The estate halls ran red with shadows. Dust swirled in the aftermath of clashing qi and steel. Even as the sun climbed high, the corridors were darkened by destruction—shattered pillars, scorched tiles, and the faint scent of iron.
Ye Tian's body throbbed with pain. Deep cuts marred his torso and arms, some still bleeding despite the healing potions the system had supplied. His breath came heavy, uneven, but his eyes burned with focus. Around him, wives and shadow disciples fought fiercely, their movements precise yet visibly strained.
Xiuying's blade flashed like a streak of midnight, deflecting attacks even as bruises colored her skin. Yuhua's movements were measured but forced; sweat glistened on her brow, and Qingyao's stance wavered under exhaustion. The hall seemed to contract around them, a crucible forged of their willpower.
Ye Tian gritted his teeth, inhaling sharply. System notification: 27 minutes to disposal.
He tightened his grip on his sword, veins straining. "No time to falter… not now."
Nightlord Core System flickered. 15% currently.
He discarded the battered top he had worn, letting the long strands of hair he had tied fall. They slowly shifted from dark to a muted grey, flowing behind him as he moved. The subtle ornaments on his hair—a simple black ring and tie—clinked softly with each step, muted echoes of his controlled fury.
With a sharp exhale, he activated psychokinesis. Several swords hovered around him, spinning with cold precision. Carefully, he aligned one, channeling Night Qi into its hilt. He stepped onto it, floating—a dance of motion, a rhythm of battle—an elegant Aura Walk through the chaos.
Around him, the battlefield seemed to slow. He could not see clearly, smell, or hear; only the single white thread, an energy guide he projected in his mind, led his strikes. His sword followed it as though possessed, every movement fluid, inevitable.
First strike: a quick lunge guided by the thread, piercing the old man's left hand.
Second: a sharp motion, grazing the old man's right ear.
Third and fourth: slashes along his torso, precise and unrelenting.
Fifth: a thrust to his right hand, forcing him back.
Sixth and seventh: cutting both legs, destabilizing him.
Final strike: a clean execution to the head, the thread dissolving into darkness as the old man collapsed.
Ye Tian's breathing slowed, but his body was battered. His hands rested on the sword, kneeling amid the wreckage of the hall, chest rising and falling with effort. Shadow disciples secured the remaining foot soldiers, and his wives pulled back, giving him space to regain control.
System notifications:
50% proficiency achieved in Basic Night Core Swordsmanship.
14 minutes remaining until artifact disposal.
Ye Tian smirked faintly, exhaustion mingling with satisfaction. "Good… that will do for now."
He turned to see the artifact, still glowing faintly, trapping Ling Feng within. Even as the energy patterns began to fracture from his previous attacks, the enchantment remained unbroken.
The system's soft voice flickered:
Target secured. Nightcore integration increased. Poison Needle Throw unlocked. Ten thousand poison immunity unlocked.
He exhaled, muscles screaming but mind sharp. Around him, the shadow disciples regrouped, ready to press forward if needed. His wives adjusted their stances, eyes reflecting the same unyielding resolve he felt.
From an unknown location, a voice echoed faintly across the battlefield, carried through spiritual transmitters. It was neither commanding nor familiar, but it resonated in the hearts of those present:
> "All who witness now shall notice the birth of the Glorious King, hidden from the world."
No one knew the source—yet all could hear.
Ye Tian remained kneeling, unconscious, blood staining his torso, chest heaving under the exertion. His hair, flowing grey, caught the light as if marking him not only with age but with the weight of his power and will. Around him, the battlefield stilled, shadows lingering over the fallen, the system quietly humming in readiness.