Under One Person: The Puppet Immortal in the Tang Sect

Fenrir released Eita's mangled body, picked up the severed arm, and turned to run into the depths of the ravine.

Eita knelt on the spot, blood gushing from the severed wound on his left shoulder.

Without the demon sword, the fervent fighting spirit that had sustained him quickly faded.

The excruciating pain of the severed limb, the weakness caused by massive blood loss, and the emptiness of a severely depleted body—all these pains came rushing in at once.

He looked down and saw the tips of the limbs protruding from his chest, the charred wound in his abdomen pierced by the beam of light, and the twisted joints of his legs.

Then he saw the swarm of puppets approaching again.

This time, without the demon sword, he had no chance to resist.

A lobe of a shadow spider pierced his throat.

Another segmented limb runs through the space between the eyebrows.

The third, the fourth...

Eita's body was pierced by multiple segments, hanging in mid-air like a rag.

The last thing he saw was a sky filled with poisonous fog, and in the distance, a figure slowly rising from the ground, its entire body covered in metal armor.

Then, darkness engulfed everything.

Fenrir the wolf, carrying the severed arm, ran to Cui Ming.

It lowered its head, placed the severed arm on the ground, and then took two steps back.

Cui Ming looked down at the severed arm.

His arms were pale from blood loss, but his fingers still gripped the hilt of the demon sword tightly, his knuckles white.

Despite enduring such continuous high-intensity combat, the blade of the demon sword Hirumaru remains dazzlingly bright, without even a trace of damage.

Cui Ming stared at the demonic sword and remained silent for a moment.

Without hesitation, he bent down and reached out to grasp the hilt of the demon sword.

The instant your fingers touch the handle of the knife.

A cold, violent, and bloodthirsty thought surged into his mind like a tide.

It was a pure spiritual shock.

A burning desire for battle, for blood, for the obsession with fighting the strong.

At the same time, a scene unfolded before Cui Ming's eyes.

The space was snow-white and boundless.

The ground was studded with countless swords, each one a different style: Japanese swords, Chinese swords, Western rapiers, battle knives, short blades...

They stand like tombstones, stretching as far as the eye can see.

This is the consciousness space of the demon sword Hirumaru, and also the abode of the sword saint's soul.

Each sword stuck in the ground represents a strange person who was killed by the demonic sword and whose soul was devoured by it.

Their swordsmanship, their fighting spirit, and their obsession all became nourishment for the demonic blade and a part of the sword saint's remnant soul.

In the center of the space, an ancient Japanese sword floats in the air.

The blade slowly deformed, transforming into a human shape.

A man dressed in a simple kendo uniform, with an ordinary and unremarkable face and eyes as black as an abyss.

He held a sword in his hand that looked exactly like Hirumaru's; the blade was dull, yet it exuded a suffocating sense of oppression.

The remnant soul of the nameless swordsman.

He looked up in the direction where Cui Ming was.

Although he had no eyes, Cui Ming could feel a murderous intent locking onto him.

Then, the Sword Saint raised his sword.

There were no words, no pronouncements.

The battle began the instant their consciousness made contact.

Cui Ming's consciousness was forcibly pulled into that snow-white space.

He stood in the graveyard of swords and knives, his feet on the cold, white ground.

Countless swords and blades stood motionless all around, like silent spectators.

Thirty feet ahead, the remnant soul of the Sword Saint stood holding a sword.

Cui Ming looked down at himself.

In this snow-white space of consciousness, he appeared in his true form, dressed in ordinary clothes, with his hands empty.

He could feel that his spiritual power could be fully unleashed here, but his physical cultivation was isolated.

This is a purely spiritual world, a contest of will, fighting spirit, and understanding of the sword.

Swordsmanship is precisely Cui Ming's weakness.

Although he had stolen swordsmanship memories from the wolves and several Japanese ronin, his rudimentary skills were no match for them.

Facing the remnant soul of a sword saint who has devoured the souls of countless swordsmen and specialized in swordsmanship for hundreds of years, defeat is inevitable if one fights sword to sword.

But Cui Ming was not flustered.

Because he knew that this space of consciousness was jointly constructed by the demon sword Hirumaru and his own consciousness.

The Demon Blade provides the "battlefield" and the "rules," and he, as a participant, can also influence this space.

Since your swordsmanship is not good, then let's not compete in swordsmanship.

Cui Ming closed his eyes and concentrated.

He recalled what he knew best.

The structure of the mechanical puppets, the movement trajectory of the limbs of the Shadow Spiders, the wing vibration frequency of the puppet soldier bees, the energy operation of the floating cannons, the defensive modules of the Earth Vein Armor...

Then, he began to imagine.

Imagine the structure of those puppets, deduce the principles behind their mechanisms...

These ideas gradually took shape within this magical space of consciousness...

The remnant soul of the Sword Saint racked its brains but never expected this turn of events.

He had originally imagined it would be a scene of swords clashing and sword energy crisscrossing.

Even if things are at their worst, it should still be a fight with fists and feet.

But this guy in front of me actually started making a bunch of lumps of iron.

First, several shadow spiders emerged from under the white ground, their limbs clicking.

Then came the sound of soldier bees flapping their wings from mid-air.

Then came Fenrir the wolf, which leaped out of the void, its landing shaking the ground.

The remnant soul of the Sword Saint gripped his blade, his dark eyes fixed on Cui Ming.

"This is the space of consciousness."

He spoke, his voice as dry as a whetstone.

"What we're competing in here is sword intent, fighting spirit, and understanding of the blade."

"Bringing these... mechanical gadgets in is against the rules."

Cui Mingzheng closed his eyes and continued to think.

Upon hearing the Sword Saint speak, he opened his eyes and looked at the other party.

"rule?"

Cui Ming said it without a care.

"Your rule is to fight with swords, my rule is to use puppets."

"We've built this space together, so let's each follow our own rules."

After he finished speaking, he closed his eyes again.

This brings to mind the modified human puppets of Taotie, Xia, and Lang.

In the white space, figures gradually coalesced.

The altered textures on the skin, the connecting structures at the joints, the faint light in the pupils—every detail is meticulously crafted.

After all, he personally modified every single one of these puppets, and he remembered their data even better than his own birthday.

The remnant soul of the Sword Saint stared at the gradually forming army of human puppets and remained silent for three seconds.

"The previous wielder... was killed by being piled up like this?"

"almost."

"But he died outside. You're inside now."

The remnant soul of the Sword Saint tightened its grip on the sword.

He finally understood.

The person in front of me had no intention of having a serious sword fight.

He's here to destroy the house.

"Good! Good! Good!!!"

The nameless swordsman's remnant soul was enraged.

"You want to use a human wave tactic? Then I'll play along."

He raised the knife, tip downwards, and gently inserted it into the white ground.

Ripples spread out from the tip of the knife.

The swords and knives stuck around the perimeter began to tremble one by one.

Then, a blurry human figure emerged from beneath each sword.