"Great Snow Dragon Cavalry!"
"Heaven's Gate Formation—form up!"
At Chen Sanshi's command, the Hongze Battalion moved like a single machine—orderly, precise, and practiced to perfection. Every soldier fell into formation with mechanical efficiency, their movements following the exact drills etched into their muscles by years of relentless training.
But as the demonic veins neared awakening, the very air froze solid.
The temperature plummeted so low that one's lips would stick together and tear if pressed shut for too long.
Frost crusted thickly on eyelashes, turning men into statues of ice.
Even their so-called "fastest speed" looked painfully sluggish.
Every step, every movement was forced through sheer willpower, not strength.
Their bodies moved not from conscious thought, but from the memory of drills repeated endlessly in Liangzhou City, day after day, until the motions became instinct.
From twenty li away, Murong Huatou, Martial Saint of the Murong clan, led his Iron Treading Tower Cavalry in full charge.
When he saw the distant movement across the frozen plains, he sneered.
"Warriors of the Heavenly Race!" he bellowed.
"Look at them!
"They haven't even started fighting—and they're already half-frozen!"
He laughed coldly. "We just drank hot wine and warmed our blood by the fire!
"They're nothing but half-dead pigs waiting for slaughter!
"Kill them all—and the world will be ours!"
"Kill—!"
Tens of thousands of barbarian soldiers roared in unison. Their murderous intent surged skyward, merging with the foul qi between heaven and earth.
It rolled forward like a black tide that threatened to swallow the world.
Twenty li away, amid the storm, the Hongze soldiers continued forming their ranks in the biting cold.
"Jia and Yi—Eastern position, Dragon Claw—Left Army, three thousand men!"
"Geng and Xin—Western position, Dragon Claw—Right Army, two thousand men!"
"Ren and Gui—Northern position, Dragon Head—Central Army, two thousand men!"
"Wu and Ji—Center position, Dragon Body—Vanguard, three thousand men!"
"Bing and Ding—Southern position, Dragon Tail—Rear Army, three thousand men!"
"Move! Quickly!"
Hundred Commanders swung their formation flags with trembling hands.
The light banners felt like mountains pressing against their frostbitten fingers, forcing them to grip the poles with both hands just to keep them aloft.
In the blizzard's fury, the colored flags whipped through the air—each hue marking a precise maneuver.
The warhorses followed the banners' motion like extensions of the soldiers themselves.
Even the way each man held his weapon was subtly different, perfectly tuned to the formation's rhythm.
From the sky, the scene was breathtaking.
Thirteen thousand men, arranged across the frozen earth, their steps and spacing aligned so precisely with the laws of Heaven and Earth that the entire formation pulsed with an uncanny rhythm.
It began as a simple battle formation, then slowly shifted—first into a Nine-Palace Eight-Trigram pattern, then again and again, until finally…
A dragon's shape emerged.
A living formation—coiling, twisting, its body sprawling across the snowfield.
Only the dragon's head was incomplete.
Then—
a white horse stepped forward through the storm.
A white-clad man took his place at the front, spear gleaming in hand.
The missing dragon head was formed.
Yet something was still missing—its spirit.
The body was complete, but it was only a dead dragon, a hollow shell without soul or power.
The distance between the two armies narrowed.
Only five li now separated them.
Chen Sanshi took a deep breath and released the last of the mystic energy stored within his mystic pearl.
White qi spilled into the air like drifting fog, merging with the snow until heaven and earth became one seamless sheet of white.
Then, that qi circled back—flowing into the army, wrapping every soldier in threads of shimmering frost.
In that moment—
The dragon lived.
"Roar—!"
A deep, resonant sound shook the world.
Between heaven and earth, the unmistakable cry of a dragon echoed.
"What was that?!"
The Iron Treading Tower Cavalry faltered mid-charge, their expressions frozen in disbelief.
"Strange!"
"General! What kind of formation is that?!"
"Is that… a single-line serpent formation?"
"Why does it look so strange?"
"Ha! That fool surnamed Chen must've run out of tricks. He's planning to charge straight up the mountain like a madman!"
Murong Huatou raised his long blade, his tone mocking.
"This formation is all offense, no defense! Once we break through the head, the rest will collapse! Vice generals, follow my lead!"
"General—!"
"The snow—it stopped!"
"The snow?"
Murong Huatou frowned.
For two whole months, ever since the demonic veins began to awaken, the entire northern frontier—tens of thousands of li—had been buried under endless snowfall.
The blizzards had never ceased.
In some regions, the snow was piled higher than a man.
The peaks around Yin Mountain had long become glaciers.
Even the plains were solid sheets of ice, making mounted warfare nearly impossible.
By all logic, the end of the snowfall should have been a blessing.
Yet Murong Huatou felt something was wrong.
If the demonic veins were still stirring, the snow should not have stopped.
"General! Look—!"
"The snow!"
He snapped his head up—and froze.
The blizzard hadn't stopped.
It was moving.
All the snow, all the wind, was flowing toward the Hongze Battalion.
"Whhhhhhh—!"
A howling gale erupted.
The force was so violent that horses reared and men stumbled, their advance grinding to a halt.
And at the storm's center—
Was the Hongze Army.
The winds from every direction converged upon them.
All the ice and snow in a hundred-li radius were drawn into the vortex above their formation.
The land surrounding them became eerily clear—no snow, no wind—just silence.
"What kind of sorcery is this?!"
Murong Huatou's eyes narrowed as realization struck.
"The Heavenly Book?!"
"General! It must be the Heavenly Book!"
"The lightning and fog at Hulao Pass—they were real!"
"What do we do?!"
"How do we fight that?!"
Another thunderous dragon's roar ripped through the skies.
The swirling blizzard above the Hongze Battalion condensed, merging with every soldier and horse below.
The frost crawled over armor and flesh alike, fusing man, mount, and weapon into one seamless form.
The dragon shape of the formation flared bright under the storm's might—no longer faint, but vividly alive.
It wasn't a serpent formation.
It was a dragon.
An enormous dragon made of ice and snow.
"Dragon!"
"There's a dragon!"
"The Heavenly Book—he's summoned a true dragon!"
"Don't panic!" Murong Huatou barked, gripping his blade tighter. "It's just an illusion—mere trickery to frighten cowards!"
Murong Huatou steadied his troops with a loud bark. "It's just snow! Even if that's really a dragon, it's still made of snow. Look at the ground beneath your feet—step on it and it collapses! You think snow can kill you?"
The words had barely left his mouth when the mountain roared.
The snow collapsed.
"Whhhh—"
The storm still raged.
Amid the blizzard, where moments ago the soldiers of the Hongze Battalion had been half-frozen to death, the surge of snow and wind somehow didn't make things worse. Instead, in that instant, warmth returned to their limbs.
No—"warmth" wasn't the right word.
It was natural.
They felt like fish returned to water.
As if they had been born for the cold.
The pain of frostbite faded from their bodies, the numbness vanished, and even the wounds from frost cracked open and healed in moments.
Their warhorses reared high, manes whipping in the wind, their eyes blazing like stars.
"Great Snow Dragon Cavalry!"
"Charge—!"
At the marshal's command, the enormous ice dragon formation surged forward.
As they charged, ice and snow clung to their armor in layers. The frost neither melted nor fell—it fused, solidifying into translucent frost armor.
The thin sheet of frost shimmered with hidden mystic power that spread from man to mount and then to weapon, until the whole army gleamed like crystal.
The men of the Hongze Battalion became one with the dragon.
Dragon steeds neighed.
Ice blades flashed.
The mountains trembled.
The blizzard roared to heaven.
"Rumble—!"
Thunder rolled across the peaks.
Within hundreds of li, the mountains themselves began to crumble.
Avalanche.
The snow fell in waves, roaring down the slopes like a sea storm, a white tsunami that drowned the earth.
Thousands of feet of snow poured down like a waterfall from the heavens.
The hundred thousand barbarian troops, spread across the foothills, were engulfed before they even knew what happened.
Hundreds, then thousands were swallowed whole, buried alive beneath the crashing white sea.
"General!"
"They can control the weather!"
"Shut up!"
Murong Huatou's eyes burned cold. "That snow dragon's just a trick of the eyes! So much movement—it's no surprise the snow fell. This is natural, not magic. Are my warriors of the plains as cowardly as you?!"
He raised his war blade high. "Whoever draws even one drop of that white-robed man's blood will be granted a noble title!"
Just one drop of blood, and you'd be made a marquis.
The reward struck like fire through dry grass. Fear turned to frenzy.
The ten thousand Iron Treading Towers roared and charged forward, weapons raised, trampling through the snow toward the dragon.
They knew it was impossible to kill Chen Sanshi outright.
But to draw blood—that they could do.
And that single drop could buy a lifetime of wealth and glory.
Black and white waves crashed together on the snowfield.
Murong Huatou led the Iron Treading Tower Cavalry from the front, eyes cold as steel. In mere moments, he had already grasped the formation's greatest weakness—
the white robe.
He couldn't deny the man's ability.
In these deadly conditions, marching thousands of li, yet still holding an army in perfect order, with their morale unbroken—such leadership was rare beyond compare.
But one thing was clear.
The man in white was the heart of the Hongze Battalion.
If he died, the dragon would die.
And the army would crumble.
Murong Huatou clenched his jaw. According to reports, this Chen Sanshi was only at the Profound Manifestation Realm when he fought at the Agate River.
He didn't believe that for a second.
No—this man was definitely a Martial Saint already. Otherwise, how could he have annihilated the Agate River Tribe in so short a time?
As for Yu Wen Jingwen's death, that was nothing but arrogance and carelessness.
Murong Huatou would not make the same mistake.
He steadied his breathing. The two armies' vanguards were almost within striking distance.
At the forefront of the ice dragon formation—the white robe gleamed.
Murong Huatou's gaze sharpened. In his mind, he treated the opponent as a true Martial Saint.
He inhaled deeply, circulating his breathing technique to the limit.
Qi surged violently through his meridians, building layer upon layer before bursting forth as raging protective true qi.
Veins bulged across his forehead, neck, and arms. His body swelled to twice its size as blood and qi roared like fire through his veins. His war blade vibrated with power, transforming into a spectral black tiger with wings—an Xuantan Black Tiger, massive and fierce, its roar shaking the sky.
The shockwave alone forced his lieutenants to pull back several steps, unable to endure the pressure.
Flashes of his past raced through his mind—days of youth spent swinging his blade five thousand times each morning, the harsh words of his master, his first victory, his first defeat, the friends and rivals who shaped him, the battles won and lost, the climb from obscurity to legend.
Two thousand four hundred fifty-seven battles.
He remembered every one.
Duels, life-and-death fights, border skirmishes, and wars.
Among them, one thousand and one were fights to the death, ninety-six were narrow victories, and eight were battles won only by risking his life completely.
All of it—every lesson, every scar—came together in this single moment.
Everything fused into one.
This was his strongest strike.
For a fleeting instant, he could almost see it—
A higher realm, a greater world beyond Martial Saint.
This blade would not defend.
It would only kill.
Either the enemy died—or he did.
This blade could split mountains.
The black tiger spread its wings and dove, slamming through the storm, its roar splitting the air as it clawed toward the white figure ahead.
The wind howled. Snow surged. The world turned white.
Then—
A flash of cold light.
A single spear thrust.
The dragon's roar shook the heavens as the spear pierced straight through the Xuantan Black Tiger's body. The phantom beast shattered into a thousand fragments of black qi and melted into the snowstorm.
Then came a single, clear metallic chime—
"Clang!"
Murong Huatou's long blade spun from his hand, twisting through the air. He reached for it instinctively—but the true dragon before him had no intention of giving him the chance.
The spear's edge tore straight through his protective qi, surging closer to his brow and the crown of his head. The force it carried distorted his face, muscles twisting under pressure. His hair tie snapped, black hair whipping wildly in the storm.
He suddenly realized…
He was going to die.
So it was true—this man was a Martial Saint.
Just one strike.
The strongest technique Murong Huatou had ever created—his life's greatest blade—was shattered like paper in front of the white-robed rider.
Why?!
Forty years!
He had trained for forty years—and was still no match for someone who'd only cultivated three!
Bitterness burned through his chest, twisting into rage and disbelief. He gave up trying to retrieve his blade and gathered his remaining strength. He infused his palms with true energy, choosing to meet the spear barehanded—just to buy time.
Two breaths.
If he could hold out for just two breaths, his fellow Martial Saints would strike. The white robe, restricted by momentum and weapon position, would have no time to react. That instant of delay could wound him, and one mistake would lead to another—until death.
Murong Huatou roared, all protective qi bursting to his hands. He caught the spear's shaft the moment it reached his forehead.
But it was useless.
A cup of water against a burning cart.
His qi, his palms, his very bones—all shredded in less than one breath. The Liquan Spear sliced through him like tofu, layer by layer, then shot forward, drilling a bloody hole right through his crown.
"Hah…"
The sound left him with his final breath. His breathing technique halted. Murong Huatou exhaled a long stream of steam as his body went limp and fell from his horse. His eyes, wide and unblinking, fixed on the white horse and white robe before him.
Unwillingness filled his pupils. But what was he unwilling for? Even he could no longer think. The light faded from his vision, swallowed by endless black.
"Brothers—kill them all!"
The two armies collided.
First to fall—a great general.
And not just any general—a Martial Saint!
The boost to the Hongze Battalion's morale was beyond words.
"Rumble—!"
The Great Snow Dragon Cavalry clashed head-on with the barbarian Iron Treading Tower Cavalry.
Normally, heavily armored cavalry crushed light riders with ease.
But this time, the impossible happened.
The light cavalry of the Hongze Battalion—frost-armored, their mounts gleaming with ice, their weapons coated in white frost—charged like winter storms. Their power and defense matched the Iron Treaders blow for blow, yet they were twice as fast.
In truth—
All thirteen thousand Hongze soldiers had become Iron Treaders themselves, only lighter, faster, and deadlier.
The storm strengthened them.
Their power rose with every second. Some formation soldiers even fought evenly with blood-tempering warriors.
And the avalanches—
They still hadn't stopped.
But stranger still, the blizzards behaved as if alive. When they fell on the barbarian ranks, they became raging beasts, devouring men by the hundreds. Yet when they neared the Hongze formation, they turned into spiraling winds that poured strength into the great frost dragon above.
Within only a few breaths, chaos swallowed the barbarian army.
"Murong Huatou!"
Nearby, the remaining Martial Saints saw it with their own eyes.
The white horse.
The white robe.
One strike—and Murong Huatou was gone.
He had reached Martial Saint.
No—he'd likely broken through before the Agate River Battle.
Granted, Murong Huatou's final attack was all offense and no defense—but it was also his strongest.
Even so, he couldn't withstand one spear.
"Everyone together! Don't fight him one-on-one!"
Amid the chaos, the four remaining barbarian Martial Saints attacked in unison.
One wielded a spear.
One wielded twin blades.
One carried a massive hammer.
The last, though with a sword at his waist, never drew it—his hands moved instead in a flowing series of palm strikes.
He was Tuoba Junfeng, the so-called First Sword Saint of the Plains, eldest prince of the Tuoba clan.
He had learned the sword since childhood. At eighteen, his swordsmanship ruled the plains. Later, he traveled in secret through the Central Plains, learning every style under heaven. He created his own Killing-Intent Sword, with which he slew the reigning Sword Saint of the Central Plains in a single stroke.
Since age forty, no one had seen him draw again.
Because when his sword left its sheath—someone always died.
Now, the Duan clan's Martial Saint thrust his spear like a mad serpent, striking from the front.
The Yu Wen clan's twin-blade Saint lunged from the left.
The Murong clan's hammer-wielder charged from the right.
And Tuoba Junfeng stood behind them, quietly drawing in breath, nurturing sword intent.
For the first time in centuries, the four major barbarian tribes joined forces—just to kill one man.
"Wommm—"
The Liquan Spear met the Duan Saint's weapon head-on.
The next instant, the Duan Saint felt a vast, ocean-like power surge through the clash. It devoured his true energy completely. His warhorse screamed as its legs snapped under the backlash, collapsing into the snow. The rider himself was hurled from the saddle, smashing into the ground.
As the saying went—two fists can't block four hands.
While Chen Sanshi parried the spear, the twin blades flashed in from the left, only inches from his hair. But then—
A streak of sword light flashed.
The Mountain-Suppressing Sword swept out, halting the strike mid-air.
The twin-blade Saint's eyes widened. Though their weapons locked, he felt living energy coursing across the blade's surface—coiling dragons, leaping tigers. The raw power pressed against him like mountains.
He roared, forcing his qi to its limit, barely holding the clash. Shock filled his heart.
That white-robed man's qi… it was monstrous. Even among Martial Saints, it was unmatched.
Even Lü Ji might not defeat him!
But still—they were all Saints.
As long as he remained within the realm of the Martial Saint, four together could bring him down.
Chen Sanshi blocked the twin blades. Before he could counter, the giant hammer came crashing down.
He twisted, raising his spear to block.
The impact exploded with blinding light and thunder.
His protective qi surged outward, the force blasting all three opponents backward through the snow.
The dragon roared and the tiger bellowed—his protective qi fused into one, forming a complete Primordial Shield.
At the same time, the Duan clan's spear-wielding Martial Saint, who had been struck down earlier, returned to the fray.
Tuoba Junfeng continued weaving palm strikes, his movements smooth as flowing water, his killing intent building with each motion. He was still holding back his sword, waiting for the exact instant to draw it—because once drawn, it would kill.
Each time Chen Sanshi pushed two of them back, the other two filled the gap. They rotated without pause, their rhythm unbroken.
The battle had already lasted more than twenty rounds.
In single combat, none of them could match Chen Sanshi.
They all knew it too—so they refused to fight him one-on-one, forcing a rotation to deny him any opening to kill.
They were all Martial Saints.
Even Chen Sanshi couldn't afford reckless exchanges where both sides were wounded.
For now, the fight reached a deadlock.
But that deadlock—
Was good news for the Hongze Battalion.
Because—
Every single Martial Saint of the barbarian army was locked in combat with Chen Sanshi alone.
That meant the rest of the Hongze troops faced none.
And among Chen's forces, there were two experts at Major Achievement of the Profound Manifestation Realm.
With Chen absent, Wang Zhi had taken command of the Great Snow Dragon Cavalry, serving as the dragon's head in the Heaven's Gate Formation. Chu Shixiong moved freely across the battlefield, sealing gaps wherever they appeared.
Under their leadership, the thirteen thousand-man formation ran like clockwork, perfect and precise.
If the barbarian horde was a dark ocean—
Then the Hongze soldiers were a sword, cutting cleanly through that black tide, advancing without hesitation.
The frost dragon charged across the plain, its body coiling through blizzards and avalanches. Wherever it passed, corpses fell in uncountable numbers.
The ten thousand Iron Treaders had already collapsed. The frost-armored cavalry of Hongze swept forward, relentless and fearless—even when faced with an endless wall of enemies ahead.
By the fiftieth round, the four Martial Saints had rotated through countless attacks. They hadn't yet been forced back—but neither had they managed to gain ground. Worse, Chen Sanshi seemed to be growing even stronger.
"His true qi... doesn't deplete?!"
"Impossible!"
"Tuoba Junfeng! Why haven't you drawn your sword yet?!"
The twin-blade Saint shouted, his tone breaking with frustration. "You claim to be the world's greatest Sword Saint—even among Martial Saints, your blade kills with a single draw! Then draw it already!"
"Shut up!"
"Boom—!"
Tuoba Junfeng shattered a wave of qi with a palm, retreating several steps before replying coldly, "When it's time to draw my sword, I'll draw it!"
His words were calm, but his face had gone grim.
He had indeed slain a Martial Saint before.
But today—against this white-robed man—something was off. His killing intent built far too slowly, and his certainty of victory was gone. Still, the buildup was nearly complete.
Just a little longer, and he could unleash his sword.
The Killing-Intent Sword contained twelve forms. The world knew of only the first. No one had ever survived long enough to see the rest.
The twin-blade Saint sneered. "Knew we couldn't count on you! Then hold out a few more rounds! I don't believe his true energy is endless!"
"You might be right," another muttered.
The four Saints had already sensed something wrong. By the fiftieth exchange, that unease had become certainty.
The man surnamed Chen—
Wasn't weakening at all.
He was getting stronger.
Not just his will—his qi itself was growing.
An impossible phenomenon—something that defied all logic.
Throughout history, every warrior grew weaker the longer they fought. Never the opposite.
Unless—
He hadn't even used his full strength yet.
The twin-blade Saint, already exhausted, began to falter.
The moment hesitation touched his heart—
It became a flaw.
Chen Sanshi seized it in an instant. His true energy erupted outward, shaking the air. The Mountain-Suppressing Sword swept in a wide arc, forcing the other three Saints back.
Then the Liquan Spear transformed into a roaring dragon and lunged forward.
The twin-blade Saint barely reacted before it was too late.
He stumbled backward, frantically retreating—until the spear pierced through his throat.
The dragon of qi tore through flesh and bone, shattering his neck. His body froze where he stood, head bowed, dead on his feet.
One man against three—and he had slain a Martial Saint.
The world knew that even among those in the same realm, strength varied.
But that rule usually applied only below the Profound Manifestation stage.
Every Martial Saint was a peerless genius.
Yet today proved—
Even among geniuses, there were worlds apart.
Tuoba Junfeng had been building his killing intent since the first clash of armies. He was moments away from drawing his blade—but the sight of the twin-blade Saint's death shattered his rhythm.
His killing intent plummeted by twenty percent, forcing him to delay again.
Seeing even four Saints together fail to gain an advantage, the remaining three felt a chill deep in their bones. Whatever courage they had left dissolved completely.
Then—
"Rumble—!"
Atop the distant Wolf Juxu Mountain, a crimson beam of light exploded upward, piercing the clouds. The blood-red glow washed across the entire snowfield, turning everything—sky, snow, and blood—into one endless scarlet hue.
The Blood Sacrifice Formation was nearly complete.
Only two hours remained.
In two hours, every living being in Liangzhou—men, beasts, even rats hiding in gutters—would be reduced to blood and vanish from the world.
"It's almost done!"
The hammer-wielding Martial Saint laughed bitterly, gripping his weapon tighter. "That's our signal to pull back. We don't have to keep this up any longer. Withdraw first—trap him with the army!
"Even if he makes it to the summit, he'll burn through his qi! Then we can kill him at our leisure.
"As long as the altar stands, nothing else matters!"
"You're right!"
Seizing the opening created by their fallen comrade, the remaining three Martial Saints retreated more than a hundred zhang, scattering in different directions.
Chen Sanshi saw it clearly—the Blood Sacrifice Formation was about to be completed. He knew he had no time to waste chasing each of them down. They would regroup at the formation's core anyway.
Everything would be decided at the summit.
In his hands, his weapons shifted—no longer a sword and spear, but two spears.
One Liquan Spear.
One Golden Tiger-Headed Lance.
A dragon in one hand, a tiger in the other.
His true energy roared like a storm, spiraling into a tornado of qi. Everything in his path—men, beasts, armor—was reduced to pulp.
He charged toward the summit at the fastest possible speed.
Only one hour remained.
The mountain peak awaited.
The altar awaited.
The few Great Khans stared in disbelief at the returning Martial Saints—only three remained, their armor battered, their faces pale.
"Outrageous!"
"You were five Martial Saints, and in such a short time, two were slain by a single man surnamed Chen!"
"All five of you together couldn't defeat one opponent?!"
"Great Khan, we beg your forgiveness!"
The three surviving Martial Saints fell to one knee.
"That Chen Sanshi…" one said hoarsely, "I fear he's been a Martial Saint for several years already."
"The depth of his true qi… impossible for someone who just broke through!"
"The four of us fought him in rotation, and still couldn't wear him down. Even among the Martial Saints of the world, few could stand against such strength!"
"Bullshit!"
Tuoba Hongxin, the Great Khan of the Tuoba tribe, slammed his hand against his throne. "That Chen Sanshi began training in Poyang County barely three years ago! Where did he get 'several years' of cultivation? At most, he broke through to Martial Saint half a year ago! And you call yourselves warriors of the Heavenly Tribe? What 'Saint' are you worthy of?!"
"Brother Tuoba speaks true!"
The Murong Great Khan, face dark with fury and grief from losing his own Saint, vented his anger on the rest. "Forget Chen Sanshi! Even if Lü Ji or Jiang Yuanbo stood before you today, you couldn't hold them off!"
"Enough!"
The Duan Great Khan stepped forward, his tone calm. "Let's not waste our rage. There's only one hour left. He still needs to fight his way up the entire mountain—how could he possibly make it in time?"
"Not good!"
Yu Wen Jinglian suddenly pointed down the slope. "If he keeps killing like this, our Heavenly Tribe army will collapse! We won't be able to stop him at all!"
From their vantage point, they could see it clearly.
A white-robed figure, dual spears in hand, tore through the battlefield like a phantom. Wherever he went, no one could stop him. With no Martial Saints left to command, the barbarian army had lost its spine. Were it not for the heavy rewards offered for his head, they would have fled long ago.
"Useless trash!"
Tuoba Hongxin roared, veins bulging on his forehead. "Get back down there! Even if you die, you'll hold that man back for me!"
The three Martial Saints clenched their teeth. Though angry at the insult, shame burned in their chests.
To be a Martial Saint was to be proud. Their earlier retreat had been out of strategy, not fear—they knew their duty was to protect the altar, not chase glory.
But those words struck deep.
Now, pride rose hotter than reason.
"Fine!"
"We three will go hold the line!"
"Wait."
A deep, calm voice interrupted.
At the center of the altar, the High Priest of the Witch God Sect finally spoke, his black robe fluttering in the wind. "There are other cultivators nearby. You three will remain here to guard the formation core. You must not leave. The eye of the array cannot suffer even a single disturbance."
"High Priest?" Tuoba Hongxin frowned. "But someone must hold the line below!"
"You?"
The High Priest sneered, raising his staff. "You think I'd rely on you? That man surnamed Chen believes only his Heavenly Book can empower his army's formation? Does he think the Ancient Demonic Clan's immortal masters lack such means?"
With a flick of his sleeve, a formation disc appeared in his hand.
He muttered an incantation and pressed his fingers together in a secret seal.
The disc rose into the air and fused directly into the blood altar.
At once, a black mist erupted from the ground, pouring out of the evil meridian beneath the mountain.
Within moments—less than the time it took to drink a cup of tea—the black fog had spread for tens of li, enveloping the entire snowy battlefield and every barbarian soldier upon it.
"What is this?!"
Tuoba Hongxin's eyes widened.
"With this formation," the High Priest said slowly, "it won't just be the Hongze Battalion's soldiers who fight without fear of death. My Heavenly Tribe's warriors will also enter a state of frenzy—utterly fearless, utterly relentless."
"Excellent!"
The Duan clan's spear-wielding Martial Saint grinned savagely. "So long as our army doesn't break, I refuse to believe Chen Sanshi can carve his way through a hundred thousand men to reach us!"
"And even if he does—how much true qi will he have left?!"
Down on the battlefield—
With no Martial Saints left to suppress him, Chen Sanshi became a storm of death.
He tore through the barbarian ranks, dual spears flashing silver and gold.
One thousand!
Two thousand!
Three thousand!
His true qi seemed endless. Having swallowed a Fasting Pill, he grew weary but never weak.
The Hongze Battalion charged right behind him, their formation tight and unbroken.
Under that crushing momentum, the barbarian soldiers' faces twisted in fear. Their grips faltered. Their feet froze. None dared take a step forward.
Collapse was only a breath away.
Once the enemy broke—
Chen Sanshi and his men could storm the summit before the ritual completed.
But then—
The world went dark.
Black mist spread across heaven and earth.
The fog condensed into countless black worms that slithered into the seven orifices of every barbarian soldier. Only the men of the Hongze Battalion, protected by the white qi of their formation, were spared.
"What the hell—what is that?!"
The sight was visible even to the naked eye.
Wang Zhi yanked his blade from a corpse and looked up at the sky, face pale.
The mist churned like ink, writhing above them.
Moments later, the change began.
Those barbarian soldiers who had been on the verge of breaking—who moments ago had hesitated and stepped back—suddenly twisted into madness. Their eyes turned blood-red. They howled and clawed like wild beasts, throwing themselves forward with inhuman strength.
"Damn it!"
Chu Shixiong cursed through gritted teeth. "It's some kind of demonic sorcery—they don't fear death anymore!"
"So that means…"
Cao Zhi, panting hard amid the chaos, gasped out, "we can't make them break? If they don't break, how do we climb the mountain?"
Before them stood more than sixty thousand barbarian soldiers.
Behind them pressed another twenty thousand in pursuit.
They were trapped—no way back, no way around.
Only one path remained.
Kill.
Kill their way through.
No matter how many stood in the way—they would kill them all.
"Whmm—"
Ahead of the Hongze Battalion, beneath the crimson sky, a silver spear lifted high.
"Hongze Battalion!"
"Charge!"
"I—" Chen Sanshi's voice roared through the snowstorm, "—will open the way for you!"
The long spear swept across the field—
Thousands of enemies shattered instantly!
True qi surged violently. No matter how many foes stood ahead, they were all crushed into broken flesh and blood mist.
"Good! Come!"
In his Unmatched State, Chen Sanshi could feel the layers of his battle intent stacking endlessly, the kind of boundless amplification that made his blood burn. As long as he didn't fall, his power would keep building without limit!
Earlier, he hadn't been entirely certain.
Because Chen Sanshi knew—
Somewhere atop Wolf Juxu Mountain, there had to be at least one cultivator at Late or Perfect Qi Refinement Realm guarding the altar.
This wasn't a simple defense—it was the culmination of decades of planning.
And no matter how strong a Martial Saint was, he was still only a Martial Saint.
By theory, his power equaled that of a Mid-Stage Qi Refinement cultivator. Against one at Late Stage, even using every technique and method he had, what were his chances?
But since the barbarian army refused to retreat and insisted on blocking his path—
He would simply kill his way up, stacking his Unmatched battle will to its absolute peak!
The leading commander himself opened the way.
Behind him, the soldiers of Hongze Battalion roared in frenzy, morale soaring higher than ever before.
Wang Zhi's face was twisted with excitement, almost demonic under the red snowlight, his roar echoing through the storm:
"Hongze Battalion!"
"Charge!"
"Kill—!"
Five thousand!
Eight thousand!
Ten thousand!
Enemies slain—over ten thousand!
By now, blood had splashed so thickly against his protective qi that it formed a red wall around him. Chen Sanshi no longer knew how many he had killed. His world had narrowed until only the altar at the mountain's peak remained in sight.
His Liquan Spear was a storm of killing intent, a raging tide that devoured everything alive or dead that stood in his path.
Five li!
Two li!
One hundred steps!
Finally—
Under the stunned gazes of the four barbarian Great Khans, under the terrified eyes of the three surviving Martial Saints, and beneath the shocked stare of the Witch God Sect's High Priest—
A figure in white, dual spears in hand, stepped through rivers of blood and rose to the summit, bringing with him a killing intent that shook the heavens!
The battlefield before the altar fell utterly silent.
What had they just witnessed?
One man in white. Over ten thousand slain!
And not only had he killed over ten thousand—
He was unharmed.
Throughout the recorded history of the world, such a feat had never been achieved in real combat.
Not because it was impossible—
But because no one had ever reached the conditions to do it.
The world was vast beyond measure. The legendary Emperor Cao Xie, founder of the Sheng Dynasty, might have achieved such a thing. Perhaps the long-revered First Martial Saint of all ages could have as well.
But in battle, it had never happened.
No army could withstand such slaughter; they would break long before that number was reached. And no top-tier powerhouse would ever risk exhausting themselves to such an extent, inviting death from opportunists.
Yet this man in white, this Martial Saint, had done the unthinkable.
Not only had he slain over ten thousand—
He showed no signs of exhaustion!
That's right.
He wasn't even tired.
Tuoba Junfeng and the others had watched him the entire way—from the foot of the mountain to the peak—in less than two hours. Their earlier hope of wearing him down had turned to ashes.
Even a man forged from iron should have collapsed after cutting down four or five thousand. That would still have been within reason.
But ten thousand?
Ten thousand enemies?
What kind of concept was that?
They were Martial Saints too—yet how could the difference be so vast?
"The last cup of tea's time…"
The High Priest continued maintaining the array, his face calm as he commanded the nearby Saints. "Why are you still standing there? Stop him! Or do you need me to do it for you?!"
Unexpectedly, the three Martial Saints didn't flinch.
Instead, they stepped forward on their own.
They were shaken—but not afraid. What they felt now was defiance… and disbelief.
They had devoted their entire lives to martial cultivation.
And today, everything they thought they understood about martial power had been shattered.
None of them could comprehend how one man could reach such heights.
But one truth remained constant—
To become a Martial Saint was to have pride.
And when that pride was crushed, life itself no longer mattered.
"I don't believe it!"
"I refuse to believe this!"
The hammer-wielding Saint howled, voice cracking into madness. "I've trained for forty-eight years, and never—never have I seen such a thing!"
"Indeed!"
The spear-wielding Saint roared as well, surging forward with his entire life's worth of true energy, face fierce with resolve. "If I retreat now, how could I ever again call myself a Martial Saint?!"
Tuoba Junfeng said nothing.
He simply drew his sword.
The killing intent he had built since the start of the war reached its peak.
"Clang—!"
The sound rang like thunder.
The three Martial Saints—
Each pouring in a lifetime of skill and power—
Unleashed their strongest attacks in unison toward the man in white.
The reply—
Was a single dragon's roar, piercing through the black mist!
When the dust settled—
Three bodies knelt in silence, dead where they stood.
And from between them, the white-robed figure walked forward, his Liquan Spear dripping blood.
True qi surged around him like a tidal wave, his battle intent—tempered through the deaths of more than ten thousand foes—rising to its utmost peak.
Step by step, he advanced toward the altar—
Toward the High Priest of the Witch God Sect.