A rasping, guttural laughter echoed through the ruins—jagged and unhinged, like the scraping of bones against stone. The ghost's form flickered violently, writhing as if barely able to contain itself under the sheer weight of its hatred. Shadows coiled around it, thick with resentment, an oppressive force that made the air itself tremble.
Its hollow eyes swept over Zhang, Yun, Linglong… and Xiao Yan. That damn charm user. While its hatred for her wasn't as deep as what it held for Zhang, it still burned. She had chosen a side. That was enough.
But there was no time for petty grievances.
It exhaled—a soundless, deathly whisper—and its body seethed with hatred, an endless tide of resentment clawing to break free.
The black flag in its grasp shuddered in response. But it wasn't the source. No—it was merely an extension of the ghost itself. A cursed vessel, a tool through which its rage could take form.
And now, it would devour everything.
The battlefield shuddered as the ghost poured its very being into the flag, its own resentment twisting into a monstrous force beyond shape or reason.
The restless spirits lurking in the ruins froze for a moment, their hollow eyes snapping toward Zhang's group. They weren't called by the flag.
They were called by the ghost's will.
Like hounds unleashed, the spirits surged forward, their shrieks cutting through the air as they hurled themselves at Zhang and the others. Wild. Unpredictable. Enough to stall them.
And it needed time.
The flag quivered, absorbing the battlefield's agony—but it was the ghost's own fury that made it swell with power. Its very being poured into the fabric, fusing with the wails of the countless dead. The hatred was not separate from it.
It was the ghost itself.
A deathly aura spread from the flag, a hunger so vast it felt like the air itself was being devoured.
A technique fueled by sheer, unrelenting hatred.
But it required ten breaths. Ten breaths to shape, to charge, to unleash.
The ghost let out another fractured, deranged laugh as the flag's surface twisted grotesquely, its once-tattered edges stretching, shifting—becoming something else entirely.
The fabric bulged, grotesque veins crawling beneath its surface, pulsing with a sickly, unnatural glow. But this wasn't the flag's will.
This was the ghost itself, unraveling—becoming the very weapon that would annihilate everything in its path.
The wails of the battlefield condensed into its core, their pain and fury crystallizing into a force that would erase everything in its path.
It didn't matter what happened after.
The living wouldn't survive long enough to see it.
…
Damn it.
Zhang's grip tightened around his sword, his knuckles bloodless from the strain. His entire body was screaming—his wounds, the cursed necklace still gnawing at his insides—but none of that mattered now.
The ghost wasn't just stalling. It was preparing something.
He could feel it.
The air had grown heavier, thick with an unnatural pressure that settled into his bones like lead. The spirits that had been nothing more than chaotic remnants of suffering were now moving with purpose, thrown toward them like living weapons. Wild, uncontrollable—but just directed enough to be a problem.
The battlefield was a mess. The remaining cannon fodder—those unfortunate enough to still be alive—were barely holding together. Some were screaming, running blindly as the ghost's madness clawed at their minds. Others fought on instinct, hacking at the charging spirits with trembling hands, their faces pale with terror. A few, the smarter ones, had already turned tail and fled.
Cowards.
But Zhang wasn't sure they were wrong.
And then he saw it.
The way the ghost's form flickered, warping unnaturally as resentment surged into it, gathering in its core. The battlefield had already been suffocating with hatred, but now that hatred was twisting into something tangible.
A final, all-or-nothing attack.
His mind raced. If that thing finished charging, they were dead. No doubt about it.
But more importantly—where the hell were those bastards?!
His jaw clenched as he cut through another screaming spirit, the impact sending a shockwave through his arms. His breathing was ragged, his movements growing sluggish, but his mind was sharp.
He knew. He fucking knew.
The three in the shadows—those watching, waiting—they had to make a move before this thing was unleashed. If they let Zhang's group die here, then what? Stab the ghost in the back when it was weakened? Sure, that would work, but it would be a risk.
Too much of a risk.
Because if Zhang and the others fell, then there was no guarantee they could finish the job. No one knew what would happen if this thing fully lost control. Maybe it would self-destruct. Maybe it would devour everything in its path. Maybe it would become something even worse.
They couldn't take that gamble.
So where the hell were they?!
….
Yun could barely breathe.
The air felt poisoned, thick with hatred so intense it clawed at her skin. It wasn't just the ghost's killing intent—it was deeper, heavier. Something festering, something ancient. A weight that pressed against her soul, like unseen hands trying to pull her into the abyss.
She forced her eyes forward. The battlefield was a nightmare of writhing, howling spirits, their forms barely coherent as they surged toward them in waves. But beyond them, past the chaos, was the real threat—the ghost itself.
And it wasn't moving.
Instead, its form flickered violently, the space around it distorting like heat rising from scorched earth. It was gathering something. Resentment thick enough to warp the air, to make even the weakest cultivators feel like their lungs were collapsing.
Yun gritted her teeth. She had seen destructive techniques before, but this—this wasn't some martial art. This was pure, unfiltered hatred given form.
And it was almost ready to be unleashed.
Linglong had studied resentment-based techniques before. She knew how ghosts twisted emotions into power, how hatred could be sharpened into a weapon. But this…
This was something beyond anything she had ever seen.
Her blade trembled slightly in her grip—not from fear, but from the sheer weight of the spiritual force pressing against her. The air was thick with resentment, suffocating, coiling around them like a living entity. It slithered through the battlefield, feeding off the lingering emotions of the dead, sinking into the cracks of reality itself.
She exhaled sharply, steadying herself. Her fingers adjusted on the hilt of her blade, her instincts screaming at her to act, but she knew she had only one chance. If she moved too soon, the attack would still launch. Too late, and there would be nothing left of them to save.
She had heard of techniques like this before—not by name, because no record existed of anyone surviving its full force. But she knew what it was.
A final, all-consuming attack. A strike born from nothing but pure, undying grievance. The kind of thing that could erase even a soul if executed correctly.
Her knuckles whitened as she tightened her grip. Barriers wouldn't stop it. Defenses wouldn't hold. There was only one way to survive—
Kill it before it could strike.
She shifted her stance, her blade humming with cold intent. No hesitation. No fear.
Xiao Yan wasn't a stranger to ghosts. She had dealt with spirits before, had felt the sting of their hatred. But this?
This was enough to make even her tremble.
She wasn't even standing at the front, yet the resentment wrapped around her throat like a vice, seeping into her bones. Her charms—her strongest charms—were already burning at their edges just from being exposed to it.
This wasn't just the hatred of a single ghost. It was something far worse.
Xiao Yan's gaze snapped toward the specter, then toward Zhang. He was still holding his ground, blade steady despite the way his body swayed. But she could see it.
The exhaustion. The weight pressing on him. The understanding in his eyes.
Zhang knew what was coming.
And so did she.
Her voice came out hoarse. "That level of resentment…"
It wasn't possible. It shouldn't be possible. The amount of hatred needed to fuel such a technique—it was beyond what a single soul should be able to bear.
And yet, the ghost was doing it anyway.
A suicide attack. One that would take everyone with it.
Her hand clenched around her remaining charms, but an unsettling thought gnawed at her mind.
Even if they survived this… would they still be whole?