On the main road from Lavender Town to Secret Port. The slaughter shook the sky. Lives here were mere units, wiped out with all emotion. A one-eyed pirate—his blind eye’s iris clouded with a murky cyan—looked so cruel he was almost inhuman. He drove a curved blade into a sergeant’s throat, twisted it viciously, and tore the head clean off, ripping off the rank badge. Two gold dragons were already in his hands. Seconds between life and death bought a navy ordinary sailor nearly four years’ wages. The Military Police stationed inland in Arlan, even the elite among them, had mostly only dealt with gang thugs inside the empire. They had never faced coastal cutthroats whose blades licked blood and who were verging on madness. Field officer Piapan and Ox were locked in a desperate fight, but it was clear they were slowly losing ground; morale was on the verge of collapse. They absolutely could not fail! Piapan continued to resist stubbornly. His Colossal Blade struck at Ox like a lunatic—each blow carried such force it could turn a cow into mince. Ox calmly blocked everything. Where their weapons clashed in the downpour, steam rose, and the heat from the collision was turning the blades into red-hot irons. Piapan’s attention was fully fixed on Ox. No one else dared approach their duel; even the slightest contact could mean death. Only one man watched for an opening. Ren slunk from the shadows with monstrous guile, lunging forward and clawing Piapan’s ankle. Another swipe severed his tendon. In the instant Piapan’s left foot lost strength and he toppled into imbalance— The outcome of life and death was decided. A ferocious heavy strike—Ox cleaved the Colossal Blade away, leapt, and caught Piapan’s weapon. Three-hundred-pound Colossal Sword in his left hand, three-hundred-pound Colossal Blade in his right—he became a killing god. Piapan’s face went ashy. Ox took two steps forward and began... a whirlwind of dual-wielding chaos. Blade light flashed and danced; the two weapons seemed as light as foam boards as they hacked and cleaved. The gale blew away the rain within a twenty-meter radius. The sound of flesh and marrow being sliced and torn filled the air. the Imperial Arena’s monthly runner-up, Piapan, became... scattered chunks of meat falling to the ground, collapsing into a puddle of flesh. The battle was decided. About twenty pirates from Black Sails lay dead, but after Ox butchered Piapan, the already low morale of the Military Police utterly crumbled in less than a minute. They were wiped out by pirates—no survivors. The pirates began collecting spoils: one ear from a Military Police soldier fetched one hundred silver coins; a pair of ears was a gold dragon; for officers you needed the head plus the rank badge. “We made a great team,” Ren crowed, seeing the main force on the road cleared, already popping champagne in his mind as he waited for Li Site to return with the others. The rain would slow them down a bit, but it wasn’t a problem. Once at sea, he’d savor the taste of being a hero-level adventurer. Ox said nothing—his poker face eternal, without a hint of joy. Without this torrential rain, a leonin in that state might have been dead already. “I wonder what’s happening over at Zachak’s side.” Ox, seeing the situation settled, scanned the surrounding woods. Morrison’s whereabouts were unknown; he couldn’t provide support. “Kill-brother... he wouldn’t be dead, would he?” Ren—who had a knack for saying jolly things even in grim times—was nevertheless uncertain. Though Morrison could massacre like a force of nature, he’d never faced someone like Zachak before—he was the disciple of a Sword King and a Middle General of Arlan. Ox sighed inwardly; Ren was the sort to spout good-luck phrases. on a flat clearing deep within the woods. With a flash of lightning, His technique exceeded everything Zachak could comprehend; it was beyond recognition. Truth be told, Zachak had held on for as long as he could under Morrison, and that alone marked him as a rare, exceptional fighter. Using the daggers and spikes on his boots, Morrison in less than a second flashed up to the treetops like a streak of light, leaping through the trees. Silver serpents fell from the sky—whip-blades danced. Blades rained like detached bolts of lightning—snatching, twisting, coiling, piercing—faster and fiercer than the torrential downpour. Zachak drew his sword and defended like a madman, cutting more than ten blows a second, sparks flying to light the surroundings like daytime. “You’re too slow, too slow! How dare you come out looking like that!” Morrison increased the intensity; this was only the beginning—far from the end. Sharp, fierce, tearing and piercing—the assault felt like an infernal torture chamber of infinite blades storming from the netherworld into the mortal plane. Zachak’s reaction speed had reached its limit. Morrison could be faster and more brutal. Crack—Zachak’s arm was gashed, crack—his leg split open; he had no time to meet such a ferocious onslaught properly. Thunk, thunk, thunk—several flying knives fired in succession with the force of cannon shells that burst on the ground. Zachak failed to dodge; the gusts alone from the flying knives shredded his clothing and opened wounds in his flesh. Morrison slowly came down from the air. Zachak pressed his palm to the blade, cutting himself to drip some blood onto the magic-energy sword, and then slashed skyward with a towering sword qi. Branches snapped like old wood; sword wind broke shrubs for dozens of meters around. Morrison easily avoided that strike; his whip-blade was already hooked around another tree. He spun down like a whirling rotor of blades, arcing to the ground in less than a second. Using inertia he kicked twice and vaulted—he was not only a dagger but a living streak of light. Zachak was stunned by the speed; he instinctively raised his sword to block. He was immediately shoved back several meters, but Morrison was like a ghost on the wind. Elbow-mounted wing blades deployed; daggers hacked wildly while the wing blades whipped, triggering repeated crossbow shots. Bizarre, cunning killing moves—all aimed for vital points, each instant delivering dozens of strikes. He was like a horrid life-form evolved solely for slaughter. How could a single sword, even wielded by an Arlan Middle General, withstand that? Zachak could only parry the lethal blows; dozens of cuts opened across his body, blood flowing uncontrolled. A crossbow bolt struck his shoulder. Morrison snapped his whip-blade, shattering two nearby huge trees in a bizarre arc and toppling them toward the spot where the two fought. Zachak was thoroughly entangled by Morrison now, his movement restricted. The trees threatened to crush them both. Morrison’s uncanny technique let him climb diagonally along the falling trunk and spring through the air. Zachak tried to break free. But Morrison no longer held back. Sixteen flying knives remained in his strap; he fired two bursts to lock down Zachak’s actions. A tree crashed directly toward Zachak. His stamina nearly spent, he slashed through the trunk. But Morrison was already upon him. The thin short sword didn’t kill him, but it embedded into Zachak’s shoulder and dragged him over ten meters, pinning him against another tree. Morrison cracked his whip and disarmed him— the blood-red eerie blade and its scabbard were yanked back by the whip, pulled into his hand. He slumped, pinned to the tree, a bitter sweetness in his throat as he coughed up blood. Morrison remained unscathed. “You’ve got the kind of skill... why become a pirate? Serve the Emperor—you could easily join the Imperial Knight Corps,” Zachak croaked, incredulous. Zachak couldn’t understand; this was a crushing loss. Only someone of his teacher’s caliber could have matched him. Morrison sneered twice. “In Arlan, being an official? That’s a death sentence.” Morrison said it casually. “Finish it,” Zachak said, staring coldly at Morrison, without an ounce of fear of dying—already a ruined man if he returned to Arlan. Morrison planned to try out a new weapon. Wolman’s cabin had been insightful; he needed to keep up with the times. He spun a mechanism on his arm; five small black muzzles popped out. He aimed without hesitation at Zachak’s skull and pulled the trigger. Perhaps soaked by the rain, Morrison shook out the pooled water and clicked at Zachak’s head again—still a misfire. Morrison aimed to the side. Five projectiles finally fired, punching several small holes in a tree. But Morrison’s killing intent was set. He swung the red long sword as if to decapitate. A whistling call sounded—only Ren could blow that loud—and in under two seconds, Zachak’s unit had been annihilated. Morrison fell silent for a moment. “You’re one hell of a lived man. I’ll take this sword from you—farewell.” Morrison sheathed the sword and strode away. He left the gravely wounded Zachak unable to move.