Lin Zian battles without rest.
The rain soothes his exhaustion, yet sharpens his awareness—the clash of metal, the hiss of puppet flesh burning beneath droplets, the rhythm of killing and surviving.
With every swing of his sword, darkness trails behind the blade—deeper, heavier, more alive.
The corpse puppets press toward him relentlessly, empowered by poison Qi, rot, and formation runes carved into bone and veins.
Lin Zian blocks a claw strike, spins, and cleaves another puppet apart—but this time, the darkness does not disperse.
It lingers.
It coils around him like a living mist.
More puppets charge.
He steps forward—not with fear, but with absolute clarity.
Dark Light Sword—Fourth Form.
The blade cuts a crescent of pure darkness, and six puppets fall headless.
Yet Lin Zian barely registers the kill.
Because inside him—something is changing.
In his spirit space, darkness gathers like storm clouds.
The whirlpool begins—sluggish at first, unstable, flickering wildly as if unable to decide whether to exist or collapse.
His breathing hitches.
His vision narrows.
And outside—his body reacts.
A dense aura of dark elemental energy spreads from his skin, thick like ink seeping into the air.
More puppets sense the danger and rush him with screeching fury.
But Lin Zian does not panic.
He raises his sword again, eyes calm.
The whirlpool stabilises—tiny at first, then tightening, compressing, refining—until it becomes a perfect vortex of darkness.
His true Qi churns violently and begins to change.
It refines itself—just as the ancient hypothesis instructed:
From deepest darkness, forge the first light.
Lin Zian exhales.
The rain washes blood from his face.
And in that moment, his aura explodes outward, shaking the ground.
A corpse puppet lunges, but Lin Zian steps past it faster than lightning.
His sword flashes—precise, silent, absolute—and the puppet falls apart in neat, clean pieces.
Lin Zian has broken through.
He has become an *Ultimate Master Realm martial artist*.
The first flicker of the sixth colour—*indigo light*—appears faintly at the tip of his sword.
Hours pass.
The battlefield shifts toward the palace, and the tide of corpse puppets begins to thin—not because they stop coming, but because fewer remain alive to move.
The entire city has now gathered in and around the palace complex.
Civilians pack themselves shoulder-to-shoulder inside the courtyards and halls—crying children, terrified families, and elders leaning on guards for support.
Outside the palace walls, the fighters stand in a layered formation—martial artists, qi refiners, wizard apprentices, militia, and palace guards.
Their clothes are soaked.
They are bruised, cut, and exhausted.
But the rain makes them unbreakable. And the palace no longer feels like a place of fear—but like a fortress where hope gathers.
Tang Luyan stands beside the princess atop the palace wall, his cloak soaked, his eyes fixed westward across the river.
The lightning sea has vanished, yet what replaces it is not silence—four blurring figures exchange blows faster than mortal sight can fully follow.
Li Xueyao squints but sees nothing; her cultivation is too low, and only Tang Luyan's realm allows him to barely trace the battle.
Even then, the movements are so fast his eyes burn to follow them, yet he sees enough to know one thing—
Kong Wuya is not losing.
Tang Luyan turns from the distant battle to the palace walls, where corpse puppets still scrape and claw—yet their assault is weakening.
The defence line now holds firm, shaped by rain, spells, and steel, and for the first time since the attack began, victory feels possible.
Li Xueyao asks quietly, "Master Tang, should we finish the battle here and go support Wuya?"
Tang Luyan answers without hesitation, voice steady, sharp: "Princess, none of us have the ability to help Lord Wuya—but ending the battle here may give him peace of mind, and that is help enough."
He leaps from the wall.
In the blink of an eye, he lands in the heart of the battlefield, sword flashing, true qi roaring, cutting through puppets like tearing cloth.
Li Xueyao raises her hand and water spells explode outward—arrows, blades, and waves—carving through the rotting flesh of the enemy.
Hours grind by.
Rain becomes mist, blood becomes mud, and screams become hoarse silence.
Finally, Lin Zian, drenched in darkness like a living abyss, cuts down the last puppet.
The corpse falls, and so does the tension holding the world together.
Silence lasts one breath—then the entire palace erupts in relieved cheers.
Some weep.
Some fall to their knees.
Some simply breathe, as if remembering their lungs for the first time.
But then—
A soft chuckle cuts through the celebration like a knife through silk.
Every voice dies.
Every head turns toward the Wizard Tower.
And atop the roof where Kong Wuya once preached stands a woman in a black robe, her skin pale like rotting snow, her presence colder than the grave.
"You celebrate too soon," she whispers, yet her voice carries across the battlefield like thunder.
She raises a skeletal hand.
"Death Call."
Death energy pours from her like ink spilling into water—and seeps into every corpse on the ground.
And then—
The dead rise.
A mother sees her husband stand again, eyes empty, jaw slack.
A boy sees his brother pull himself up from the mud.
A guard sees his captain—already mourned—lift his sword once more.
And the relief of moments ago twists into horror, dread spreading faster than disease.
Now—
They are forced to fight the ones they love.
At first, the battlefield fractures—shouts, hesitation, trembling blades as familiar faces rise with empty eyes and puppet-stiff limbs.
But the truth becomes clear quickly.
These are not family, not friends, not comrades—only empty shells, desecrated corpses wearing memories like stolen clothing.
And once that realisation settles, sorrow hardens into fury, hesitation into resolve.
Steel, spell, and qi move again—this time without mercy.
Veena watches, pale lips curving faintly, her voice calm and cold as she speaks to the figure beside her.
"You're quite confident—fighting on the other side of the river while still interfering here."
A second Kaelan stands beside her—not flesh, but a lightning-forged holy spirit clone, crackling faintly like a storm trapped in human shape.
His gaze studies her—not hostile, but curious.
"You are different from them."
Unlike the three Heavenly Officials whose bodies pulse with a strange, distant frequency—like puppets waiting for a puppeteer's command—Veena's aura is independent, rooted in herself.
She meets his gaze, eyes bleak and unwavering.
"I am not a puppet like them."
Kaelan senses more—the death energy swirling through her body is powerful, but unstable, corrosive, and slowly devouring her vitality from within.
"You're reaching the limit of control," he remarks lightly. "At this pace, the death energy will consume your flesh within five years."
Veena smirks, though a faint tremor gives away the truth.
"That is my problem—not yours."
Kaelan tilts his head, voice calm, almost gentle.
"Join me. I can help you master it properly."
Her eyes turn sharp.
"Let's see if you can still live first."
Kaelan raises a brow.
"Is there difficulty?"
Across the river—*his true body acts.*
At that exact moment, Kaelan's blade of black lightning cleaves through the left Heavenly Official's neck—metal and flesh snapping apart like rotten wood.
The clone casually raises a hand and points across the battlefield.
"Look—the fight is ending."
The right Heavenly Official, seeing the tide turn, screams toward the city, panic twisting his artificial voice.
"Veena! Assist us—now!"
Before she can move, the centre Heavenly Official falls—bisected cleanly, lightning still hissing along the cut.
Seeing his allies gone, the last one turns to flee.
Too late.
Kaelan's true body dissolves into elemental lightning—silent, instant—appearing behind the escaping puppet like a shadow of judgment.
"Silent Kill."
No flash.
No roar.
Only a whisper of severed energy—as the puppet's body falls apart in the air, sliced into thin, perfect ribbons like butchered sashimi.
Kaelan gathers the remains of all three Heavenly Officials—metal components, runes, cores, and the rare puppet materials valuable enough to reshape armies.
Then he rises back to the roof of the Wizard Tower, rain still falling under his control—healing his side, restoring strength below.
His holy spirit returns to his spirit space, and only his true self remains, watching Veena calmly.
She stares at him—no longer confident, no longer mocking—only stunned, shaken, and for the first time… afraid.
Kaelan smiles, soft but unyielding.
"Now—what is your opinion?"
Kaelan already knows the answer he wants.
Because in Veena, he sees not merely an enemy—but *the seed of a new branch of the Wizard Path: Necromancy.*
Her crimes don't trouble him.
Half the city may have died by her hand—yet humans are like ants.
In a few years, the streets will be full again.
In two or three generations, memories will fade.
At most, become stories—bitter, but distant.
The transcendent will not speak, because they fear death more than morality.
And if Veena brings power or longevity, then even those who curse her today will kneel tomorrow.
Time erases horror.
Power rewrites judgment.
And those who cannot forget?
Then one day—when they are finally strong enough—they may come seeking vengeance.
If they kill Veena, then her value has already been extracted, and her existence no longer matters.
If she kills them, the world becomes quieter and more obedient.
Either outcome benefits him.
And by the time such hatred matures—years, perhaps centuries—Veena will have already established the Necromancer lineage.
After that?
Her usefulness will end.
Her life or death will be irrelevant.
Kaelan studies her now—not with anger, but with cold arithmetic.
If she refuses…
He will rip her memories apart and end her existence.
Clean. Efficient.
Veena feels his killing intent descend—huge, suffocating, absolute.
Her body trembles—not from fear of death, but from the instinctive terror of a mortal before a higher law.
Then slowly—she bows.
Kneeling fully.
Her voice is low, steady, yet shaking at the edges.
"I am yours to command, my Lord."
Kaelan smiles softly.
The killing intent vanishes—like it never existed.
Around them, the corpse puppets collapse or freeze, the death spell severed.
The battlefield falls into silence.
And far below, soldiers, civilians, and warriors lift their heads toward the Wizard Tower—staring in disbelief.
On the rooftop, they see it clearly:
*The woman who brought death to their city… kneels before the man who commands storms.*