The aura of the Great Perfection of the Body Integration realm seeped from Zixiao's body, its released pressure continuously pushing back the surrounding air.
This was not the kind of pressure Qingwei and the others usually encountered—it was a far more tangible weight, bearing down on the air atop the entire Elixir Peak, making the gravity of the space feel as though it had doubled.
Bai Cen felt his shoulders sinking, his knees turning slightly weak. Every breath he took required conscious effort just to expand his lungs.
The tip of Qingwei's sword shifted less than half an inch in his grip. Fuyao's blade was still glowing, but it had dimmed significantly. The flickering sword light was being swallowed by that domain of the Body Integration level.
The suppression of realms was starkly obvious. Qingwei could feel that his sword art was still active, but the range of every burst of sword qi was shrinking—Zixiao's sword intent was expanding outward, while Qingwei's sword intent was being suppressed, utterly and completely.
Bai Cen had realized even earlier than him that he could no longer escape this area by moving. The moment Zixiao had uttered the word "you," he had already begun searching for an exit.
But the ice walls rising from the ground around them were faster than his eyes could track.
Several translucent barriers burst forth simultaneously from among the rubble and broken walls. Covered in blue-and-white frost patterns, they sealed the entire summit of the Elixir Peak into a hermetic cage.
A slowly spreading layer of white coated the ice, rendering the ice walls indestructible and unbreakable.
Standing two steps behind Qingwei, Bai Cen's gaze lingered on the surface of the ice wall for a fraction of a second. Then, he looked at Zixiao. Nothing but frenzied killing intent remained in his eyes.
The ice walls were closing in, and Bai Cen could no longer find a single gap. Not even a sliver of hope for survival... Gritting his teeth, he knew he had to stake everything on a single desperate gamble.
“Qingwei!” his voice cracked with desperate urgency. “Your disciple isn't dead! I can save her! I can even restore her sword heart! Just save me! I'll do anything!”
He spoke at a breakneck speed, fearing that if he didn't say it now, he would never get another chance. He was gambling that Qingwei would draw his sword again for this reason, or at least carve out a gap that would allow him to escape alive...
Qingwei's already grim expression darkened further in that instant, his lips twitching.
Despite his excellent upbringing, he couldn't help but want to curse. Yet, he held it in; the current situation simply did not afford him the luxury of wasting breath on curses...
The sword light rose slightly by half an inch before the ice walls could fully close. He did not know if Bai Cen was lying just to survive, but his body had already responded before his mind could finish processing the thought—
Even if he knew Bai Cen might be lying, he could not bear to let that sliver of hope be buried behind these sealed ice walls before confirming whether Jiang Ci could indeed be saved. He simply could not bring himself to reject the possibility without verifying it first.
He could only choose to believe Bai Cen for now. Because if Bai Cen was telling the truth and he chose not to believe him, then Jiang Ci would truly...
Besides, with an extra pair of hands right now, their chances of survival would increase.
The Body Integration realm... He sighed inwardly. Perhaps this was his chance to go wild one last time...
Zixiao stood before the ice wall. A grin split across his frost-covered face, the corners of his mouth stretching wider than usual against the icy shell.
His gaze shifted from Qingwei to Bai Cen. He spoke slowly, his voice no longer his own. Every word carried a deep, low-pitched, echoing hum that seemed to vibrate downward.
“Don't worry—” He tilted his head, his pupil-less eyes sweeping over Qingwei. “It won't hurt. And your sword art won't be lost to history.” He paused, as if contemplating how to pronounce Qingwei's final doom. Then, his grin widened further. “I will thoroughly savor your soul.”
Qingwei had locked onto his position before he even spoke. But when Zixiao vanished in a flash, the tip of Qingwei's sword was still pointing at the spot where Zixiao had stood a moment ago.
Only when the heavy whoosh of a descending greatsword echoed behind him did he realize Zixiao was no longer in front of him.
“Clang!” He parried behind his back. Fuyao's blade bore the brunt of the initial strike, but Zixiao's greatsword continued to press down. It wasn't a single impact; the pressure was continuous. Qingwei felt his forearms grow sore, blue veins bulging all the way from his wrists, yet he could not deflect the force. He gritted his teeth, unable to shake it off!
“Vibrate!” He attempted to use the only close-quarters parrying technique in the Azure Cloud Sword Art to push away the greatsword bearing down on his own blade.
But he failed to push Zixiao back—he could only push himself away. Fuyao's blade slipped from his palm and clattered onto the ground with a dull metallic ring.
Qingwei's hands hung limp at his sides, his palms entirely numb. Cold qi was crawling up his forearms, the corrosive frost slowly enveloping his bones from the inside out.
Before he could even check how far the cold qi had spread, Zixiao's second strike slammed into his chest.
This time, there was no sharp edge of a greatsword. Zixiao had turned his blade flat. The frost-covered flat of the sword, like a heavy iron pillar, swung in a wide arc and crashed into him.
Qingwei could only cross his arms in front of his chest. He heard a dull crack from his ribs.
The force blasted him straight into the crumbling walls of the Elixir Peak, sending him crashing into the very ice wall Zixiao had erected, spiderwebbing the icy surface with fractures.
He slid down the ice wall, collapsing to the ground, coughing violently. Every breath brought a tearing pain.
He had only survived because he had crossed his arms over his chest. But looking at his limbs hanging uselessly at his sides, he knew they were temporarily broken.
His ribs were likely broken as well. There was no longer any need to verify these injuries, for he was on the verge of death.
Zixiao did not look at him. He walked over to where Fuyao had fallen and bent down to pick up the sword. Fuyao was still vibrating in his palm, struggling to break free from his grasp.
Zixiao looked down at it. The layer of frost coating his fingers slowly crawled over the sword body, creeping along the edge. He gave it a gentle tap. Crack.
Fuyao cracked right down the middle. Shattered ice and metal fragments scattered across the ground as the sword snapped into two. Zixiao bent down, picked up the front half of the blade, and without looking back, casually flung it toward Qingwei.
Qingwei heard the whistling sound of tearing air, but he no longer had the strength to even look at the flying blade. Closing his eyes, he resigned himself to his fate.
“Clang!”
A dull metallic crash rang out. The anticipated pain never came. Qingwei opened his eyes to see Bai Cen's elixir furnace standing right in front of him. A fist-sized dent was carved into its side.
Its spiritual glow had already died out, and cracks spiderwebbed from the edges of the dent all the way to the bottom of the furnace.
Bai Cen stood behind the furnace, watching the last trace of light fade from his hands. His mouth twitched slightly. Then, he cast a backward glance at Qingwei. “Is it too late for me to undergo corpse liberation now...?”
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