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Chapter 13 - The Roaring Turmoil

Chapter 13

"Not bad."

"Don't think you can take another step forward!!"

Because of the surging power of the assault, which kept rising and showing a more significant curve, the lack of fortunate conditions became the reason—the best excuse—for a backward step to be taken, desperately avoiding the sharp, swift weight of the sword.

Dozens of times he narrowly escaped, surviving without receiving any fatal wound. Yet, while Ling Xu still felt whole and healthy, Huan Zheng's heart swelled with fury, his disgust overflowing. His disbelief became resentment, as his attacks only grew more frenzied with every passing moment.

With reckless abandon, he unleashed momentum without restraint. The madness of his sword strikes, sharpened with power, finally inflicted an injury—a thin tear slicing into Ling Xu's left thigh.

Tragic fate could no longer be avoided.

Unlike before, when he could still dodge two consecutive strikes, the overwhelming deployment of three blade strikes at once was utterly impossible to avoid, no matter how sharp his reflexes were to catch and deflect in succession.

Though pitiful was his state, his spirit refused to wither. He fought with all his will, convincing himself in the depths of his consciousness that he could still endure, that he still possessed the strength, even if the price weighed heavily on his frail reason.

Realizing the disparity of power that now left him worthy only of mockery, he instinctively fell back into evasion, trying at least to defend his position, to buy more time to stay alive before death arrived.

Yet no matter how clever or skilled he was, his movements grew slower, his evasions sluggish. The pain of his wounds burdened him, announcing the success of Huan Zheng's blade in stealing away his agility, forcing him into a desperate struggle.

No longer able to fight with the swiftness of his early stance, Ling Xu sacrificed parts of his body—his upper back, his right shoulder, even the rear of his right leg—all in vain. His balance shattered, his defense faltered, and his fall became inevitable.

He collapsed heavily, forcing his remaining strength to keep him grounded upon the rough surface of the earth, which bore silent witness to his downfall.

Even without being told, he knew his consciousness would soon fade. He would not last long, and surrendering seemed his only option.

His right toes stiffened, refusing to move, as fresh blood streamed from his torn wound. The pain was unbearable, and the gaping injury could not be ignored, no matter how unyielding his spirit had once been.

In this agonizing moment—etched forever in memory—he forced his head upward, lifting his chin slightly as if to face the calamity that loomed above him.

Not too far ahead stood Huan Zheng, poised and unflinching. His swordplay was merciless, his cold stance radiating madness. To Ling Xu, it was clear: Huan Zheng desired his death above all else, more than any form of humiliation.

Though hard to accept, the resolve of this ruthless opponent never wavered. His intent was firm—he would claim what he believed rightfully his.

It was no surprise that instead of relenting, Huan Zheng's strikes blazed even fiercer, his rage fueling relentless momentum.

And as Ling Xu staggered back, blood spilling beneath him, he was mercilessly struck again. Blow after blow forced him away, his body flung backward, powerless to resist.

Through all the chaos, Ling Xu could only endure. His lips tightened, struggling against the overwhelming tragedy.

As he was driven back dozens of meters, fresh cuts sliced across his cheek and neck, Huan Zheng's blade delivering thirty consecutive slashes without faltering.

Each strike brought him closer to ruin. It was as if he were forced into the depths of damnation, punished for every sin of his past, his spirit drowning in torment.

Blood splattered with every movement, marking the air with crimson arcs, revealing the devastation inflicted upon him.

His fall was no surprise. Ling Xu's body crumpled, broken and pitiful, painted in red.

The longer he was thrown back, the clearer it became that no salvation would come. His end drew nearer with each passing second.

The sword strikes carved deep, blood spraying as though celebrating his demise.

The crimson flow could not be stopped. No force could restrain its will to paint the earth.

The intensity overflowed, staining his body until even the whiteness of his neck disappeared.

His form was drenched in scarlet, the wounds inflicted far more terrifying than he had ever imagined.

The strikes only grew stronger, exposing layers of flesh, a sight that stirred pity and sorrow.

A miracle was all that could save him now—the hand of heaven itself reaching down to do the impossible.

But even the greatest skill, even the most willing aid, could not restore him fully.

"Haaah… haaaaah…"

"Impressive. Truly fantastic, for an outcast like you to endure something this sacred."

"Can't it be finished faster?"

"No matter—it won't be my fault, after all that's happened!"

Though his body neared collapse, Ling Xu resisted with sheer will. But Huan Zheng's iron grip closed around his throat.

With disdain, Huan Zheng lifted him easily, humiliating him without care, stripping the once-great warrior of his dignity.

Whether he relished the moment or not, his hand raised Ling Xu higher, forcing his head above his own, as if displaying his dominance to the world.

Though death loomed, Ling Xu chose defiance. He would rather die in the enemy's palm than bow, than accept defeat.

That resolve could not be altered.

From the beginning, stubbornness had been his defining trait, one of the few charms that even heaven's grace could never tame.

He uttered no plea for mercy. Instead, his gaze dared Huan Zheng to end it quickly, as if offering him a single chance.

But Huan Zheng cared little for Ling Xu's pale face, his suffering insignificant compared to his desire for victory.

Driven by hatred, Ling Xu bore the weight of humanity's scorn within him, declaring his defiance even as death closed in.

It was tragic that the spark of life was about to be extinguished.

Hearing his taunts and provocations, Huan Zheng's face twisted with fury, his rage searing like fire.

For a fleeting moment, he found satisfaction, cloaking his heart in a calm he could not deny. This was farewell, a final act before sending Ling Xu down into the abyss.

It was not exile—it was execution.

The victor stood, the oppressed fell, and the helpless could only scatter like broken leaves.

To be continued…

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