Chapter Seventy-Nine: Mo Si

Ten battles each day passed in a blur, and before long, it was the tenth day. The entire arena seemed to be ignited with anticipation, and on this final day, the crowd that gathered was larger than ever.

Yet, standing in the midst of the arena, Qiankun could not help but feel a growing sense of ennui. Across the ninety battles fought over the past nine days, not a single one had surprised him. Even though he never fought with lethal intent—hoping to draw out the more formidable high gods among the spectators—he managed only to provoke a handful of five-star demons to step onto the field. As for masters of the six or seven-star demon ranks, none had appeared.

With each fight resolved in a single move, Qiankun grew numb, his interest waning.

At last, on the tenth day, a challenger emerged who was worthy of at least some attention. In the third match, a tall, pale woman clad in a black robe strode onto the battlefield. Beautiful yet cold, she resembled a shard of ancient, unmelting ice.

Without a word, she attacked. Her weapon was a slender, semi-transparent black divine sword; with its swing, the very air warped, tearing open minute fissures in space. In hell, an attack that could rend space so easily was a clear sign: at the very least, she was a six-star demon.

“Law of Darkness? Her strength seems decent,” Qiankun mused, eyes narrowing slightly. He responded with an apparently casual swing of his own sword to parry.

A metallic clang rang out, and the woman in black reeled backward, her grip on the sword bleeding at the base of her thumb. A trace of blood also appeared at the corner of her mouth. She gazed at Qiankun in surprise, then parted her lips to speak—a cold, melodious voice, utterly devoid of emotion: “You are strong. I concede.”

“Uh...” Qiankun was taken aback by her swift surrender. Was this battle not even worth the effort? He had already held back, yet this woman withdrew after sustaining only minor injuries. It left him feeling somewhat wounded himself.

The arena erupted, cheers soaring skyward, but Qiankun frowned, his mood soured as he watched the woman’s retreating figure. It was not just her abrupt concession but also the hint of sorrow he sensed emanating from her—a sadness that seemed ingrained in her very bones, radiating from her soul. If not for Qiankun’s keen spiritual senses, it would have gone unnoticed.

To others, she was simply too cold and aloof, difficult to approach or understand, her uniqueness hidden beneath her icy demeanor.

The next seven battles were against ordinary high gods. Qiankun dispatched them with seven casual swings of his heavy black sword, ending each fight with ease.

Another high god undefeated in a hundred battles had emerged in the arena. Soon after, the Bagshaw family sent an invitation, asking Qiankun to visit their estate and prepared to enter the secret grounds of West Island to view the treasured combat projections of their family’s legendary warriors.

Upon arriving at Bagshaw Manor, Qiankun and the other undefeated mid and low gods were personally led by Young Master Sekra, the patriarch’s son, to the West Island secret grounds.

Astonishingly, the West Island secret grounds were beneath the ocean. After flying underwater for a while, they glimpsed a vast black fortress, dozens of miles across, standing deep on the seabed—like a colossal beast lurking below. Most terrifying of all, countless figures patrolled around the fortress, their numbers staggering.

As the group approached, a squad of black-armored, black-caped guards flew toward them. Each radiated a fierce aura, faces cold and stern—clearly all were experts.

“Young Master Sekra!” the leader of the squad saluted respectfully.

“They’ve arrived. Let’s go,” Sekra replied coolly. The ten black-armored guards immediately led Qiankun and the others toward the fortress, whose gates stood open.

Deep under the sea, no one knew how long this black fortress had existed. Most uncanny was the invisible force it radiated, keeping the seawater at bay—a transparent barrier encircled the fortress, repelling the ocean for a mile around.

Qiankun and his companions entered the dry zone and passed into the castle, finally arriving at an empty plaza within.

“Wait here. Someone will come soon,” Sekra said coldly. “Whether you get to enter the chamber will depend on further tests.”

With that, Sekra turned and left. Qiankun, frowning, waited quietly with the others.

After only a moment, a massive ancient dark green door, ten meters high, thundered open at the front of the plaza. Six people emerged, led by a white-haired old man clad in red armor and a crimson cape. The five behind him wore black armor but also crimson capes.

“Welcome to the Han Emperor’s Fortress,” the old man greeted Qiankun and the others with a booming laugh. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Urai.”

He had barely finished when Qiankun spoke impatiently, “Mr. Urai, spare me the formalities. Take me directly to see Lord Mosi.”

“Oh? You…” Urai’s expression changed, surprise flickering in his eyes as he regarded Qiankun. “Who are you? How do you know the lord’s name?”

“I’ve heard it mentioned,” Qiankun replied nonchalantly. “Mr. Urai, please notify Lord Mosi for me. Tell him Lord Beirut sent me—I think your lord will agree to meet.”

The mention of Beirut’s name made Urai’s face change again. “Beirut, the governor of the Azure Prefecture on Bloodpeak Continent?”

“Wait here.” After a deep breath to steady himself, Urai closed his eyes for a moment, then suddenly opened them, addressing Qiankun solemnly. “The lord has agreed to see you. Come with me.”

With a word to his subordinates, Urai personally led Qiankun deep into the castle, passing through a corridor lined with numerous relief carvings, and finally reaching the great hall at its end. Urai went to a side fireplace and opened a mysterious, wide passage made of blood-red stone, exuding a chilling aura of death.

At the end of the underground corridor, before a blood-red door with black-patterned edges, Urai halted.

“Teacher, the envoy from Lord Beirut, Qiankun, has arrived,” Urai said respectfully to the blood-red door.

Lord Beirut’s envoy? Qiankun chuckled inwardly—the reputation of Beirut certainly opened doors.

“Very well. Let him in,” said a deep, gentle voice from within. The door slowly opened a crack, just wide enough for one person.

Without hesitation, Qiankun stepped inside and saw, in the deathly stillness of the hall, a figure standing with hands behind his back.

He was a man towering two and a half meters tall, immensely robust, his short red hair like steel bristles. He wore an ancient sleeveless armor, his sturdy bronze arms radiating power.

“You are Qiankun? Beirut and I have no ties. If he sent you to me, what’s your purpose?” The red-haired giant’s gaze was piercing.

Qiankun smiled mildly. “Actually, Lord Beirut didn’t send me. I came of my own accord. My purpose is simple—to witness the strength of Lord Mosi.”

“Oh? You came here just to challenge me?” Mosi’s brow furrowed, his tone low and cold. “Boy, you overestimate yourself. You think that with the strength of a seven-star demon, you can fight me? Didn’t Beirut tell you how strong I am?”