Chapter 255: The Hand on the Chessboard

The echo of Liu Tong’s throat-tearing roar was still bouncing off the jagged cliffs when the air around him detonated.

“DIE!”

Liu Tong didn’t measure the distance. He didn’t steady his footing. Violet qi surged through his thick forearms, and with both hands locked onto the iron haft, he swung his heavy war-axe in a vicious, horizontal arc meant to shear clean through the old man’s neck.

SHING—

The crescent blade sliced straight across the throat of the grey-haired figure, passing through bone and flesh without meeting an ounce of resistance.

No crimson sprayed into the freezing wind.

The severed head did not tumble toward the valley below.

Instead, the old man’s floating torso and severed neck simply rippled like ink disturbed across still water.

Liu Tong’s boots dragged forward through the empty draft, pulled off balance by the wasted momentum of his own colossal swing. His breath hitched in his throat, his bloodshot eyes bulging in pure disbelief.

Right before his face, the severed head of the phantom rotated smoothly in mid-air, realigning with its shoulders. The hunched spine straightened out, and the wrinkled, weathered skin smoothed away into a blur of translucent light ripples. The illusion looked Liu Tong dead in his trembling crimson pupils, a wicked, razor-sharp grin splitting its lips.

“You fell for my trick again.”

The phantom slowly lifted its right hand, curled four fingers tight against its palm, and shoved its middle finger straight into Liu Tong’s face.

With a faint pop, the projection dissolved into thin air.

A strangled, wet wheeze tore out of Liu Tong’s throat. The iron handle of his war-axe vibrated so violently in his grip that the scabs along his palms tore open, weeping fresh crimson over the metal.

The sky above the mountain range began to darken. Heavy, bruised storm clouds gathered from the horizon, rolling inward at a slow, suffocating pace to shroud the high peaks in deep twilight.

Down in the courtyard beneath the golden dome, the elders stood watching the empty patch of sky where the illusion had vanished.

Elder Hua folded her arms, her lips curving into a wry, knowing smile as she shook her head. “He did this exact same thing previously.”

Beside her, Lin Shu nodded, her eyes bright with faint amusement. “It is good that I finally witnessed it with my own eyes.”

Up in the darkening gale, Liu Tong’s head snapped downward, his remaining eye blazing with uncontrollable fury. His gaze locked onto the assembled cultivators standing in the courtyard.

“You filthy bastards!” Liu Tong roared, spit and foam flying from his teeth as his voice battered against the golden barrier. “So you hid that dog inside your sect! Hand him over to me! Hand him over, or I will turn around and shed the blood of every living soul in the capital city! Come out and face my blade!”

BOOM!

A torrential wave of violet aura erupted from Liu Tong’s frame, dark lightning crackling across his blackened armor as his killing intent pressed against the barrier.

Down on the marble plaza, the disciples’ knuckles turned white against their hilts.

Elder An Ning took a heavy step forward, his beard bristling with fury as his voice thundered across the courtyard: “Everyone, prepare your weapons! We strike!”

Blades cleared scabbards with a chorus of sharp metallic rings. Disciples stepped into combat stances, their dantians flaring to life.

Before anyone could take to the air, Lin Shu stepped forward to the front of the pavilion. Her gaze drifted away from the fuming beast above, lifting toward the gathering dark clouds overhead.

Elder Wu turned his head, his brow furrowed as he looked at her. “Elder Lin, we are ready to attack.”

Lin Shu raised her hand, her voice calm and firm against the rising wind. “Stand down.”

Elder Liya stepped up beside her, genuine confusion written across her face. “What? Why? He is threatening to butcher everyone in the city! Why are you stopping us?”

Elder Wan adjusted his spectacles with a single finger, nodding in agreement as he looked over. “Exactly. Are you not worried, Elder Lin?”

Lin Shu’s expression remained steady, her dark eyes reflecting the churning storm above. “Because I can see it.”

Elder Liya frowned, glancing between the empty sky and her colleague. “See what?”

Lin Shu’s lips parted into a soft, confident smile.

“He is here.”

The heavy, suffocating dark clouds hanging over the mountain range suddenly stilled.

High above, a brilliant amber seam split the center of the dark canopy. In a single, breathtaking breath, the bruised, ink-black clouds began to bleed with molten gold. The darkness didn’t shatter—it transformed, the rolling storm clouds turning entirely golden, glowing from within like an ocean of celestial fire.

HUMMMMMMMMM—!

From the belly of the burning golden clouds, a blinding, radiant light poured downward, bathing the jagged crags, the glazed pavilion rooftops, and the entire sect below in an immaculate golden sheen.

KRA-BOOOOOOOOOM!

A deafening roar of golden thunder rolled across the valley. From the golden cloud sea, thick pillars of celestial lightning cascaded downward, striking the air around the summit in rhythmic, reverent booms, weaving a colossal court of pure, radiant brilliance in the sky.

The sheer, overwhelming luminescence forced Liu Tong to drag his bloodied forearm across his face, his single open eye squinting violently against the glare.

High in the sky, right where the golden clouds burned the brightest, the light parted.

A figure stepped out from the burning clouds.

He walked forward upon the empty sky as if stepping down a grand imperial stairway laid across the heavens, his posture loose, steady, and untouchable. Both hands were casually tucked into the deep pockets of his coat.

Shaurya wore his immaculate, signature black coat, its edges embroidered with sharp, intricate gold threading that caught the light with every step, hanging neatly over a fitted dark tunic. There was not a single speck of stone dust upon his shoulders, nor a trace of sweat upon his brow. His dark hair was clean and damp, fresh strands clinging softly against his forehead and temples, carrying the faint, crisp scent of cool mountain water—looking less like a warrior entering an apocalyptic battlefield and more like a sovereign who had simply stepped out from a cold bath to take the morning air.

Beneath his damp bangs, his eyes were pure pitch-black. Calm. Unhurried. Bottomless.

Yet from beneath his calm frame, the true weight of his cultivation uncoiled into the sky.

BOOM.

The ambient spiritual pressure of the entire region plummeted. A pure, dense, and majestic aura rippled outward from his boots, settling across the mountain peaks like a solid, unshakeable throne.

HUMMMMMMMMM—!

The space directly behind Shaurya’s back distorted, the air turning heavy and suffocating as six distinct, massive rings of deep violet-black energy ignited into existence. They revolved in solemn, hypnotic harmony, radiating the unmistakable, crushing weight of a Level 6 Spirit Lord. The dark, abyssal halo cast an imposing shadow over the heavens for several heartbeats, announcing his true realm to the entire sky, before the six rings smoothly collapsed inward, dissolving back into his frame without leaving a single ripple.

Down on the marble plaza beneath the barrier, the suffocating tension evaporated in an instant.

“The Sect Master…” an inner disciple whispered, his trembling fingers releasing his sword guard as a wave of goosebumps raced down his arms.

Beside the vanguard, Wang Tian’s shoulders relaxed, the heavy greatsword tilting casually downward as a wide, feral grin cracked across his bruised face. Beside him, Luo Chen’s hand slid off the pink-wrapped hilt at his hip, his chest exhaling a long, steady breath.

Elder Wu’s white beard stilled against his chest, his stern eyes gleaming with unshakable reverence. Lin Shu’s smile deepened with quiet, knowing pride, while Elder Liya and Elder Wan stared up through the golden light with their breath held in pure awe.

The entire sect stood beneath him in dead silence.

Their sovereign had stepped out of the clouds.

Up in the gale, Liu Tong hovered thirty paces away, his chest heaving like a broken bellows, dark blood dripping from his chin onto his torn breastplate. He glared at Shaurya’s clean, spotless coat, looked at his damp hair, and then down at his own mangled, charred limbs.

“You…” Liu Tong rasped, spit and gore spraying past his bared teeth. “Who are you?! Where is Xu Ren?! Call that cowardly old ghost out to face my blade!”

Shaurya came to a gentle halt in mid-air, resting his weight casually against the draft. He kept both hands loosely inside the pockets of his coat, tilting his head slightly as his pitch-black eyes fixed upon the trembling beast before him.

“You really don’t recognize me?” Shaurya’s voice was smooth, relaxed, and utterly conversational, carrying easily through the high winds. A faint, razor-thin smile touched the corner of his lips. “You marched all the way across the province with an eight-hundred-thousand-strong army of elite soldiers… what was the name again? Oh, right. The Death Riders. All that thunder, all that arrogance, swearing to turn the Sanatan Flame Sect into dust… and now that you’re standing on my doorstep, you don’t even recognize the man who runs the place?”

Liu Tong’s jaw clenched so violently the bone creaked beneath his flesh.

“Let me clear the fog in your head,” Shaurya continued calmly. “There never was an Elder Xu Ren of the Celestial Sword Sect. If there ever was someone pulling those strings, it was only me—the master of the Sanatan Flame Sect, the one chosen by heaven. Shaurya.”

The words hit the air with the weight of cold granite.

Liu Tong’s single eye widened by a fraction, the madness in his pupil freezing.

“I took the face of an old elder and walked right into your camp,” Shaurya said, his tone carrying the effortless amusement of a scholar recounting an old riddle. “I poured the poison into your rations right under your nose. Your invincible eight hundred thousand Death Riders died choking on their own spit without ever drawing steel against my mountain.”

Shaurya pulled his right hand from his coat pocket, lightly gesturing toward the vast, scarred horizon stretching behind Liu Tong.

In that moment, the entire province felt like a carved, blood-soaked stone grid. The great armies, the mountain citadels, the legendary strongholds—all of them reduced to wooden pieces pushed across the board by a single pair of hands.

“And you?” Shaurya chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You were so blinded by fury that you swallowed every lie I fed you. I merely pointed my finger toward your own allies, and like an obedient beast, you tore through the Celestial Sword Sect and pulverized the Cloud Peak Sect into rubble. You butchered your own alliance with your own hands and burned through your own strength, all while dancing to the exact tune I set for you.”

The last bit of color drained from Liu Tong’s face, leaving his stone-grey skin an ashen, sickly white.

The poisoned army…

The slaughter of the Celestial Sword Sect…

The annihilation of Cloud Peak…

All of it orchestrated by this brat from the very first step?

“NO!”

The word tore from Liu Tong’s chest, not as a martial war cry, but as the raw, hysterical screech of a mind completely collapsing in on itself. The veins across his temples swelled so hard they turned black against his skull. Pure madness shattered the last remnants of his reason.

“I AM LIU TONG! I WILL TEAR YOUR FLESH FROM YOUR BONE, YOU LITTLE BASTARD!”

BOOM!

A blinding plume of dark violet qi detonated from beneath Liu Tong’s boots, blowing out the air in a concussive shockwave. He lunged forward like a rabid beast driven entirely by instinct, his heavy iron war-axe screaming downward in a two-handed vertical cleave aimed to shear Shaurya clean in half.

The speed ripped through the air with a deafening screech.

Shaurya didn’t even pull his left hand out of his coat pocket.

As the broad iron blade whistled down toward his skull, Shaurya casually drifted half a step to the side. The whistling steel cleaved only empty wind an inch past his shoulder—and mid-dodge, Shaurya’s right hand whipped out in a loose, effortless flick.

SLAP!

A crisp, resounding crack echoed across the open sky.

The bare, open-handed slap struck Liu Tong flush across his bloodied cheek, snapping the brute’s head violently to the side and spraying spit and teeth into the wind.

The raw physical disrespect threw Liu Tong’s balance completely off. He tumbled through the air, barely planting his boots against the draft several paces away.

“DIE! DIE! DIE!”

Liu Tong screamed, his vision swimming in a haze of crimson. He whipped around like a wounded animal, abandoning all rhythm, stance, and form. He swung his war-axe in a crazed tempest of frantic, desperate arcs—hacking horizontally, driving the pommel forward, cleaving diagonally in blinding succession. Violent violet crescents tore across the sky, shrieking past with enough destructive force to split city walls.

Yet Shaurya merely drifted through the barrage like an unhurried shadow.

A wild horizontal slash hissed toward his ribs; Shaurya tilted his upper body backward, letting the iron edge pass harmlessly over his chest. A diagonal back-swing whistled toward his throat; Shaurya dipped his head, stepping forward into the eye of the swing, completely untouchable.

Down in the courtyard, thousands of disciples stared upward, their jaws hanging slack in absolute silence.

Even Elder An Ning’s breath caught in his throat. On paper, Liu Tong stood at Spirit Lord Level 8, swinging a mountain-splitting weapon with terrifying physical mass, while Shaurya registered at Spirit Lord Level 6. Yet high above the golden barrier, the disparity looked entirely reversed. Shaurya wasn’t even fighting back. He was casually stepping around the raging beast with minimal, fluid micro-movements, his left hand still tucked loosely in his pocket.

After slipping past the twelfth wild cleave, Shaurya let out a soft, bored sigh.

‘Tch. Pointless.’

As Liu Tong brought his axe up for another heavy overhand strike, Shaurya leaned in instead of backing away. His open right palm met the inside of Liu Tong’s wrist, lightly deflecting the massive weapon upward into the empty sky.

Before Liu Tong could pull the haft back down, Shaurya’s hand whipped across the air again.

SLAP!

Another sharp backhand struck the other side of Liu Tong’s face, splitting his lower lip and rattling his jawbone.

Before the dazed brute could recover his footing, Shaurya smoothly stepped behind him in the air, his palm snapping out in a third crisp strike against the back of Liu Tong’s neck.

THWACK!

The concussive force sent Liu Tong stumbling forward through the clouds like a drunken brawler, his arms flailing to maintain his grip on his axe. He coughed up a mixture of clotted blood and bile, his boots skidding across the draft before he forcefully stabilized himself ten paces away.

Liu Tong’s chest heaved in ragged, desperate gasps. His single bloodshot eye trembled violently, looking at the young man who stood calmly in the sky, smoothing the collar of his black coat without a single breath out of place.

Shaurya let his right hand drop back into his pocket, his black eyes staring through the trembling beast with cold, indifferent boredom.

“Is this the extent of the famous Battle Maniac?” Shaurya asked, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet peaks. “You swung all that steel, marched eight hundred thousand men, and screamed across the sky… only to look like a confused dog chasing its own tail.”

Liu Tong’s knuckles turned bone-white around the iron haft of his axe. The veins across his forehead bulged to the point of bursting, his breathing turning into a low, guttural rattle.

A terrifying, erratic crimson light began to bleed directly from the pores of Liu Tong’s skin, his core screaming beneath the strain of something far darker than standard qi.

To Be Continued…