Damn it—we’re blocked.

As Elyar led Yumigawa Nozomi to the island’s rim, every path turned them back, like an invisible wall pressing them away like glass against the wind.

Elyar tried to force that unseen barrier, even with a divine artifact, and it didn’t even shiver, a steel curtain in still air.

By reading the air, the elements, and the wind, she guessed Molor had shifted the island to a deserted plane; the aura scraped against memory, wrong like sand in the gears.

Escaping now meant cracking the plane or defeating Molor, both cliffs rising straight up.

Space that births a plane is stone-hard; breaking even a pocket plane needs high-tier Overdeity strength, a summit far above Elyar.

As for beating Molor—the miasma alone choked hope like smoke; a frontal clash was a blade to the throat.

Even Yumigawa Senki wouldn’t last long before him; Law Realm and Overdeity Level sit worlds apart, sky to earth, entry to peak.

Panic scorched Elyar’s chest like a wildfire. Others might fear the Mizumi Clan and hold back, but Molor felt different—his aim mirrored the Dark Demon, to overturn the clan like flipping a table.

Years ago, Yugou Sage shattered him, leaving a ragged soul like torn silk. Now that he’d clawed back life, Elyar doubted he’d burrow into obscurity; he would repay the Mizumi Clan in blood and cunning.

So the Mizumi name wouldn’t shield them; it might even prod him like a thorn and pull them deeper into danger.

Elyar, what do we do?

Nozomi, usually sunshine and sparks, looked drained, worry pooling in her gaze like stormwater.

Molor wasn’t the Dark Demon; he was a true Demon King, the most brutal of his line, a crown of knives.

Even Nozomi knew artifacts and Supreme Divine Spirit Medicine couldn’t bridge that canyon; getting out alive was already a luxury.

We were careless and too sure of ourselves. I never thought Rangetsu would be devoured by the Former Demon King; the sky just got dark.

Elyar reached for a Demonmind Jade to message the Elven Queen, but the dense miasma coiled around the island like iron fog and smothered every signal.

They stood cut off from the world, an island inside an island.

No choice—first, punch through that miasma wall.

Afraid she’d have no time to guard Nozomi, Elyar had her summon the Aerucia Bird, then laid down several defensive wards and arrays like nested circles of light.

She drew the Elven Godbow and nocked the Sacredwood Arrow. Breath steady, she hunted for the thinnest place in the miasma, like finding a seam in ice.

At the same time, she sent a quiet thought to Yumigawa Senki, a thread through the dark: Only the Queen can end this. The wall blocks my message. Senki, buy me at least three minutes. Please.

Soon Elyar found the seam. She pulled the bow to the limit, and wind-law gathered like storm silk, binding the Sacredwood Arrow tight.

Elven Arrow: Daybreak!

…

Hearing Elyar’s plea, Yumigawa Senki’s smile turned bitter inside, like tea over-steeped. Holding Molor for three minutes without falling—the scale of it spoke loud.

Even without the request, she was going to fight him. She would never bow to his demands, a spine like tempered steel.

Allow me to refuse.

She layered several augment spells on herself, then drew Windsong; the blade hummed like a reed in gale.

Is that so? People of the Mizumi Clan are arrogant, he said, voice cold as sleet. You don’t even grasp that knowing when to yield makes a hero.

Words barely fell when Molor burst into shadow and streaked at Senki, a black spear with a storm at its tip.

His speed dwarfed Senki’s, a hawk diving while she stood on the ground; dodging was a dream. She braced to take the hit, then planned to break away.

He hadn’t layered Law power on this strike, or she wouldn’t dare step into it; that absence was a narrow window in a steel gate.

Space-Time: Blitz.

She threaded time and space, found a slit like light between shutters, slipped past with minimal cost, then cut back with a slash that ignored distance, a line drawn across the sky.

As expected, the counter failed; Molor’s raw force hammered her like a falling mountain and flung her dozens of meters.

Even with the Sacred Life Sword and Supreme Divine Spirit Medicine mending flesh like rain on parched earth, her mind wouldn’t snap back; one simple blow demanded a brutal price to block.

When she was hurled, stamina and mana fell away in an instant, like sand spilling from a broken hourglass. Only the Sacred Life Sword kept her upright.

To wield both time and space… interesting, Molor said, eyes like frost.

He didn’t let her breathe; he came again like thunder rolling. Senki drew wind and lightning laws and unleashed Wind-Thunder Sword: Sky Dance, blades and storm braided together.

But against absolute strength, technique is mist that burns in sunlight. However refined her sword or perfect her spell-work, Molor broke it with ease and sent her flying.

Even with the Sacred Life Sword and armfuls of Supreme Divine Spirit Medicine, she couldn’t keep this pace; every exchange was a toll-road.

She swallowed a Holy Healing Fruit; paired with the sword’s grace, her body snapped back to peak like a bow restrung, but her mind sank deeper into fatigue, a weight in water.

Melding multi-type magic with swordplay drains the mind; fusing multiple laws into the blade drains it twice, a candle burning at both ends.

Against usual foes it worked. Against Molor, a Law Realm first-tier Demon King, every strike did nothing; every exchange left new wounds, red ink on the ledger.

Without the Sacred Life Sword and those Supreme Divine Spirit Medicines, she’d already be a name on stone.

The Mizumi Clan is truly rich, Molor said, a smile like a knife. You use Supreme Divine Spirit Medicine like common poultice. You preach my sins, but isn’t your clan the greater sin?

Molor didn’t press; he stopped, eyes cold as winter, pinning Senki like a butterfly.

You hoard the Central Continent’s richest resources. You choke every other force. You turtle up to indulge yourselves and waste what’s precious, burning incense while fields go fallow.

The world stalls because of you. It’s a stagnant pond, growth slow and even frozen, a clock that no longer ticks.

Compared to me, the Mizumi Clan’s dictatorship and dead weight are the greatest evil.