With a shout ringing out, a slender white figure emerged in the distance, swiftly sweeping toward the village.
It was none other than the white-robed immortal Evan Reed had tirelessly sought. Unexpectedly, he appeared at this pivotal moment.
"A cultivator! Everyone, fall back now!" The bandit leader's voice thundered the instant he spotted the figure.
When he began his shout, the white-robed figure was still at the far end of the village road, his robes fluttering, his sword flashing as he unsheathed it. By the time the word "back" left the leader's lips, the figure had closed the distance. With a single stroke, a head soared into the air, blood splattering across the sky.
He charged straight at the bandits. The once-arrogant marauders turned into frantic, fleeing curs, their lines crumbling in disarray.
The bandit leader cried out desperately, "The Black Sand Gang had no idea an immortal protected this place! We'll retreat at once—please, Immortal, show mercy!"
Bandits of the Wild Valley Plains were sly, always steering clear of lands guarded by immortal sects. They had scouted Riverside Village and found no immortal ties, emboldening their attack. Yet now, an immortal stood before them.
Judging by his momentum and speed, and the way he wielded his blade, he was at least in the Transcendent Mortal Realm—a Spirit Master who had cast off mortal limits. His ruthless, precise strikes marked him as a sword cultivator dedicated to the path of slaughter. This was no foe numbers could overwhelm, prompting the leader's plea for mercy.
The white-robed man snorted. "The Black Sand Gang was annihilated three days ago. Where did this 'Black Sand Gang' spring from? The Four Seas Hall has ravaged the countryside for far too long, slaughtering villages and piling up sins. Draven, how dare you act yet refuse to own it?"
As he spoke, he cut down three more bandits with ease, dispatching them as casually as slaughtering livestock.
Realizing the immortal saw through his ruse and would spare no one, the bandit leader, Draven, twisted his face into a mask of murderous rage. "You immortals seize the best lands and richest resources. You claim to shelter the world, but you plunder the essence of heaven and earth to fatten yourselves, leaving us mortals to rot. You've given us no way to survive! Spare me your righteous farce. Brothers, fight him to the death! Even if he's a Spirit Master, as long as his Violet Palace remains unopened, he's not immortal!"
His words struck deep. The cultivation world had five realms, and even a second-realm Transcendent Mortal was beyond what a hundred bandits could face, let alone a fourth-realm Violet Palace cultivator.
Yet the white-robed man didn't deny the charge that immortals left mortals no path. He merely frowned and let out a soft sigh.
Bandits lived on the knife's edge, ever ready to gamble their lives. Seeing no mercy, their ferocity flared. At Draven's command, they surged forward.
In this world, spiritual energy infused all things. Immortals cultivated it to ascend, but even mortals, lacking techniques, gained hardy bodies from its presence.
Though mere mortals, these bandits were forged by that energy—strong, skilled in martial arts, and seasoned by years of brutal combat. Evan Reed's earlier kill owed more to luck and the bandit's arrogance than anything else.
Now, as they swarmed, even the white-robed man couldn't fell them all at once. Blades gleamed, and the battlefield erupted into chaos. Meanwhile, Draven slunk toward the rear, aiming to flee while his men fought.
He knew an immortal's true terror lay not in swordplay but in spells, and he held no hope for this fight.
Moments later, the white-robed man huffed. His sword blazed with a foot-long glow, rising into the air and spinning in a deadly arc. A dozen bandit heads tumbled to the ground.
"An immortal sword art!" the bandits wailed, their eyes filled with terror and despair.
Just then, the white-robed man grunted, his body quivering as a bloodstain bloomed on his robes.
Draven froze, then shouted in glee, "He's injured! He was wounded before!"
His cry rallied the bandits. Like drowning men grasping at straws, they attacked with reckless abandon.
Indeed, the man's injuries flared, his energy faltering. His movements lost their grace. Some bandits even loosed arrows from afar with powerful bows and crossbows.
"Vile rats!" the man snarled in fury.
These bandits were clueless, thinking an injured immortal was prey they could take. In truth, minor wounds barely hindered a cultivator.
But ignorance fueled fearlessness, and sometimes, blind luck struck true.
The white-robed man's injuries were severe. Even after a month, he'd only partly recovered. Using his sword art had worsened his state. Now, his spiritual energy roiled within him like a storm, threatening to tear him apart. He knew he had to end this quickly or risk falling here. Yet his chaotic energy prevented further spells.
Had the bandits scattered in fear, he could have hunted them down with his blade. But now, they encircled him, and he was momentarily trapped. His wounds deepened, and delay could spell his doom—a shameful end in this backwater.
I have no choice… he thought. He gazed at the bandits surrounding him, a spark of divine light flaring in his eyes.
"What's that…?" Draven, ever watchful, caught the shift. Seeing that glint, a legendary term rose in his mind.
Divine Sense!
It was Divine Sense!
Terror gripped Draven's heart.
This man wasn't just in the Transcendent Mortal Realm—he was in the Heavenly Heart Realm!
In that instant, he abandoned all hope of victory and fled with all his strength, heedless of what lay behind.
Wherever the white-robed man's gaze landed, the remaining bandits clutched their heads, screaming as blood streamed from their eyes, ears, noses, and mouths. They fell from their horses.
Divine Sense attacks typically spanned wide areas, unstoppable by mortals.
Yet, oddly, this man's reach extended only a dozen meters. Draven, having retreated early, escaped its grasp. Since the attack targeted riders, not horses, his mount galloped on, carrying him to safety. Still, the attack's aftershock stabbed his mind like a needle, wrenching a cry from his lips.
As he fled, a boy darted from the side, hurling a knife at Draven's back.
Hearing the whistle, Draven jerked his head aside. The blade missed, grazing his scalp and slicing off an ear.
Amid his pained shrieks, the horse bore him away into the distance.
Seeing pursuit was futile, Evan Reed halted, resigned.
He turned to the white-robed man, still as stone since his last strike.
Today, the man he'd sought endlessly had appeared.
He rode the wind, wielded the clouds, and faced the savage bandits with fearless abandon, cutting them down with relish. Where he passed, blood flowed in rivers, and no bandit could withstand a single blow.
Those bold, fearless marauders were shattered by one man and his sword, fleeing like rats.
That white silhouette.
That streak of sword light.
That flood of blood.
They carved themselves into Evan Reed's soul.
Compared to the earlier skyward clash of two immortals, this battle was smaller, yet its mark on Evan was deeper.
Even years later, it lingered as an unshakable memory. Neither the Heavenly God Palace's boundless might nor the Annihilation King's invincible presence could eclipse Lorian Vale's solitary stand against the horde.
This is what an immortal should be—a sword sweeping away all evil!
Yet on this same day, Riverside Village was butchered.
Blood soaked the village, staining Evan's world red.
He felt life's cruel mockery.
This day brought him soaring highs and crushing lows, joy and grief so intense he stood dazed, emotions churning, lost for what to feel.
At last, he turned back to the white-robed man.
With a soft thud, the man spat blood and crumpled, unconscious.
So, on this day, Evan Reed saw an immortal fall.
It taught him that even immortals could die.
Perhaps it was this truth that, as he watched the immortal collapse, ignited a daring plan in his mind…