The Savage Clash
Chu Xing now found himself entwined in mortal combat with another nightmare-class specter. Though its strength was modest, it wielded a dread flame that, if it but grazed flesh, would instantly ignite into a conflagration. It was this very fire that had consumed Chen Xi moments before—her fate now unknown.
In the brief moment Chu Xing's guard faltered, the ebony blaze licked his forearm, roaring skyward like gasoline-fed inferno. With grim resolve, he shattered his own limb to halt the consuming flames. His once-vibrant form dimmed, maimed—missing an arm and half his torso. In that instant of despair, Hong Ye appeared.
She joined the fray, battling alongside Chu Xing's fractured strength; the pressure upon him eased. The man in the black cap, witnessing a third nightmare-class phantom emerge, staggered in disbelief. "How—?" Three such horrors in this remote valley of Yunchuan—unthinkable.
The newcomer was a slender youth, sword in hand. The cap-clad man ground his teeth, drawing a small obsidian vial. "Zhang Kui, take this flame—slaughter every soul here." He tossed the bottle, which Zhang Kui caught with exhilaration.
At his command, the vial shattered; ebony flame engulfed him, his aura intensifying monstrously. Chu Xing and Hong Ye recoiled, unable to approach this living torch. Zhang Kui advanced, muttering, "Slaughter… slaughter you all…"
For the first time, Mo Lin sensed a genuine challenge. He sprang into the chamber, cerulean blade flashing in a technique of soul-rending exorcism—his innate method against wraiths. Though his mastery of Nether arts granted him unrivaled power, Zhang Kui's Netherfire demanded caution.
The tower trembled as their duel raged; debris rained from the ceiling. The black-capped man gasped, astonished to see Mo Lin parrying the phantom's onslaught.
"Phantom Art: Illusory Realm!" Mo Lin invoked, and the world convulsed. A sea of inky flames roared up, consuming spectral corpses strewn amid the blaze—Zhang Kui's deepest terror laid bare.
With fury, Zhang Kui hurled more Netherfire, each bolt like a meteor crashing toward Mo Lin. Each ember threatened mortal doom, but Mo Lin vanished in a blink—"Phantom Art: Translocation"—appearing where the flames could not reach.
After unleashing a dozen fireballs, Zhang Kui's conflagration sputtered, his ember supply waning. Seizing the moment, Mo Lin whispered, "Phantom Art: Soul Chain," and a spectral iron shackle coiled around the phantom. The bond ignited, the fire racing along the chain toward Mo Lin—but he released it, and the flames dissipated.
The bespectacled onlooker's eyes widened. Three phantom arts—and three bonded nightmare-class wraiths at Mo Lin's command—an impossibility by every earthly measure.
Mo Lin pressed his advantage, his blade a streak of sapphire against the flickering black. Zhang Kui exhaled a plume of obsidian smoke—his own dread technique. In that instant, Mo Lin cast a gilded hairpin with the precision of a master. The phantom, distracted, parried too late: the pin pierced his palm, then drove unerringly toward his brow.
In a heartbeat, Zhang Kui's resistance faltered. A pair of phantom arms burst through his chest, spectral figures tearing him asunder. Chen Xi reappeared at his core, ravenously devouring the remains, while Chu Xing completed the grim feast. Together, the two shattered and consumed the nightmare-class specter. Zhang Kui was no more.
Mo Lin surveyed the ruin—he could have imprisoned the phantom, but this was war beyond restraint.