The Fourth Fall - Chapter 47 preview

Even if he lived to a thousand years, Wu Ying thought he would never forget what transpired next. His friends and allies, working together to give him the opening he required. The start, coming from an unexpected angle. Perhaps he might not even have realised it, but Yin Xue; on the edges began it all.

Raised his hand, opened his demonic fist. Sucked in the swirling power, contesting the demonic flames and ending that glittered in the air. He did battle with the king of the Cai, pitting his nascent dao and his will against the other, utilizing the demonic chi that flowed through his hand and his own control to disrupt his opponent.

But he was, in the end, a Core Formation cultivator contesting a half-Immortal. He lasted all of two seconds, before he was swatted away. His arm, his eye, things of demonic origin and only ever held in check by the most delicate of balance of dao and technique were torn away. Leaving a bleeding and sobbing cultivator behind.

Two seconds. One false prodigy. Nearly a hundred feet.

That was what it gained them.

Next was the real attack. A gathered cloud bank, spiralling downwards. Slamming into the hungry body of all consuming chi, that black void of greed and domination which spilled noxious chi and flames into the world. Dark clouds, laden with moisture, stolen back from the heavens and wind and cold slammed into the king. With it came the dao of his opponent, the illusions and mind games of the Sect Head.

It gained them nearly ten seconds, before dao and cloud bank was consumed in its entirety. Before the Sect Head staggered, his chi consumed and his aura damaged, as though a portion of his very soul had been ripped away. He reeled, and the image of him flickered, disappeared.

And another emerged, standing much closer than any would have imagined.

Meng Dai took a half second to strike, slamming a projection of his intent down on Shu Ren and driving him to his knees. He kept the pressure there, even as he raised a hand to release a bolt of flame.

That hand never managed to release the attack at the Sect Head, as a legless guardian flew upwards, flapping ribbons holding him aloft. He had no sword, nothing that could pierce the immortal flesh. So he instead used his body, slamming his body into the raised arm and letting the attack fire uselessly into the heavens.

Too close though, he had gone too close. The backwash from the attack caught the old man, burnt away half his face. The other was crushed by a stomping foot, even as body began to be consumed by the ravening dao. There was a minor shiver, a brief jolt as storage ring and other precious equipment enterred the body.

Another strike, by a tiger’s head projected to tear off the head only saw it broken apart. Not even half a second, as the Sixth General sagged to the ground, energy ripped away. Empty.

The last Sword of Iron Gorge tried a blade cut, filled with sword and killing intent and what was left of his energy. It didn’t even reach the man, not whole. No time was gained.

Yang Mu caught the half dozen flickering bars of flame on her fans, buying them another three seconds. Brought them nearly within twenty feet of the man, before they came too fast, too close, for the ones she returned curved back around. One she missed, caught her in her leg. The next caught her in her upper chest, burning through silken robes and into the chest beneath.

The third, meant to end her life was split apart by a rising blade.

Fa Yuan came in, cutting low and close. Splitting the blade as its point of control, where the twisting flame was held together by the chi of his technique, causing a backlash explosion that she had to push through; that heated air and singed flesh. But did not kill. She got them another ten seconds, that blade finding flaws, gaps in techniques.

Until he stopped being delicate and he brought his crushing, overwhelming dao on top of her. She had no more leverage, no way to grip or find a balance point to shift things in her favour. It crushed her and Yang Mu and the last sword in the distance.

Not Wu Ying.

For he had gone around them, in-between.

Rushed close, using whatever aid the wind could - would - give him at that time. Made himself as insignificant as the air one breathed. As vital.

Managed to make it all the way to three feet, sword in hand. Close enough to lunge, to throw a cut. The beginning of an attack there. It was subtly different from the one he had used before. An attack he had derived his own style from, after all.

Fa Yuan would have recognised it. The Sect Head certainly did, even as its inception.

Karma Sundering Blade.

A weapon, a technique, meant to sever the karma of another. All the good, all the bad, all of it rebounding back at the same time. A technique that had made his Master feared, a technique that had given him a place even among the Verdant Green Waters even if he hated the poltiics.

A technique that might have worked even against a king and half-Immortal...

Perhaps.

Meng Dai moved, grabbing the hand before it could clear the blade from the sword, pushing back so that the blade slammed into its sheath again. The full strength, the full displeasure of a half-Immortal bearing down upon Wu Ying and breaking his arm, as casually as a child did a willow stick.

A famed technique. Stopped.

***

They hung in silence, all of them. All attempts at the man’s life, at abeyance. In the distance, a war continued, life and death battles still waged. But in this clearing, in this space that held them; silence reigned. The air was choked with ash and particles of burning sulphur and flesh, the world too hot. For a moment, even the king’s raging, consuming dao quietened.

“Was that it? A stolen technique, one not even yours? That was your last gambit?” Meng Dai said, mockingly. He pressed down, hard as Wu Ying tried to struggle, causing him to cry out.

“Not. Stolen.” Fa Yuan, pushing against his dao, finally managed to make it to her feet. “Gifted.”

“Not his though.” A sneer on his face, Meng Dai eyed Fa Yuan. “At least you knew better, knew to find your own path. Weak as it was.”

“If you kill him, if you kill me, my parents will come for you, they’ll come for your kingdom. They’ll call their friends. All of them,” Yang Mu said, desperately. Reaching for something, anything that she could use.

He laughed at her, pulsed his aura and crushed her down. Caught, with his other hand, the flashing knife and crushed it and the talisman of transportation she had attached to it with one hand. Sifted the metal dust through his hands, the shreds of paper, and then even that was consumed by his dao.

Up close, Wu Ying could see the strain better. See how this unleashing, how the stone or core or whatever it was that lay in his heart was tearing him apart. Heavenly body, Hellish core, all consuming dao. To balance all three, for so long and to make it all work together. Meng Dai must have been a prodigy among prodigies.

“Let them come. I’ll add their heads to my collection,” Meng Dai said with a snort. “They’ll be there eventually after all.”

Pain crossed her face, as she listened to what he said. Yang Mu’s hand crept down, touching her belt, the fans trembling as they sat beside her, linked to her. Her eyes narrowed in concentration, and Wu Ying knew she was about to try something foolish. Something that would get her killed.

From the looks in Meng Dai’s eyes, the sneering contempt he shot her way, it was clear the man knew it too. More, he was focused on her. For all his arrogant words, he was wary about what additional tricks she might have, what gifts and enchantments the merchant might have been gifted. Because of that, he was ignoring the other Core Formation cultivators, even ignoring the Sect Head and Wu Ying.

“I. Will not. Let you. Win.” Pushing himself upwards, Shu Ren stood, wavering on his feet. Though the words were challenging, Wu Ying sensed that the Sect Head had nothing left to give. The integration of his body and soul was incomplete, making no match for the half-Immortal even normally. Now, empowered by that demonic stone, injured as he was, Shu Ren stood no chance.

Yet he was willing to try. One hand, held low, thin tendrils of mist gathering there as he built up one last desperate attempt.

All his friends, desperately conjuring up strength, pulling at stores they should not, ready and willing to damage their cultivation base to finish this. As he looked around, the wind cultivator saw the truth though, the despair in their eyes. The knowledge that they might try, but none expected to succeed.

All but Yang Mu. And that, of course, why the king watched her. He too could sense that unbroken will.

Wu Ying scrabbled a little, got a hand around his broken arm, peeling at gauntleted fingers in an attempt to peel them off. All he got was pain, as the other crushed down. It was not just physical too, for the king sent his dao and that burning chi down their connection, tearing apart flesh and soul.

Paper wrapping holding soul and body together began to burn and Wu Ying let out a scream of true agony, as his world began to be consumed.

Yang Mu shifted, extracting the scepter she had hidden. Raised it.

“Enough,” Meng Dai muttered.

That dao, that enervating, hungry and ugly concept woke up once more. It tore the very air from the sky, tugged at the wind cultivator and lifted him by burning hand and body, the cultivators and the gathered chi they had gathered torn from them. Yang Mu clutched the scepter with both hands, refusing to let it go as it began to sputter to life.

And while his opponent was focused on her, Wu Ying shifted his hand. From the unfeeling, metal-gauntleted hand to his own. Tugged free a ring.

Let it loose.

And watched it fly through the air, to strike his opponent in the chest, to hang there, as it was brokend own and consumed.

One last attempt, one last chance.