Aboard the warship, An Ming sat with his eyes closed, Wuye resting across his knees. The vessel raced toward Fanghu at full speed, but even reinforcements would need time to arrive—time Fanghu might not have. Battles shifted like the wind. He could only hope the Vidyarajas of Fanghu could hold the line until the Luofu's forces arrived to turn the tide.
But the reality of war, An Ming soon learned, was a thousand times crueler than he'd imagined.
The Third Abundance War had erupted on the Xianzhou Fanghu, its brutality surpassing all expectations from the very first moment.
When the warship docked and An Ming stepped onto Fanghu's soil, the air reeked of blood that refused to dissipate. Flames of battle loomed terrifyingly close—the Abundance Followers had breached Fanghu's defenses.
The situation was dire. Even Luofu's reinforcements couldn't reverse such overwhelming odds. Millions of soldiers hurled themselves into the slaughter. The sky blazed with the explosions of warships.
An Ming struggled to breathe. This was the true face of war.
Gripping Wuye at his waist, he steadied himself. Fear had no place here. Too many needed protection.
Wuye slid from its sheath. Its obsidian blade stood stark against the azure sky, a shadow devouring all light.
Hot blood splattered An Ming's cheek.
A Borisin warrior roared, weapon raised, eyes brimming with hatred. Strangers, yet enemies.
A flash of steel—the "line" of annihilation severed the Borisin's neck before they could react. The head fell.
No time to rest. A bronze warbeast in the distance spewed scorching flames, incinerating swaths of the battlefield to carve a path forward.
A single gap in the line meant total collapse.
An Ming gritted his teeth. The Chui Hong Guard nearby, though battered, still screamed defiance as they plugged the breaches.
Hundreds of warbeasts spelled doom for any frontline. They had to be destroyed—now.
Wuye's hilt, slick with enemy blood, glowed faintly as the dormant dragon patterns drank in the crimson. A fragment of blackened steel chipped away, revealing a sliver of pure white beneath.
With this blade, I can do anything.
The world seemed to mute itself, listening to Wuye's true unsheathing.
As more obsidian shards fell, the incomplete sword revealed its hidden form.
"General, why is this sword called 'Wuye' (No Night)?"
"Perhaps because you can't find its hilt in the dark."
An Ming remembered Jing Yuan's wistful smile as he answered.
"Wuye."
"It means—draw the sword, and daylight comes."
When Wuye fully unsheathes, night ceases to exist. The black blade was merely its scabbard. Only one with a clear sword heart could wield its true form.
No wonder it was called "unfinished"—previous wielders had fought with nothing but the sheath.
An Ming couldn't yet fully unsheathe Wuye. The blade remained mostly black, its white edge barely visible. But for warbeasts, it sufficed.
White light bled from the obsidian edge as An Ming tore through the battlefield like a god of slaughter. With each strike, warbeasts split cleanly, their bisected bodies shimmering with residual sword gleam.
"Cough…"
An Ming slumped against rubble, skull pounding. Now he understood why Fu Xuan drank so much sweet tea—the mental toll was brutal. Physical exhaustion could be weathered, but spent spiritual energy left one hollow.
Yet war allowed no respite. This was why diviners stayed behind the lines.
One person can't change everything…
"Are you hurt?"
A worried voice. An Ming gripped Wuye, relaxing only after spotting the Alchemy Commission's jade token at the speaker's waist.
"I'm fine."
"The field hospital is close! You need treatment!" insisted the girl with ink-black eyes, her hair like silk. For a moment, An Ming thought of Fu Xuan far in Luofu. Will she be angry when I return?
"I'm Yu Fei, an Alchemy Commission medic. I haven't seen you in Luofu," she said, eyeing his jade token. "A Yuque Cloud Knight Captain? So young!"
Her awe was palpable. Captains this young were unheard of—let alone ones who fought as he had.
"An Ming. Here to reinforce Fanghu."
He let her bandage him, urgency gnawing at him. Explosions crescendoed outside. How many comrades had fallen in the time he'd rested? Borisin fleets choked the sky; Luofu warships burst into fleeting fireworks.
Hopeless? Perhaps. Yet the Cloud Knights held.
The stench of blood clung to the air—the will of the dead, the hope of the living.
"The Xianzhou soars… the Cloud Knights triumph…"
A wounded soldier, carried into the hospital, fell silent mid-chant. An Ming closed the man's unseeing eyes.
A wave of grief crashed over him.