Jue Divine Sword Arts—an art whispered through the Nine Prisons. Its founder was the legend, the First Swordsman, a blade like winter moons over iron.

There are nine swords, counted from the Ninth down to the First, each a stroke from that First Swordsman’s invasion of the Nine Prisons, each battle carved into steel like storm lines in old stone.

They say, when he fought the Warden of the First Prison, the First Sword of the Nine Prisons felled a Primordial Deity—one blow, like dawn knifing through a starless night.

The art is a household name across the Nine Prisons, yet no one has ever stepped beyond the Fifth Sword; the earlier blades stay sealed like mountains behind mist.

The people of the Nine Prisons don’t know, but Ouyang does—because that First Swordsman was Emperor Luo in his youth, a rising sun veiled by snow. Before his hymn of slaughter silenced the gods, Emperor Luo went to temper himself by blades in the Nine Prisons.

His swordsmanship was peerless. In the Third Epoch, he split the dark with one stroke and led the dawn in by the hand, ending an age like a burned-out lamp and lighting a new one.

The Eighth Sword fell, and gods and demons below mid-tier strength withered like wind-lifted petals—beauty scattered, life thinned to dusk dust.

“Nine Prisons, Seventh Sword!”

One cut flashed. High-god angel-chiefs in the Divine Realm and demon overlords like Lagu in the Demon World dropped like toppled pillars, pride severed at the waist.

That stroke ignored distance and time; it slipped past years and miles like a shadow crossing water, landed on both armies as if space were paper.

Shhk—

Identical wounds, identical sword marks. Lagu’s body split cleanly at the waist, like a tree sawn at the trunk. Every high-god angel-chief and demon overlord wore the same death line.

Gods and demons withered, like autumn fields after a frost.

From the corpses, streams of ash-gray vapor drifted up—thin as breath in winter—and floated toward Ouyang, their final aim the Divine Sword in his hand.

Gray whorls wrapped the blade like storm silk. Ouyang saw fewer cracks in the steel—a broken star stitching itself back together. It was healing.

“Figures. A sword that drank heaven and hell dry in the Second Epoch still craves god and demon blood to wake. And that thing above—will you take it? Don’t be picky, alright?”

The Rift Wasteland thickened with gray currents, dense as fog over marsh. Divine Bloom petals wheeled like white fireflies. Ink-black clouds pressed low over the sky and poured endless lightning like rivers.

A clash at divine scale had kicked the World Will into backlash; the thunder was its roar, mountains trembling like beasts.

The World Will stands at Realm God-class, and so does Ouyang—a storm and a storm eye. With the knowledge in his mind, he’s mastered the Creation Law, level with the World Will, though killing it is like trying to drown the sea, especially on the sea’s home waters.

“No matter what, I’m not handing my land to a stranger.” He faced the endless thunder like a pine under hail. The Divine Sword, fed by gray streams without end, began to glow—faint as embers under ash.

Just as Ouyang said: Aurora created this world, but in the Eighth Epoch, when Original Sin swept through the Demon Kings like wildfires, the old World Will was devoured. The Will now is a newborn river; it knows neither Aurora nor Ouyang.

So he would not cede this world’s reins to a stranger. He leveled his sword at the heavens. “Nine Prisons, Sixth Sword!”

One slash crossed the sky. A blazing scar tore the vault of heaven like fabric ripped by lightning; anyone on the continent under open sky saw that wound.

A colossal rift opened in the firmament. At the sight, a nameless grief rose in every heart—like watching the elder who raised you fall, the guardian you never saw die under winter sun.

Tears came unbidden, salt rain down rough faces. Even iron-hearted ones cried, mourning a presence whose name they didn’t know, only its warmth.

The land’s wail. The world’s elegy. Ouyang felt it like wind through bones. If he could choose again, he’d still carve this line. “Night Clan—everything ends today.”

The Divine Sword that had swallowed the World Will pulsed with shadowed light, and in that dim glow Ouyang heard a heartbeat—slow thunder inside iron.

Crack. He drove the sword into the void and twisted the hilt. Space opened like a door in black glass. He stepped through, a river cutting into cavern.

Behind him, Bai’s pale phantom moved as if pinned to him, shadow to stride, a moonlit imprint bound to his motion.

Silver wings folded around Ouyang, a quiet shield like moonlight over frost.

One step, and a vast palace opened—floors like night water. Glimmering glass lamps breathed a wavering glow. A crowd filled the hall, countless bodies inked with black sigils like crawling vines.

“Remnants of the Night Clan…” A low voice rolled from the sword, like drums underground. On the throne, a woman’s face twisted. “Heaven Departing Divine Sword!?”

The Night Clan had no road behind them; this was their last chance to strike at Ouyang. Only blood from the Other Shore lifts their curse. If they wait till the Gate opens again, they’ll be swept clean like dust after rain.

No need for words. Battle fell like sudden snow.

Chains surged between heaven and earth, spearing from sky to ground—order forged by a Realm God, heavy as mountains, cold as iron.

“No. More than that.” Ouyang felt a pressure floating above Realm God, a command in the air like a leash on the soul. “Ancient God.”

In that old war, Primordial Deities were wiped out, ash on wind. With the curse binding them, Ouyang didn’t fear the Night Clan breaching Primordial Deity again.

He kept the Divine Sword moving, stroke and stroke, and bodies fell like sheaves in harvest. But this was the Demon World; his slaughter cut through certain people’s lines.

A short blade crossed time and space—silent as a falling feather—and sank into his heart before he even noticed. No sound, no spark. Then, out of nowhere, an arrow punched through his left arm like ice through cloth.

“Kid, end it fast. If those sleeping ones wake, I can’t cover you.” A voice rang in his mind, steel over wind—Litian, the sword spirit of the Heaven Departing Divine Sword.

“How long can you stay awake?”

He needed the sword spirit’s clock more than the storm’s. A World Will and a mob of divine-level riffraff wouldn’t wake Litian fully.

“Minutes. Depends on consumption.”

Minutes. Enough for a blaze.

A Nether Dragon flew in from the horizon, scales like black armor, hauling a gold-drenched chariot that flashed like sunset on coins. “Who dares cause trouble on my turf?”

At first, Ouyang’s heart kicked, a brief panic like cold water. As the chariot drew close, he snorted.

“Damn. Peak-divine trash. Where’d he get the guts?” He said little. One stroke. The Nether Dragon split like a log under an axe. “The feud between the Other Shore and the Night Clan—who else wants a hand in?”

At that line, hidden experts peeled away like shadows at dawn. Many withdrew, and those who watched chose stillness—eyes cold, hands quiet.

“Other Shore? What’s that? I’m the Master of the Sixth Ring. You make trouble on my ground, you dare break the rules set by His Majesty the Demon Emperor?” The man on the chariot was all chin and thunder, arrogance like a plume.

“Tch. No time. Realm Gods and Ancient Gods fear the Other Shore, but Primordial Deities won’t give face. We move now!” Litian urged again, wind snapping through the mind.

Ouyang rose into high air. The sky was a deep blue, not the gloom people paint over demons.

“Kid, I’m the Demon Emperor’s ninety-ninth grandson. Stop. Now.”

Demon Emperor?

Ouyang didn’t care. Names are smoke. The Night Clan must die; old debts must settle like sand at tide’s end.

“Void Esoterica: False Twilight of the Gods!”

In that instant, the sword showed no cracks—steel like slate, whole as a full moon. Divine Bloom drifted across the Demon World’s sky, white petals falling like snow. A flower that only graces mortal skies now fell in a high world.

“The last time Divine Bloom fell in a high world was millions of years ago—on that twilight day…” An ancient presence watched the sky, memory like dust motes in light. False Twilight of the Gods—Ouyang could only cast it with the sword’s strength.

He swung. God-blood sprayed like red rain. In a breath, corpses shrank to bone, dry as driftwood. Stroke after stroke—art at the peak, deadly and pure. Every jet of blood was drunk by the sword like wine.

“Damn you!” Ouyang cut down the Night Clan’s Demon Sovereign with one stroke, and a figure inked in black sigils roared—fury like wildfire. “Exterminate my clan, and you think you’ll walk away?”

“Your Majesty the Demon Emperor, I offer my body in sacrifice—grant punishment upon the one before me!”

The last of the Night Clan dropped to his knees, right hand spearing into his own heart—a scarlet flower opening in his chest.

“Bad. That one’s at Ancient God peak. If he sacrifices, the Demon Emperor’s projection will hit Primordial Deity level!” Litian’s warning came sharp, but a heartbeat late.

A sky-shrouding giant hand fell from above, palm covering light like an eclipse, intent on wiping this region clean like a cloth over chalk. “A Deity! Is this a Primordial Deity’s power!?”

Ouyang didn’t think to flee—there was no fleeing. Primordial Deity power turns roads to walls. Worse, the sword’s glow went dim; the spirit slipped back into sleep, a candle blown out.

“Other Shore? Interesting…”

A mocking voice brushed his ears like cold smoke. The giant hand descended. It erased everything—time, space, names—leaving only primal chaos under its shadow, a sea before the first dawn.

…

“Dead? Heh… As expected of Primordial Deity power—time sealed, space locked. No escape at all.”