Wandering Swordsman |

Suddenly, a dark shadow broke through the waves, silent and invisible, as if it had emerged from the void.

It was a giant ship, entirely black, with no flags or insignia on its hull. The only feature on its prow was a ferocious eight-headed serpent head, with two eerie green gems embedded in its eyes that glowed in the twilight, scanning the coastline as if it were alive.

The ship had no sails, yet it sailed against the wind at an extremely slow speed, but it carried an irresistible pressure, as if the entire East China Sea was making way for it.

The sea rippled with an eerie, dark blue light as it passed, like the waters of the River Styx being stirred by an unseen hand. The wind suddenly ceased, the waves froze, and even the rocks on the shore seemed to tremble.

There were more than a dozen figures standing on the deck.

At the forefront stood a man draped in a snow-white feather robe. He was tall and slender, with an air of refined elegance, and walked with unhurried steps, as if he were walking on moonlight.

He wore a crown wrapped in gold thread, and the hem of his robe was embroidered with sixteen-petaled chrysanthemums, which shone brightly in the setting sun, making him look like a deity descending to earth, surrounded by an indescribable halo of holiness.

Behind him stood twelve warriors, all clad in black armor, their faces covered with demon masks, holding long swords, their expressions solemn, their eyes lowered, not daring to stand shoulder to shoulder with the white-clad man. They were like twelve stone statues, their silence exuding a chilling killing intent.

On the shore, Oda, Toyotomi, and Tokugawa had already led hundreds of overseas warriors to kneel in a line, their foreheads touching the sand, none daring to raise their heads.

The sea breeze whipped up white sand, which fell like snow onto their backs, yet no one dared to move.

Even breathing was suppressed to the point of being almost silent, as if exhaling even one more breath would be a desecration of the gods.

The giant ship slowly approached the shore, the gangplank descended, and it hit the sand silently.

The man in white walked down slowly, his toes lightly touching the sand, leaving not a trace, as if he were not walking in the mortal world, but walking in the void.

His gaze was calm as he swept across the coastline, like an emperor surveying his territory. His eyes held neither joy nor anger, yet they possessed an aura that commanded the submission of heaven and earth.

At that moment, Toyotomi, Tokugawa, and Oda knelt down in unison, their foreheads touching the ground. Their voices were deafening, causing the sand to tremble.

"Welcome—Divine Emperor!"

The words "Divine Emperor" echoed like thunder from the heavens across the desolate coastline. Oda's forehead dug deep into the sand, his fingertips turning white from the effort, yet a tidal wave surged within him: Finally... the Divine Emperor has come to the Central Plains. I have waited far too long for this day.

However, the moment the man in white stepped onto the land, he suddenly raised his hand and gently flicked it.

With a soft "whoosh," the magnificent haori robe peeled off on its own like snowflakes, turning into specks of ash that drifted away in the sea breeze.

He was slightly thin and looked extremely young, only three or four years older than Shen Mo. His face was not stunning, but it was as warm and smooth as ancient jade, and there was a calm and profound air about him between his brows.

He was dressed only in a plain white cloth robe, with a sheathless wooden knife hanging at his waist. The blade was mottled, as if it had drunk blood, or as if it had been sealed for a thousand years.

If he were walking in the marketplace at this moment, he might only be seen as a scion of a noble family, returning home weary from his travels; if he were standing in a bamboo grove, he might only be seen as a young hermit, quietly observing the clouds drift by.

The young man—the God Emperor—slowly raised his right hand, his fingertips lightly touching the void.

There were no words, no actions.

But in that instant, Oda, Toyotomi, and Tokugawa all fell to the ground, their foreheads touching the sand, their bodies trembling slightly.

"Divine Emperor..." Tokugawa murmured, his voice hoarse, "The martial arts world of the Central Plains is like rotten wood, waiting only for your command to overthrow it."

The Divine Emperor remained silent, simply walking slowly forward, his bare feet tracing the sand. With each step, a circle of ethereal blue ripples spread beneath his feet, as if he were walking on thin air. The sea breeze suddenly howled, whipping up thousands of waves, as if the heavens and earth were making way for him.

He looked up, gazing towards the distant Central Plains, his gaze seemingly piercing through mountains and rivers, reaching straight to the Nanjing Martial Arts Alliance.

On the beach, hundreds of overseas heretics remained prostrate on the ground, their foreheads pressed against the cold sand, as if their spines were being pressed down by an invisible mountain.

Suddenly, he spoke.

His voice was not loud, but clear and melodious like a mountain stream dripping with water, yet it was like thunder from the heavens, piercing through the wind and waves and reaching the hearts of people: "Next—a complete halt to the invasion of the Central Plains."

Everyone was shocked, and even their breath caught in their throats.

The Divine Emperor's gaze swept calmly over the crowd as he continued, "The Righteous Alliance, the Divine Wind Camp, and the Hundred Ghosts Parade, immediately switch to defense. Without my order, none of you shall attack an inch of the Central Plains martial arts world."

He paused, his tone still gentle, yet chillingly cold: "After I go to Shaolin Temple and settle this matter, I will issue new orders."

"Shaolin Temple?!"

Oda's heart skipped a beat, almost thinking he had misheard. He looked up sharply, then immediately looked down again, his fingertips digging deep into his palms to suppress the surprise that almost escaped his lips.

Shaolin Temple?! That's one of the foundations of the Central Plains martial arts world, a sacred Buddhist site with strict discipline and countless masters! The Divine Emperor actually intends to go there alone?!

Even more absurdly, the God-Emperor issued the order to "completely cease the offensive."

At this moment, the Divine Wind Camp has occupied Fengcheng, the Hundred Ghosts Parade controls Huating, and the Righteous Alliance is as solid as a rock in Yunnan. The Central Plains martial arts world is besieged on all sides. This is the perfect opportunity to press our advantage and wipe them out in one fell swoop! If we stop now, it would be tantamount to letting a tiger return to the mountain. Once the martial arts alliance recovers and regroups, it will not be so easy to unify the Central Plains martial arts world again!

"This order... is utterly absurd!"

Toyotomi's temple throbbed, and his long sword nearly slipped from his grasp. He had fought his way up half his life, finally becoming the leader of the Divine Wind Camp, but he had never seen the Emperor show such "weakness." He opened his mouth, but no sound came out—the oppressive aura emanating from the Emperor had already gripped his throat tightly.

Tokugawa knelt on both knees, his fingernails digging into the sand, his mind churning with turmoil: "What is the Emperor's true intention in doing this?"

No matter how turbulent their hearts were, no one dared to speak up, no one dared to question.

Because—the Divine Emperor is the supreme and sole leader of overseas martial artists.

He is not a monarch, yet he commands more awe than any monarch; he is not a god, yet he commands more submission than any god. A century ago, his ancestor single-handedly quelled the chaos of the Seven Islands of Japan; he single-handedly established the martial arts world of Japan, ending the era of warlordism. And he, the current Divine Emperor, has, with his extraordinary talent, reached a level beyond the ordinary at a young age, making him invincible in the martial arts world of Japan.

His existence has long transcended the realm of "humanity," becoming a belief, an inviolable "Way of Heaven."

To question the Divine Emperor is tantamount to questioning the rotation of the sun and moon, or the eastward flow of rivers.

The God Emperor seemed to sense the turmoil in everyone's hearts, but he simply lowered his raised right hand, his fingertips drawing an arc in the air—the movement was extremely slow, like a painter drawing the last stroke, or a musician strumming the strings, silent and still, yet seemingly stirring the pulse of heaven and earth.

In an instant, the world fell silent.

The wind stopped, the waves ceased, and even the eerie green light in the eyes of the eight-headed serpent seemed to freeze.

He said no more, stepped forward barefoot on the sand.

The instant his toes left the ground—he vanished.