When Elder Shi Yi's stooped yet unbending back, leading the procession of women, children, and the infirm—who clung to one another, forcing terror-stricken limbs towards an unknown passage—finally vanished into the pitch-black, seemingly bottomless maw of the tunnel entrance concealed behind a great, moss-laden rock at the fresco cave's rearmost extremity (the very wind sighing from its depths carrying an unknowable, icy chill), only then did a fleeting, almost imperceptible flicker of the tenderest sorrow and profound reluctance cross Xuanyuan Hao's crimson-rimmed eyes, already shot through with the raw veins of boundless, soul-searing grief and a hatred that bit into the very marrow of his bones.
But that fragile sliver of softness, so ephemeral, was instantly and utterly supplanted, consumed, by a chilling killing intent—so palpable it felt like a physical manifestation of ice capable of freezing the soul—and by an indomitable, forward-surging will that knew no retreat. He took a deep, ragged breath; the air, thick with the cloying reek of blood and sulfur, stung his nostrils, further inflaming the inferno of rage that threatened to devour him.
He knew, with a certainty that settled like a leaden weight in his gut, that the burden crushing his shoulders was not merely the solemn responsibility of the young leader of the Wind Tribe. It was far more: the solitary, almost unbearable hope for the very survival, the fragile continuation, of their tribe's sacred bloodline. He could not fall. At least, not before Elder Shi Yi and those trembling souls reached some semblance of sanctuary, not before those young messengers, each a precious vessel carrying the last, guttering embers of the tribe's fading life-fire, had successfully, miraculously, broken through the encroaching darkness. He, Xuanyuan Hao, under pain of eternal shame, absolutely could not fall.
"Congcong!" Xuanyuan Hao whirled, his entire being a conduit for the furious inferno of vengeance that blazed in his eyes—two bloodthirsty stars, ancient and terrible, fixed with savage intensity upon the young messenger. Congcong, pale as death, quaked uncontrollably, yet even amidst that palpable fear, galvanized by Xuanyuan Hao's towering heroism, a tiny but resolute flame of duty flickered stubbornly to life in the boy's eyes.
Behind Congcong stood a handful of other young tribesmen, the swiftest runners, most familiar with Kunlun's treacherous terrain. Their faces were still etched with the raw agony of witnessing kin and comrades perish under the demonic onslaught, their eyes reflecting a maelstrom of terror, hatred, and profound despair. Each breath was heavy, labored.
But as Xuanyuan Hao's gaze—substantial as a mountain, laden with unquestionable authority and the profound gravity of a sacred trust—fell upon them, all cowardice, fear, and despair seemed instantly swept away by an unseen, overwhelming power. In its place, a sacred fire, bearing the revered names of "Mission" and "Responsibility," blazed forth in their young chests.
"Young… Young Lord…" Congcong's voice was a ragged, hoarse rasp, yet his once-dim eyes, entrusted with this almost certainly fatal mission, now burned with a renewed, brilliant light, steadfast as a lone star guiding lost souls through the deepest night.
"Listen well, all of you!" Xuanyuan Hao's voice boomed like thunder from the nine heavens, each word striking their souls with the force of a hammer. "This charge I lay upon you is heavier than my own life! Heavier than the lives of all who remain to fight! The Great Wu Nv Chou, with her life and spirit, bought this last path to survival, this single guiding light! Congcong, you and the other messengers, listen carefully, understand fully—no mistake can be afforded!"
His gaze, sharp as a blade, swept over their flushed, youthful faces. "Remember, the eyes of the entire tribe are upon your backs!" From a hide pouch at his waist, stained with dark, dried blood, he reverently retrieved an object: the severed, crimson "Cord of Calamity," woven from Nv Chou's last heart's blood, translucent yet burning with an ominous black fire at its broken ends. This small, broken cord now held the Wind Tribe's very existence.
"This," Xuanyuan Hao intoned, his voice thick with unshed emotion, placing the cord—still radiating a faint, calming fragrance and Nv Chou's faint life-aura—into Congcong's trembling yet miraculously strong young hands. The faint warmth and the scent of blood almost brought tears to Congcong's eyes; he bit his bleeding lip, stifling a sob.
"This is the token Wu Nv Chou bought with her life, the only guide to the path of survival! Her final divine will, and a faint sense of 'Sui' and 'fire,' still linger upon it! I, Xuanyuan Hao, hereby command you! Depart immediately through the other secret exits of this sacred cave—paths far more hidden, infinitely more perilous, perhaps shadowed by other disturbed beasts of the deep! Use all your strength, all your spirit, spare no cost, and break out!"
Xuanyuan Hao's voice grew hoarse, his bloodshot eyes fixed intensely on Congcong and the other messengers, their young faces now masks of solemn, tragic heroism.
"Hear me!" he roared, each word hammered out with his remaining strength. "Whatever the price, however many lives are lost, you must deliver Wu Nv Chou's dying words and this sacred cord to our neighboring allied tribes! Tell them—Kunlun is in peril! A Nine Nether rift demon has descended! The sacred seal of Progenitor Pangu is shaken! Our Wind Tribe… faces… imminent annihilation!"
He knew it was an almost hopeless mission. What tribe would risk all for the words of a dying clan? But it was their only chance, bought by Nv Chou's sacrifice. Without this gamble, all hope was extinguished.
Xuanyuan Hao's gaze fell upon the young messengers again, his voice raw with suppressed grief, yet unyielding. "And more! Implore those distant tribes, for the sake of our shared human blood, to lend what aid they can! If any among them know of the legendary 'Sui,' or of the 'fire' that brings light, even the smallest piece of news… they must… they must get word to our Wind people!"
He paused, a final, desperate hope burning in his eyes, his voice heavier still. "Or… if, among those tribes, there are still true heroes willing to risk their lives so that humankind itself might not be extinguished… ask them, beg them, to send what warriors they can spare, to this demon-infested hell, to aid our Wind Tribe… to jointly resist this cataclysmic disaster!"
"We understand, Young Lord!" Congcong choked out, his calloused hand clutching the cold, heavy, broken cord as if it were the Wind Tribe's future and the final fate of all their sacrificed kin.
He jerked his head up, his young face contorted by grief, streaked with tears and mucus, yet his bleeding lip was held firm, no whimper escaping. His eyes, once dim with fear, now, under Xuanyuan Hao's indomitable heroism and the crushing weight of this desperate mission, blazed anew—their light like that of the morning star, brilliant, steadfast, eternal!
Congcong and the other chosen tribesmen—their young faces bearing the same expression of tragic resolve—dropped heavily to their knees on the cold ground, stained with the blood and dust of their people. Towards Xuanyuan Hao's solitary back, silhouetted against the demonic dance of countless black-fire tentacles—a figure both immensely tall and infinitely tragic—they kowtowed three times. Thud! Thud! Thud! Each sound seemed to strike Kunlun Mountain's very heart.
"Young Lord, take utmost care! We… even if we die… will deliver the Wu's sacred words and this token to our allies beyond these cursed mountains! The Wind Tribe's kindling fire… must not be extinguished!!"
With that, Congcong and the young messengers sprang to their feet. Forcibly suppressing the immense grief and longing in their hearts, they took one last, deep look at the terrifying, dark-red rift, still madly expanding as if to swallow the world, and at Xuanyuan Hao, who stood before it like an unshakeable primordial mountain, his young body desperately blocking the demonic onslaught.
Then, they whirled and charged, without a backward glance, into the shadowed depths of the sacred cave, towards the intricate, equally unknown secret escape passages. Like desperate meteors streaking through the boundless darkness, carrying the last hope of their people, they fled. Their path ahead was fraught with uncertainty, life and death in the balance, but they had to press on.
Only after the last flickering shadows of Elder Shi Yi's party and Congcong's determined group disappeared completely into the Stygian depths of the escape passage did Xuanyuan Hao's heart, stretched taut with responsibility, finally allow itself to unclench, just a fraction.
He whirled, alone, to face the dark-red, terrifying rift—a gaping maw resembling the very gates of the Nine Nethers, ceaselessly spewing forth an endless tide of pure evil and destructive will—and the countless, horrifying black-fire tentacles that surged out like a monstrous tidal wave. Their tips now dripped corrosive black ichor, emitting a nauseating, scorched odor.
His young body, not particularly burly, yet in that moment, appeared as majestic and unyielding as the Progenitor Pangu separating heaven from earth.
Xuanyuan Hao let out an earth-shattering roar of pure fury! He gripped his obsidian spear, long sated with blood, now infused with all his life essence, his unyielding will to fight, and his boundless determination to protect! The spear shaft hummed, almost unable to contain his power.
A miracle occurred! The spear's jet-black tip, without warning, began to emit a faint halo—a dazzling yet profoundly tragic, blood-red sacred luminescence! So piercingly intense was this light, it seemed capable of tearing through all darkness. Where it pointed, the very air seemed to hiss and part!
"Warriors of the Wind Tribe! Our Great Wu Nv Chou has illuminated the final path with her sacrifice! Our kin, our women and children, have embarked upon that path to survival! Now, it is our turn to spill our blood, to give our lives, to buy them that chance!"
Xuanyuan Hao's voice held no sorrow, no despair, only a boundless battle intent, as fiery and violent as an erupting volcano, and a chilling calmness that had transcended life and death.
"Our tribe's sacred blood shall not be shed in vain! Our tribe's indomitable spirit will never yield! Today, even if we all fall in glorious battle, our heroic souls will become the eternal rocks guarding Kunlun! Our unyielding will shall merge with the undying kindling fire, illuminating the path for those who come after!"
"Now, let us, with our last hot blood and fading lives, buy precious moments for our kin, for our tribe's unquenchable, eternal kindling! Let these Nine Nether demons see clearly—the children of Kunlun would rather die standing than live kneeling!!"
"For the tribe! For our ancestors! For that undying ember burning in our hearts! All of you—WITH ME—KILL!!!"
Like a blood-red star fallen from the highest heavens, burning with the flames of vengeance and a sacred fire of protection, unyielding! Like a primeval divine beast enraged, unleashing all its latent fury to protect its young! Xuanyuan Hao was the first, the most resolute, charging headlong to meet the overwhelming tide of hideous black-fire tentacles!
Behind him, the remaining elite warriors, less than a hundred souls, the last fighting strength of the Wind Tribe, were utterly consumed by his boundless, tragic heroism and unyielding will! All fear, all hesitation, all desire for life and dread of death, were instantly purified by the sacred flame of Pangu's descendants burning in their bloodline!
Their hearts held no fear, their eyes no hesitation! Grief for lost kin, love for their homeland, hatred for the invaders, and a desperate hope for the tribe's future—all transformed into a burning rage and irreconcilable enmity!
Xuanyuan Hao raised his obsidian spear, shimmering with its tragic blood-red halo, and roared, his voice carrying an ancient, sacred rhythm, as if stirring the primordial power of thunder and stone:
"Wind-Render!"
Behind him, the warriors unleashed a roar that answered the heavens: "ROAR!"
Like black lightning, Xuanyuan Hao's spear pierced a thick tentacle; foul black ichor splattered. The tentacle shrieked and fell, gouging the rock floor. He roared again: "Stone-Forge Soul!"
The warriors followed, their weapons, imbued with deadly resolve, hacking at the demonic limbs. Thuds and the sickening sound of tearing echoed. One warrior severed a smaller tentacle, only to be struck down by another, his fate unknown. His comrade, roaring, threw himself into an oncoming tentacle, buying a breath for others. From their torn throats, they bellowed: "ROAR!"
Xuanyuan Hao, his young face contorted by rage and exhaustion, his eyes blazing like two vengeful flames, raised his spear one last time. With his last ounce of strength, he cried out a phrase that pierced the soul: "Heart-Claim Sun!"
Every warrior still standing, their eyes burning with the same final flame of life, their battle intent exploding, roared in thunderous response: "STRIVE!"
Xuanyuan Hao swayed, supporting himself with his spear, his chest heaving, hot, bloody breath pluming. He looked up, his blood-red eyes like those of a wounded wolf, at the writhing black web of death. With his last strength, he roared from the depths of his soul: "Bone-Hone Edge!"
The warriors behind him, at the end of their tether, their bodies, wills, even their battered weapons, seemed to merge with the blood-soaked Kunlun rock, becoming the sharpest blades of judgment! With their very last life force, they let out a heart-rending, yet supremely glorious and unyielding response: "STRIVE!"
Their song was the primal roar of dying beasts, the unyielding battle cry of souls ablaze! Every syllable reeked of blood and fire, of bone-deep hatred for the Nine Nether demons, and a humble, desperate yearning for a future they would not see.
This was a battle of hopeless disparity. Mortals against a demon. The outcome was preordained—a tale to be steeped in endless blood, forever remembered in the tragic sagas of heroic sacrifice.
The battlefield: the deepest heart of Kunlun Sacred Cave, within the fresco grotto that once bore the most sacred faith and immortal honor of the Huaxia ancestors. Here, this final, desperate battle erupted in the most primal, tragic, and brutal manner imaginable.
Countless hideous black-fire tentacles bit, lashed, and coiled with insane ferocity. Xuanyuan Hao and his warriors, with their crude weapons and flesh-and-blood bodies, again and again, hacked, cleaved, and smashed the encroaching tendrils! Blood and black demonic ichor flew through the air; severed limbs, shattered stone, and bone fragments scattered everywhere! Every impact boomed with a dull thud, every cry was filled with unyielding will!
This was no longer mere combat; it was a contest between life and death, a collision of light and darkness, the final, most tragic resistance of mortal will against abyssal evil!
The fate of the Kunlun Sacred Cave, the future of the Wind Tribe, Steven's very life, and whether the distant messengers could bring back even a spark of hope for the kindling flame… all these uncertainties hung as thick and cloying as the blood mist in the cave, gripping every heart, awaiting an ultimate end that might never arrive.