Chapter Seventy-Three: The Ancient War (V)

On the boundless, fertile black soil plain, the guttural roars of ghastly pale monsters mingled with the furious shouts of the countless cultivators stationed here, together thundering like war drums echoing to the heavens.

This battle was of utmost importance, a struggle for survival between two utterly disparate races. Only the victors would have the right to continue thriving in this world, to multiply and endure.

And so, even knowing the odds were a thousand deaths to one life, not a single soul retreated.

The clash erupted in an instant, escalating swiftly to a fever pitch. Though the number of cultivators had diminished since the outset, those who remained were the elite of the elite—survivors of a previous devastating war that had ground them in fire and blood until their bodies, minds, and fighting instincts were as hard and sharp as the stones of an ancient mountain.

Over the years of preparation, they had received repeated tutelage from a venerable white-haired elder. Most had seen their strength increase significantly; a gifted few had even reached unprecedented heights.

With both their power and resolve fortified, their every move was formidable.

Moreover, the terrain favored them, providing a buffer.

Before the vast city gates, low walls rose like scattered prehistoric beacons, dense and disorderly, standing atop the thick earth. Though not tall, these walls were exceptionally wide—three men across. Their cores were poured from solidified black earth, their exteriors built of even harder brick. This dual-layered construction was impenetrable, even for the pale monstrosities.

Such architecture allowed the cultivators to attack while easily evading, and at the same time, hindered the monsters' movements—a double advantage.

In one shadowed corner, the first to strike was a handsome young man, standing silently. He hid behind a stone wall, hands gripping a specially sharpened black wooden spear, his entire presence so lifeless he resembled an old, withered vine.

Neither the sightless pale monsters nor his own kin could easily detect him.

His legs were staggered, knees bent, hands gripping the base of the spear as he carefully regulated his breathing, lowering his presence to the barest whisper.

This was a technique he had devised, inspired by withering vines. It lacked offensive power on its own, but combined with his self-created spear thrusts, it could unleash more than double his usual might in a single instant.

"This battle must be fought with no thought of retreat—only by risking death can we hope to live."

His eyes were dark as polished onyx, deep and contemplative. He knew well that the colossal, pallid monsters were not foes to be dispatched easily.

But he had no choice. His family—parents, siblings—were all within the city. As long as those at the front held the line, his loved ones were safe. Should the defenders fail and the city fall, nothing awaited them but annihilation.

So, for the coming battle, he would hold nothing back.

He stepped forward, lowering his center of gravity into a bow stance, the slender black spear held upright before him, its cold, sharp tip flashing with a deadly chill, imparting a sense of suffocating pressure.

In the next moment, he burst forth.

His body shot out like a straight, lethal arrow, aimed directly at the chest of a pale monster.

In midair, black, ink-like sparks swirled around him.

Within the space of a heartbeat, fate was decided.

With his full strength unleashed, the pale monster could not even react before it fell dead to a single blow.

Over the years, the young man's power had grown immensely. Born a rare genius, he had never joined any prestigious sect, but his talent and ability rivaled even the most promising disciples of the great houses—and perhaps even surpassed them.

"Kill! Kill! Kill!"

With each spear thrust, blood stained the battlefield. The young man's expression grew wild with fervor.

A thunderous pounding sounded—again and again.

The young man's brow furrowed as unease crept into his heart.

This monster's stance was too steady, so steady it left him uncertain. Its massive claws guarded all vital points of its upper body, ready for either attack or defense, poised to strike at any moment.

His own low stance further minimized his vulnerability below the waist; from any angle, it was a practical and efficient posture.

A single falling leaf tells of autumn's arrival.

His name was Ye Zhiqiu.

True to his name, the handsome youth excelled at gleaning insight from subtle clues.

From the monster's stance and aura, he sensed its formidable strength and unique presence.

This seemed to be a creature halfway through its own evolutionary leap—its power and ferocity greatly enhanced.

Against such a foe, he dared not attack recklessly. The monster, too, maintained its peculiar posture, showing no inclination toward either offense or defense.

They remained locked in a tense standoff. Time passed—how long, he could not say—until impatience gnawed at Ye Zhiqiu, sweat beading on his brow.

At last, he could endure no more!

He moved.

His sharp sword gleamed coldly as it slashed diagonally toward the monster's right hand.

The stance was stable, but every technique had its weakness. Compared to the balanced posture, the monster's extended hands were its greatest vulnerability.

Yet the monster did not panic. As if anticipating the attack, its body twisted slightly to the right, hands casually dragging its blade to block the strike. In the next instant, it twisted left, pushing the blade forward—its sharp tip darting straight for Ye Zhiqiu's throat.

The attack was fierce, but Ye Zhiqiu had prepared for a failed strike, retaining enough control to parry. As the blade thrust at him, he quickly flicked his sword to the right, dodged, and leaped back—once more, they were stalemated.

Though his first attack missed, Ye Zhiqiu was undeterred. From this exchange, he knew: his opponent's speed, skill, strength, and reflexes were all equal to his own. Against such a foe, he would need absolute focus.

He circled cautiously, adjusting his breathing, keeping the sword's tip trained unwaveringly on the monster's throat, not daring to relax for an instant.

There was no time to think. He abruptly halted his forward thrust, sidestepped, and sprang back—the monster's blade sliced perilously close, missing by a hair.

"After years of labor, the efforts of over a hundred thousand workers—success or failure will be decided here and now."

Atop the high wall, the white-haired elder muttered softly.

As his voice faded, the intricate seal in his hands was finally completed.

"This technique is called Moving the Sea—moving the seas of the Nine Continents, and covering all the lands beneath heaven."