the vault of the Moon Empress.
Alive.
And surrounded by enemies.
The tension was palpable.
As the formation shimmered with fading light, a soft, familiar voice echoed in his mind.
"Wow… so many red signatures. Mercy might be out of the question seeing these people."
Jasmine's tone carried that familiar mix of mockery and sharp focus. Through her divine sight, she could see the crimson glow of killing intent radiating from the crowd. To her, the place looked like a sea of blood waiting to be spilled.
These weaklings really thought they could take what he held.
Yun Che — or rather, the man the world now knew as Dracule Mihawk — smirked faintly.
"Well, Jasmine… it's show time."
He stepped forward.
The formation behind him slowly dissolved, its light fragmenting into motes that drifted upward like dying fireflies. As the last shimmer vanished, a deep crack resounded through the temple.
The ancient statue of Huan Xuyi — the Moon Empress's eternal guardian — fractured from top to bottom, then crumbled to dust in an instant.
Yun Che glanced at the remains with a quiet understanding.
"So that's it… the legend ends here. Even in death, you sealed your trail well, Xuyi. No one will ever find what's buried beneath that vault again."
The formation had erased itself — a divine broom sweeping away the last trace of its maker.
When Yun Che finally turned his gaze back to the crowd, the silence was deafening. Every pair of eyes in the room was fixed on him — eyes filled with greed, fear, and disbelief.
Even after witnessing his power during the tournament, the hunger in their hearts was stronger than reason.
And hunger… always demanded blood.
A sect master stepped forward, his robes lined with golden embroidery and his aura flaring.
"Dracule Mihawk. As compensation for killing our elders in the tomb, hand over every treasure you gained!"
Weapons were drawn. Spiritual energy flared like wildfire. The air itself trembled.
Mihawk tilted his head, the faintest ghost of amusement tugging at his lips.
"Oh? Is it courage…" he said, his tone calm yet sharp as a blade,
"…or ignorance that compels you to raise your sword against me?"
"Hmph!" another elder barked. "You won't stand a chance once all the sects unite against you. Hand it over now!"
Mihawk exhaled softly, the sound almost disappointed.
"Pitiful weaklings. If you truly understood how powerless you are, you would already be running."
Then, his eyes shifted — the golden irises constricting as rotating tomoe bloomed within them, merging the cold clarity of a hawk with the divine precision of a Sharingan.
The temperature in the room plummeted.
Even the city lord's breath hitched.
To Mihawk, it didn't matter if there were ten, a hundred, or a thousand. Numbers were toys — a prelude to a massacre.
SHIINNG—!
The black blade, Yoru, slid from its sheath with a metallic sigh that made the air itself quiver.
Some of the disciples faltered, their legs trembling. Others braced themselves, clinging to the illusion of safety in numbers.
Then—
"Xiao Clan elders! Now!"
Yellow talismans flared across the floor, glowing with crude spiritual power. The Profound Suppressing Formation, a weak imitation of Huan Xuyi's work, activated instantly.
Mihawk's expression didn't even flicker.
"Pathetic."
================
[Ding…. Four Mark 1 Profound Suppressing Formations detected around the host.]
[Countermeasures deployed.]
[Effect reversal complete.]
================
The talismans darkened. Their light reversed direction — instead of sealing him, their power now pressed against their users.
A few of the elders gasped as their own energy was siphoned away, their knees buckling.
Mihawk pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing.
"You people are unbelievably stubborn."
One of the sect masters spat furiously.
"Give it up, Mihawk! The Xiao Clan's treasure suppresses all profound strength. Even you can't escape! Even if you kill us, there are more outside. You cannot win!"
Another joined in, emboldened by the chorus.
"Hand over your treasures and that cursed sword of yours. If you cripple yourself and kneel, perhaps we'll let you live!"
Mihawk's head tilted downward, his hat brim casting a dark shadow over his eyes. His voice came out low — calm, but with an edge that made the soul tremble.
"You bunch of weaklings…"
Then his pupils contracted— razor-thin, predatory.
WHOOMMM—!!!
A wave of unseen energy exploded outward. It was silent, colorless — yet devastating.
The impact hit like a divine hammer.
Elders and disciples alike dropped where they stood, eyes rolling white as their bodies slammed against the ground. Weapons shattered. The floor cracked beneath the pressure of invisible force.
Only a handful remained standing — the city lord, trembling in awe, and the sect masters, who struggled to remain upright as their auras wavered violently.
The temple had fallen utterly silent.
Dust floated in the air like snow, drifting through the shafts of dim light.
Mihawk stood unmoving, the black blade gleaming faintly in his hand — his golden eyes now glimmering with quiet, merciless resolve.
The massacre hadn't even begun… and yet the weak had already fallen.
Except for the city lord, Mo Jianfeng, the hall felt as if a mountain had dropped onto every chest. Even the Sky Profound Realm elders — men who could topple mountains in other tides of fate — trembled as though their bones had been hollowed out. Hands that had never known fear shook uncontrollably. They watched, helpless, as the swordsman's invisible onslaught rolled through the chamber and one by one the strongest among them crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
A murmur of panic—more felt than heard—rippled through the remaining sect masters. What sort of power is this? one thought echoed in a dozen minds. Whoever unleashed this… Another wondered aloud in the silence, furious and ashamed, whose idea was it to corner such a thing with numbers?
Mo Jianfeng's face had gone paper-white, but he stood upright, every muscle taut with dread. Around him, attendants and disciples lay like broken puppets. The sect masters, now devoid of swagger, found their voices swallowed by raw fear. They had come to claim a treasure and instead had provoked a god.
The swordsman moved among them with the casual menace of a storm. His boots made no sound on the flagstones; his presence bent the light. "Killing you won't even be worth my time," he said slowly, each word a blade. "You don't qualify as opponents. You dared to corner me for a trinket — and for that, you should be grateful I don't butcher you all."
Their reaction was instantaneous and abject. The sect masters dropped to their knees, foreheads slamming the floor in frantic obeisance. "Please… mercy…" they choked, the syllables wrung from ruined pride. The hall filled with the staccato of desperate pleas and the scratch of robes against stone.
He didn't bother to reply. A second, softer pulse of that strange, invisible force washed over the kneeling men; their cries turned to gurgled whimpers and then silence as they slumped, outcold. The city lord alone watched, too stunned or too prudent to join the groveling.
For a long beat he stood over the bodies, Yoru gleaming faintly on his back, the brim of his hat hiding the most dangerous things in his face. Then, with the same slow, merciless calm with which a reaper tucks his scythe away, he stored the black blade. He walked through the fallen — a lone figure moving across the wreckage of their arrogance — and stopped before the small circle of still-breathing leaders.
"Listen carefully," he said, voice low with ice. "If any of you or your sects raise a hand against me or anyone under my protection, I will hunt you down and erase you—one clan at a time." He let the words hang like a vow. "Live as you please for now. Make one mistake and I will return."
With that, he turned and left the temple, his steps calm, leaving a stunned silence and a warning worse than any blade. The halls still echoed with the aftermath of a power none of them had understood, and the city's arrogance lay in tatters on the cold stone.
When the dust settled, only one man still stood upright besides the fallen sect masters — City Lord Mo Jianfeng.
The city lord's face was pale but his posture firm, an old soldier standing before a storm. Yun Che — or rather, Dracule Mihawk — turned toward him, the subtle motion alone enough to make the old man flinch.
Then, to Jianfeng's surprise, Mihawk inclined his head slightly and clasped his hands in salute.
"City Lord Mo Jianfeng," he said calmly, his voice low but resonant,
"thank you for your hospitality. If fate wills it… we will meet again."
The gesture was unexpected, but sincere. Through his Eagle Vision, Yun Che had already seen the truth — everyone in the temple glowed crimson with malice and greed, except the old city lord. He had been the only one without intent to kill.
That alone earned him respect.
Yun Che turned away, stepping toward the open air. But as he passed the heart of the temple — the place where Huan Xuyi's statue and teleportation formation had once stood — his gaze lingered.
The formation had vanished, its legend erased along with the last traces of the Moon Empress's secret. Still, Yun Che felt an unease gnawing in his chest. If anyone else defiled this place… the Moon Empress's memory would be tarnished.
He gripped Yoru's hilt.
"This place deserves peace."
With a swift motion, he drew the massive black blade. The surrounding air trembled, bending under the sheer spiritual pressure gathering around him.
Mo Jianfeng's eyes widened.
"W–wait! What are you doing?!"
But Yun Che didn't answer. His focus sharpened to a single point. Green, shimmering energy spiraled around Yoru, condensing into a storm at his command.
He raised the sword — and brought it down in a single, fluid motion.
BOOM!!!
A surge of emerald light erupted outward. The temple vanished in an instant — stone, steel, and ancient carvings swallowed by the explosion of energy. The ground quaked as shockwaves rolled through Gao Ling City.
Yet, miraculously, not a single person was harmed.
The pressure that could have reduced them to dust instead washed over them harmlessly — restrained by the swordsman's precise control. It was destruction without death, power without cruelty.
When the smoke began to clear, Mo Jianfeng saw him standing amidst the ruin — unscathed, his coat billowing in the fading glow, the black sword now resting once again on his back.
Even the city lord could only whisper in awe.
"A single strike… and the temple itself was erased…"
Outside, the explosion had thrown the entire city into chaos. Warriors and sect disciples rushed toward the temple grounds, panic and greed clashing in their hearts.
"What happened?!"
"Did someone trigger the Moon Empress's wrath?"
"No, look—someone's coming out of the smoke!"
From the roiling haze of dust and energy, a lone figure emerged — tall, calm, and utterly commanding. His hat shadowed his face, but the glint of golden hawk-like eyes was unmistakable. The black sword strapped across his back confirmed every rumor that had been whispered.
"Dracule…"
"Mihawk?! It's him!"
Whispers became gasps. Gasps became disbelief.
"Impossible! He annihilated all the sect masters and elders?"
"No, look — they're alive! They were thrown out with the blast!"
Bodies of elders and disciples lay scattered across the courtyard — unconscious, but breathing. The realization chilled everyone to the bone.
He had obliterated the temple… without killing a single soul.
The sheer precision of that feat made him more terrifying than any slaughter could.
Still, greed has a way of smothering fear. The shimmering remnants of the explosion only reminded the onlookers of the treasure's supposed power.
As Yun Che stepped out of the ruins, dozens of figures surrounded him once more. Sects, clans, mercenaries — everyone wanted a piece of what they thought he carried.
He looked around. There were far more now than when he had entered the city that morning. The air buzzed with killing intent, a red sea in Jasmine's mind's eye.
They converged like a tide.
"Dracule Mihawk… we located him!" came a frantic shout from below. The city's rooftops erupted into motion as cultivators surged toward the courtyard, a living red net of intent. Yun Che watched, unhurried, a faint smirk hidden beneath his hat.
===============
[Ding… Stationed disciples of the Sacred Grounds are converging into the city.]
===============
"Such persistence," he muttered. He had no taste for slaughtering nameless weaklings — not when the real prizes were just arriving. He slid Yoru free in a single smooth motion; the crowd took an involuntary step back. Then, with surgical precision, he released a single sword wave into the avenue. It detonated the ground in front of him and spat up a choking curtain of dust and smoke.
Flash step — the movement was a blur. He vanished from the alley and reappeared on the nearest roof. The lower disciples surged forward blindly into the smoke, claws out for a prey they could no longer see. Yun Che flicked himself along eaves and beams, leaving a trail of bewildered pursuers behind.
They were idiots. Numbers meant nothing. He could have stayed and burned them all to ash — but the early display of fear would have scattered the real vultures. He wanted them to stay, to call forth their masters.
"Tsk..," he said softly, amused. The wind tugged at his coat as he rose, deciding to take flight. Gao Ling's skyline opened beneath him; lanterns and slates, the river like a dark vein. He pushed higher, dodging telegraphing formations and the stray spirit rocks of a city used to Lesser Profound skirmishes.
As he climbed, the lesser chasers lost him — the city's lanes swallowed the trace. The ones that didn't relent were Sky Profound Elders, theirs the only power to truly hunt in the air. Yun Che accelerated, and the elders strained to follow, breath ragged, a few managing to keep pace — until the sentinels above them screamed.
High-aura signatures surged in from the horizon: scores of Sky Profound masters converging with unnatural coordination. Behind them, like a wall of black clouds, came five late-stage Emperor Profound Realm cultivators — an arrival that turned the elders' blood to ice.
The elders' formation faltered; the chase stuttered into a halt. Whispered alarms ran like wildfire through the pursuers' ranks. Below, common disciples saw the towering auras and fled, their courage stripped by the sight of Emperor energy. The courtyard emptied in a heartbeat.
Yun Che slowed his ascent and hovered, the city a chessboard beneath him. He scanned the approaching group with Jasmine's eagle-eye — two dozen Sky Profound masters in tight formation, each moving with the polish of long discipline. Behind them, the five Emperor cultivators advanced with the lethality of death itself: measured, inevitable, and absolute.
"They called in reinforcements," Jasmine observed in his mind, cool and amused. "Heh. Finally, the good stuff."
Yun Che's smirk deepened. He could have turned and fled toward the rendezvous point — his girls were waiting, and unnecessary fighting would only alert the larger predators. But the new arrivals were not random: the Sacred Grounds never sent Emperor masters without cause. Whoever commanded them wasn't merely after treasure; they meant to take him alive, or at least to learn what he carried.
On instinct, Sky Profound elders on the fringe lowered their voices and exchanged urgent orders. "Call off the chase," their leader barked into a jade talisman. "We cannot risk offending the Sacred Grounds. Regroup and fall back."
The message spread like a cold wind. Men who had screamed for blood fifteen heartbeats ago now melted away, hiding in alleys, clutching the edges of their robes. Even those who had the courage to follow were too few and too uncoordinated.
Yun Che exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders. He had wanted to reach the rendezvous without igniting a full-scale war — and the Sacred Grounds' arrival forced the city to back down. Fate, in its perverse way, had done him a favor.
But the Emperor cultivators were still coming. They moved with purpose, their faces unreadable beneath their hoods. One of them — the lead — bore an insignia he recognized from whispered rumors: a sigil reserved for the Sacred Grounds' envoys. They would not be satisfied with parley and would certainly not tolerate his flippancy.
=============
[Ding… High-priority signatures detected: Sacred Grounds — Emperor Stage.]
=============
Yun Che's hand tightened on Yoru's hilt. The hat shadowed his eyes; his grin vanished. For the first time that morning, the air around him felt like a promise about to be kept. He angled toward the rendezvous point — but not yet. He would give them one chance. One word. One movement.
If they tried to seize him or his treasures, he'd make them regret being born in a world where the Moon Empress's vault could be plundered at all.
He descended slowly, the city holding its breath. From the ruin-smoke below to the approaching ranks on the wind, Gao Ling City had become a powder keg. And at its center stood the man they both feared and could not refuse: Dracule Mihawk.
He slowly turned towards Yun Che in the distance as he spoke "Dracule Mihawk, the people of the sacred grounds are coming and they have Emperor Realm cultivators. You might be the strongest in the empire but there's no way for you to defeat those monsters. Give yourself up. It's better for the treasure to remain in the hands of the people of this empire."
The heavens were trembling.
Dozens of Sky Profound cultivators hovered in formation, their robes fluttering violently in the turbulent air. Behind them, the five Emperor Realm envoys from the Sacred Grounds loomed, their oppressive auras bending the clouds.
And there, floating opposite them, stood Yun Che — the man they called Dracule Mihawk. The wind toyed with his coat as he looked at them through half-lidded golden eyes.
He smiled faintly.
"Sigh… weaklings. Still able to talk big despite being cornered like this."
"Since the big fish have arrived, I suppose…" — he tilted his head toward the crowd — "all of you are no longer needed."
The elders bristled, veins bulging.
"Y–You may have been mighty in the arena," one spat, forcing courage into his trembling voice,
"but you can't defeat all of us at once!"
Yun Che's grin widened.
"You think you can suppress me with numbers?" His tone dropped to a low, mocking calm. "And who says I can't?"
He unsheathed Yoru in one fluid motion. The world seemed to pause as the blade caught the light. The air rippled; emerald energy gathered along the sword's edge like a living storm.
The old men froze. The same technique that had shattered the Moon Empress Temple began to hum again—only this time, it felt worse.
"R–Run! Everyone run!"
The command was too late.
"Why do they always run?" Yun Che sighed, raising his free hand lazily.
"Bakudō #61 — Rikujōkōrō."
Six golden rods of light materialized around each fleeing elder and shot forward, pinning them midair.
Their limbs locked instantly. Even their profound energy refused to circulate. The air filled with the crackling sound of pure kido.
"What is this?! What kind of skill—?!"
"I–I can't move!?"
Panic replaced arrogance. They struggled, but the bindings only tightened, radiating divine suppression.
Yun Che let Yoru rest on his shoulder and asked casually,
"System, can I use that technique with this sword?"
=====================
[Ding… Query received. Analyzing weapon data.]
[Yoru is currently the strongest sword in the mortal realm — rank: Unique Monarch Grade.]
[Blueprint located in host's memory. Modifications applied. Weapon retains original potential.]
=====================
Yun Che's grin sharpened.
"Cool. Then it's fre—"
=====================
[Ding… 7,500 SP has been deducted from host's balance.]
[Note: As the first of twelve Supreme-Grade Swords, Yoru's original cost is 15,000 SP. Discount applied: 50%.]
[Thank you for your patronage.]
=====================
Yun Che froze midair.
"I didn't even—"
Silence.
He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face.
"System, I swear—"
======================
[Also, host has infused the blade with Vibramatium, enhancing durability and resonance.]
[Celestial-level technique usage confirmed. However, weapon cooldown required after each activation to prevent structural failure.]
[Estimated cooldown: 24 hours.]
======================
Yun Che blinked once.
"So, that's the gap between a mortal blade and a celestial-tier Zanpakutō…"
"Zangetsu can do it a thousand times without sweating, and Yoru needs a nap after one."
He smirked.
"No matter. Once is all I need."
The emerald energy around Yoru surged to its peak, pulsing like a heartbeat. Each pulse sent concentric waves across the sky, shaking the surrounding clouds apart. The bound elders whimpered, feeling their profound veins shrivel under the pressure.
Down below, cultivators who had dared to stay behind began fleeing in terror. Even from afar, they could feel that whatever he was about to unleash was beyond comprehension.
The Emperor Realm envoys of the Sacred Grounds exchanged wary glances — even they could sense the absurd density of that spiritual charge.
Yun Che's golden eyes gleamed beneath the brim of his hat as he lowered his stance, Yoru angled behind him. The blade pulsed brighter, green light licking across his body like living flame.
"Consider this," he murmured, voice low and calm, "a demonstration."
The heavens dimmed as if holding their breath.
The elders went ashen the moment the blade began to sing. Faces that had been full of bluster a heartbeat ago drained of color; their hands that had gripped spears and talismans loosened. Even distant watchers in Gao Ling City looked up as the sky itself answered the summons of Yoru.
"Dracule Mihawk… we are under orders. Please—spare our lives," one begged, voice cracking under the weight of imminent doom.
Yun Che's patience snapped like a brittle cord. He was tired of the same pleading, the same excuses.
"You should learn some people can't be suppressed with numbers," he said coolly, then murmured a word that tasted like thunder.
"Getsuga…"
"Tenshou."
He swung Yoru in one effortless arc. The sword's edge flashed, and a green, living storm poured from the cut — a single, surgical blast that swallowed the bound elders before they could even scream. The shockwave tore through the temple courtyard and streaked up into the heavens; its brilliance was visible from every rooftop in Gao Ling City.
For a breathless moment the world held its breath. Then panic erupted: bodies were flung, roofs shuddered, and distant shouts split the air. Yet, somehow, none of the victims were dead — only stunned, broken, and humiliated. Yun Che felt the sword tremble in his hand; a faint shiver ran through Yoru's spine as if the blade had been made to keep divine secrets it was never meant to bear.
===================
[Ding… Yoru structural stress detected. God-level technique expended. Weapon cooldown initiated: 24 hours.]
[Ding… Multiple hostile signatures neutralized.]
===================
A pleased, predatory grin eased onto his face as notifications piled up in his HUD. He had wanted to shepherd these fools to the rendezvous — not to vaporize their pride — but they'd panicked and scattered. Let them sell their cowardice to the Sacred Grounds; it would only make the real hunt more interesting.
From the horizon, the Sacred Grounds answered with interest. Young, well-funded Sky Profound disciples descended like a coin-paid army — far fewer years lived, far more resources spent. They were arrogant, their faces sophisticated with the confidence of wealth and backing.
"Senior brother, that's the man our spies reported from the treasure site," whispered one disciple, eyes hungry as they tracked him through Jasmine's vision.
The elder's expression was a complicated thing — disgust, amusement, and the insatiable glint of greed. He was older than the man they hunted, certainly: youth and fewer scars, but a sword technique that had just humiliated seasoned masters was a commodity the Sacred Grounds could not ignore.
"Such a marvelous technique," the elder said under his breath. "Capture him. We'll make him bleed that technique into submission."
"And the treasure?" another asked.
"Take that too. Secrets and swords both make fine prizes."
A younger commander, smirking, added, "For a mere peak Sky Profound to act so brazenly in this backwater… he is nothing but a bug."
But old blood remembered spectacle: "That 'bug' just erased several Sky Profound elders in one strike. Don't kill him. I want his technique. And I want that black sword."
The order came sharp and final. "Men! Give chase! Don't lose him!"
They surged forward — disciplined, funded, and utterly certain they would turn legend into spoils. Yun Che watched them coil like a net in the wind. He tucked Yoru away, letting the blade's aftershiver die in the sheath. The Sacred Grounds had shown their hand; the game had only just begun.
The wind howled across the white ridges, sharp and cold enough to cut skin. Snow drifted lazily through the air, the silence of the mountains broken only by the faint hum of profound energy rippling across the skies.
And there — standing amidst it all — was Yun Che, coat fluttering like a black banner, the gleam of his blade peeking from behind his shoulder.
Before him floated dozens of cultivators clad in crimson-trimmed robes, their auras heavy and disciplined — the Mighty Heavenly Sword Region.
They had come in force: five Emperor Profound Realm disciples, each exuding calm supremacy, and over two dozen late-stage Sky Profound Realm cultivators — every one of them powerful enough to rule a sect in this empire.
Yun Che narrowed his eyes slightly.
"So the rats from the Sword Region finally crawl out from their nest…"
He could recognize their insignias anywhere — the same group that had been sniffing around since his and Retsu's stunt two years ago. To mobilize this many from the Sacred Grounds over one man? They were desperate — and greedy.
Even their youngest disciples, barely older than his former self, radiated strength rivaling sect masters. He almost admired them… almost.
Then came the flash of crimson auras around him — they'd closed in.
"So, you're the insect swordsman causing trouble in this weak little empire," one of the Emperor disciples said, voice dripping with disdain. "If not for the heavenly phenomenon two years ago, we'd never waste our time here."
Another, younger but colder, added,
"Impressive — thirty years old and still breathing. In our Sacred Ground, you'd barely qualify as an outer disciple."
Yun Che only smiled, the faintest curve at the edge of his lips.
"Hmph. With the right training, even an outer disciple can surpass an elder."
The air froze for a second.
The insult hung there, soft and casual, but heavier than any killing intent.
"An ant dares lecture us?!" The second disciple's tone snapped like lightning. "Your strength barely passes the threshold of mediocrity. Consider yourself lucky — hand over the secrets of your sword techniques, and we may let you keep your body intact."
Yun Che's smirk deepened. His tone turned almost lazy, but the power behind his words was unmistakable.
"Heh… looks like the new generation's full of barks. Makes me wonder what kind of pathetic future the Sacred Grounds are shaping. No discipline, no respect — only arrogance."
That struck a nerve.
"Respect? From trash like you?" one spat. "You might be the strongest swordsman in this weak empire, but before us, your strength is worthless!"
Yun Che tilted his head, golden eyes glinting beneath the shadow of his hat.
"Then why don't you prove it? Show me your worthless strength."
The words hit like a slap. One of the Sky Profound disciples — young, brash, and shaking with rage — flared his aura until the snow melted beneath his feet.
"Worthless?! Then let your father show you how to bow before a real cultivator, old man!"
He lunged, fist wreathed in flame and killing intent. The sheer pressure of his charge cracked the stone beneath him as he rocketed forward, a comet of fury.
But Yun Che didn't move.
He didn't even raise his guard.
He just stood there, calm and indifferent, as though the world's noise couldn't reach him.
"Did this old man go senile?" one of the Emperor disciples muttered, watching in disbelief.
The attacker snarled, veins bulging in his forehead.
"He's mocking me…! Then take this father's punch!"
POWWWW!!!
The impact echoed like thunder, shaking the mountains to their roots—
The punch landed like a meteor, blasting smoke and dust into a storm that blanketed the entire ridge. The roar echoed through the mountains, shaking snow loose from distant cliffs. The Sacred Ground disciples smirked, already congratulating themselves before the dust even settled.
"Hmph, ended faster than I thought."
"So this is the famed 'Strongest Swordsman'? What a joke."
"To think this entire empire cowered before him—pathetic!"
The lead Emperor disciple narrowed his eyes. "Oi, don't kill him! I want that sword technique—alive."
Then came the sound.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack…
The sound of stone and air fracturing—not from the swordsman's bones, but from the mountain beneath his feet. The shockwave had decimated the terrain around him, carving craters into the frozen rock, yet not a hint of pain came from the center of the blast.
The smoke cleared.
And every single one of them froze.
Yun Che was still standing there, unmoved, his coat fluttering lazily in the wind. The younger disciple's fist was pressed squarely against his cheek—frozen mid-punch, trembling.
He hadn't even blinked.
"H–how…?" the disciple stammered, voice cracking under disbelief.
Yun Che turned his head slightly, just enough to make the fist slide off his face. His golden eyes lifted toward the boy, cold and amused.
He spat to the side.
"Is that all?"
A ripple of dread passed through the gathered disciples. Even the Emperor-ranked elders felt the chill run down their spines.
Yun Che rolled his shoulders once, then slowly raised his right fist. The air around it darkened—Haki coating his skin like black steel, swirling together with the radiant Spirit Force from his cultivation base.
To those watching, the energy was terrifying—two forces that should have rejected each other instead merged into a single, coiling storm.
"When I use my sword, I play nice," he said quietly. "But when I use my fist…"
His grin turned sharp.
"…that's when things get serious."
POW!!!
The punch landed before anyone even saw him move.
The air imploded. A deafening shockwave blasted outward in concentric rings, scattering snow for miles. The poor disciple was gone—a blurred shape streaking through the sky before crashing into a distant peak. The explosion that followed lit up the entire mountain range.
BOOOOM!!!
Rocks shattered. A smoking crater replaced what used to be a ridge.
Yun Che lowered his fist, exhaling softly.
"Whoops… went a little overboard."
The familiar tone of the system chimed in his head.
===============
[Ding… Congratulations, host, for defeating—]
===============
He waved the notification away before it finished.
Around him, the disciples of the Mighty Heavenly Sword Region stared, slack-jawed. None of them could comprehend what they had just seen—a Sky Profound Realm cultivator who crushed one of their own with a single punch.
And he hadn't even touched the sword on his back.
"Y–You dare offend us!?" one shouted, drawing his weapon with trembling hands.
"You've killed a disciple of the Sacred Grounds! Do you understand what you've done!?"
Another barked orders through gritted teeth.
"He dies here! All of you—attack! For the honor of the Mighty Heavenly Sword Region!"
Energy flared across the sky. Dozens of blades unsheathed. Five Emperor auras erupted like suns. The very air began to hum with killing intent.
And then—
A voice rolled across the mountain, sweet and languid yet carrying power that silenced the entire battlefield in an instant.
"Ara… what do we have here?"
The sound alone bent the wind and made the Emperor Realm cultivators falter mid-flight. Every disciple stiffened instinctively, as if their very souls were being pinned in place.
The temperature in the air shifted—warm, yet sharp enough to make the heavens tremble.
Snow drifted sideways as the figure descended, cloaked in divine radiance and frost.