I can take on ten at once.

The swordsman's technique had grown old. Though his follow-up moves were endlessly varied, Qin Chuan's unorthodox kick landed squarely in his blind spot. Lacking the intelligence of ordinary men, he was naturally ill-equipped to respond. This move was not difficult to counter in itself—the simplest way would be to exchange injury for injury: break my hand, and I’ll shatter your skull with a kick. But such resolve was far beyond this swordsman.

To avoid Qin Chuan’s scorpion-like leg, he actually jerked backward, hampered by his own arms. This retreat caused Qin Chuan’s own center of gravity to tilt, and, standing on one foot, he stumbled and fell. The swordsman, seeing an opportunity, lunged forward to reclaim his Snow-Silver Sword.

How could Qin Chuan allow him to succeed? Unfortunately, his twin swords had already flown from his grasp in the fall. Were he to reach for them now, the swordsman would surely recover his blade as well. Gritting his teeth, Qin Chuan pressed forward and drove a punch at his foe.

Qin Chuan’s boxing skills were decent, barely at the level of a one-soul cultivator. Yet when his cultivation was broken, he had the fortune to glimpse profound mysteries, so claiming the prowess of a three- or four-soul fighter would not be an exaggeration. But how could any of that compare to the ten-thousand-soul swordsman before him?

Yet, one must remember, his opponent now held no weapon! When it came to fists and feet, he likely didn’t even match a single-soul cultivator. In this realm, there existed not a single strand of soul-thread tied to unarmed combat.

So, in this two-person space of the Eternal Battlefield, a new drama unfolded. The insights gained from soul-threads settled into one’s heart like instinct, without resistance, but after all, they were not honed through personal effort and so were inherently flawed. Qin Chuan’s martial skills, by contrast, were unique in this battlefield, forged through countless hardships and sweat.

He launched his fist in a surging wave. The swordsman, stupefied with shock, had never before witnessed such ferocity. For Qin Chuan, the strike brought an indescribable exhilaration; a faint warmth seeped into his brow, as if a drunken beauty had left a fragrant kiss upon it. That touch of warmth was nearly imperceptible, yet in an instant, the shadow of the sword between his brows vanished. Qin Chuan’s punch crashed out, and he felt he could shatter sun and moon, grind the world itself to dust.

With a boom, swordsman and even Shui Mu were obliterated, leaving a gaping void that slowly faded away.

Qin Chuan’s starry eyes narrowed, a slight smile playing on his lips. He had intended to pit his own fists against the swordsman’s skill, not expecting, in the process, to glimpse his true self. The exhilaration of that punch far surpassed the joy of gaining thousands of soul-threads. In that instant, he perceived a clear mirror, reflecting his heart; whether it was the work of his Profound Breath Dust Formula or a steadfast will, who could say?

No self, no others, no beings, no lifespan—such were the words. To see one’s nature and illuminate the heart, to dispel all distractions, to pierce the mysteries of heaven—this is all there is.

From the very start, this world had quietly guided Qin Chuan into the rut of collecting soul-threads, leading him to abandon his true self in pursuit of external things.

Now, as Qin Chuan examined his dantian, the energy within was unmistakably spiritual power. Sensing his attention, it immediately boiled, as if cheering his return—or perhaps, like a nagging lover, seized him by the ear to scold.

He smiled faintly and turned to look at Crimson Flame and Azure Edge. They were transformed—no longer radiating sharpness, but weathered by time, appearing now as nothing more than two ordinary rusted swords.

“Let me take you with me on this final journey,” Qin Chuan murmured, pausing a moment before wrapping the swords in cloth, tucking them at his waist, and setting off toward his goal.

He could not say how long he walked, but ever since regaining his cultivation, the world had grown silent. No one else appeared—only endless white stone slabs stretching to the horizon.

Yet Qin Chuan did not come away empty-handed. As he traveled, he quietly practiced his breathing technique and made progress. He could not yet wield it in battle as deftly as Zhao Yu, but for replenishing his energy on the march, it posed no difficulty.

With this, his pace increased by another twenty percent.

Spiritual energy slowly seeped into his limbs and bones, each breath restoring what was spent, an unbroken cycle. He did not know how many days and nights passed before, at last, something new appeared in the distance.

“What in the world…”

A strange sight came into view—a nameless green gourd-shaped mountain towering between heaven and earth. In this skyless realm, one might well imagine it could pierce the clouds and shatter the firmament.

Drawing closer, he saw the mountain’s flanks were inscribed with esoteric diagrams, dense and winding like tadpoles slithering across its surface.

Dew-dappled leaves, serrated and vibrant, jutted askew from the mountain’s side, gourd vines climbing steadily upward.

But Qin Chuan had no mind for the mountain’s marvels, not with the challenge at hand. Seven figures, each with a purple mark at their brow—their faces dead and stiff—were closing in on him.

Blade, sword, axe, halberd, whip, spear, and glaive!

Had he not glimpsed his true self, these seven would have been grave trouble indeed. But today was not yesterday. He unwrapped the cloth from his waist, placed the rusted swords aside, and turned back to face them.

“Only seven? I was hoping for ten!”

As if responding to his thought, three more burly figures manifested from the tadpole script on the mountain, closing the circle around him.

He calmly rolled up his sleeves and waited for their assault.

Blade, sword, axe, halberd, whip, spear, glaive, staff, lance, fork!

The nine-section whip whistled through the air, formless as an elephant’s might—at the peak of mastery, one dispenses with ornamentation. This whip-wielder did just that, cutting straight to Qin Chuan’s blind spot without hesitation.

An ordinary man would have suffered from this silent, insidious strike. But Qin Chuan was not so easily caught.

With the Profound Breath Dust Formula, even the faintest whisper of wind was as clear as day. He sensed the attack the moment the foe’s hand moved.

Knowing the steel whip was about to strike, Qin Chuan advanced rather than retreated, channeling spiritual energy into his palm and seizing the whip directly!

His spiritual power dropped by a tenth—a testament to why mere qi refining falls short of true cultivation, and why “the path of immortality” is no idle boast.

The other nine rushed him as the whip was seized. Yet Qin Chuan, unhurried, used brute strength over finesse, swinging the whip-wielder in a wide arc!

Perhaps emboldened by the success of this unorthodox move, Qin Chuan realized that the more he played by the rules against these mindless foes, the more he was at a disadvantage. Only by breaking convention could he gain the upper hand.

The steel whip had nine sections—three of two feet each, nine feet in all, about six feet given overlap, plus the whip-wielder himself, pushing the attackers back a full ten feet.

Qin Chuan’s body was already powerful, and with spiritual energy reinforcing it, the whip howled as it spun. The man caught in its grasp was clearly suffering, face flushed but unwilling to let go. Suddenly, Qin Chuan’s grip loosened; the man’s heart stuttered, blood burst from his orifices, and he flew sideways through the air with a dying scream, going limp before he even landed.

Like a broken sack, the whip-wielder crashed out of the fray. Qin Chuan surged forward, spiritual energy gathering at his soles, driving him ahead with explosive force. His ordinary shoes could not withstand it and burst apart in scraps.

Before the whip-wielder hit the ground, a sound of rending air arose. Before the others could react, someone flashed from the whip-wielder’s shadow, eyes cold as starlight plucked from a spring night.

By the time the remaining attackers realized what had happened, they had already lost the initiative. Qin Chuan, pressing his advantage, left them unable to keep up.

Within, spiritual energy surged, yet he kept his power confined within his sleeves, snake-like and elusive.

By the time the swordsman and the blade-wielder noticed Qin Chuan lurking in the whip-wielder’s shadow, it was too late. They crossed blade and sword defensively, grasping at a lifeline—but fate would not be so kind.

A fist of bronze crashed into their skulls, a thunderous blow like a hammer to a melon. Cheekbones shattered; the left eye exploded from its socket, flesh and bone spattering while the right eye, still whole, tumbled out with a scrap of skin, white and red matter splattering across the ground. The skull itself was flung far, bounced twice, and lay still.

In the blink of an eye, foul blood and pulped viscera oozed from the gaping wounds where half a head remained. Only after a long moment did the two corpses topple stiffly backward.

The remaining attackers finally responded, launching their assault together. Though their eyes gleamed with light, their souls seemed incomplete, devoid of intellect, unmoved by the horror before them.

Here lay the challenge: had Qin Chuan not seized the initiative, he could never have slain three so easily. Now, the moment was lost, and he had but sixty percent of his energy left. As the attacks rained in, he narrowly dodged and was struck in the abdomen by a staff. Fortunately, the force was spent and his timely defense lessened the blow.

Seeing their attack fail, the rest pressed in. But this time, things were different.

When he slew the blade- and sword-wielders, Qin Chuan had already broken from their encirclement. Now, seven against one in close quarters, they hindered each other, unable to fight at full force. By darting in and out, Qin Chuan kept a half-step ahead.

He paused to assess himself—half his energy remained—and made up his mind. He was not especially clever, but he acted with decisive will.

Shedding his wide blue robe, he flung it into the fray, repeating an old tactic. The five in the center were blinded, while the two on the flanks pressed in with weapons raised.

The spear came whistling in from the left. Qin Chuan twisted aside, narrowly avoiding it, and caught the shaft with an iron grip, parrying the other’s staff. Spiritual energy surged along his left arm, writhing like a green earthworm, hideous and strange.

As the staff-wielder tried to pull his weapon back, Qin Chuan smashed his fist into it. The man had never felt such power—his steel staff bent in a full arc and was wrenched from his grasp.

A pair of wet cracks, as if smashing tofu, followed. The staff-wielder and the axeman beside him lost half their bodies in an instant.

Seven became five: halberd, spear, glaive, pike, and fork.

He had but thirty percent of his energy left.

But the round was not over—he would not waste this chance.

In spear technique, Qin Chuan was not the equal of these men. In raw strength, though—if not as mighty as a mountain, he had never tested his limits, but he believed he could shatter a trunk as thick as a bowl with a punch.

The spearman’s face reddened as he tried to pull free, but the spear did not budge. Qin Chuan’s lips curled in a cold smile. Using the man’s momentum, he hurled him away.

The man flew three or four lengths, feet kicking, shrieking like a wounded bird, then landed in a welter of blood and lay still.

Five became four: halberd, glaive, pike, and fork remained.