A scream tore through the heavens. It was not a warrior’s cry, but the shriek of a broken animal. The Regent King clutched the stump of his right arm, blood fountaining between his fingers. His face, once regal and cruel, was a mask of pure, unadulterated terror. He stared up at the man floating in the sky, a man wreathed in a maelstrom of steel. Lu Feng stood in the air. The world’s swords obeyed him. Tens of thousands of blades, ripped from the hands of living soldiers and the sheaths of the dead, swirled around him like a silver dragon. Its scales were forged steel, its roar was the hum of a million whetstones, and its eyes were Lu Feng’s own—cold, empty, ancient. Below, the hundred-thousand-strong foreign host froze. Their Khan, a giant of a man clad in black iron, stared with wide, disbelieving eyes. His elite Golden Horde, warriors who laughed at death, felt an instinct they had long forgotten: fear. “A trick! It is an illusion!” the Khan roared, his voice straining to sound confident. “He is one man! What can one man do against a hundred thousand? Golden Horde, charge! Take his head for me!” His words were hollow. The air itself was a crushing weight. A suffocating pressure, thick with killing intent and raw sword-qi, pushed down on the battlefield. Weaker soldiers collapsed, blood trickling from their noses and ears as their meridians ruptured under the strain. This was not a martial artist’s power. This was the power of a god. Xue Feng could not see, but she could feel. She felt the hurricane of sword-qi centered on the man who held her. It was a power so vast, so absolute, it made the very earth tremble. She clutched his robes, her heart hammering not with fear, but with a terrifying, breathtaking awe. “Lu Feng…” she whispered, her voice lost in the din. The War Goddess, watching from the city walls, knelt on one knee. Her silver armor gleamed. This was the Lord she served. The true Lord of the Dragon God Hall. His power, finally unleashed, was more magnificent than any legend had ever described. Lu Feng looked down. His gaze swept over the sea of soldiers. It was the glance one gives to ants before crushing their nest. He did not speak. His lips did not move. He simply lifted a hand, palm open, and then swept it downwards. It was a gesture of utter finality. The dragon of swords screamed. It was a sound that broke the sky. Ten thousand blades, each humming with Lu Feng’s true essence, detached from the swirling vortex. They did not fall. They dove. A storm of steel rained down upon the earth. It was not a chaotic barrage. It was a symphony of annihilation, conducted by a merciless god. The first volley targeted the command structure. The Foreign Khan looked up, his face a rictus of horror as a hundred blades converged on him. His protective Inner Qi, the pride of a Grandmaster, shattered like glass. The blades punched through his black iron armor as if it were paper. In an instant, the mighty Khan was rendered into a bloody ruin, pinned to the earth by a forest of hilts. His elite Golden Horde guard met the same fate. They raised their shields, roared their defiance, and were erased. Swords pierced their skulls, their throats, their hearts. They died on their feet, not even having the time to scream, their bodies held upright by the very weapons that killed them. Another wave of swords descended. They tore through the siege engines, reducing massive catapults and siege towers to splinters. They sliced through the war banners, the proud wolf insignias of the foreign tribe falling in tatters. They sought out every officer, every commander, every captain. Each blade found its mark with divine, inescapable precision. In less than ten seconds, the entire leadership of the hundred-thousand-man army was dead. Annihilated. Wiped from existence. The remaining soldiers stared at the carnage. They saw their invincible Khan, their fearless commanders, their elite brethren, all butchered in a single, silent, terrifying moment. There was no battle cry from the enemy. No charging army. Just a man floating in the sky and a rain of death. This wasn't a battle. It was a judgment. The spell of discipline, of bloodlust, of courage—it all broke. A single soldier dropped his saber with a clatter that echoed across the silent field. Then another. And another. A wave of terror washed over the army. A collective scream of pure panic erupted from ten thousand throats at once. They turned. They ran. They threw down their weapons, their shields, their honor. They trampled their own wounded in a desperate, mindless stampede to escape the god in the sky. The unstoppable foreign host, the scourge of the empire, dissolved into a terrified mob, fleeing for their lives. The Regent King watched it all, his one remaining hand trembling. The army was gone. His ambition was ash. His life was forfeit. He looked from the routing soldiers to the cold, indifferent eyes of Lu Feng, now slowly descending to the ground. Lu Feng’s gaze fell upon him. It was a look that promised a thousand years of torment. Sanity snapped. The Regent King let out a crazed, high-pitched laugh. “You think you’ve won?” he shrieked, his face contorted into a hideous grin. “Never! If I must die, the capital will be my tomb! The entire city will die with me!” He spun around, ignoring his grievous wound. With a burst of his remaining Qi, he fled, not away from the city, but directly towards it. The Regent King ran madly for the gates of the imperial palace, his voice echoing with insane promise. “The Dragon Vein Array beneath the palace floor will burn everything to ash! Everything!” he screamed, his figure disappearing into the shadowed archway. “You will rule over a crater, you bastard! A crater!”

Chapter 15: Annihilating the Foreign Army