Chapter 165: Continue Your Words

Chapter 165: Continue Your Words Emma Dawson, alone after leaving the waterfront of lake, felt the weight of her mission like a stone in her chest. The Hanz Estate sprawled before her in the night, a monstrous silhouette carved into the mountainside, the shadowed Hanz Stronghold and twisting mountain paths a labyrinth of death. The blood moon’s glow slithered over the peaked roofs on the Twin Peak Hill and crumbling turrets, painting the stone the color of old wounds. Once grand, now it hunched like a ghost beast poised to strike, its windows empty and dark—eyes that had long since forgotten how to see. A wrought-iron gate separated the rear mountain and the water lily lake, twisted into the likeness of thorns and serpents, stood ajar, its hinges groaning in the wind as if whispering a warning. Beyond it, the cliff courtyard gardens had surrendered to the wild, their once-manicured hedges now snarled into skeletal fingers, clutching at the hem of the night. The scent of decay lingered beneath the crisp mountain air—rotted leaves, damp earth, and something else, something metallic that clung to the back of the throat. "There’re six formation cores in this Gloomwater Phantom Lily Array," The beauty murmured, her delicate rosy lips tight with resolve. "That devil sword is guarding the Water Lily Lake. We Thirst Bull Squad had checked the Hanz Stronghold and the Martial Arts Arena. The Clan Chief Royal Study Library was empty either. That leaves the Hanz Clan Ancestral Shrine on the top of Twin Peak Hill and the Ancient Stone Well in the rear mountain." Her mind raced, piecing together the fragments of their journey. If the legendary Krogh Hanz was not in those places, she faced the daunting task of scouring the entire mountain estate, as if plucking a single silver needle in a roiling abyss of horrors. Her thoughts turned grim. According to Jorge Blue and Rodney Luther’s infer, even Garrick a ninth-stage Qi Refining cultivator, had perished in that cursed Ancestral Shrine, and Shirley Quinn’s Suicide Squad had met their end at the Ancient Stone Well. Both potential formation core locations were death traps, their dangers capable of overwhelming even the strongest sect comrades among them. At only the Eighth Layer of Qi Refinement Stage, Emma knew she was ill-equipped to face such perils. Yet the image of her beloved Rodney Luther and the squad captain Jorge Blue, trapped within the devil sword’s bound formation, spurred her forward. Their lives depended on her success. Gritting her teeth, the beautiful female cultivator steeled herself and headed toward the Twin Peak Hill for the Ancestral Shrine, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and determination. As Emma reached the front mountain’s base, she nearly collided with Donovan Valdez, his figure dashing out of the shadows rapidly like a specter. "Mister First Dominator?! Senior Brother?" she gasped, her eyes widening. Jorge’s earlier warning words echoed in her mind, and she instinctively glanced behind him, noting the absence of his Dominator Squad companions. "Did you just come from the Ancestral Shrine?" Her voice trembled, dread creeping in. Had Dominator Squad been wiped out, as so many other sect comrades had? If so, entering the shrine would be suicide, even for someone like her unafraid of death. Emma hesitated, then rallied her thoughts. She needed only to find Krogh Hanz, not conquer the unknown dangers in that Ancestral Shrine. Before she could utter a word, Donovan’s brow dipped into a scowl, his piercing stare cutting through her like a blade. The captain of Dominator Squad didn’t ask—he demanded. "Where the hell are Jorge Blue and the others?" His voice was ice, edged with disdain. "Why are you the only one here?" The question wasn’t curiosity—it was an accusation. To him, her solitude reeked of deception, as if she were complicit in the estate’s lurking betrayal. Seized the chance to explain, Emma took a steadying breath and clasped her hands before her, her voice calm but earnest. "Mister First Dominator, if I may—Jorge Blue and Rodney Luther met with unforeseen difficulties. They entrusted me to inquire about the condition in Ancestral Shrine. Might you have seen Senior Brother Krogh Hanz there?" Her gaze remained respectfully lowered, though her pulse quickened with hope that Donovan could provide the guidance she needed. "Hah?" Donovan scoffed, his lip parted as he looked down at her. "Don’t tell me you actually ran into the Ju-On." His voice was a blade, cold and deliberate, slicing through her hesitation. It wasn’t concern in his tone—it was derision, the impatience of a superior forced to deal with a fool who’d stumbled into danger. "Speak up. Or did it already get to you?" "No, not the Ju-On!" Emma said quickly, relief flooding her as she realized Donovan’s search in the Ancestral Shrine had yielded positive results. "We Thirst Bull Squad had encountered Senior Brother Krogh Hanz’s soulbound sword." Her words tumbled out, eager to share the breakthrough and avoid a perilous journey into the shrine. Emma’s gaze flicked up briefly, seeking his reaction—hoping he’d see the wisdom in sparing them the perilous descent. Donovan’s eyes ignited—first shock, then a dark, predatory gleam, like a starving wolf catching the scent of blood. "The Sword of Red Run?" His voice was a jagged blade, scraping against bone, stripping away all pretense. "Senior Brother Hanz himself instructed me with retrieving this Soulbound Artifact. Yet you stand here, wasting my time instead of leading me to it?" He didn’t ask. He didn’t request. His command was a thunderclap, heavy with the weight of his peak Ninth layer cultivation aura—a silent, suffocating pressure that warned disobedience would be met with crippling consequences. To him, the sword was no mere relic. It was a sliver of destiny, a fang ripped from the jaws of the heavens and abyss themselves. With it, he would sever the Estate’s curse like a butcher cleaving sinew from bone, and carve his name into the annals of the sect. —— By the shores of Driftdream Loch, Lordi Payne touched down with a whisper-soft impact, the last embers of his Blood Spectre Footwork Art dissipating like dying firelight. The earth beneath him was damp, the air thick with the metallic tang of something ancient and unseen—a presence that clung to the back of his throat like the aftertaste of a curse. The lake stretched before him, a vast expanse of black glass, its surface so unnervingly still it seemed less like water and more like a portal into another world. The blood moon’s glow seeped into its depths, staining the obsidian surface a diluted, sickly crimson, as though the very essence of the lake had been steeped in something unholy. The reflection it cast was too perfect—too deliberate. The jagged silhouette of the mountain estate, the twisted willow trees lining the shore, even the flickering shadows of unseen things—all were mirrored with an eerie, unnatural precision. It was as if the lake were not a reflection at all, but a second realm lurking just beneath the skin of this one, waiting for the right moment to bleed through. And there, suspended in the air like a sliver of carved nightmare, was the sword. It hung above the water, its dark red blade pulsing faintly, as though breathing. The moon’s pallid light touched its edge, only to be swallowed and transformed—exhaled back into the world as a deeper, hungrier crimson. This was no ordinary weapon, no mere forged steel. The metal seemed alive, its surface shifting like liquid, as though it had been quenched not in water or fire, but in the still-beating heart of something monstrous. The longer Lordi stared, the more he swore he could see veins of black threading through the blade, writhing beneath the surface like serpents in a pool of blood. Its aura was a physical force—sharp enough to sting his eyes, oppressive enough to weigh upon his chest like a hand pressing down. The very air around it hummed with a low, insidious resonance, a sound that was less noise and more the echo of something whispering from the edge of oblivion. Lordi averted his gaze instantly, his pulse hammering in his throat. There was no mistaking it—this was Krogh’s Soulbound Spirit Sword, a relic steeped in enough slaughter to have developed a will of its own. Swallowing hard, he dropped into a deep bow, his voice steady despite the cold sweat gathering at his temples. "I am Kinson Wexford," he announced, the lie smooth on his tongue. "Sent by the mighty Senior Brother Krogh Hanz to—" The sword moved before Lordi could finish. There was no warning—no shift in the air, no flicker of intent. One moment, it hung suspended in silence. The next, three arcs of sword qi erupted from its edge, each one wrapped in a torrent of blood-red light. They cut through the night with lethal precision, the very air screaming as it split beneath their passage. The attack was not just meant to kill—it was meant to erase, to reduce flesh and bone to nothing more than mist upon the wind. And Lordi had less than a heartbeat to react. Slash! Slash! Slash! The air itself seemed to scream as the Sword Qi tore through the night, each strike faster and deadlier than the last. Lordi’s breath locked in his throat, his instincts howling as he pushed the Blood Spectre Footwork Art to its absolute limit. His body became a streak of crimson, twisting through the narrowest gap between the first wave of slashing energy. The force of it grazed his shoulder, shredding cloth and skin alike, leaving a searing trail of fire in its wake. The second strike came faster—too fast. There was no time to dodge. Teeth bared, Lordi summoned the Blood Fiend Blade Art, his Blade of Life Hater flashing upward in a desperate parry. The moment bone edge met Sword Qi, the impact nearly shattered his own bones. A deafening CLANNNG! reverberated through his arms, the shockwave tearing through muscle and tendon. Blood burst from his torn palm, hot and slick, coating the bone blade’s handle in a sticky sheen. His fingers trembled, threatening to lose their grip—but he held on, knuckles white with strain. Then came the third strike. No evasion. No deflection. Only survival. Lordi twisted his body at the last possible instant, but the Sword Qi still found its mark. A searing line of agony erupted across his ribs, slicing through flesh with surgical precision. The cut was deep—so deep he glimpsed the ghostly shimmer of bone beneath the gore. Even his near jade-tier Perfect Grade skeleton, a testament to years of brutal refinement, bore a jagged crack from the force of the blow. The impact sent him skidding backward, boots carving furrows into the damp earth. Blood splattered the ground as he dropped to one knee, the Blade of Life Hater plunged into the soil for balance. His vision swam, his breath coming in ragged, wet gasps. Every heartbeat sent fresh waves of pain radiating through his body, but his grip on the blade never loosened. He was ready to fight. Ready to die. Yet— The crimson sword hovered, motionless. Then, from its hilt, a pair of crimson eyes slit open, glowing with eerie sentience. They studied him, unblinking, as a voice—clear, resonant, and dripping with malice—echoed through the night. "Continue your words." Lordi froze, stunned by the sudden reprieve. His chest heaved, each breath a struggle against the pain. Blood dripped from his wounds, pooling beneath him in dark, spreading stains. At that very moment, the stillness of the night shattered again. Two figures streaked across the obsidian surface of Driftdream Loch, their movements swift as shadow. One ahead, the other behind. The first figure landed in a crouch, boots skidding against damp earth before rising with predatory grace. The second followed, lighter on their feet. Their silhouettes cut sharp against the bloodstained moonlight, their arrival sending ripples across the lake’s mirror-like surface. Lordi’s pulse spiked. His wounds still bled, his ribs still screamed, but none of that mattered now. Because standing across the lake before him were Donovan Valdez and Emma Dawson.