Eighteen Dragonfang Warships cut through the wind and waves, completely encircling Mystic Isle. They came from the horizon, crushing every ripple in their path, surging forward with unstoppable momentum.
Dr. Long Fang didn’t speak loudly, but his words echoed in all directions—one voice resonating across all eighteen ships.
"Throughout history, the court and the martial world have never stopped bickering. The empire is vast, the martial world is small. The martial world must always depend on the greater tides of the empire. When the nation prospers and the people are at peace, the sects fade away. But when chaos reigns and the tides turn, heroes and bandits pop up like weeds. In turbulent times, heroes rise; in peaceful times, most are just glorified errand boys. Look at the Spring and Autumn, the Three Kingdoms—how many legends rode the tides, only to be swallowed by them? It’s always been this way."
"Ever since the Li Tang dynasty lost its way and the nation fell, the empire’s fate has never settled. Even when the first emperor donned the yellow robe and ruled the land, he couldn’t scare the world straight or sweep away all threats. When Liao and Jin grew strong, chaos erupted everywhere, and the wild ones couldn’t be tamed. For over five hundred years, the martial world has enjoyed a long, wild golden age."
As for sects, there are more martial arts clans than fish in the river—north and south of the Yellow River, you’ll trip over them everywhere. Their arsenals even include the famed Arabian Cannon, the hottest firepower of the age.
"When it comes to martial arts, secret manuals pop up all the time. Big ones, small ones, take your pick—like wildfire, you’ll never stamp them all out."
"And numbers? Just the Beggars’ Guild alone has millions. Toss in all the other sects, and you’re talking tens of thousands at least."
"On the personal front, there’s Master Freewind, who comes and goes like a dragon in the mist. Then you’ve got the Lone Sword—one swing and the world trembles. And don’t forget Master Charles Young, Helen Wong, Jin Ouyang and their crew, always ready for a sword duel and bragging rights. Oh, and George Kwok—he keeps sending out hero invitations, rallying the whole martial world. No official title, no fancy rank, just a regular guy, but when he calls, everyone listens."
"If the martial world is big, the empire feels small. The Buddhist and Daoist sects are always mixing it up, and even the Manichaean Sect hides out here, slippery as fish in the ocean. When the wind gathers, the roc flies; when the water’s deep, the dragon rises. These days, the martial world is even crazier than during the Five Masters era, with young hotshots popping up everywhere. As for the villain Yuri Omega—he’s no accident, just riding the wave."
"But if the martial world gets too wild, it flips the script and shakes up the empire. That’s when things get really dicey for folks like us."
"So, gentlemen, don’t underestimate the wild ones anymore. If you keep treating them like weeds, one day they’ll set the whole field on fire. These martial vagabonds refuse to bow to authority and can be even worse than the northern barbarians. What we need now is to cut them off at the root."
"Heroes only shine at the start of troubled times, but they wither away by the end. Now that things are getting clearer, it’s the perfect time to rein in the martial rabble. Everyone, work together—cut off the roots, wipe out the source."
"The fish are in the net—now we just have to haul them in. Those who surrender, use them. Those who resist, wipe them out. This place is far from the mainland, not even a bird in sight—so let’s go all out."
"Let these so-called martial heroes see what real imperial power looks like."
Arabian Cannons, ready!
On all eighteen Dragonfang Warships, soldiers shouted as they rolled massive catapults onto the decks. But these weren’t for tossing rocks—they hurled giant firebombs. With a range of a thousand paces and fearsome power, these Arabian Cannons had defended Fort Xiang with distinction—they were the hot tech of the day. One by one, firebombs were loaded, the soldiers expertly adjusting their aim, eyes blazing as they locked onto the ships along the coast of Mystic Isle.
The distant ships noticed the commotion. A bunch of folks on the beach, locked in a heated swordfight, suddenly sensed a huge threat—but it was too late to react.
Dr. Long Fang stood tall at the prow of the lead Dragonfang Warship, his cold eyes sweeping the scene. He raised his hand high, then slashed it down: "Fire!"
"Fire!"
"Fire!"
"Fire!"
As the chorus of orders rang out, the artillerymen stomped down on the giant triggers. With a series of sharp snaps, over a hundred firebombs shot up from the fleet like a dark swarm, whistling through the sky before mercilessly crashing down on their targets.
Boom! Explosions lit up the sky, waves crashed, and blood sprayed everywhere. In a blink, the beach was a wasteland of misery. Ships on the shore splintered, burned, and sank with creaks and groans. First you take out the horses, then the men—without ships, no one on this island is going anywhere. No way to fight back, no way to run—just getting pounded from afar.
"Again."
"Fire!"
"Fire!"
"Fire!"
With thunderous cracks, the firebombs arced through the air, blossoming into deadly explosions on the beach. To modern eyes, these old-school weapons might seem weak, but when eighteen Dragonfang Warships fire at once, they really do bulldoze everything in their path. Amid the roaring blasts, the ships split into two squadrons, sweeping along the coast in both directions.
If anyone slipped through the barrage, squads of soldiers let loose a rain of arrows from across the water. Flaming arrows streaked through the sky, setting ship after ship ablaze. Crew screamed and fell, the quick ones jumped overboard. With the groan of snapping wood, masts toppled and crashed. Soaked in the sea, the survivors could only watch in despair.
Mystic Isle is a special case—it’s not some permanent, stable island. As long as everyone’s trapped here, the Dragonfang Warships have already won.
"Move out, follow me ashore!" The head of the Wenchang Institute led dozens of scholars and hundreds of soldiers off the ships and onto the island. The soldiers, armored and bristling with cold swords, were just as fierce as the Imperial Guards. Each carried a crossbow—just a pull of the trigger, and dozens of bolts could blanket a huge area. Even a martial master with thirty years of training wouldn’t stand a chance.
The scholars were even more impressive, all packing serious martial skills. Among them were several elderly academics, with white hair and long beards—old as the hills, but shockingly strong, rivaling the Institute head. Their skills weren’t your run-of-the-mill martial arts, but drawn from Confucian classics. Real masters don’t show off, so the world never suspects these big-shot scholars could throw down. But when they do, every martial artist jumps out of their skin.
"Advance slowly, don’t rush. Bag up every oddity, every martial carving—haul it all back to the ships. If anything’s off, set off fireworks to call in the fleet’s cannons. Honored sirs, we’ll go first and scout the island—move!" Whoosh—the Institute head and his team of scholars darted into the forest like the wind.
Dr. Long Fang was pulling the strings, running the show. The Institute head knew that to secure his future, he had to put on a good show. Plus, the island’s secrets and treasures were calling his name. If he could snag a few, who knows what heights he’d reach? He tapped his toes and shot into the heart of the island like a shadow.
"Block me and die—!!"
Meanwhile, on the great lake at the island’s heart, the battle was raging. The Hundred-Wounds Daoist hurled a massive palm strike, ghostly and terrifying. But the Lady wasn’t fazed—she flicked her sleeve, silent and invisible, and with a thunderous boom the palm shattered instantly. Not only that, a palm-shaped dent and crack appeared on the Daoist’s protective qi wall, like a glass panel hit by a sledgehammer.
The Daoist’s face turned pale; he flipped back onto the deck, green mist pouring out to heal the dent and seal the crack.
After this round of probing, the Silver Priest looked at the Lady much more seriously.
Both sides snapped into formation, ready for a showdown.
A Silver Priest, two Bronze Priests, the Hundred-Wounds Daoist, a bunch of turncoat defectors, and a shipload of Quanzhen disciples.
One Martial Challenger, one Dennis Duan, a pair of legendary lovers, two sidekicks, and Grace Kwok with her inner power completely drained.
On paper, the enemy looked like they had the numbers, but with the Lady on our side, she was a massive advantage all by herself.
"Don’t let them get close—strike first!" Jill Young’s body was tough as iron, nearly impossible to hurt after her breakthrough, so the small fry could be ignored for now. Take out the leaders, and the rest will fold.
On the other side, a big ship crashed through the waves, crossing half the lake in an instant.
This was a clash of titans—and a battle of bitter rivals.
The Sixth Bronze Priest shot a weird grin at Jack Young. Lydia Drake’s brows furrowed, sensing the deep malice aimed at Jack. In a flash, she drew her twin swords and attacked. The White-Clad Dragon Maiden’s lightness skill was dazzling, her sword aura blinding—she landed on the deck in a heartbeat, both blades aimed at the Priest. "Waaah!" Facing the whirlwind of blades and lightning, the Priest whipped out a gourd-shaped weapon, struggling to block.
When the Seventh Bronze Priest appeared, Duan Xingyong’s eyes went red, his voice hoarse and murderous: "You! You!! YOU—!!!" No madness, no survival—he went berserk, and finally his Six Meridian Sword, after long practice, began to take shape. He roared and prepared to leap from the cave, but was instantly grabbed by Master Yideng.
"You’re still too young." Master Yideng sighed, tossing Duan Xingyong back into the tree cave, then drew a breath of pure yang energy. His elderly body radiated awe-inspiring power. He launched into the air, tapped the lake twice, and landed on the deck, aiming a finger at the Seventh Bronze Priest.
Facing the Five Masters’ strike, the Seventh Bronze Priest just laughed and shouted, "Sunbeam Finger, nice!" He clenched his fists, radiating strength, and hurled a punch at Master Yideng.
Jack Young watched anxiously, knowing he was dead weight right now and shouldn’t act rashly. The best move was to gather light fragments and recover his strength. But if things got critical, he wasn’t out of the fight yet. Shards of light drifted into his palm as he watched, worried: "Come on, hurry up and heal!"
Of all the battle groups, the fight around the Lady was the fiercest. The numbers weren’t in her favor, but with a flick of her hands, she managed to trap both the Silver Priest and the Hundred-Wounds Daoist at once. The Silver Priest had just made a breakthrough, and the Daoist’s internal energy was off the charts, but the Lady was still dominating two-on-one!