Shattering a Legacy's Wings
The battle space held its breath. Across from Yao Xuan, the Tang San illusion's form wavered, pale and bleeding from the catastrophic feedback of its shattered Eight Spider Lances. Yet, its violet-glowing eyes held no pain, only that unnerving, calculated calm. It was a machine executing a final program.
Its hands, still sheathed in the jade-like gloss of the Xuan Yu Hand, dipped to its sides, gathering the jagged, venom-dripping fragments of its own broken external soul bone.
'Bat Wing Godly Shuttle,' Yao Xuan identified, the name surfacing from his foreknowledge with a mix of clinical respect and cold disdain. The ultimate hidden weapon technique of the Tang Sect, a masterpiece of cruel artistry that had felled giants. He could end this now. A single application of the Ancestral Dragon Shattering Void Step would put him behind the wounded illusion, a claw through its spine before it could complete the motion.
He did not move.
'I want to see it,' he decided, his nine-colored eyes sharpening. 'I want to measure this infamous technique against the dragon's scale. Let the legend throw its best. Let us see if it can scratch me.'
In the distance, the illusion's arms began to move. They didn't thrust or throw; they flowed, tracing arcs of such subtle, impossible grace they seemed to bypass the very concept of trajectory. Its fingers became phantoms, vanishing and reappearing. Then, with a whisper of displaced air, they opened.
Sixteen fragments of the Eight Spider Lances—each a shard of millennium venom and soul bone hardness—were launched. They did not fly in straight lines. They spiraled, corkscrewed, ricocheted off invisible vectors in the simulated air, attacking from every conceivable angle, high and low, front and flank. Their paths were a three-dimensional labyrinth of death, designed to overwhelm perception and negate defense. It was beautiful in its ruthless complexity.
Even with his [Eye of Observation] and heightened comprehension, Yao Xuan felt a strain. The patterns were not chaotic; they were of a higher, malicious order. 'No wonder it was considered undodgeable. It's not just speed; it's a geometric curse.'
But he was not Hu Liena, Xie Yue, or Yan. He was Yao Xuan, with the blood of the Ancestral Dragon and a will tempered across two lives.
He did not try to dodge the labyrinth. He chose to negate the board.
"Ancestral Dragon Chaos Qi!"
He did not summon the primal Chaos—that was a treasure for a true mortal threat. Instead, he channeled a vast surge of his profound blood energy into the second layer of his circulation. Nine-colored Ancestral Dragon power, dense as liquid sunlight, erupted from his body, coalescing into a shimmering, hemispherical shield that encased him. It was not the absolute negation of Chaos, but it was a barrier of supreme-order energy, a declaration of sovereignty against the entropic assault.
The shards arrived.
Ting! Ting-ting-ting-ting!
A rapid, high-pitched chorus rang out, like hail striking a bronze bell. The spider-leg fragments, carrying enough force to pierce Soul King defenses, struck the luminous shield. Ripples of nine-colored light spread from each impact point, vibrant and mesmerizing. The shield vibrated, humming with the strain, but it held. The vicious trajectories were rendered meaningless against the unwavering, holistic defense. The shards, their venomous energy spent, clattered harmlessly to the white floor.
Bat Wing Godly Shuttle, broken.
In the observation chamber, the silence was absolute, then fractured.
"How is this possible?" Wu Changkong breathed, his analytical mind scrambling. The data streams showed the attack's theoretical lethality index maxing out, yet the defense matrix around Yao Xuan hadn't just held; it had absorbed the energy with unsettling efficiency. "He's never demonstrated that ability…"
A static-filled, aged voice, thick with a shock that transcended decades of discipline, rasped from the communicator. "Changkong! What is that child's martial soul? That shield… it reads as pure, high-order draconic essence, but the density… it's impossible for a Great Soul Master!"
Wu Changkong collected himself, his voice reverent. "Vice Hall Master, I lack the full answer. His martial soul is a dragon of unprecedented tier, but this specific defensive ability… it may be a bloodline revelation, perhaps unlocked during the extreme stress of the Spirit Ascension Platform's Riotous Period." He paused, choosing his words with care. "Regardless of its origin, his potential is… boundless. I reiterate my plea. The Sect must secure his allegiance."
A long silence followed, filled only with the hum of machinery and the fading echoes of the shattered Godly Shuttle on the screens. Finally, the Vice Hall Master's voice returned, softer, carrying the weight of a momentous decision. "A talent who can face the Founder's phantom and shatter the Bat Wing Godly Shuttle… Such individuals appear once in ten thousand years. The rules exist for stability, but for the future of the Sect… I will make an exception. I will intervene personally."
Wu Changkong bowed deeply, a fierce hope kindling in his chest. "Thank you, Vice Hall Master."
Back in the arena, the last shard clattered to silence. The Tang San illusion stood empty-handed, its final gambit spent. The violet light in its eyes flickered, the simulation's energy reserves depleting.
Yao Xuan let the luminous shield dissipate. He felt the significant drain on his blood energy—using the Chaos Qi, even in this lesser form, was costly. But the victory was absolute, and the statement was made.
He looked at the fading phantom of the man who would become a god, a hypocrite, and a future threat to everything he cherished. There was no gloating in his gaze, only a quiet, solid certainty.
"Your techniques are masterful," he said aloud, knowing the illusion couldn't hear, but needing to voice the thought. "Your legacy is vast. But it is built on sand. A new dragon walks the earth now. And my foundation is stone."
He took a step forward, then paused. The mechanical voice echoed.
The points were a substantial harvest, a direct result of overcoming a legend. But as the Trial Nexus began to gather data for its final judgment, Yao Xuan's thoughts were already elsewhere. The Vice Hall Master's decision, though unknown to him, hung in the future like a storm cloud. The Tang Sect's doors were now actively opening, and their interest had just been magnified a hundredfold.
He thought of Gu Yue, likely facing her own tailored trial elsewhere in this technological labyrinth. He thought of the winter break in Tian Dou City, of the unspoken promise waiting to be fulfilled. The path was diverging. The Tang Sect offered power, resources, legacy. But it came with chains of dogma, with the shadow of Tang San's approval.
His choice had always been clear. His power was for a different purpose. His legacy would be written in tandem with a silver dragon, not in the dusty scrolls of a hypocritical god.
The pale space around him began to brighten, the trial concluding. Yao Xuan stood straight, the nine-colored light around him settling like a mantle. The first clash across 20,000 years was over. The dragon had not just endured; he had broken the legend's most famed wings. The real battles—for allegiance, for truth, for the heart of Gu Yuena—were just beginning.