Chapter 76: New Sword Kings

The grand arena of the Sword God Sect buzzed with anticipation. Today marked the Sword Kings' Coronation, a prestigious event held every 25 years to crown the strongest of the younger generation. The sect, known throughout the Qishu Continent, had always prided itself on its elite swordsmanship, and this day was no different. People from all walks of life, including powerhouses from neighboring sects and clans, gathered to witness the crowning of the six new Sword Kings.

In the center of the arena, a massive platform gleamed under the morning sun. The chosen six disciples stood tall, each of them adorned in royal-like blue robes. These were no ordinary robes; they shimmered with a deep, resplendent gold trim, the mark of their status as Sword Kings. Their expressions were solemn, but pride and determination flickered in their eyes. Each of them represented one of the six major peaks of the Sword God Sect, and each had already achieved the unthinkable—consolidating a Sword Soul before the age of 20. Aside from the six core disciples, they were the only ones capable of such a feat. A Sword Soul was the dream of all swordsmen and a feat admired by many but only a few could attain it. Normally, a warrior needs to be extremely talented and must reach the ninth Nirvana Change to form a Sword Soul. But these were not normal people.

Standing on the far left was Dong Wushang, the embodiment of brute strength. His shoulders were broad, and his arms bulged beneath his robes. His face was angular and sharp, with a perpetual scowl etched across it. Dong Wushang's sword was massive, almost as tall as he was, and it hung from his back like a testament to his overpowering aura. Despite his intimidating presence, there was a quiet confidence about him. His movements were slow, and deliberate, each step a thunderous thud against the ground. He hailed from the Steel Sword Peak, known for producing sword cultivators who valued raw power above all else.

Beside him stood Qing Yao, a vision of elegance and beauty, yet utterly untouchable. Her long, flowing black hair cascaded down her back, and her deep-set eyes shone with an icy calm. Qing Yao was an unapproachable goddess, her demeanor aloof, as though the mortal world did not deserve her attention. Her slim, graceful figure belied the sheer deadliness of her sword techniques, which were known for their precision and lethality. She came from the Azure Lotus Peak, where swordplay was an art form, and every move carried with it the beauty of a thousand lotus blossoms. Few dared approach her, not just because of her strength, but because of the chilling aura she emitted—a silent warning to anyone foolish enough to step too close.

Qin Feng, standing next to Qing Yao, was a quiet figure, his sharp grey eyes always calculating. He was of medium build, but what set him apart was his sheer focus. Every inch of him seemed coiled and ready to strike like a viper preparing to unleash its venom. His robes, though similar to the others, seemed more form-fitting, designed for speed rather than flashiness. Qin Feng hailed from the Shadow Sword Peak, a place where stealth and cunning were emphasized. His sword was sleek and almost invisible when sheathed, its dark blade flickering like a shadow when drawn. He rarely spoke, preferring to observe, and many in the sect considered him the most dangerous of the six, not for his power, but for his unpredictability.

Next came the two brothers, Situ Rong and Situ Ba, from the Thunder Sword Peak. The brothers were nearly identical in appearance, with broad, muscular frames and short, spiked hair. Their personalities, however, could not have been more different. Situ Rong, the elder of the two, was the more serious, his face set in a permanent frown. His sword crackled with latent energy, like a thundercloud about to erupt. His strikes were powerful and fast, each one accompanied by a rumble of thunder. Situ Ba, on the other hand, was far more jovial. He wore a grin as if the coronation was just another casual gathering. His carefree demeanor often led opponents to underestimate him, but those who did quickly found themselves overwhelmed by his sudden bursts of power. The brothers' synergy was legendary in the sect, and though they often fought separately, when together, they were unstoppable.

Lastly, there was Cheng Fang, standing at the far right. His pride was evident in every movement, his chin raised high as he scanned the crowd with a look of disdain. Cheng Fang was, by far, the most arrogant of the six Sword Kings. His sleek, blue robes were embroidered with intricate golden patterns, and his sword was polished to perfection, reflecting the sunlight like a beacon. He hailed from the Silver Peak, known for producing prodigies who excelled in swordsmanship. Cheng Fang embodied everything the peak stood for—excellence, ambition, and an unyielding drive for supremacy. But it was his arrogance that set him apart. He was certain, beyond any doubt, that he was the best, and today was simply a formality in recognizing what he already believed.

As the crowd murmured and whispered about the six chosen Kings, Cheng Fang couldn't help but notice the absence of one individual—the "Evil Star."

"Afraid, no doubt," Cheng Fang smirked to himself. He exchanged a glance with Qing Yao, who showed no interest in the conversation, her eyes fixed on the horizon. "I guess the Evil Star isn't as brave as they say."

Situ Ba overheard and chuckled. "Maybe he got lost on his way here. You know how elusive those Evil Stars can be."

Cheng Fang laughed, though it was more of a sneer. "Perhaps he finally realized his place. After all, the Sword Kings are chosen based on merit, not on cheap tricks."

The other disciples whispered among themselves. The absence of Dao Wei, who many believed was a contender for a Sword King title, did not go unnoticed. Some speculated he had abandoned the sect, while others believed he was preparing for something greater.

But for Cheng Fang, the absence of Dao Wei only solidified his belief that the Evil Star was beneath him. Today would be the day he claimed his rightful place among the Sword Kings, without challenge, without opposition

The coronation procession continued, and it was time for each of the newly anointed Sword Kings to demonstrate their mastery of the sect's most revered technique—the Flowing Mirage Sword Art. This sword technique, while foundational to the Sword God Sect, was only truly mastered by those who held significant positions, such as the elders and the Sword Kings.

Cheng Fang stepped forward first, his confidence oozing from every pore. The arena quieted as all eyes turned toward him. This was his moment, his chance to show the sect, the elders, and the audience why he deserved the title of Sword King.

With a flourish, he drew his sword, the blade gleaming under the sunlight. The air around him seemed to hum with energy as he entered the first stance of the Flowing Mirage Sword Art.

The crowd watched in awe as Cheng Fang's movements flowed seamlessly from one to the next, his sword slicing through the air with precision and grace. The Flowing Mirage Sword Art was known for its deceptive nature—each strike was a mirage, an illusion that disoriented the opponent before delivering the final blow. Cheng Fang's execution was flawless. His sword seemed to split into multiple blades, each one attacking from a different direction. But in reality, it was all one blade, moving so fast that it created afterimages, mirages of itself.

"His control is impressive," one elder commented, stroking his beard thoughtfully.

"Indeed," another agreed. "He's mastered the first six stages of the art effortlessly."

As Cheng Fang moved into the seventh stage, his sword strikes grew more intense, the afterimages multiplying until it seemed as though a hundred swords were attacking at once. His peers watched in admiration, but there was a palpable sense of unease among some of the disciples. Cheng Fang's pride was well-known, and his performance today was clearly meant to cement his superiority.

"Does he have to show off so much?" one disciple muttered under his breath.

"Let him," another whispered. "He's still got three more stages to go. Let's see if he can keep it up."

Cheng Fang heard none of the whispers. He was fully immersed in the art, his sword a blur as he transitioned into the eighth and ninth stages. The air around him shimmered, and the arena seemed to warp under the pressure of his strikes. Each movement was a testament to his dedication, his skill, and his belief in his own greatness.

As he approached the tenth and final stage, a powerful gust of wind erupted from the platform. The crowd gasped as Cheng Fang's sword created a vortex of energy, swirling around him like a storm. His final strike sent a shockwave through the arena, the air rippling as the mirage shattered, revealing the true force of his attack.

The arena erupted in applause, but there were murmurs of discontent among some of the onlookers. Cheng Fang had performed brilliantly, but his arrogance had left a bitter taste in their mouths.

As the applause died down, the Supreme Elder sat gracefully on his seat, his eyes scanning the crowd before settling on Huang Ling, one of his direct disciples.

"Huang Ling," the elder said in a telepathic and commanding tone. "Go to the Dragon Cubs Residence and bring Dao Wei." The message was cryptic and telepathic.