The wild, chaotic energy pulsing from the island’s heart couldn’t fool any real expert. A few more senior scholars from the Dragonfang Warship shot into the sky, heading straight for Mystic Isle. Dean Winston waited just long enough to gather two more of his fellow elders, then together they dashed toward the battlefield at the island’s core.
"Ladies and gentlemen, there are two heavy hitters duking it out at the island’s center. Let’s just sit tight and watch the fireworks for now—no need to wade in and get clobbered. Once they’ve battered each other half to death, that’s when we swoop in and clean up!" Dean Winston called out as they ran. None of these old scholars were dummies, but they’d never really mixed it up in the wild world of martial arts. Sure, their cultivation was top-notch, but when it came to actual brawling? Not so much. So, better to hang back and scope things out first.
He was especially worried one of these old bookworms would start spouting off about honor and charge in without a second thought. That’d be a real headache.
But to his surprise, the elders were actually pretty flexible. One stroked his beard and nodded, "If things get dicey, we’ll just shoot off a signal rocket and call Dr. Long Fang over for a pow-wow."
The energy out there was just too terrifying—only Dr. Long Fang could keep things under control in a mess like this.
As they slipped through the dense woods and finally caught sight of the lake and the sacred tree, Dean Winston suddenly raised his hand and the trio froze. They ducked down and kept to the shadows, eyes wide, watching the chaos unfold on the battlefield.
"That’s the Eternal Sky Cult’s bunch of creeps on one side!" one of the elders scowled. "But that woman on the other side—who is she? Since when did the world have someone that earth-shaking? She’s clearly not on friendly terms with the cult. Should we jump in and back her up?"
"No need," Dean Winston whispered, masking his presence completely. "With fighters like these, if one of them bites it, there’s no way we let the other walk away alive. Let’s just see how they tear each other apart and who’s left standing at the end."
One of the elders frowned, clearly not thrilled. The Eternal Sky Cult was the empire’s mortal enemy—shouldn’t they be charging in, swords drawn? But on a battlefield like this, there was no time for debate. In the blink of an eye, everything could change.
Inside the tree hollow, Joan sent Will Wrath flying with a single palm strike, smashing him into the wall. She was about to press the attack and finish him off for good when, suddenly, everything changed.
No sound, no scent, no breeze, no tremor, no killing intent—a figure appeared behind Joan. Nobody had any idea where he’d been hiding; he seemed to melt into water, wood, or the wind itself. He was like a phantom—see him with your own eyes, and you’d still doubt he was real, or just a ghost cooked up by your imagination.
Ethan Copper, the Fifth Copper Priest, finally made his move. His eyes were dead, blank—no emotion, no thought. That’s how he managed to slip past any expert’s notice. In his right hand, a gleaming silver dagger, drifting toward Joan’s back with a surreal, almost gentle rhythm—not fast, not slow, not rushed, not angry, just eerily calm.
The mask comes off, and the dagger is drawn—the showdown begins.
But in that instant, Joan’s pupils shrank—her true energy exploded. "Hyaaah!" In the blink of an eye, she spun like a ball, impossible to pin down. Her water sleeves—soft but fierce—blocked the dagger, struck back, and chased her enemy with a flurry of moves.
All of this happened in a heartbeat.
Boom! With a thunderous crash, Ethan Copper was blasted out of the tree hollow like a cannonball. He spun in midair and landed hard on the mast. Crack—his mask shattered. Crunch—his ribs snapped and caved in. He spat out a mouthful of blood, tapped several pressure points on his chest in rapid succession, and barely managed to steady his breath.
He lifted his head, forcing out some clumsy local dialect: "You—very strong. I—found out. But—" He raised his right hand, and from the tip of his dagger, a single drop of bright blood slowly fell.
Just one drop. Meaning the dagger barely scratched her—like a finger prick at a grade school blood test.
Seeing that single drop, the Silver Priest grinned, the Sixth Copper Priest grinned too. Tom Seven looked a bit gloomy, disappointment clear in his eyes—he’d wanted to win with his own skills, not like this.
But whatever their reaction, they all knew they had the fight in the bag.