The sword light danced wildly through the mountains, weaving between trees and cliffs, leaving behind a storm of emerald wind. Wherever it passed, trees splintered and rocks shattered—the Spiritwind Sword cut through the world like a streak of azure lightning.
"Truly sharp," Fang Han murmured, eyes gleaming. The Spiritwind Formation carved into the blade hummed as it cycled through its patterns, channeling invisible currents of air. When unleashed, the sword became nothing but a blur—pure wind made steel.
With a thought, he halted its flight. The sword froze midair, hovering obediently before sliding back into its sheath with a soft metallic sigh.
"One sword in hand, and even ghosts and gods would fall," Fang Han whispered to himself. "If I were to descend into the mortal world now, an army of a thousand couldn't touch me—unless they ambushed me with crossbows, explosives, and overwhelming firepower before I struck."
He tested it again—one swing, one invisible cut, and a massive tree split neatly in half. He couldn't help but smile. This was power—tangible, precise, intoxicating.
He knew now that even elite warriors of the Body Transformation Realm would fall before him. A thousand trained soldiers could overwhelm most cultivators by sheer numbers, but against a spirit weapon—especially one that could strike from miles away—they were nothing but fodder.
A spirit weapon made its wielder the enemy of thousands.
Still, there were limits. The Spiritwind Sword excelled at offense, but its defense was lacking—it couldn't form barriers or protect against volleys of arrows. And unlike a true treasure-grade weapon, it couldn't carry him through the skies.
A treasure-grade artifact was something else entirely. Those weapons could transform freely—into orbs of light, shields, or even metallic cocoons that wrapped around their master, allowing flight, defense, and submersion into oceans or magma alike.
But treasure artifacts were rarer than dragons' tears. They required impossible materials and the personal refinement of saints—cultivators of the Longevity Realm whose divine power could bend heaven and earth.
"Spirit weapons are rare enough," Fang Han thought. "No need to dream of treasures for now. I'll need a convincing excuse for that Spiritwind Sword when I meet Mo Shijie and the others…"
After finishing his test, he used the Ten Thousand Beasts Token to summon the Crane Fairy. The creature's feathers shimmered like jade as it descended. Fang Han mounted and returned to Purple Lightning Peak by dawn, resting quietly through the night.
The next morning, he took to the skies again. The wind howled past as the Crane Fairy carried him toward the wide plains at the heart of Mount Yuhua. There, two figures were already waiting—Liu Kang and Princess Hong Yi, each standing beside their own spirit cranes.
Their mounts were impressive, though not nearly as elegant or intelligent as his own Crane Fairy.
"So, they've got connections with true disciples as well," Fang Han mused. "And with Lady Fang Qingxue already in the Hanhai Desert… maybe this invasion of the Blue Moon Kingdom isn't just about demons and bandits. The true disciples of Yuhua Sect are always at war in the shadows."
"Fang Han, you're here," Princess Hong Yi called as he landed. "The Da De royals and Mo Shijie are already waiting for us."
Before he could reply, a chorus of crane cries filled the air. Over a dozen spirit birds descended from the clouds, carrying the royal heirs of Da De and several inner disciples.
Fang Han recognized most of them—but one man was new. He stood beside Mo Shijie, dressed in a flowing green robe that shimmered faintly with spiritual light. It wasn't common cloth or standard-issue sect attire—this was a robe forged as a spirit artifact.
Even clothing of that kind was rare beyond measure. It could shield its wearer from curses, poisons, and even demonic auras. Such protection was far more valuable than offensive weapons, for even cultivators in the Divine Ability Realm could fall if their bodies were destroyed.
"Senior Brother Yuan!" several disciples greeted respectfully.
Princess Hong Yi leaned close and whispered, "That's Yuan Jiankong—the tenth-ranked disciple on the Mountain and River List."
Fang Han's expression tightened. The Mountain and River List ranked the ten mightiest inner disciples among thousands. Each of them wielded powerful artifacts and enjoyed authority nearly equal to true disciples. Their skills often surpassed ordinary Divine Ability experts.
"Yuan Jiankong," Fang Han murmured, bowing.
Yuan Jiankong's gaze swept over him like a blade. "You're Fang Han? From Purple Lightning Peak?" His tone was faint, but the pressure in his voice was crushing. "Good. I heard you seized Junior Brother Zuo's Spiritwind Sword. I'll be sure to discuss that with Fang Qingxue when we return."
A flicker of danger rippled through Fang Han's heart. This man was no ally.
"Enough, Senior Brother Yuan," Mo Shijie interjected smoothly. "Let's focus on the mission. Fang Qingxue is already in the Blue Moon Kingdom—if she kills the Crimson Prince first, that Yin-Yang Longevity Pill will slip through our fingers."
Yuan Jiankong's eyes glinted coldly. "Very well." He turned away, leapt lightly onto his crane, and took off in a flash of emerald light.
The others followed suit—the Da De royals, Mo Shijie's group, and finally Princess Hong Yi and Liu Kang.
"Be careful, Fang Han," Princess Hong Yi whispered. "Don't try to be a hero. Just survive. If things go wrong, withdraw."
"Survive?" Fang Han smiled faintly. "I didn't come here to hide. Without real battles, how could I ever stand among the inner ranks? Someday, even the Mountain and River List will have my name on it."
The quiet authority in his voice startled her. He had changed—no longer the timid servant who once bowed to others. The fusion of the Nine Aperture Golden Pill and the imprint of the Nether Emperor had awakened something fierce within him.
Liu Kang flicked his fingers and said calmly, "Don't worry. I'll watch your back. Besides, with all these people around, no one dares to act rashly. We just need their strength to fend off the demonic generals."
Fang Han nodded. "Let's go."
The flock of cranes took flight, soaring above endless mountains. Their wings glimmered like blades under the sun. Every few hours they descended to rest—the spirit birds, though powerful, were still living creatures.
During those breaks, small alliances formed naturally. Fang Han, Hong Yi, and Liu Kang stayed together. The Da De royals formed their own group, while Mo Shijie's inner disciples clustered separately. Yuan Jiankong remained aloof, silent as a drawn sword.
By midnight, the mountains gave way to an endless sea of sand. Under the pale moonlight, the dunes shimmered like liquid silver.
"We've entered the Hanhai Desert," Yuan Jiankong's voice carried over the wind. "Blue Moon City lies in its heart. We'll reach it by tomorrow. Tonight, we rest—our cranes are weary."
He guided his mount down onto the sands, and the others followed. Soon, campfires dotted the desert, casting flickering shadows. Some meditated, some ate in silence, others polished their weapons. Fang Han tended quietly to his crane, alert to every whisper of wind.
But far to the west—beyond the rolling dunes—two crimson eyes gleamed in the darkness, watching them.
And the desert began to stir.