Chapter Twelve: Battle Against One Hundred Thousand Souls

With a surge of strength, he swept aside the swirling shadows of axes and halberds that surrounded him. Glancing again at the blue and crimson short swords, they were less than half a pace from his body—how could he dare hesitate even for a moment? He could only raise his halberd horizontally before him.

But in his haste, how could he possibly defend against these twin swords, weaving through the air like darting fish? Their force shifted, transforming thrusts into sweeping slices. Each shimmering arc seemed like wisps of smoke twisting behind paper windows, penetrating every possible gap without resistance.

Qinzhou was struck with terror. His mind, newly awakened to intelligence, was still simple and unguarded—he had not foreseen that Qin Chuan would turn his blade against him. Bewildered, he wondered how the swordsman could be so formidable, managing to slip past Qin Chuan, who was behind him, and launch a sudden assault.

In but a fleeting moment, Qinzhou’s flesh burst open like blood-red lotus blossoms—his defeat was certain. As if resigned to his fate, he looked up at his assailant, and what he saw broke his composure entirely.

Who else could this swordsman be, if not Qin Chuan? His face was instantly clouded with confusion, as though the beliefs he’d clung to in his heart had crumbled in an instant.

A veteran of many battles, Qin Chuan would never squander the opportunity presented by his opponent’s momentary distraction. He struck again—first severing the wrist, then the arm, and finally stabbing straight into the heart.

A bright thread of soul essence escaped from Qinzhou’s brow, circled in the air, and then dove into Qin Chuan’s own brow.

His starry eyes flared with light as the Profound Breath Dust Technique crushed and dissolved the tangled insights within the soul thread. He felt a gentle current flow through his heart, and a sensation like ants gnawing at his bones and sinews.

This soul thread did not alter his physical body, but it was directly linked to the secrets of the eighteen weapons—long and short—that he now seemed to master as if he had practiced for a hundred years.

The water-drenched realm gradually faded away, and the surrounding souls—all expressionless—marched off in the same direction, their former bloodthirsty savagery gone.

Moments later, Qin Chuan emerged from that enigmatic state. Probing his heart, he exclaimed inwardly—it was just as he’d suspected. When he was still a single-soul, he’d felt nothing unusual. But after advancing to a ten-soul, something changed within him.

Perhaps it was because his awakened intelligence far surpassed those lost in this place, but Qin Chuan could barely detect the faint summons in his heart. Only upon reaching ten souls did an elusive anomaly emerge, though he pondered it endlessly without finding an answer, always feeling something just out of reach.

It was only when a dark yellow mark appeared at his brow that the longing in his heart became clear.

Ahead, something extraordinary seemed to be hidden, like the aura of the living world, yet subtly different. With this in mind, he strode forward. His pace was measured—enough to gather fresh energy, so he would not be exhausted upon entering battle, yet not so slow as to lag behind.

Unbeknownst to Qin Chuan, elsewhere, a burly man stared blankly at his unscathed left chest and at the double-headed battle axe in his hands, both strange and familiar. In a daze, a figure flashed through his mind.

“Haha! I am Qinzhou, disciple of the Azure Mountain Sect!” He let out a hearty laugh and set off resolutely toward the destination his heart called him to.

A one-eyed middle-aged man, his brow marked with a green spear-shaped sigil, slew the last hundred-soul in the water-drenched space. Gasping for breath, he let out two sinister chuckles, slung his Nine-Curve Spear across his shoulder, and hummed a cheerful tune as he ambled onward.

The Crimson Flame Blade’s edge was like mist—staring at it too long stung the eyes as if gazing into the sun. He fought his way through the trials, more formidable than ever before. The Azure Edge Sword was weightless, thin as a mosquito’s wing—at a glance, almost invisible. Once bloodstained, it seemed able to slice autumn water itself, the epitome of sharpness.

Fighting his way forward, Qin Chuan’s prowess grew—he overcame a hundred-soul, then a hundred and eighty, then two hundred.

Though sword-will soul threads were the most numerous, they totaled less than eighty, even when he specifically hunted swordsmen. For ordinary souls with no awakened intelligence, a hundred-soul would yield barely a dozen specialized threads.

There were simply too many weapons on this battlefield. Sabers and swords dominated, followed by spears, halberds, and axes. Other, less common weapons were plentiful, many of which Qin Chuan had never even seen before.

Claws and maces were ordinary enough, but there were even lasso ropes and iron shovels—enough to make one’s scalp tingle. Yet these weapons had too many limitations; the most Qin Chuan saw wielded by a ten-soul at best.

Within this space, the passage of time was almost imperceptible. One could sense the difference between a single breath and two, but between a year and a century, there was little distinction. There was no sun, moon, or seasons. All Qin Chuan knew was that he had been here for a very long time—but how long, exactly?

The sword-shadow at his brow now shone a bright blue, marking him as a ten-thousand-soul, and soon it would deepen to the blue of a hundred-thousand.

Fewer and fewer people remained. The red one-souls had long since been devoured to nothing. He had once glimpsed a purple million-soul, but if they had truly fought, Qin Chuan doubted he could last a single round.

The more critical the moment, the less he dared take risks. Who knew if this water-drenched space might pit him against a million-soul? If he fell again, it would be a minor setback—but what if he failed to seize control in a soul duel?

Especially now, when it was nearly impossible to find a red one-soul. Judging by his own reckoning, even taking over a hundred-and-eighty-soul was already risky.

Cautious to the core, Qin Chuan advanced step by step, no longer heading straight for his heart’s destination, but veering off diagonally.

Before long—“Eh!” he exclaimed in surprise. A sword-wielder with a blue sword-shadow at his brow, marked as a hundred-thousand-soul, strode forward with a blank expression.

Qin Chuan immediately followed, waiting for the water-drenched space to descend.

As the saying goes, extremes beget their opposite; the higher the soul level, the fewer participants in the battlefield. In his thousand-soul days, Qin Chuan had fought in battlefields of ten thousand; now, most water-drenched spaces contained only a handful.

As expected, it wasn’t long before the water-drenched space enveloped them both, following the sword-wielder’s steps. For a two-man battle, the space was small; the watery mist covered it in a single breath.

Even those who reached a soul level of a hundred thousand or a million showed no sign of spirit before the battlefield arose. Only within this arena did differences emerge. This hundred-thousand-soul—there was a liveliness in his eyes that Qin Chuan had never seen before.

Perhaps he was not truly self-aware like Qin Chuan, but he could channel the soul’s essence into his sword.

The blade lifted, catching dew without letting it fall. Balanced and steady, the thrust seemed utterly ordinary, but the slightest move from Qin Chuan would trigger endless variations.

An inch of length is an inch of strength—yet there was little Qin Chuan could do about it. Short swords excelled at cutting and stabbing, not at parrying; instantly, he was at a disadvantage. Not daring to be careless, he crossed his blades in a defensive X, barely blocking the four-foot snowy silver sword. But unexpectedly, the blade suddenly extended, aiming to take his eyes.

Qin Chuan had anticipated this. The sword’s song as it left the scabbard revealed its flexible nature. He raised his arm, diverting the blade overhead, curving it away from his face.

At that moment, Qin Chuan gave a cold smile.

With a sudden tilt of his head, he narrowly dodged the cunning thrust. His left leg, like a scorpion’s tail, lashed out to strike at the opponent’s wrist.

Though the kick lacked power, if it landed solidly on that wrist, it would certainly be painful. It might not cripple the hand, but it would surely make wielding a sword impossible for a while.