Chapter Thirty-Six: Dazzling Lightning

“You are very special. I’m truly curious—what kind of person are you?” The man in black’s sword hand trembled slightly, sending a cascade of black dust tumbling from the blade and slowly revealing its true form: a sword of deep, blood-red hue.

“Special,” Moshang murmured, lowering his gaze to the sword in his palm, a glint of brilliance flickering in his eyes.

“If you won’t speak, then I’ll have to find out for myself,” the man in black replied, his voice light and teasing, an expression of absolute confidence.

Moshang remained silent. He knew he was different from others, yet could not say exactly why.

“Especially that sword.”

The words startled Moshang. The voice seemed to flit instantly from ahead to his right ear, eerie and disconcerting. He spun around at once, catching a flash of black—a glimmer of cold light—the man in black.

A sharp exhale escaped him. Once, such a breath would have signified weariness; now, it betrayed his tension. His eyes darted rapidly, but he could not keep pace with the shadow swirling around him.

The man’s speed was astonishing. One fleeting afterimage flashed by—too swift for the naked eye to follow. A bead of sweat traced a slow path down Moshang’s forehead.

Only now did he understand the crushing pressure Ruoxi had faced: a speed that suffocated the breath.

Suddenly, a gust from his right alerted him. Instantly, he swept his sword before him, bracing the blade with his left hand—a posture as unshakable as Mount Tai.

A shadow streaked past. The sword in his grasp shuddered under a force like a thousand pounds, driving him back five full steps before he could steady himself.

In the span of a single breath, the man in black had moved so quickly as to be invisible, his next strike imminent.

He couldn't raise his sword in time. Moshang’s mind raced; he shifted his stance—an evasive maneuver he recalled from the mural.

The last time, in that “dream,” this very move had let him dodge another’s blade.

And now, Moshang used it again. The shadow flashed by, his pupils contracting as he saw, to his alarm, a few strands of hair fall from his head and a gaping tear appear in his shirt at the chest, exposing his pale skin.

“That was close!” Had he been a moment slower, his chest would have been pierced—he dared not imagine the consequences.

No chance to catch his breath. The man in black was suddenly right before him, though this time seemed to have slowed.

Moshang steeled himself. The next move flashed through his mind; his heart thundered in his chest, beating twice as fast as normal.

A surge of energy within him gathered in his right hand, as he thrust his sword straight at the man in black.

The man in black responded in kind—his sword flicked, stabbing toward Moshang.

Sparks flew as point met point: the unsharpened tip of his sword against the blood-red tip of the other.

Moshang’s blade trembled; his sword’s point was deflected, and the edges clashed, blade straining against blade.

One motion pulled the entire contest taut. The man in black instantly withdrew, clearly unwilling to face him head-on or risk mutual destruction.

But Moshang pressed his advantage, transforming thrust into slash, his wrist pivoting as he hacked toward the man’s shoulder.

A breath escaped the face shrouded in black mist—almost a breath of foulness.

His whole demeanor changed, radiating an overwhelming arrogance, a presence that made others instinctively retreat.

The more skilled the martial artist, the more they understood the power of “momentum”—the force that could disrupt an opponent’s rhythm or compel concessions with mere presence.

Moshang shuddered, clearly affected, his steps faltering.

Black dust swirled in the air. The man in black’s sword, now free of all dust, was completely exposed—a deep blood-red, perhaps sealed or concealed until now.

With a flick of his sword, the man in black unleashed wave after wave of crimson sword energy at Moshang.

Along the path of that sword energy, blue stone tiles were instantly shattered into fragments and swept along in its wake.

Moshang trembled all over, paralyzed by the man in black’s aura, standing ashen and motionless.

Just as the sword energy reached him, Ruoxi stepped in front, shielding him from the full assault.

“Stirring Soul Sword—First Form: Surging Waves!”

As Ruoxi called out the technique, bolts of lightning flickered along her blade, gathering into the swirling shape of water, dense and unyielding.

With a single slash, the two streams of crimson energy broke apart, the lightning dimming but losing none of its momentum as it shot straight toward the man in black.

He sighed. With a casual swing, the lightning faded before him, leaving not a single trace.

“Second Form—Silent Thunderfall!”

Ruoxi’s brows knitted in concentration as light flickered around her blade, now invisible beneath the shroud of lightning. Even her arm sparkled with electric light.

In a heartbeat, she pushed off with her ankle, arriving before the man in black, her sword blazing as she struck down.

Yet as Ruoxi closed in, the man in black’s posture did not shift in the slightest. Only when the brilliant lightning cleaved down did he move at last.

His sword flicked upward, and the lightning faded instantly. The Stirring Soul Sword slipped from Ruoxi’s grasp, falling to the ground—he had neutralized her Silent Thunderfall with almost no effort.