Chapter 166: That is What Senior Brother Instructed

Chapter 166: That is What Senior Brother Instructed The air above Water Lily Lake hung heavy with a suffocating menace, thick with the metallic scent of blood and the oppressive weight of killing intent. The Sword of Red Run pulsed with a sinister crimson glow, its light staining the moonlit waters like spilled gore, twisting the reflection of the night into something monstrous and wrong. Every breath Lordi Payne drew was laced with pain—his ribs screamed from the deep gash across his side, and the blood coating the handle of his Blade of Life Hater made his grip slippery, uncertain. Donovan Valdez, the First Dominator, and Emma Dawson! Lordi’s instincts screamed at him to move, to fight, to flee. But his body, already pushed to its limits, could only tense in wary anticipation. This was a nightmare scenario. Donovan stood like a storm wrapped in cloak—towering, broad-shouldered, his muscular frame barely contained by the elegant drape of his sect’s robes. The snow-white cloak that should have marked him as serene, even noble, instead hung strangely off his form, as if violence itself had been clumsily dressed in finery. There was nothing refined about the way he carried himself, nothing delicate in the way his presence seemed to carve the air like a butcher’s blade. Hours ago, his fist had nearly ended Lordi’s life—not with a brawl, not with a duel, but with a single, distant punch that had shattered his ribs and threw him down the cliff. The memory of it still burned in Lordi’s bones, phantom fractures flaring anew with every breath. The Mister First Dominator’s previous smirk was slow, predatory, the kind of expression a wolf might wear before tearing out a wounded deer’s throat.This was no ordinary disciplined cultivator, but a typical over powerful demonic warrior. And Emma... His jaw clenched. The retard AwfulOS System had nearly forced his body to violate this lady in public, an unforgivable humiliation that had seared itself into both their minds. The way the beauty looked at him—her dark eyes blazing with hatred, her fingers twitching toward the dagger at her waist—left no room for misunderstanding. She wanted him dead. Lordi exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around his blade despite the blood-slicked grip. If the Sword of Red Run didn’t kill him first, these two certainly would. Before he could figure out why the two had suddenly moved together, the Sword of Red Run surged to life—swift, merciless. A flash of cold steel, faster than thought, split the darkness with chilling precision. The blade moved on its own, as if guided by an unseen hand, its edge singing a ghostly shriek. Slash! Slash! Slash! Three arcs of sword aura erupted from the cursed weapon, each wreathed in a bloody crimson mist—a living aura of slaughter. The air itself howled as the attacks tore forward, relentless, ravenous, seeking flesh to carve and souls to devour. The newcomers barely had time to widen their eyes before the killing light consumed them. Emma’s eyes widened in terror, her breath catching in her throat as she braced for the lethal impact. The world around her seemed to slow, every detail sharpening into horrifying clarity—the cold bite of the wind, the metallic tang of blood already hanging in the air, the way the light glinted off the descending sword aura like a crimson guillotine. Death was coming, swift and unrelenting. But Donovan, ever vigilant, had already anticipated the assault. His scarred face hardened into a mask of grim determination, his muscles coiling like steel springs as he reacted. The pearl locket around his corded neck trembled violently, its delicate chain rattling against his collarbone as he moved with the precision of a seasoned warrior. With a flick of his wrist, he unleashed a cascade of Dao Fulus, the talismans fluttering through the air like dying moths hurling themselves into a raging fire. The first wave of sword aura collided with the talismans in a cataclysmic explosion of force. The Dao Fulus shattered one after another, their fragile forms crumbling under the onslaught, filling the air with a deafening chorus of snaps and crackles. The sound was deafening—BANG! BANG! BANG!—like hundreds of thunderclaps detonating at once, the shockwaves rippling through the earth beneath their feet. For a brief, desperate moment, the sheer volume of talismans slowed the sword aura’s advance, their combined resistance dissolving the attack into harmless motes of fading light. But Donovan knew this was only the beginning. Seizing the fleeting opportunity, Donovan’s muscular form vanished in a blur of motion. His body moved with preternatural speed, his instincts honed by years of battle allowing him to evade the second sword aura by a hair’s breadth. Yet even as he dodged, a flood of blood-red light seared across his vision, the metallic stench of slaughter clogging his nose and throat, choking him before he could even scream. His senses short-circuited—sight swallowed by crimson, sound muffled as if submerged in water, even the ground beneath him feeling distant, unreal, as though he were already plummeting into the abyss. Every nerve in his body screamed in primal warning. His skin prickled, every hair standing rigid like a beast sensing the reaper’s breath upon its neck. Raw, mindless terror seized him, flooding his veins with ice. It was the third incoming strike—an apocalyptic tide of slaughter given form. The air itself seemed to shriek as the sword aura descended, a crimson deluge that blotted out the heavens. There was no time to escape, no room for hesitation. The blood-red arc already sliced through the air with a shrill, soul-piercing keen, its trajectory unerring, its hunger insatiable. "GHAAAAA—!" Donovan’s roar tore from his throat, a sound of defiance and desperation. His fists ignited with a ghostly gray-green aura, the air around him warping as his spirit energy burned through his meridians, his cultivation strength erupting in a final, reckless surge. The Bone Eroding Fist Art—a forbidden technique, one that withered flesh and corroded bone with but a touch—was his confident resort. In a flurry of motion, he unleashed near hundred of punches, each strike a furious explosion of corrosive power. His fists became blurs, meeting the bloody sword aura head-on in a relentless barrage. Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! ... The collisions sent shockwaves ripping through the battlefield. The earth beneath them cracked like brittle glass, fissures spiderwebbing outward as the force of their clash tore the land asunder. The sword aura dimmed, its edge gnawed away by Donovan’s relentless erosion, yet still it pressed forward—unyielding, merciless. The final impact erupted in a cataclysmic detonation, hurling the man apart in a storm of dust and debris. The heavens trembled, the air itself thrumming with residual energy as the sword aura finally dissolved in a burst of crimson sparks. And then—silence. Panting, chest heaving, Donovan stood firm amidst the settling dust. His fists were mangled, blood dripping from torn flesh, staining the earth beneath him in dark, spreading pools. His expression remained unyielding, though his heart sank at the sheer, overwhelming power of his foe. Only now— A deafening BOOM! shattered the momentary stillness as the second sword aura—the one that had narrowly missed him in the chaos—finally reached its destination. The energy crashed into the mountain woods several dozen meters behind him, and the impact was nothing short of catastrophic. Trees splintered like kindling, their massive trunks reduced to jagged spears of wood hurtling through the air. The earth itself upheaved in a violent eruption of dirt and debris, the shockwave rippling outward in a destructive ring. Broken trunks and shattered branches spiraled into the sky like a storm of wooden shrapnel, the devastation absolute. No wonder Krogh Hanz’s Cosmic Path Technique related poem spoke of the Ju-On’s malice—its insatiable hunger for ascension, devouring all who dared to stand in its path. Yet despite the looming threat, that Senior Brother had still prioritized Donovan to retrieve this sword first. The weight of the task settled heavily upon him, a burden as tangible as the multicolored palace belt hanging around his neck. The ornate accessory, woven with threads of gold and silver, clashed violently with his rugged demeanor, its delicate craftsmanship a stark contrast to the scars lining his knuckles. He was a battle-hardened wolf, a creature of instinct and fury. Every fiber of his being rejected the finery draped over him—his calloused hands, his unyielding stance, even the bloodstained breath that escaped his lips tore through the fragile illusion of refinement. The pain in Donovan’s hands throbbed in time with his pulse, a relentless reminder of the sword’s ruthless power. Inwardly, he acknowledged the truth: the Soulbound Spirit Sword of a true sword path cultivator was devastation incarnate. Had Krogh Hanz not warned him of the trial—the three-slash strike that awaited any who dared approach the artifact—he would have been reduced to little more than a corpse at the lakeside. Even now, the memory of those strikes haunted him—especially the third, a cleaving force that nearly shattered his guard. The wounds still wept crimson beneath his sleeves. The Mister First Dominator’s gaze slid toward Lordi, the young man standing battered yet unbowed at the lake’s edge. A flicker of suspicion ignited in his chest—sharp, insistent. What trickery is this? That brat from Thorn Squad should have been reduced to a lifeless husk after the Bone-Eroding Fist Art had sunk its venom into his flesh. And yet, there he stood, bloodied but breathing, his presence an unspoken defiance. Had he, too, endured the sword’s trial? Survived its threefold judgment? The questions coiled like serpents in Donovan’s mind, but his expression remained an unreadable mask, cold and detached. With deliberate control, he channeled spirit energy into his injured fists, the healing technique knitting torn flesh and fractured bone beneath the surface. "Might I ask—are you the Sword of Red Run?" he called, voice firm but courteous. "I, Donovan Valdez, come at the behest of Senior Brother Krogh Hanz—" "That is Right! And mighty Sword Born!" Lordi cut off Donovan’s words with deliberate intent, his voice steady and courteous, ringing clear and firm. "We’ve here under Senior Brother Krogh Hanz’s command to inspect the Hanz Clan Treasury House and retrieve a few cultivation items on his behalf." Donovan hesitated only a moment before nodding—a silent understanding passing between them. "Yes!" he confirmed, his voice carefully controlled. "That is what Senior Brother instructed." His words matched Lordi’s ruse, reinforcing the deception that veiled their true purpose. "Huh...?" Emma’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering in her eyes. On their hurried journey to the Water Lily Lake, Donovan had told her about Krogh Hanz sought the return of his Soulbound Spirit Sword. Why now speak of inspecting the Treasury House and fetching cultivation items? As an elite demonic disciple of the holy Abyss Pit Sect, the beauty quickly grasped the deception, her gaze darting between Lordi and Donovan, her mind piecing together their unspoken strategy.