The sky above the Green Mountain Sect was a canvas of impossible contrasts. On one side, the colossal, screaming blade of ice and wind, a technique of pure, destructive power, tore through the air, promising annihilation. On the other, a single, silent javelin of starless, midnight-black energy hovered, a quiet, absolute presence that seemed to absorb the very light and sound around it.
For the briefest of moments, the world was held in a state of suspended animation. The attacking Frostwind Sword Sect leader, his face a mask of triumphant fury, saw the strange black object appear and dismissed it as some last, pathetic defensive trinket. The elders of the Green Mountain Sect stared, their minds racing, trying to comprehend what strange artifact their Sect Master had just summoned.
And then, the moment ended.
The abyssal javelin did not wait. The instant the Sect Master's accusing finger was fully extended, it moved. It did not launch with a roar of power or a flash of light. It simply rocketed forward, a silent, black line drawn across the sky.
It met the hundred-meter-long Frostwind Blade head-on. There was no cataclysmic explosion. The colossal blade of ice and wind simply shattered. The javelin passed through it as if it were a pane of brittle glass, the powerful, solidified spiritual energy disintegrating into a harmless cloud of glittering dust and mist upon contact with the impossibly dense abyssal energy.
The Frostwind Sect Leader's eyes went wide with pure, mind-shattering shock. His ultimate attack had been broken like a child's toy. He had no time to process, no time to retreat. He only had time to bring his high-grade, ice-blue sword up in a last, desperate, instinctual block.
The abyssal javelin did not slow. It struck the sword. The enchanted blade, a treasure of the Frostwind Sword Sect, did not even offer a clang of resistance. Its very essence was unraveled by a power so dense it was like a physical law, and the blade was ground into a spray of glittering, metallic dust.
The javelin continued its path, striking the Sect Leader squarely in the chest.
The result was a brief, horrifying, and utterly silent spectacle. For a fraction of a second, the man's body erupted in a gory explosion of flesh and blood, a desperate, final protest of a powerful life being extinguished. But before a single drop could fall, the same annihilating abyssal energy consumed it all, erasing the gore, the bone, and the very dust of his existence from the world. One moment he was there, the next, there was nothing but empty air.
But the javelin's journey was not over. Its momentum carried it forward, a silent, black streak of absolute judgment. It flew past the stunned imperial soldiers and slammed into the side of the Frostwind Sword Sect's warship.
It did not explode. It punched a clean, perfectly circular hole through the ship's frosted-wood and ice-crystal hull. The impossibly dense energy continued, tearing through decks, cannons, and support beams, before exiting the other side, leaving another, identical hole.
The warship shuddered violently, a great groan of tortured timber echoing across the sky. It did not fall, but it was grievously wounded, smoke and cold energy beginning to pour from the massive, perfectly clean wound that now pierced it from side to side.
And then, there was silence.
A profound, deafening silence fell over the sky, a silence so deep it was as if the world itself was holding its breath, unable to process what it had just witnessed.
The attackers, from the lowliest Qi Condensation soldier to the powerful 2nd-level Core Formation General Vorst, simply stared, their minds a complete blank. Their ally, a Core Formation master, a leader of a powerful sect, had been… deleted. Not killed in a grand battle, but erased from existence with a casual, almost contemptuous, ease.
General Vorst's mind was a maelstrom of confusion and dawning, cold dread. 'What was that? A talisman? A single-use divine artifact? No talisman has such power. The energy signature… it was not spiritual energy as I know it. It was heavier. Deeper. Like a piece of the abyss itself. What kind of hidden treasure does this backwater sect possess?'
The elders of the Green Mountain Sect were in an even greater state of shock. First Elder Jin Wei's mouth was hanging open, his face, which had been a mask of righteous fury, now a picture of pure, dumbfounded bewilderment. Elder Ning's serene composure had completely vanished, her beautiful face pale as she stared at her own Sect Master, her mind utterly unable to reconcile the man she had known for a century with the terrifying, god-like power he had just seemingly unleashed.
And the Sect Master himself… he was perhaps the most bewildered of all. He stood there, his finger still pointing, his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum. He had expected… something. A powerful attack, perhaps. A defensive maneuver. He had not expected the absolute, silent, and utter annihilation of his opponent.
A part of his mind, the logical, rational part of a Sect Master, was screaming that this was impossible. But the other part, the part that was now basking in the terrified, awestruck gazes of his enemies, felt a surge of pure, exhilarating satisfaction he had not felt for a long time. He was the Sect Master. And in this moment, he was a god of war. He did not let a single flicker of his own inner shock show on his face however.
Down below, the thousands of Green Mountain Sect disciples, who had been watching the confrontation with terrified, bated breath, were just as silent. They had seen the enemy's attack, a terrifying blade of ice that could have destroyed their homes. They had heard their Sect Master's bizarre, boastful roar. And then… they had seen the enemy leader simply vanish.
The silence was broken by a single, powerful voice from the crowd of inner disciples. It was Han Jian. He stared up at his master, his usual calm composure shattered by a wave of pure, unadulterated, and fanatical pride.
"ALL HAIL THE SECT MASTER!" he roared, his voice full of a disciple's absolute worship.
His cry was the spark that lit the powder keg. A second voice joined, then a hundred, then a thousand. The entire Green Mountain Sect erupted in a thunderous, unified roar that shook the very peaks.
"ALL HAIL THE SECT MASTER! ALL HAIL THE SECT MASTER!"
The Sect Master heard the chant, a sound he had not heard directed at him with such fervor since the day of his ascension. The feeling was… magnificent. He slowly lowered his pointing finger, and the last of his bewilderment was burned away, replaced by the pure, intoxicating thrill of the role he was playing. He would not disappoint them.
He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his gaze sweeping over the terrified, frozen ranks of his enemies. He let a slow, cold, and utterly contemptuous smile spread across his face.
"Who," he asked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that carried easily across the now-silent sky, "wishes to test my power next?"
He raised his finger again, a single, elegant digit of judgment. He pointed it directly at the pale-faced General Vorst. "Is it you, General?"
General Vorst flinched, an involuntary, almost imperceptible movement, but a flinch nonetheless.
The Sect Master's finger moved, pointing to the soldiers on the ship's deck. "Or perhaps you? Or you?"
Every soldier he pointed at felt a chill of pure, soul-deep terror, as if the finger of death itself had just brushed against their spirit.
General Vorst, for all his fear, was still a seasoned commander of an imperial legion. He could not retreat now. To flee after losing an ally without a proper fight would be a disgrace that would see him executed upon his return. He had to test this power, to understand it. That single-use artifact, whatever it was, had to have a limit.
"You think a single, cheap trick can intimidate the Boreal Frost Empire?" he snarled, forcing a bravado he did not feel. He turned to his own elite soldiers. "Ten of you! Mid-Foundation Establishment! Charge! Test his defenses! Do not let him use that artifact again!"
Ten elite imperial soldiers, their faces grim under their horned helms, drew their weapons. They were professionals. They followed orders. With a unified war cry, they shot from the deck of the warship, a wave of cold, disciplined power, their martial spirits—Frost Wolves, Ice-Horned Rams, and Snow Leopards—materializing behind them as they charged towards the Green Mountain Sect's elders.
The Sect Master simply watched them come, he was too intoxicated by what was happening. Hearing the chants below, he responded.
"HOW FOOLISH!" he bellowed, his voice once again a thunderclap that echoed through the mountains, a sound of a god disappointed by the stupidity of mortals. "YOU DARE ATTACK ME WITH SUCH SCUM?!"
His finger became a blur as he quickly pointed at each of the ten charging soldiers in rapid succession. He's never pointed at things so quickly in his life.
And with every point, another abyssal javelin flickered into existence in the air around him and launched out. One, two, three… ten. A deadly constellation of darkness launched out around him, their silent, menacing presence a promise of utter annihilation.
The charging soldiers saw this, and their disciplined charge faltered, their eyes wide with terror. But it was too late.
The javelins flew out in straight direct lines like before exactly at the enemies that the sect leader pointed. Some tried to move sideways to dodge but the javelin just followed them.
The result was the same as before. The soldiers were not just killed; they were erased. Each one erupted in a brief, gory explosion that was instantly consumed and wiped from existence by the abyss-black energy. Several of the javelins, their momentum barely impeded, continued on. Two slammed into the already damaged Frostwind warship, creating more holes and causing the great vessel to groan and list dangerously. Three more tore through the main imperial dreadnought, punching new, clean holes through its armored hull and causing chaos and panic on its decks.
Down below, the cheers of the disciples reached a new, feverish, almost religious, crescendo. They were no longer just cheering for a victory. They were worshipping a god.
High in the sky, General Vorst and his remaining forces simply stared, their bodies shaking, their minds a complete blank. It was not a single-use artifact. It was a power their enemy could summon at will. It was the power of the Sect Master in front of them, their intel was wrong. There was a monster here.
The Sect Master looked at the terrified, broken army before him. He looked at the cheering, worshipping disciples below him. He looked at the profound, respectful awe in the eyes of his own elders. He had not felt this alive, this powerful, this… satisfied, in decades.
He threw his head back and laughed. A deep, booming, and utterly joyous laugh that was filled with the pure, unadulterated thrill of the moment. The sound echoed across the mountains, a declaration that the quiet, peaceful Green Mountain Sect was a sleeping dragon, and it had finally, terrifyingly, been awakened.