Fu Qingyang plunged downward from the city wall, at that moment seeming to merge with the Jade Dragon Sword, until even the soldiers in the audience could no longer see him—only the breathtaking swordlight remained. The strength of the sword's qi within the Jade Dragon Sword distorted the surrounding air, creating ripples akin to those produced when meteors skim the atmosphere. Facing the swordlight that seemed capable of splitting heaven and earth, Bo Taobo Guanghe, with his eight arms waving in motion, suddenly clenched his four hands tightly, seizing Yang Ce's sword. To his astonishment, Yang Ce's power was far beyond what he had expected—he felt an overwhelming sense of being unable to match him. Fu Qingyang forcefully pressed Bo Taobo Guanghe down, landing with a thunderous "crash." He maintained his diagonal flight posture, as if transformed into a flying sword, gliding backward while bearing the force of Bo Taobo Guanghe's resistance. "Shriek!" Bo Taobo Guanghe's military boots were torn, and his dark, metallic feet, like iron plows, carved deep, glistening furrows across the blood-streaked official road. The two of them moved in and out, sliding several dozen paces apart. Tuoba Guanghe's eight hands were scorched by the sword's aura, blood streaming from his palms, his skin split and flesh torn. The sword tip gradually advanced, piercing his chest, though it failed to rupture his resilient skin—the pain was nonetheless sharp and tangible. As Tuoba Guanghe's eyes flared with crimson glyphs, attempting to influence Yang Ce's will through "allurement," a thunderous drumming sound erupted in his ears. The glyphs, barely formed, instantly collapsed. A wave of retreat and hesitation surged within him, weakening his resolve. Tuoba Guanghe realized it wasn't Yang Ce who had grown stronger—it was himself who had grown weaker. That drumming sound was both soul-shaking and physically impactful, capable of disorienting the mind, eroding combat spirit, and directly impairing the flow of spiritual energy—effectively diminishing his combat strength. Since attaining the Grand Master level, Tuoba Guanghe had abandoned most of the spells he had previously studied, believing that no spell attack could surpass the full-force strike of his triple-bodied, six-armed form. There are countless so-called supreme arts and secret techniques on the martial world stage, yet at the end of the day, they all ultimately revolve around one word: "power." To this world-class master, there is no such thing as "a light touch moving a thousand pounds"—every cultivator throughout history has sought strength, and believes firmly in the principle that "power overcomes ten." The only difference lies in the form of expression. Thus, the cultivation of physical strength is the grand path that Tao Bao Guanghe holds most sacred. He stands firm, regardless of how strong others may be—my sheer strength will overcome all methods! His muscles swell and bulge, veins standing out prominently. Suddenly, Tao Bao Guanghe releases his four hands, allowing the sword, brimming with potent qi, to press against his skin and penetrate three inches into his flesh. He roars deeply, then delivers eight powerful palm strikes along the sword's spine. "Crack!" The Jade Dragon Sword, which had accompanied Fu Qingyang for some time, shatters piece by piece. Seizing the moment when Fu Qingyang loses his weapon, Tao Bao Guanghe takes a single step forward, and the earth trembles with a resonant thud. His eight "Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!" Eight fists simultaneously struck empty, sending a sharp, resonant wave of sound rippling through the void. Since the moment his sword shattered, Fu Qingyang had already perceived the enemy's intentions. What appeared to be a daring evasive maneuver—avoiding the coordinated eight-punch assault—was in fact entirely predictable and inevitable. While Yanshi's close-combat prowess fell short of the ancient war god's legendary feats—where he could move like the heavens, the earth, and even the gods, reducing mere insects to crawling beneath him—his role as a high-damage, low-defense specialist demanded more than just raw power. Without some form of survival capability, how could he effectively engage in close combat with sturdy, resilient opponents? Fu Qingyang then swept back over ten meters, drawing his hands through the air. A series of flying swords, each half-arm long, arced and lay horizontally in the space before him. He then launched them one after another. "Whizz! Whizz! Whizz!" The swords sliced and interlaced, shooting in various directions toward the enemy. Tuoba Guang, with his eight arms now forming ethereal weapons, spun them rapidly, creating a dense Fu Qingyang leapt into the air, spun sideways, accumulating one unit of force with each full rotation. The six flying swords, each half-arm long, returned autonomously, linking seamlessly to form a three-meter-long sword-lance. With a single stroke of the lance, Tao Bao Guang He extended his eight arms horizontally toward the sky. The sword-lance shattered, its contained sword qi dispersing into a dense "rain of swords," striking Tao Bao Guang He's head, face, and shoulders, creating a steady cascade of blood droplets. He pressed his cheek muscles, expelling a thick, dense mist in a powerful surge. At his rank, this mist could blanket an area spanning hundreds of miles, enveloping the entire nation—ordinary winds could hardly disperse such a vast expanse of fog. During the siege, he had previously refrained from actively generating or releasing the mist, because the master-level fog carried effects of occlusion, sensory illusions, and mild toxicity, all indistinguishable from one another; even ordinary soldiers and the fog's master itself would be affected. Now, however, he felt no such restraint. The mist spread rapidly, surging outward toward the wilderness, the official roads, and the city walls. Suddenly, a roaring rush of water erupted, and a vast river appeared outside the city. The river flowed into a grand stream, surging forward with mighty waves that rose higher than the city walls. Fu Qingyang stood firm in the midst of the turbulent waves, holding a seal black as ink, unshaken. The mist was pushed aside by the flowing water, rising to the surface. The fog master’s abilities—such as instantaneous teleportation and fog dispersion—were instantly rendered ineffective. Tuoba Guanghe soared high above, his feet planted in the void, gazing darkly upon Fu Qingyang beneath the water, yet powerless to act. Fu Qingyang’s seal, the River God’s Seal from Cai Qinhè, was a rule-based artifact. While it had enabled the water spirit to unleash its full power, here it proved more than sufficient to counter the dense mist. "Thinking you're just going to hide like a turtle and escape me?" Tuoba Guanghe plunged directly into the water. Not long after, deep within the stream, thunderous booms echoed, the muddy waves surging upward, rolling back dozens of zhang, as if the entire river had boiled over. Another half-hour passed, and the thick mist that had enveloped both the city and its outskirts began to dissipate, the water level dropping rapidly. Both masters withdrew their domains simultaneously. Though Tuoba Guanghe fought with evident hesitation, Fu Qingyang's flying swords, sword techniques, and sword qi were likewise disrupted beneath the water, unable to reach their full potential. The two clashed again on the muddy official road, discarding their elaborate skills and tools, engaging in close-quarters combat to the last. Tuoba Guanghe's powerful punches roared across the open fields, occasionally striking the city walls with such force that they cracked dramatically; Fu Qingyang's sword qi did the same, scattering in fragmented bursts that sent stones tumbling down from the walls. The city walls were left deserted, the garrison having retreated to the city's lower grounds—many had perished in the thick mist, and then a further wave of casualties fell victim to the shockwaves generated by their intense combat. Finally, Tuoba Guanghe deployed his Eye of Enchantment, causing the soldiers to collectively go mad. A true celestial duel, with its ripple effects reaching even the fish in the pond. Throughout this process, Zhang Yuanqing has been continuously beating the drum—never ceasing—only by maintaining an unbroken drumbeat can the battle continue. After delivering a powerful, resolute punch that repelled Yang Ce, Tao Bao Guanghe wiped the blood from his chest, his voice carrying both weight and condescension: "Master swordsmen value swift, decisive action. Once they fall into prolonged struggle, their momentum wanes and their edge dulls. Your sword energy has weakened, Yang Ce. Even with the drumbeat supporting you, you will not be able to defeat me. On the contrary, I can easily wear you down." Fu Qingyang, already fighting against the odds, faced an opponent of boundless strength—a primordial war god. Despite the drum's pressure, which had diminished from its peak, overcoming and ultimately killing him remained an immense challenge. This is what it means to be a Ninth-Rank Master. The higher the rank, the more difficult it becomes to defeat opponents at a higher level—especially at the Ninth Rank, which is nearing the ceiling of the spiritual journey of a cultivator. Tao Bao Guanghe then charged forward, sprinting toward Fu Qingyang, launching a simple, straightforward attack that nonetheless Had he chosen any other career, he would have opted for evasion and retreat, unwilling to meet the challenge head-on. But Fu Qingyang insisted on direct confrontation—he would not allow himself to retreat; if he retreated, there would be no Fu Qingyang. Fu Qingyang clenched his hands, activating sword gestures, and the flying swords roared forth, linking together end to end, forming a straight line of unyielding power—so potent that even gods and spirits could not withstand it. Tuoba Guanghe charged straight into the tip of the sword. At that moment, the drumming suddenly paused. On the city walls, Zhang Yuanqing's forehead turned black, and a thick, fading, murky aura gathered over his brow. His vital energy rapidly declined, his blood and qi weakened, sweat beaded at his armpits, his body grew foul, and his spirit grew weary. The signs of the Celestial Five Decays! The price of defeating the national master had finally manifested. Thud, thud, thud—the flying swords one after another snapped, yet despite their ability to cut through steel, they could not pierce the bone of this foremost warrior of the Northern Dynasty. With his breath surging, Tuoba Guanghe surged forward, The sudden turn of events left Fu Qingyang utterly unprepared. In a hurried motion, he gathered his sword qi and concentrated it at his fingertips, aiming it at the charging punch. A tremendous roar echoed as the shockwave surged outward, shattering the city walls with unstoppable force, causing them to crack and tremble. Fu Qingyang, whose sword tip was reduced to pulp, was thrown backward, his arms limp and dangling. The punch not only shattered his arms, sending its force through his body, but also disrupted the flow of his vital pulse. The emperor, drumming his hands, bled from all seven orifices. Thick streams of blood dripped from his mouth, pooling on his chest and abdomen. "Can you hold on?" Fu Qingyang stepped back, asking as he drew distance. Zhang Yuanqing's head throbbed with pain. He forced out a strained, twisted smile. "I've said, 'The sovereign guards the nation's gates; the king dies for the state's welfare.' That's no mere words!" Fu Qingyang replied, "Excellent! Strike him down within half an hour!" As he spoke, he raised both hands and pressed them downward. Tuoba Guang hissed, "No matter how many more soldiers or figures we have, at our level, what difference does it make..." Then he fell silent. Four figures burst through the air—first, a woman in a splendid red gown carrying a pot; then, a cold-featured beauty in a black silk dress; next, a sturdy man with dark red hair and dressed in deep blue robes; and finally, the enigmatic figure in an unusual attire. Four sovereign-level warrior figures. Fu Qingyang gently exhaled a stream of sword energy. "Tuoba, with The first half was merely warming up, a delay tactic—he had been waiting for the three Dominators to resolve the Corpse Spell. Though the National Master's spell was powerful, it ultimately relied on a single incantation; once the caster perished, the power would gradually wane. Moreover, all the recipients of the spell were Dominators themselves, formidable in strength, so resolving the spell was merely a matter of time.