As soon as that feather's cold energy touched him… Zeravon's mind went completely blank.
And in the very next moment — he found himself staring at a sight no human comprehension could fully grasp.
The sky… blood-red.
The air… so thick with the metallic stench of iron that every breath burned in his lungs.
The ground… drowned in corpses — human, beast, undead — not a single living soul left standing.
From the distance, screams rolled like crashing waves… and in the very heart of this slaughter stood a lone figure in black clothing.
In his hands… a Bloody Sword, a weapon that looked as if it had drunk nothing but blood for thousands of years.
And before him…
Millions of beasts — every size, every shape.
Billions of cultivators — banners of countless sects fluttering as they charged forward.
Millions of undead cultivators — screaming even in death as they hurled themselves at him.
Yet the black-clad cultivator… never stepped back.
A lone man.
No shield. No army. No one at his back.
Only his Bloody Sword… and a smile.
---
Every time he cut down a hundred thousand… two hundred thousand… he stopped.
And he… laughed.
That laugh wasn't madness — it was dominion.
And when his voice cut through the chaos, it was like a blade through the soul:
"I am not you… You are me.
And within you… hides the same laughter that lives in me."
---
Death Without Effort
He dragged his foot across the earth — and a crimson shockwave burst out.
In a heartbeat, heads rolled from hundreds of thousands.
He raised his Bloody Sword to the sky… and above him, a blood-red moon took form, spilling a rain of crimson across the battlefield.
"You are all… nothing more than my prey."
Each step he took birthed a Cycle of Blood and Death.
Scarlet winds twisted into the air, corpses crumbled to dust, and with the next step, a new ocean of blood rose around him.
---
The Way of Battle
A beast the size of a mountain roared and opened its jaws—
In the next second, the cultivator was inside its skull…
And a heartbeat later, the beast's entire head was shattered, hurled into the sky.
From the other side, an undead army surged forward.
The cultivator simply swept his sword—
A crimson crescent wave tore through the ranks, reducing them to ash in a single cut.
Billions of cultivators formed their tightest battle formation, their weapons raised…
The cultivator tilted his head, lowered his sword…
And walked toward them as if taking a casual stroll.
---
The Voice That Wasn't Sound
As he passed, a voice rang through the air—
But it wasn't sound. It struck directly inside Zeravon's mind.
"If you believe you are strong…
Remember this — you live only because I allow it."
Every movement… every swing… was art.
But the name of that art… was massacre.
---
Zeravon's Shock
Zeravon could only stare.
Something inside him churned… as if he had seen this before.
As if the scream of that Bloody Sword was echoing from his own soul.
And then—
A voice.
> "Zeravon…"
Just his name.
Once.
But the moment he heard it… the trance shattered.
---
Return to Reality
He blinked.
He was back in his seat.
The roar of the arena returned to his ears.
The referee's voice echoed:
> "WINNER — from the Heavenly Lotus Sect… Yan Ya!"
The third match had ended… and he hadn't seen a single moment of it.
---
Fading Memory
The scene was already slipping from his mind.
Only one thing remained—
The shadow of the black-clothed cultivator, laughing with his Bloody Sword in hand.
---
The Announcement of the Final Match
The announcer's voice burst across the arena:
> "Everyone! The time has come… for the Final Match!"
The crowd exploded — chants and shouts shaking the air.
> "This battle will be fought by the last remaining four cultivators.
The one who stands at the very end… will be the Champion of this Grand Competition!"
A golden box appeared above the announcer's hand, sealed with countless spiritual sigils. Golden mist flowed from it, forming ancient floating patterns.
> "The Champion will claim this sealed box… along with the complete set of Token Pieces!
With them, one can open a gate spoken of only in legends!"
The very arena trembled under the crowd's excitement.
---
The Four Entrants
Four gateways opened at the corners of the arena.
1. Obsidian Moon Sect — Haoran
Black armor, faint blood mist rising from his shoulders. He dragged his sword along the ground, leaving a crimson line behind him.
2. Doom of Heaven Sect — Lian Tianyu
Golden robes, crown-like headband, a blazing spear in hand. The crowd's cheers for him were deafening.
3. Heavenly Lotus Sect — Yan Ya
Silent, calm, white robes flowing, a jade flute in hand. Even the air seemed afraid to disturb him.
4. Zeravon
No pose. No show of power. Just his normal walking speed.
Yet with every step, the air grew heavier — like an invisible weight pressing down on everyone.
The cheers wavered, replaced by an uneasy silence before resuming — this time with tension.
---
The Witness Arrives
The referee was about to begin when—
A deep vibration rolled through the arena.
The sky dome above cracked, dripping black liquid energy.
A pitch-black hand emerged, lined with glowing red veins, nails like metal spikes.
The figure stepped out fully—
A tattered cloak dissolving in the wind, a face hidden in shadow, only two crimson eyes burning.
Ancient runes spun around him, as if bound by some eternal contract.
An elder's voice trembled:
> "Impossible… The Arbiter has descended…"
Another whispered:
> "He comes only when the fate of a match will be touched by the divine…"
The figure's voice was a thunderclap in every mind:
> "I… Wuji XieJun… will witness this Final Match."
He looked at each participant…
And when his gaze met Zeravon's, time froze for a heartbeat.
> "The victor will claim not only the tokens…
But also a gift — for the one I deem worthy."
A seal locked around the arena — No Escape.
Before dissolving into Another Space , Wuji XieJun's voice whispered through every mind:
"Prove yourself… or vanish from existence."
The arena was silent until the announcer, visibly shaken, shouted:
> "FINAL MATCH… BEGIN!!!"
---
To Be Continued…