The battlefield felt like it was closing in on Zhang. The air was thick with the stench of death, the oppressive weight of the ghost's presence settling like a fog around him. Every breath he took was ragged, every movement slow and deliberate, yet each strike was infused with an undeniable desperation. His body was battered, bruised, and bloodied from the relentless fighting. His strength, once boundless, was starting to waver, but Zhang wasn't one to show weakness. Not now.
The necklace's curse still burned under his skin, its effect like an unrelenting fire gnawing at his insides. Yet it was nothing compared to the urgency of the situation. The ghost, a monstrous being of wailing grief and torment, was still far from defeated. It had already inflicted devastating damage—damage that could have taken down any other man in mere moments. But Zhang, for reasons he couldn't fully articulate, refused to fall.
He couldn't afford to.
Behind him, Yun and Linglong were barely holding on. Both were on the ground, kneeling as they tried to recover, their bodies visibly trembling from the strain. Yun's eyes were half-lidded, exhaustion written clearly across her face. Linglong's brow was furrowed as she closed her eyes, trying to push through the healing process, but the effort was draining. Their recovery was slow—agonizingly so.
Zhang's gaze flicked toward them. He knew they weren't ready to fight again, not by a long shot. But that didn't matter now. There was no time to wait for them to fully heal. The ghost was still lurking, gathering energy for its next assault. And if Zhang didn't make a decisive move soon, everything they'd fought for would be in vain.
His eyes hardened as he turned back toward the spirit. His sword was still in his hand, the blade dripping with the remnants of past fights. The ghost's flag hovered ominously, its ethereal form flickering in and out of existence as if it were a phantom of pure malice. The wailing cries of the spirit reverberated through the air, twisting the very fabric of the battlefield, filling the space with an aura of dread. Zhang could feel the weight of that presence pressing down on him, trying to crush his will. But there was no room for doubt. Not now.
He glanced over his shoulder again, this time not bothering to hide the strain in his face. "You two better be ready," he muttered, his voice hoarse, but unwavering. The words were cold, but the underlying edge of urgency was undeniable. "The ghost is waiting."
Yun's head snapped up, her exhaustion evident, but her eyes flared with the same fire that had driven her since the beginning of their journey. "Zhang… we're not—"
"No buts," Zhang cut her off sharply, his voice a whip-crack in the stillness of the moment. "I've already fought too long to let it end here. If you want to survive, you fight. Don't make me say it again."
Linglong stiffened at the command, her delicate form trembling slightly as she struggled to push herself back onto her feet. Zhang's harsh tone was not lost on her—he was far from the calm, calculated leader she had come to know. He was someone who had been stretched to his breaking point, and yet still, he carried them forward.
Yun's expression darkened, but there was no fear in her eyes. "Fine." She gritted her teeth, rising to her feet with more effort than usual. "But we're not at full strength, Zhang. Don't expect us to perform miracles."
Zhang didn't look back. His focus was locked on the ghost. "We don't have the luxury of waiting," he said bluntly. "You'll find the strength. Just keep moving."
Linglong pushed past the pain, closing her eyes in concentration as she began to chant under her breath. Her talismans fluttered to life around her, their ethereal glow rising like a protective shield. Yun's sword shimmered as she gripped it tightly, preparing for another round of combat, though her movements were sluggish, her body not quite healed enough for a sustained fight.
But Zhang knew there was no choice. He couldn't carry them anymore. He had already bled enough for them to see this moment, and now it was their turn to step up.
The ghost's wail pierced the air again, sharper this time, more menacing. Zhang's muscles tensed in anticipation. The ghost's form began to shift, taking on an even darker, more volatile presence as it gathered its strength. Zhang felt the pressure rise, and with it, the overwhelming need to act. If he hesitated even for a moment, the ghost's power could surge, and that could be the end of them all.
With a grimace, Zhang forced himself forward, ignoring the protests of his body. Every step felt like a battle against his own flesh, but his resolve remained unbroken. His sword swept through the air with an air of calculated precision, cutting through the ghost's essence with the familiar steel of experience.
But his body was betraying him. Each swing of his sword was heavier, each movement more labored. His breath was ragged, and the curse from the necklace gnawed at him like a festering wound. He couldn't ignore it any longer. His strength was fleeting. He could feel his mind slipping, the darkness of exhaustion creeping in at the edges of his consciousness. He was nearing his breaking point, and yet the ghost, that wretched, howling spirit, would not relent.
But there was no room for weakness.
Zhang could feel Yun and Linglong behind him, moving sluggishly, but determined. Yun's sword lashed forward with precision, aiming for weak points in the ghost's form, while Linglong's talismans cut through the air, exploding with spiritual energy to weaken the ghost's defenses.
Zhang's gaze flicked back toward them for a fraction of a second, his eyes meeting Yun's. There was a silent understanding between them—he wasn't fighting alone anymore.
"We're close," Zhang muttered under his breath, each word strained. He didn't know how much longer he could hold on. His body screamed for rest, but the battle wasn't done.
The ghost's attacks were growing more erratic, but Zhang, despite the weariness creeping through his bones, forced himself to keep pressing forward. The ghost would fall.
Not now. Not yet.