The old ultimate realm martial artist stares at her, trembling, and a single word leaks from his lips like a prayer and a fear entwined, "Ancestor."
The twilight protoss descends fully now.
White wings like angelic snow, golden hair flowing like molten dawn, purple eyes untouched by mortal emotion, black-gold armour gleaming in twilight flame, and pointed elven ears marking her ancient blood.
Kaelan's gaze shifts, cold and sharp, to the old man who whispered—and then back to the divine woman.
"Ancestor," the old man repeats under his breath, almost kneeling, voice breaking between reverence and terror.
Kaelan watches her closely, ready for even the smallest reaction.
But she gives none—no recognition, no acknowledgement, not even a flicker in her celestial eyes.
She scans the frozen field, then fixes her gaze on the trembling old man and asks, "Which generation descendant are you?"
The old man chokes on a breath and answers, "Ancestor—I am Liu Kan, seventh-generation head of the Liu family. I greet you."
Kaelan floats nearby with one hand folded over his chest, watching the exchange with a neutral, detached air.
The old man's reverence is explainable; before becoming Twilight Protoss, those who reached the Divine Mind realm passed into the divine pool and returned as these beings, and their descendants worship them like living idols.
Liu Kan drops to his knees on the snow, voice cracking, "Ancestor, please deliver justice."
The old man points a shaking finger toward Kaelan and hisses, "Ancestor, Kong Wuya is a villain who disrupts the martial world."
The Twilight Protoss inclines her head and regards Kaelan with the same impassive stare that chills the air.
Kaelan keeps his posture relaxed and continues absorbing the faint spiritual residue from the snow to mend his mana, ignoring their accusations.
The woman's voice is cool when she asks, "What did he do?"
Liu Kan spits out, "He slaughtered hundreds of ordinary people and shows no remorse, refusing to surrender."
The Protoss turns fully to Kaelan and says, "I am no longer bound to human affairs, yet I cannot permit such crimes to go unanswered."
She unsheathes a black-and-gold blade that hums with twilight light and asks, "Will you surrender, or must I force you?"
Kaelan smiles without humour and replies, "Who are you to tell me to surrender, when they attacked me first?"
Her eyes narrow. "With your strength, you could have subdued them—there was no reason to slaughter."
Kaelan snorts softly. "Why waste time subduing them when one move ends it, and weren't your descendants the ones who stirred ordinary folk to attack me?"
Her jaw tightens, and she snaps at Liu Kan, "Even so, you should not have used civilians."
She steps forward and offers, "Surrender, and I will bring you to the Martial Alliance for a fair trial."
Kaelan's answer is calm and final: "I will not surrender."
She steadies her grip on the sword, voice like winter steel, "Then I will make you surrender."
She swings, and a wave of black-golden energy tears through the night, ripping space like molten light across silk.
Kaelan does not meet it—he blurs aside, streaking through the air as the slash shatters the mountain wall behind him, stone and ice exploding into dust.
Another cut follows, faster, colder, divine power humming like judgment itself, and Kaelan twists away again, boots skimming over empty air as he darts like a shadow blown by storm winds.
The woman advances without pause, each strike a command from heaven itself, while Kaelan refuses to clash head-on—he weaves, he flips, he lets the blade miss by inches, every motion a quiet acknowledgement of the gulf between them.
Above, unseen inside the cloud, his holy fetus spreads its wings and pours power into the forming storm, weaving ice, darkness, and wind like silent priests preparing execution rites.
Clouds gather across half a kilometre, thickening—pressing down—until the night seems to sag beneath the weight of churning frost.
The sky muffles, sound softens, breath grows colder, and the first flakes begin to fall—soft, white, harmless to any eye that does not understand what sleeps beneath them.
No one questions the creeping winter; late-season frost seems reasonable, and Kaelan's earlier magic feels like explanation enough for nature's early descent.
But the storm deepens, power coiling unseen like a serpent in the dark, and snow thickens into slow, heavy curtains, swallowing moonlight and choking the battlefield's breath.
Kaelan's palms thrust outward, gravity rippling from his hands and halting the woman's descending blade.
Her purple eyes narrow, voice calm yet edged with curiosity.
"Your methods resemble a qi refiner, your body matches a martial artist, and your will is akin to an ultimate realm fighter—but your energy isn't true qi. What system are you cultivating?"
Her sword flares, black-gold flames erupting in a sunburst, shattering his repulsion and driving Kaelan backwards through the wind.
A crack of thunder rolls through the cloud above, halting her pursuit as Kaelan steadies himself midair, breath sharp, muscles taut.
He knows—she still holds back.
If she unleashed fully, he wouldn't be standing; she hasn't even used a third of her strength, while he's already burned through everything but his four storm arts and the demon body he refuses to reveal.
And Winter Storm… it needs time to awaken.
She wants answers; fine—he'll indulge her as it's in his advantage.
"Wizard cultivating system," he says.
She responds not with words but with a rising slash, black-gold light carving upward in a lethal arc.
Kaelan crosses his arms, catching the force head-on; bone groans, air warps.
"You created it?" she asks, already swinging again, a sideways cut that collides with the first strike mid-air—doubling the explosion.
The blast rips him from the sky, hurling him through treetops, wood splintering as he vanishes into the forest.
She moves to follow—then freezes.
Above, the storm cloud blooms with runes, a magic circle flaring like a frozen sun, and from it dozens of ice blades dive like hunting birds.
She meets them blade-for-blade, black-gold fire cutting through ice, shattering spear after spear—
But the swords keep coming, relentless as winter itself.
The ice swords keep falling, relentless as winter itself—
and the wind begins to howl, snow thickens, thunder rolls like a heartbeat in the clouds.
Except for Kaelan and the winged woman, every being below buckles under crushing gravity and freezing air, collapsing into the snow as the storm suffocates the sky.
The woman finally raises her sword, voice ringing like divine steel.
*"Rising Moon."*
Spiritual energy floods her blade, and it glows—not like fire, but like a moon lifting from a sea of night, serene and absolute.
She swings.
A beam of pale brilliance erupts upward, splitting clouds, vaporising winter, shattering each ice sword into glittering fragments that fall like frozen starlight.
Kaelan rises from the ruined treeline, frost steaming from his skin, eyes sharp.
His hand opens into a claw.
*"Lightning Cage."*
The shattered ice pieces whirl, forming a ring around her as lightning lashes through them, welding ice and thunder into a crackling prison that locks around her form.
She does not struggle.
She only watches him—calm, measuring, ancient.
Kaelan's voice drops like winter's final verdict.
*"Winter Burial."*
The cage compresses into a coffin of storm-forged ice and lightning, sealing around her as spiritual frost thickens—layer upon layer—until the air itself freezes in reverence.
Snow whips sideways.
The world dims.
The coffin hardens, gleaming like a tomb for a forgotten god—
Then a cry ruptures the silence, fierce enough to split heaven.
*"Rising Dawn!"*
The coffin detonates.
Light erupts like a newborn sun, and the woman rises through the exploding frost, wings flaring, armour blazing with daybreak gold as she floats to Kaelan's height.
The holy fetus descends from the cloud behind him, and Kaelan steps into it—
flesh and spirit merging—
The holy form solidifies as the storm roars with renewed fury.
They face each other again, storms and sunrise poised to collide, silence sharp as a drawn blade.
The test is over.
Now comes the battle.
But before the clash can fall, the world trembles—space shuddering, sky rippling like torn silk—and a roar shakes existence itself.
A roar Kaelan knows.
His true body, bellowing from beyond this realm.
He and the twilight protoss lock eyes, understanding shared without words.
Then both ascend, streaking upward, leaving storm and shattered light behind—
racing toward the edge of the world to face whatever calls from the void.