Chapter Twelve: The Annihilation of the Gods

The short, thin elder was aged but quick-tempered. As he released the silver hook, a flash of silver light streaked through the air like a crescent moon slicing the night. Though dazzlingly beautiful, it was perilously deadly.

The pair of silver hooks sped toward their target, yet not as swiftly as the man in the green robe. A wooden chopstick touched the silver hook ever so lightly, nudging it back along its original path. The elder performed an iron bridge maneuver, narrowly dodging the hook, but two bloody gashes appeared across his chest.

Panic flickered in his expression. He quickly tapped several points on his chest, drew out a small porcelain bottle, and poured a few pills into his mouth. It became clear that the elder was a venomous man; his hooks were coated in poison, fatal upon contact with blood. Only by taking an antidote within moments could he hope to survive.

The man in green had struck with astonishing skill, his prowess undeniable.

The King of the Golden Blade paid the elder no heed, his expression grave. Stepping through the eight trigrams, he moved from left to right, dragging his long blade along the ground. Deep grooves and a shower of sparks followed in his wake. His pace quickened, steam rising from his brow, until countless phantoms seemed to swirl about him, blurring reality and illusion.

Suddenly, amid the white haze, the blade gleamed and surged forward in a torrent. The man in green's brows twitched; this blade technique was derived from the sword move "The Endless Yangtze Rolls On," not only powerful in its initial strike but relentless in its follow-through.

The King of the Golden Blade possessed innate strength, his internal skills deep and formidable—a first-rate figure in the martial world, not to be underestimated. While the elder was infamous for his brutal hook technique and lethal poisons, his internal power could not match the King’s grand and domineering force.

He had recently grasped some subtle principles of martial arts, far surpassing the level he had when he was driven into the northern desert years ago. Martial arts from the northern desert followed nature, forged in the crucible of life-and-death struggles, simple yet powerful. His own skills had evolved from complexity to simplicity, allowing him to spot the flaw in the elder's hook technique at a glance.

The earlier reversal of the silver hook with a chopstick seemed effortless, but it was a testament to his years of martial refinement.

The King of the Golden Blade was unstoppable, the aura of his blade like the Yangtze River, rushing to the sea without turning back.

Yet as the blade flashed with incredible speed, the man in green moved even faster. With one hand, he grabbed the young beggar; with the other, he seized a long bench.

Though the King’s blade was long, it did not match the length of the bench.

Infused with the man in green's internal energy, the bench was no less sturdy than iron. He swung it diagonally, shattering the rolling blade light. It was as though a dragon had dived into the sea, summoning wind and rain.

Though he wielded a bench, his moves were blade techniques—seemingly direct, but full of hidden transformations, shifting from solid to intangible.

The King’s blade light, tangled with the bench, sent dishes and wine scattering across the floor. Meanwhile, the man in green, holding the beggar, had moved ten paces away, already at the threshold.

Shen Lian acted swiftly, dodging aside and escaping misfortune.

But the man in green could not exit, for outside the door, five sword lights appeared in quick succession, targeting his limbs and head—each aimed at one of his five vital points.

He retreated a step, then thrust out a palm. A gust of chilling wind howled forth; muffled groans echoed, and someone cried out, "The Sword of Destroyed Gods!"

The man in green, with the beggar in tow, was caught between the King of the Golden Blade behind and five swordsmen in identical attire before him.

The leader of the five was a middle-aged man with a blue scarf wrapped around his head—the chief of the Green Bamboo League.

At that moment, all five were pallid. Except for the chief, the other four crouched on the ground, clutching their heads, swords discarded, consumed by pain.

In a moment of crisis, the man in green had unleashed his proudest skill—the Sword of Destroyed Gods.

He stood tall and unyielding, having injured five skilled fighters, including the chief, as if by natural law.

Even Shen Lian had to admit that, despite his arrogance, the man possessed genuine talent.

He was also shaken, for this was after the man had let Shen Lian inflict a minor wound upon him, not at his full strength.

The King of the Golden Blade dragged his blade behind the man in green, but refused to strike—his reputation and prowess forbade such dishonorable action as attacking from behind.

He, too, was astonished upon hearing "The Sword of Destroyed Gods."

He had not expected the man in green to meld the Sword of Destroyed Gods into his palm technique, requiring no intermediary weapon.

Well-traveled and knowledgeable, he knew that no matter how varied martial skills were, none could surpass the mystical arts.

The Sword of Destroyed Gods was one of the few sword manuals in the martial world considered akin to Daoist magic.

It was a forbidden technique of the man's sect, passed only to the sect leader for safekeeping, never to be practiced.

The man in green believed himself supremely gifted, yet he had always been outshone by his senior brother, Ling Chongxiao. Deeply resentful, he finally betrayed his master and ancestors one day, seizing the secret manual of the Sword of Destroyed Gods.

This sword art truly deserved its reputation as a mysterious Daoist skill—its power unfathomable to outsiders. The man in green mastered it in a short time, using it to kill several friends who sought vengeance for his master. Only when Ling Chongxiao returned from overseas did he pursue the man relentlessly, driving him into the northern desert.

Last year, however, the man in green returned from the desert, committing major crimes across several provinces, alarming the Ministry of Justice. He defeated several experts, but none could capture him.

Ling Chongxiao, the senior brother, had abandoned the sword for Daoism five years prior, retreating into the mountains, his whereabouts unknown.

Otherwise, given the depth of the brothers' enmity, a deadly duel would surely have taken place.

Rumor had it that Ling Chongxiao had reached the "subtle" realm in martial arts, bordering on Daoist magic; if he were present, the man in green might not dare leave the desert.

Yet today, it seemed the man in green had fully integrated the Sword of Destroyed Gods into his palm techniques, his power extraordinary. With a single palm strike, he had injured five experts—truly terrifying.

For all mastery of martial arts, one is still flesh and blood, vulnerable to numbers.

To defeat five top fighters, including the chief of the Green Bamboo League, in one move was nothing short of monstrous.

The King of the Golden Blade was shaken, but not defeated. He still could not discern what made the Sword of Destroyed Gods so formidable.

That palm strike had a chill to it, but it wasn't some icy skill nor did it involve much energy fluctuation. Yet the five were utterly overwhelmed, suffering inexplicably.

The chief of the Green Bamboo League remained standing, but trembled all over, unable to grip his sword properly.

Worse still, he discovered he could not summon a single thread of internal energy. The palm wind from the man in green felt like a curse, splitting his head with pain, making concentration impossible.

He knew this was the Sword of Destroyed Gods at work, yet even as he suffered, he could not fathom its nature.

Shen Lian had retreated to a distant corner, blending into his surroundings, unnoticed.

He had witnessed the palm strike, and a question arose in his mind.

That palm wind was clearly soul force—the man in green could attack others with his own soul power.