The Ghost Reeled.
This—this wasn't how the battle was supposed to unfold.
It had expected them to collapse, to grovel in their last moments, to struggle feebly before death. It had anticipated exhaustion, desperation, maybe even foolish defiance. But betrayal? It hadn't foreseen that.
And yet, there Zhang lay—blood pooling beneath his severed arm, his body unmoving in the dirt. His once-unbreakable form was nothing but a wreck, a shattered thing left to rot in the cold earth. Linglong's blade had nearly ended him, but now, she too was ruined, her dantian obliterated, her once-indomitable strength reduced to nothing. A cripple. A mortal. Useless.
And then there was Yun.
She stood, but only just.
Her stance wavered, her body barely holding together under the weight of exhaustion. There was no fire in her eyes now, only the slow, suffocating drag of fatigue. Sweat streaked her pale skin, her fingers twitching as they gripped nothing but air. Her breaths were slow, deep, measured—but they weren't steady. Her shoulders trembled beneath the effort of simply remaining upright, like a candle flickering in the wind.
She was drained. Not just of strength—but of something deeper.
Whatever calculations had led to this moment, they had cost her dearly.
The ghost's fingers twitched, the impulse to attack burning at the edges of its mind.
This was it.
Zhang was broken. Linglong was finished. Yun was barely standing. Even if its strength had regressed, even if it was weaker than before, they were worse. One strike—just one more—and it would be over.
And yet—it hesitated.
Something was wrong.
It told itself it was exhaustion, that it had been forced into too many battles, drained of too much power. But no—no, this was different. This wasn't weariness; it was a clawing, suffocating sense of unease.
A presence.
Someone—or something—was watching.
The air thickened.
It wasn't a sound, nor a movement, but an unseen weight that pressed down on its chest. A feeling. A distant, whispering thing clawing at the edges of its mind, unseen but undeniable.
Run.
No.
It gritted its teeth, fists clenching tight. Why would it run? This was a victory. It was on the verge of crushing them entirely. It was stronger. It was superior. There was nothing to be afraid of.
And yet, its feet shifted back.
A retreat. A step backward.
It barely noticed the movement until it had already happened.
No. No. No. This wasn't right.
It stole one last glance at Zhang, at Yun, at Linglong. Searching, demanding, desperate for an answer.
Still the same.
Zhang bled. Yun swayed. Linglong faded.
And yet the dread only deepened.
Every fiber of its being screamed at it.
Leave.
The ghost's breath hitched.
Movement.
Three figures surged from the shadows, blurring into existence like phantoms tearing through the veil of night.
The ghost's mind stalled, limbs locking in place. It hadn't sensed them. Not until now. Not until they were already upon it.
"Impossible. They weren't geniuses. Weren't supposed to be threats."
The ghost's mind raced, trying to reconcile the situation. Why weren't they crumbling? Why weren't they just another set of weaklings waiting to be wiped away?
As for why it knew this—it was simple. There should be no one besides Jiang Yu, Linglong, and Yun who could even be considered geniuses, not in this situation. The ghost had seen it all—countless battles, countless warriors, each weaker than the last. But Jiang Yu had been different. A genius in his own right, once powerful enough to be feared. As for the death of Jiang Yu, the ghost had assumed it had simply been an ambush, a moment of vulnerability. It had thought he was just injured, that the situation had overwhelmed him.
But this? This was far beyond the capabilities of mere weaklings.
…
The woman was first.
A cold surge erupted from her fingertips, the air snapping into shards of crystalline frost. No incantation. No delay. A technique executed with the precision of someone who had long mastered it.
A lie.
This wasn't the technique of a nobody.
This was the technique of a monster in disguise.
"Two seconds!" she shouted, her voice like a whip crack.
The ghost barely had time to process the words before the frost engulfed it.
It seized. Locked. Frozen.
A living sculpture encased in deathly ice.
The world slowed.
The air around the ghost crackled as its form began to crystallize. Ice spread, creeping up from the ground, from its limbs, coiling around its essence. It could see—its eyes wide, its every movement restricted—but its body remained locked, as if caught in the grip of an unbreakable cage.
It could still hear, still feel. But it could no longer respond. The weight of the ice was suffocating, a cold that numbed its every thought, leaving it trapped in a fragile moment that stretched on too long.
Then came the burly man.
Earth rippled beneath him, a shift, a tremor—no, a response. The ground obeyed his will, twisting, reforming. A jagged spike of stone surged from the earth, the point aimed at the ghost.
The timing was perfect.
The ground groaned, buckling under the pressure, and the jagged spike tore upward, its sharp edge driven straight into the frozen form of the ghost. The collision was brutal. The sound of stone scraping against ice echoed in the air, followed by a sickening crack as the jagged spike lodged deep into its side.
The ghost's form shuddered as the spike drove in, its very essence groaning in agony, the pain flaring through it. The force was unrelenting, the pressure squeezing against its body, and yet, there was no escape. Its frozen prison held it fast.
For a moment, the ghost thought it might shatter. But no, the ice—though weakened—was still intact. The pain continued, wracking its form with every second that passed, but it could do nothing to stop it.
Not yet.
The ghost tried to move. Its limbs twitched. It felt the power of the ice, the stone, the heat—felt them pulling at its form, threatening to break it into nothingness.
But then, the third attacker moved.
He hadn't needed to get close. He hadn't needed to approach. His hands were already alight, fire flickering from his fingertips. The flames curled, licking at the air with a predatory hunger, ready to consume.
The fire wasn't swift. It didn't need to be. It was relentless. And the moment it hit—the moment it collided with the ghost's frozen body—it would be the end.
The fire exploded from his hands in a torrent, a stream of molten energy that rushed toward the ghost with the force of a natural disaster. The air around it shimmered as the flames surged, a howl of heat roaring, expanding with a violent intensity that left no room for the ghost to breathe.
The world around the ghost ignited. It felt the inferno creeping up its body, feeling its essence scorch as the flames met the frost. Steam rose, hissing against the searing heat. The fire gnawed at its very core, the warmth spreading, suffusing, until the frozen prison no longer felt like a containment—it felt like an execution.
The ghost's form twisted, bucking under the intensity of the heat. It could feel itself unraveling, its essence dissipating as the fire fed on it. The battle had been lost. And with every moment that passed, it slipped further away from survival.
With a final, agonized scream—barely a whisper against the roar of flames—the ghost's essence fragmented. The ice shattered. The stone cracked. The fire surged through the air, consuming everything in its path.
But there was no body to burn. No flesh to tear. No bones to break.
It was only consciousness now.