Meng Shaobai tore apart the clouds with a single stroke, stepping out of the rift like a young war god descending from the heavens. His sword pointed at Fang Han and Nebula Baby, his presence sharp enough to split the skies and tilt the sun and moon. That raw, violent aura alone seemed capable of shredding anything in its path. Before it, anyone would instinctively submit.
Fang Han had seen many prodigies in his life—yet none like Meng Shaobai.
Wherever Meng stood, he exuded the same reckless, lawless certainty:
nothing was forbidden, nothing was impossible, everything could be done.
He embodied that spirit every second—unrestrained, fearless, absolutely sure that he could defeat the world itself.
And Fang Han found it… irritating.
"We're from the same sect," Fang Han said, brows tightening slightly. His tone was mild, but his words were edged. "If you want to fight, follow sect rules. The Heavenly Punishment Platform exists for a reason. As for accusing Nebula Baby of misbehavior, that's nonsense. The auction follows one rule—whoever pays gets the treasure. You were outbid. That doesn't make him a bully. So what—should I call you a… pauper?"
The last three words were not sharp in tone—yet each one struck like a blade.
Meng Shaobai's face twitched.
Nebula Baby burst into applause.
"Right! Pauper! You're just a pauper. Broke and trying to rob people!"
"You little brat…" Meng Shaobai's brows flashed with cold white light. Faint sword-thin filaments flickered between them. Fang Han's eyes responded with streaks of blood-red radiance.
Zzzzt—
The white sword-light and the blood threads collided before Nebula Baby—both dissolving instantly.
Fang Han's body jolted; he stepped back.
Meng Shaobai merely raised an eyebrow.
The gap was clear.
And naturally so—Meng Shaobai had already surpassed the Golden Core realm, likely stepping into the Eighth Layer of Divine Abilities, Wind-Fire Tribulation. Fang Han, at the Fifth Layer Heaven-Human Realm, was three great realms lower.
Three entire realms—each one a gulf.
Yet Fang Han had drawn on the Blood Night King just now, preventing Meng Shaobai from gaining the upper hand.
"Blood Night King… impressive. A Dao Artifact, even if only a low-grade one," Meng Shaobai said coolly. "But I want to see the legendary supreme Dao Artifact—the Yellow Springs Diagram. Take it out."
He stepped forward. His white robes snapped like banners in a storm. Instantly, wind and clouds surged around him, distorting Fang Han's sense of direction—up and down melting into each other.
"Chaos Slaughter!"
His sword descended.
The world spun. Yin and yang flipped. Space twisted. Fang Han and Nebula Baby were swallowed by a vortex of sword-light, caught inside a spinning sphere that rotated millions of times in a heartbeat. Even a seasoned Divine Ability master would lose balance and sense of direction.
This was no Yu Hua Sect technique. Their sword arts focused on instantaneous killing blows, not complex transformations.
Meng Shaobai's style was something else—ancient, profound, combining simplicity with mystery, hardness with softness. His sword aura was sharper than Daoist thunder, yet flexible as silk.
Fang Han was ready.
The moment danger surged, he unleashed a cascade of Divine Abilities:
Black Sun Tempest,
Great Sun Firestorm,
Seven Truths Fist,
Diamond Iron-Bone Seal,
and more—layer upon layer.
Boom—
The spells slammed into the sword sphere. Some shattered instantly. Others rocked the vortex, opening the slightest gap.
"You think you can trap me?"
Without pausing, Fang Han swapped his two consciousnesses—his twin seas of awareness overlapping. His Divine Abilities surged to a speed that defied logic. The Blood Night King turned into a crimson shadow, shielding him and Nebula Baby as it carved open the fissure. Fang Han slipped through using Serpent-Sparrow Ghoststep, escaping in a flash.
"So fast!" Meng Shaobai murmured.
He had not expected Fang Han's reaction to be so instantaneous—almost supernatural. He didn't know Fang Han had mastered the second soul-sea of the Panwu Titan Art, doubling the speed of his spellcasting and reflexes. Nor did he know Fang Han had forged spiritual fire in the Immortal World's baptism.
With enough elemental essence, Fang Han could step into the Sixth Layer Unity Realm at will.
If he fought Wan Luo now, he might not even need the Blood Night King.
The "strength" in the Panwu Titan Art was not raw force—it was intelligence, clarity, spirit, endurance, every form of power.
Escaping the sword vortex, Fang Han counterattacked. The Blood Night King unleashed a crimson slash toward Meng's back, while Fang Han's body split into thousands of blood shadows—True Form Phantom Art. Illusions overlapped reality until even divine sight couldn't tell them apart.
"Between heaven and earth, there is always a sliver of life. But my path—Lifeless Sword Dao—cuts that sliver away. No life, no escape. A strike that severs fate itself."
Meng Shaobai vanished.
His presence dissolved completely.
His sword-light appeared everywhere.
In the same breath, every phantom was pierced and dissolved into smoke.
Yan's voice surged into Fang Han's mind:
"Fang Han, that is the legacy of the Lifeless Sword Sect—an ancient sword lineage. They reject the principle of 'a sliver of life.' They leave none. They are neither righteous nor evil—just absolute. One sword to overturn heaven and earth. The sect vanished because it defied the heavens. Meng has inherited their mantle!"
Lifeless.
No life left.
For others and for oneself.
Fang Han's momentary distraction cost him dearly.
"True Form Phantom Art" was shattered. His real body lay exposed.
Meng Shaobai reappeared—right in front of him.
His sword thrust forward.
Rumble—
Sword-light fell like spring rain. Soft, gentle, almost intoxicating. Fang Han felt as though he were in a quiet pavilion listening to night rain—warm, peaceful, full of life.
A trap.
"Not good!"
Instinct screamed. His spiritual fire surged. He saw the true sword behind the illusion—a blazing sun, exploding toward him, an ocean of sword-light rushing to devour him whole.
The Blood Night King's crimson shield tore apart. The killing edge reached for his core.
This sword…
could make ghosts weep.
But Fang Han had lived through eighteen years of near-death meditation in the Too-Primordial Immortal Mansion. His battle instincts had been honed beyond mortal limits.
At the final instant, time itself seemed to slow.
Ding!
His spiritual fire burst.
Divine power surged like a flood.
"Break!"
His body swayed like a tree in a storm—branches bending, never breaking. Every thrust of Meng's sword pierced emptiness. The Blood Night King morphed into a massive blood-soaked hand, wailing with ghostly cries—Weeping Blood Handprint.
Meng's body blurred, turning into a pale shadow. His sword and body fused into one—unbreakable. The Weeping Blood Handprint struck only air.
He materialized behind Fang Han—silent, ghostlike.
The sword tip pressed toward Fang Han's Jade Pillow acupoint.
This strike pulled everything inward.
Space, light, sound, time, essence—
all collapsed toward the sword tip, as if it were devouring a piece of the world.
This was the true essence of the Lifeless Sword.
No life.
No escape.
No mercy.