Chapter 124: Breaking The Silence.
Rubble whispered as dust settled. Broken towers loomed like jagged teeth. All that remained were two figures locked in opposition: Lan, Heaven’s Heretic reborn, and a clone of himself that just won’t die.
Lan’s double lunged again, moving as if carved from the same mold as Lan, yet slick with smoke and absence. Every strike mirrored his own movements, yet twisted, sharpened by Karahad’s will.
Steel screeched. Sparks leapt. Devil’s Lie howled against its phantom twin.
Lan grimaced as his footing slipped against the fractured stone. His double pressed with flawless rhythm, an unyielding reflection given perfect malice.
Karahad stood just beyond, cloak of shadow bleeding tendrils into the broken city, his hands folded casually behind his back as though watching a child perform tricks.
Enough.
Lan’s hand snapped forward, dark threads of Qi coiling around his palm.
[ Severance Touch. ]
He caught the phantom’s blade mid-swing, dark steel grinding against his fingers. With a sharp twist of will, his dark aura flared, and rot bloomed along the shadow-forged steel. The double shuddered, edges unraveling like torn fabric. The phantom’s form withered, dissolving into smoke.
Karahad’s brows rose slightly.
Lan’s voice was low, venomous: "I’m done with your tricks"
For the first time, the silence cracked.
---
Lan moved before the smoke could fall. Sword Intent burst from Devil’s Lie in a wide, searing arc. The air itself split, a line of raw will that bit into broken towers and sheared stone apart. The space between them shrieked under the cut, forcing Karahad to step aside.
Lan pressed harder. Each swing wasn’t meant to kill but to deny—cleaving away room, narrowing the field, choking out Karahad’s freedom to flit like shadow.
The League executioner grin deepened as he drew a single blade, obsidian and whisper-thin.
"Interesting."
Lan’s Spiritual Will thundered outward in response, a crushing pulse that tore through the space between them. Soldiers hidden in distant ruins crumpled, clutching their heads as if a hammer had struck their souls.
Karahad staggered—barely, but enough.
Lan was on him instantly.
Devil’s Lie screamed, carving down in a two-handed stroke. Shadow met steel, sparks vomiting across the ruin. Lan’s ferocity drove Karahad back a step, then two, before the man twisted, cloak of blackness snapping around him like wings.
"You’re impressive," Karahad said, voice light, amused.
Lan didn’t answer.
Crimson Qi surged, flooding his veins until his body burned like molten iron. Every breath stoked the fire. Every step became a blur. His aura blazed outward, a tidal surge that scorched shadow itself.
[ Crimson Surge. ]
The battlefield shifted. Lan’s speed multiplied; his strikes became a storm. Blades of intent cut from impossible angles. Karahad’s cloak hissed as Devil’s Lie grazed it, crimson edge tearing strips of shadow into smoke.
The blade drank Karahad’s disdain, the very scorn that had dripped from his every glance. Devil’s Lie quivered in hunger, the rust along its edge pulsing like veins as it swallowed the lie of Karahad’s superiority.
For the first time, Lan heard a grunt escape the executioner’s lips. A shallow cut scored along Karahad’s shoulder, shadows hissing as if burned.
Karahad’s smile faded.
He spoke, voice sharper, no longer playful. "So this is why they sent me. You are not what people think you are."
Lan’s eyes burned pale grey, unflinching. "And you’re not what they told me you were either. Just another arrogant corpse waiting to fall."
The words struck like steel.
Karahad’s next blow was different—no longer languid, no longer testing. His blade cut true, lines of black precision. Every strike carried intent to kill. Each movement honed, stripped of the indulgence of superiority.
Lan met him.
The clash ripped the city apart.
Steel and shadow. Crimson and void. Every impact shattered stone, sending cracks rippling like spiderwebs.
Towers that had stood for centuries crumbled into heaps. Each exchange bent the laws of space; shadows elongated unnaturally, while crimson arcs lingered in the air like afterimages, scarring the battlefield.
A single parry from Karahad carved a crater twenty feet wide, shadows imploding as though the earth had swallowed itself.
Lan’s counter swept through it, Devil’s Lie howling, and the ruin collapsed entirely, a tower folding inward like wet paper.
The world itself bent around them.
In the distance, soldiers fled further and further, their faces bloodless. Even the bravest could not bear the pressure. To them, this duel was no longer human combat but calamity incarnate.
The silence of earlier had become thunder.
Every clash screamed. Every strike sang.
Lan roared as Devil’s Lie struck, crimson Qi pouring through the edge. Karahad’s cloak writhed, dozens of shadow-appendages sprouting to intercept.
They shredded under the stroke, dispersing like black mist. For each cut, another lash came, shadow-hands clawing, but Lan tore through them with savage rhythm, his intent refusing to break.
Sweat dripped down his temple, mixing with blood at his lip. His arms ached, but still he pressed. He could not—would not—yield ground.
Karahad’s eyes narrowed. The grin was gone, replaced with an expression like steel being tempered.
"Good," he murmured. "Better."
They collided again.
Devil’s Lie met the shadow blade. Crimson against black.
The force split the ruins beneath them, dust exploding outward in a choking wave. The air screamed as pressure collided, waves of energy cracking windows miles away.
They locked there, blades grinding, faces inches apart. Shadows writhed across Karahad’s form, crimson flames bled from Lan’s. Both pushed, neither yielding.
The world around them seemed to hold its breath once more.
For a moment, there were no generals, no empires, no armies waiting on either side. Only two wills, colliding like storms.
Shadows howled. Crimson Qi burned.
Lan’s voice came low, steady: "You came to die for a debt that is not yours to pay."
Karahad’s reply was a whisper edged in iron: "Don’t get too arrogant, Prince."
Their blades surged, shadows and crimson flaring in equal measure.
The ruins trembled. The sky itself darkened, cloud and ash swirling overhead. To the fleeing soldiers, it looked as if gods were fighting at the center of the world, and the earth might not survive.
And still—neither gave ground.
Their blades remained locked, surging with power, both refusing to bend.
For the first time, they were equals.
The silence broke into a roar—two storms, colliding endlessly, the outcome still unseen.