The pre-dawn air in the secluded training ground behind Long Huang's residence was thick with the ozone tang of spent qi and the faint, metallic scent of blood. Sweat plastered strands of ink-black hair to his temples, tracing paths through the dust and grime coating his skin. Before him, the Frostbite Serpent Sword was embedded point-first into the packed earth, vibrating with residual energy that made the surrounding pebbles dance. Its icy gleam reflected the first pale streaks of dawn, a cold counterpoint to the furnace heat radiating from Long Huang's exhausted frame. Eight days. Eight days of relentless, brutal refinement. The Phantom Fang Sword Art and the Archdevil Limitless Blade Art had been pushed to their current limits through sheer, unyielding will and bone-deep fatigue.
The fluid lethality he'd achieved was undeniable. The first three moves had transcended mere technique, becoming extensions of his instinct, his very breath.
Mirage Thrust: No longer just a thrust, it was the *concept* of the strike given form. His body remained a coiled spring until the moment of release, then vanished in a blur. The blade didn't cut the air; it displaced it with a sound like ripping space-time, leaving behind a trail of phantom serpents that lingered for a heartbeat, disorienting and deadly. The thrust pierced a suspended water droplet without bursting it, the cold qi of the sword freezing it solid mid-air before it shattered into harmless dust.
Moonlit Slash: The decapitating slash had achieved an eerie, silent lethality. The arc described by the blade wasn't just a shimmer; it was a band of condensed moonlight, cold and absolute. He practiced on strands of silk suspended across the yard. A flick of his wrist, the moonlight band flashed, and the silk parted without a whisper, the severed ends falling cleanly, undisturbed. Refining it further, he targeted individual petals blown from a tree by a gust of wind. The moonlight arc would cleave a single petal from the swirling mass without touching its neighbors, the cut edge instantly glazed with frost.
Serpent's Feint: Evasion and counterattack merged into a single, seamless action. His form dissolved like smoke carried on a capricious wind, reappearing not just behind an imaginary foe, but *within* their guard, the Frostbite Serpent's edge already kissing the phantom throat, its chilling aura frosting the imagined skin. He practiced against cascading sheets of razor-edged steel shavings thrown by a timed mechanism, weaving through the lethal rain without a single nick, his counter-strikes snapping out to deflect the few that came too close.
By the seventh day, this trio of death had solidified into major completion. The Frostbite Serpent Sword felt less like a weapon grasped and more like a predatory limb, cold fury given steel. Its weight, its balance, its hunger – they were his own.
The Blades of Slaughter tattoo on his forearms were a constant, hungry presence. Their fiendish energy resonated with the dark core of the Archdevil Scripture, a low thrum against his bones. The first move, Blade Storm, had grown exponentially.
Blade Storm: Where forty ethereal blades once spun, now sixty shrieking phantoms erupted from the twin Blades of Slaughter. The cyclone wasn't just larger; it was denser, darker. The blades weren't mere images; they carried the faint, tortured screams of the damned, a psychic assault that would fray the nerves and shatter the concentration of any unprepared opponent. The whirlwind tore through thick training dummies reinforced with iron bands, reducing them to splinters and twisted metal in seconds, the ground beneath scarred by deep, chaotic gouges. The air itself tasted of hot iron and despair after its passage.
Yet, the second move, Abyssal Rend, remained stubbornly out of reach. The scroll's description spoke of tearing reality itself, a concentrated wave of pure slaughter intent that could sunder defenses and flesh alike. He could feel the power, a roiling tempest within his meridians, but channeling it felt like trying to grasp lightning with bare hands. The Blades of Slaughter vibrated with frustrated hunger whenever he attempted it. "Practice dummies offer no fear, no life force to sever," the realization crystallized, cold and sharp. "This art craves true battle. Not simulated violence. Real blood. Real terror. Real death." The limitation chafed, a constant reminder that ultimate power in this path demanded a toll he hadn't yet fully paid.
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The quiet of the training ground was replaced by a suffocating stillness as Long Huang approached the Fifth Elder's Manor. Dawn had fully broken, but the light seemed reluctant to penetrate the heavy atmosphere clinging to the elegant courtyards. The guards, faces grim and etched with worry, recognized him instantly. They stepped aside without challenge, their usual stoicism replaced by a palpable tension. The manicured gardens felt like a stage set after a tragedy, beautiful yet hollow.
He found Su Yan beneath the ancient, gnarled plum tree in the central courtyard. Its branches, usually hinting at future blossoms, seemed stark and accusing. She stood statue-still, clad in robes of mourning-white that seemed to absorb the weak sunlight rather than reflect it. They fluttered around her like the tattered wings of a wounded spirit. Her aura, normally a contained inferno of power, was banked to embers, but the air around her vibrated with a terrifying, suppressed pressure, making the fallen leaves tremble without wind.
"Long Huang," her voice cut through the silence, flat and devoid of its usual undercurrent of warmth. She didn't turn.
He halted a respectful distance away, the cold fury from his training simmering beneath a layer of apprehension. "Aunt Su." He scanned the empty courtyard. "Where's the Fifth Elder?"
Her fingers, clenched at her sides, tightened around a crumpled piece of parchment. The paper crackled like dry bone. "Gone."
The single word hung in the air, sharp as a guillotine blade. Long Huang's blood turned to ice water, then flashed into boiling rage. His hand instinctively flew to the hilt of the Frostbite Serpent Sword. "What happened?" His voice was dangerously low.
Su Yan finally turned. Her eyes, usually pools of deep, knowing calm, were twin voids, endless and cold. The sight sent a primal shiver down his spine. "Chi Qide's remnants," she hissed, the name dripping venom. "Bolstered by Northern Jain Kingdom spies. Cowards and snakes, working in the shadows beyond even the Border Suppression Marquis's reach." Her gaze bore into him, filled with a pain so profound it was terrifying. "They laid a trap. Using whispers… whispers of, you. Of your potential. Of the threat you represent." Her knuckles were white where she gripped the letter. "Huang Peng… he caught their scent. He went to draw them away. Far from the sect. Far from you."
A glacier formed in Long Huang's chest, locking the searing fury inside, compressing it into diamond-hard resolve. "I'll find him. I'll tear them apart."
"You will not!" The command cracked like a whip, infused with a sliver of her unleashed power that made the ground beneath Long Huang's feet tremble. Her void-like eyes pinned him. "The Savage Marquis no longer hides his ambition. The Martial Competition is his trap. Baited with glory, rank, resources… and now, likely, with Huang Peng's fate. It is a snare you must walk into, eyes open. Huang Peng chose his path to protect your future. His fate is his own. Your duty," she leaned forward slightly, the weight of her words crushing, "is to survive. To grow strong enough to *break* the trap, not die pointlessly within it."
Long Huang met her gaze, the diamond resolve in his chest refusing to shatter. The image of Huang Peng's gruff kindness, his unwavering support, flashed before him. The Blades of Slaughter hummed against his skin, whispering promises of slaughter. "Then I'll prepare," he stated, the words granite. "I'll become strong enough to shatter the trap and anyone who stands within it." He bowed, a sharp, decisive motion, and turned to leave, the Frostbite Serpent Sword's hilt cold and reassuring in his white-knuckled grip.
---
Dusk painted the sky in bruised purples and bloody oranges as Long Huang slipped past the sect's outermost sentry posts. He moved like a shadow, the Mysterious Silver Bow an unfamiliar, but comforting weight across his back, the twin Blades of Slaughter a darker, hungrier than ever with clear murderous intent emitting from his forearms. The Nine Element Spirit Deer had guided him to the Yang Fruits, a boon of pure life energy. Now, instinct and a desperate need for power stronger than sword or demonic blades drew him back into the ancient, whispering embrace of the Archdevil Mountain Range. He needed an edge, something unexpected, something perfect.
The deeper forest welcomed him with deepening shadows and the chorus of nocturnal awakening. As if summoned by his intent, a soft glow materialized between the gnarled roots of a colossal ironwood tree. The Nine Element Spirit Deer stepped forth, its coat shimmering faintly with captured moonlight, its large, intelligent golden eyes fixed on him. It approached, nuzzling his hand briefly with a velvety muzzle that radiated comforting warmth, before turning its head decisively towards the northeast – not towards the valley of bones and the turquoise lake, but deeper into a region choked with thicker, older growth, where the very air felt heavier, saturated with ancient qi and lingering sorrow.
The path the deer led him down was overgrown, barely discernible. Thorns snatched at his clothes, and roots threatened to trip him. The scent of damp earth and decaying vegetation grew stronger, mixed with something else… something metallic and old, like rust and dried blood buried for centuries. The deer's glow was the only reliable guide as true night fell.
They emerged into a clearing that wasn't natural. It was a bowl-shaped depression, perhaps half a mile across, surrounded by jagged, obsidian-like cliffs. The ground wasn't earth; it was a compacted layer of greyish-white ash and shattered bone fragments that crunched underfoot. Ancient, broken weapons – swords snapped like twigs, spearheads rusted to nothingness, shattered shields – protruded from the ash like grim tombstones. This was a battlefield ossuary, a place where countless had fallen long ago. At the very center stood a solitary, massive stone monolith, dark and pitted, radiating an aura of profound melancholy.
The deer stopped at the edge of the bone-ash field, its golden eyes wide and solemn. It stamped a hoof once, firmly, then turned its luminous gaze towards the base of the monolith. A warning? A direction? Long Huang understood. This was the place. Power was here, but it was steeped in death and sorrow, not life like the Yang Fruits.
He moved cautiously across the ash field. The air grew colder with each step, the silence absolute, oppressive. The Blades of Slaughter on his forearms began to vibrate, not with their usual hungry anticipation, but with a low, discordant hum, resonating uneasily with the residual energy of the place. As he neared the monolith, he saw it. Not buried, but fused into the dark stone at its base, as if the rock had flowed around it in its final moments: a massive longbow.
It was crafted from a material that seemed to drink the faint moonlight, darker than the surrounding obsidian, yet etched with incredibly fine, swirling silver lines that pulsed with a weak, rhythmic light. It was taller than Long Huang, its curves severe and elegant, radiating an aura of immense, focused power and a piercing, unfulfilled grief. This was no ordinary artifact. This was a spirit bow, bound to its master even in death. And scattered around the fused bow, half-sunken into the ash, lay the bleached, fragmented remains of a skeleton. One skeletal hand still stretched out, fingers mere inches from the bow's grip, frozen in a final, desperate reach.
Long Huang approached, a sense of profound reverence washing over him, momentarily eclipsing his usual ruthlessness. He could feel the bow's spirit, a faint, weary consciousness clinging to the physical form, steeped in sorrow and a desperate, unfinished purpose. He reached out, not to grab, but to touch the dark wood near the grip.