Mistress Zhao Hansu, a living testament to Wushuang's chilling vision of justice, was left to grapple with her new, mortal reality amidst the smoldering ruins of Qianci Yuan. Wushuang, their fused form shimmering with an unsettling power, felt no remorse, only a cold satisfaction. The cultivation world continued its descent into chaos, its matriarchal order crumbling under the weight of Wushuang's unpredictable power and the relentless advance of the Saint's Maw.
Wushuang's attention now turned to the Hidden Severance Guard. The massacre had been a brutal lesson, a stark reminder of the insidious reach of the sects and the internal threats that festered within their own System. They returned to the desolate underground complex, the air still thick with the scent of blood and despair.
The surviving members of the Guard, now numbering around five hundred, stood before Wushuang, their faces grim, their eyes holding a mixture of fear and a desperate, burning hope. They had witnessed the raw power of the Saintbreaker, and they had seen the cost of their defiance. Wushuang, in their fused form, stood before them, a towering presence of terrifying beauty.
They began to train them with impossible techniques, methods gleaned from the absorbed memories of ancient cultivators, from the very essence of the Root Aspect. These were not traditional cultivation methods, but brutal, qi-sapping exercises designed to push their bodies and spirits beyond their limits. Wushuang taught them to fight with a ruthless efficiency, to embrace the shadows, to become silent, deadly blades against the matriarchal world that had discarded them.
But the soul-blade, infused with the essence of Ren Kaifeng, began to resist. Its crimson glow, once a symbol of his sacrifice, now pulsed with a mournful, almost angry light. Kaifeng's soul, warped by grief and the trauma of betrayal, began to challenge Wushuang's leadership, a silent, internal rebellion. The blade felt heavier in Wushuang's hand, its vibrations a constant, unsettling hum.
One night, as Wushuang meditated, the soul-blade resting beside them, the resistance intensified. They found themselves pulled into a surreal dream-duel, a confrontation within the confines of their own spirit. The landscape was a desolate plain, lit by a blood-red moon. Ren Kaifeng, not as a broken man, but as a warrior forged from pure sorrow, stood before them, his eyes burning with an accusatory fire.
"You speak of vengeance," Kaifeng's soul-echo resonated, his voice a mournful whisper that cut through the dreamscape. "You speak of justice. But do you truly care for those you lead? For those you claim to liberate?"
Wushuang, their fused form shimmering, stood resolute. "I care for the destruction of the old order. For the birth of a new world."
"At what cost?" Kaifeng pressed, his spectral blade clashing against Wushuang's. "You are a god of vengeance, yes. But a god who loves no one. You feel no grief for the fallen. No joy for the living. You are a blade, yes, but a blade that loves no one."
The accusation struck a raw nerve. Wushuang fought back, their power immense, their movements precise. They defeated Kaifeng's soul-echo, forcing him back into the silent depths of the blade. The dream shattered, and Wushuang awoke, trembling, the soul-blade vibrating faintly beside them.
The duel had been won, but Kaifeng's poignant question lingered, a haunting echo in their mind. Do I love anything? It was a rare moment of vulnerability, a crack in the perfect, terrifying facade of Xu Wushuang. They were a god, a force of nature, but they were also alone, consumed by a purpose that left no room for connection, for emotion. The blade, now silent, felt colder than ever.