Chapter Sixty-Four: The Black Spirit Deathsworn

Bal’s scythe was long and slender, its bizarre shape resembling the flickering tongue of a viper, trailing a distorted black gleam through the air. The curved blade that struck from behind was large and heavy, a six-foot saber like the saber-tooth of some primeval beast, sweeping down with a wild, howling ferocity.

The fine scythe and the massive saber clashed with brutal force. A deep blue halo flashed across the scythe like shimmering light on water, while a vast, deep green aura surged from the saber. The collision of these two deadly weapons sent up a shower of sparks and produced a deafening clang that seemed to pierce the eardrums.

The pitch-black scythe cut savagely into the saber, slicing nearly halfway through the blade, which was a hand’s width wide. Accompanied by a grating screech of metal, Bal’s eyes glinted with a cold, eerie light. His hands spun rapidly, and the scythe whirled like a windmill.

The burly man who had ambushed Bal with the saber grunted in pain. He was a solid fighter, but still a rank lower than Bal—a mid-level knight compared to Bal’s status as a lower-tier Heaven-ranked knight; the gap was vast. Pain shot through the man’s wrist as the momentum of the scythe wrenched the saber, twisting his wrist and arm along with it.

A rapid succession of cracking sounds echoed as the man, refusing to relinquish his grip on the hilt, had his arms shattered inch by inch. Bal let out a cruel, savage laugh, and with a flick of his scythe, a fine blade of light flashed—the man’s arms were severed cleanly at the shoulders. Blood sprayed forth, and the man roared in agony, his head thrown back. At that moment, a thick beam of light from a distant rooftop swept over him, illuminating his body.

He was tall and powerfully built, leonine in his stature, with a bare scalp, ebony skin, and only the whites of his eyes standing out. An aboriginal of the Black Spirit Continent—this was the very man who had stood behind Arthur’s couch in the Green Gem Tavern.

Blood gushed from his severed arms like a fountain, yet he seemed oblivious to pain. His eyes widened, and a strange, fearsome smile twisted his rugged face. As Bal raised his scythe to behead him, the man suddenly fell backward. His thick, muscular legs—thicker than most men’s waists—rose into the air, coiling around Bal’s waist like two monstrous pythons.

Caught off guard by this unorthodox move, Bal felt a brutal force constrict his waist, nearly toppling him. Fortunately, his battle experience was vast. He steadied himself, blue light swirling over his body, with a faint layer of black mist rising around him. He braced his hips, preparing to hurl the man away.

The man let out a strange laugh. “Grateful to my master who saved my life and restored our honor. For my master, I offer my soul and my flesh, my everything—only for the one to whom I pledge my loyalty! Ancestor spirits, grant your devoted descendant your mighty strength!”

A bizarre incantation spilled from the man’s lips, his rough, hoarse voice carrying an ancient and sinister power. Bal’s expression shifted; he barked, “Warrior of the Black Spirit Continent, who is worthy of your soul and life’s fire?”

The black-skinned man could no longer speak. White flames, devoid of heat, erupted from his skin, twisted blood-red runes crawling across his flesh. Blinding light shot from his seven orifices as an overwhelming, unyielding will bore into him through his brow. His already towering frame swelled, becoming twice the size of an ordinary man.

A terrifying force surged from his legs, and Bal’s waist groaned under the strain, muscles and bones creaking ominously.

The Black Spirit Continent was the wildest and most perilous land in the world, ravaged by dark elves, dark fae, and countless monsters. Yet the dark-skinned aborigines managed to thrive there. Among their warriors, the most distinguished were called Ancestral Spirit Warriors—those who could, at the cost of their soul or lifespan, awaken the power of their forebears and unleash devastating might.

Any Ancestral Spirit Warrior was a guardian deity to their tribe, celebrated with the highest reverence. Yet Bal now faced such a warrior, one who had chosen to burn his soul and lifespan completely, inviting the strongest ancestral spirit to possess his body.

Bal felt like a bean beneath a millstone, his waist on the verge of being crushed. The man’s legs continued to tighten, the force only growing stronger. A low cry of pain escaped Bal—it was his first time experiencing the terrible might of an Ancestral Spirit Warrior.

A mere mid-level knight, yet now able to utterly overpower a lower-tier Heaven-ranked knight—such was the terrifying power on display.

Bal was trapped, unable to spare a thought for the incapacitated Ya and Ling lying on the ground.

Suddenly, a splash sounded—more than a dozen tall, black-skinned men burst from the sea. Their sincere, childlike eyes brimmed with deep sorrow as they cast a grieving look at their comrade, who, with both arms severed, had bound Bal with his burning soul and life. Tears streamed down the faces of these sturdy warriors, yet they faded into the seawater, leaving no trace.

Wordlessly, they rushed to Ya and Ling’s side. Two of the men scooped up the women, sheltering their delicate forms beneath a heavy tower shield, then strode toward the nearest alley.

The Black Tiger clan’s enforcers cursed furiously. They quickly loaded their hunting crossbows, thirty bolts whistling toward the fleeing men. Dozens of double-headed throwing axes followed, shrieking through the air with icy wind and blizzard, their deadly intent palpable.

The two black-skinned men, cradling Ya and Ling, kept their heads down and charged forward. Four companions, clad in half-plate and wielding triple-headed flails, shielded their retreat. Like maddened lions, they broke through a group of Black Tiger enforcers at the alley’s mouth and plunged into the darkness.

The remaining warriors formed a rear guard, defending with round shields of tanned hide and gleaming war swords.

Bolts from the hunting crossbows tore through their shields and sank into their flesh.

The axes shattered their swords and drove deep into their chests.

Seven black-skinned men stood shoulder to shoulder at the mouth of the alley, blood spraying from their wounds like springs, yet not one of them retreated.

Their gaze was fixed on their comrade, burning with soul-fire and life, wreathed in white ancestral flames. Suddenly, all seven raised their voices in song—a war chant ancient and primal, utterly unlike those of the Western Continent. White spirit flames erupted from their bodies as they sang and, with a joyful, heroic stride, charged straight at the Black Tiger warriors.

Lin Qi’s face darkened. He snatched a hunting crossbow, raised it, and sent a bolt through the temple of the man entwined with Bal.

“Retreat! These Black Spirit warriors—when they burn their souls, even the gods must give way. We withdraw!”

Tossing the crossbow to his subordinate, Lin Qi pressed his right hand to his heart and bowed deeply to the seven men ablaze with soul-fire, then swiftly melted into the shadows of the harbor.