Qin Lei did not make a move until Qin Feng had slain all one hundred and eight of the Yan Yu assassins. Then, he stepped forward.
Gripping the hilt of his Thunderblade with both hands, he raised it high above his head. Breath sinking deep into his dantian, he let out a thunderous roar—and brought the blade crashing down!
Formations, by their nature, are tools to magnify strength—designed to trap, restrain, and ultimately annihilate the enemy. They are living traps, constructed not of rope or metal, but of breathing, moving warriors. Yet a snare meant for a rabbit cannot capture an elephant—just as a formation of lambs cannot bind a tiger, nor even the strongest of men contain a strike of divine lightning.
And that was precisely what fell upon them—a streak of heavenly thunder, roaring with a power that threatened to shatter the very sky. Unrelenting, uncontainable, divine.
The Thunderblade descended from above.
The light of the blade erupted like the sun bursting from behind dark clouds—ten zhang high and crackling with electric fury. The strike was like a rainbow spearing through the heavens, beautiful and terrifying; like a mountain crashing down, unstoppable and immense. It carried the will of annihilation, vast and boundless.
The roar of the blade splitting the air echoed like thunder. Blue arcs of electricity danced along its edge, snapping and sizzling with untamed violence.
Then—impact.
The colossal strike cleaved the earth in two. A deep, narrow gorge tore through the battlefield, ten zhang long, five chi deep, and as wide as a finger.
Where the blade had passed, there remained only ruined corpses—slain warriors torn cleanly in half, their severed torsos crumpled across the ravaged ground. Blood and viscera flooded the trench, forming a gruesome river of red.
Fragments of shattered blades lay scattered. The quickblade warriors had lived up to their name—they had all responded the instant the strike descended, attempting to block it. Yet none succeeded.
Not a single man could withstand that blade.
Qin Feng killed in silence and shadow; Qin Lei, in contrast, slaughtered with thunder and fury.
In that instant, the battlefield fell into stunned silence. Nearly one hundred of the 366 quickblade warriors perished beneath a single stroke. Their formation was ruined—shattered beyond repair.
From the pavilion, "Duke Du" rubbed his swelling brow and gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Who would've thought… that one palm of mine would bring about Qin Lei's breakthrough? Is this what they call fate? The heavenly sword brought surprise enough… and now this tyrant's blade brings another. Oh, how I crave these Qin brothers!"
Indeed, Qin Lei's path was the tyrant's path—the Way of the Overlord Blade.
Heaven's path and the tyrant's path were opposing extremes. The former embraced harmony, merging with nature, channeling the world's essence—this was the Way of the King. The latter defied all—pure force, crushing will, forward without retreat, domination without restraint—this was the Way of the Demon.
Yet at their peaks, both paths reached the same summit.
Heaven's way was slower but safe. The tyrant's way soared—swift and fierce—but fraught with danger. A single misstep, and one would burn out in madness.
But Qin Lei had no more fears of madness.
After surviving Hua Linglong's palm—a blow that nearly killed him—he had returned from the edge of death, reforged. Body and will alike had shattered and reformed. He had transcended the threshold, unshackled.
Though Qin Lei himself had no idea which path he walked.
All he knew was that after slaying nearly a hundred men with one strike, he burst into maniacal laughter and stormed into the panicked remnants of the quickblade formation. Wielding his Thunderblade in wide, sweeping arcs, he charged without pause—without defense.
None could resist his onslaught.
The warriors had no time to organize or counterattack. Qin Lei's blade moved with erratic brilliance—seemingly wild, but in truth flawless and free-flowing, like lightning with a mind of its own.
It cut from impossible angles, bent physics and form. The Thunderblade was alive in his hands, a sentient storm, feasting on flesh and life.
The quickblade warriors fought back as best they could, matching speed with speed, offense for offense. But it mattered not. The Thunderblade hewed through both flesh and steel alike. No block held; no counter landed.
Blood geysered into the air, raining down in red torrents.
Limbs flew, heads rolled, viscera tangled in grotesque bouquets. A scene from hell.
Qin Lei, soaked in gore, rampaged on—an avatar of war, relishing the blood that painted him from head to toe. Now, the others finally understood why his first footsteps had left bloody prints.
Second Young Master was a madman. A war demon. He didn't care if blood tainted his body—he welcomed it.
Unlike his brothers.
Eldest Brother detested blood. He followed Heaven's way—pure, serene, untouched by filth.
Third Brother—Qin Ren—allowed blood only on his hands, never his clothes. He fought for flair, for grace. Bloodstains, in his view, ruined one's image.
But seeing Qin Lei's bloody grandeur stirred something in him. A strange thrill.
The style of blood.The romance of slaughter.
The warriors of the Northern Desert were no more—mere ashes of history now.
Qin Ren's eyes left his brother's figure and settled upon the seven leading warriors of the "Celestial Constellation Array." Dressed in robes of crimson, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet—the Seven Stars of the Big Dipper—they stood at the heart of the formation.
Qin Ren smiled at them—an affectionate, gentle smile. It sent a chill down their spines.
"Stand still now, darlings," he cooed, as though soothing a child. "Let me strike a pose as I kill you. I'm the handsomest of the three brothers, so naturally, I must kill in style."
The Red Star among them nearly retched.
"Activate the Celestial Constellation Formation!" he barked.
The Seven Stars flipped backward into the sea of 365 star-robed warriors behind them. The formation surged to life.
They moved in dazzling displays—like butterflies weaving through flowers. Some soared skyward, others crawled along the earth. Some spun like tops. Their movements blurred into a kaleidoscope of motion.
Qin Ren clapped in delight. "Wonderful! Truly marvelous! Just like a troupe of opera dancers. Keep going! There'll be rewards!" He flung a handful of silver coins into the formation.
No one moved to catch them—though, regrettably, a few were struck squarely in the head, collapsed in a spurt of blood, and could no longer stand.
The Yellow Star cursed, "Despicable! Attacking us while we activate the formation!"
Qin Ren shook his head. "Where's the attack? I was rewarding you. Gods, it's true what they say—no good deed goes unpunished. With that kind of attitude, you lot won't last long on the streets as performers."
Fuming, but wisely choosing not to argue further, Yellow Star focused on completing the formation.
And with that, Qin Ren found himself trapped within its center.
"You may have injured a few of us through trickery," sneered Red Star, "but even now, with a few missing, our array is more than enough to kill you. Prepare to die!"
Qin Ren sighed.
Amateurs, he thought. Have these people never set foot in the real jianghu? Trickery is part of the game. Always has been.
Come to think of it… perhaps they hadn't.
Their movements, their speech—it was all too naïve. And even Uncle Li and Qiao Wei hadn't been able to identify their origins.
They're not from the martial world… So where are they from?
Curiosity piqued, Qin Ren raised a finger.
"Wait," he said politely. "Before we begin, I have one question."
Red Star scowled. "If you've a dying wish, I may consider granting it. Speak."
Qin Ren smiled. "I'm just curious—where are you all from? Your skills are excellent, and your formation is impeccable, even incomplete. But clearly, you don't belong to any orthodox sect. And you're not from the Demonic Path either. So who trained you?"
Red Star scoffed. "When you reach the Nine Hells…"
(To be continued.)