CHAPTER 15

The Blood Awakening: Hangfang's Bloody Conflict

The scene shifts.

In Hangfang's mind, a voice, far away yet booming, thunders — urgent, peremptory.

"Go, both of you, move exactly as I tell you! Now!"

The tone brooks no argument, crackling through his mind like lightning.

"Watch closely—slice your finger. Let your blood flow. Then, focus on Blood Healing and Smoke Path. Stretch out your hand!"

Hangfang doesn't question it. He obeys.

In a quick flick he slices his own finger. Drop by drop the crimson pools, sizzling in the air. The instant his focus tightens, something unfurls before him, a conspicuous tear in space and time.

And out of that abyssal wound, something emerges.

A noxious smell washes over the battlefield — the heavy, metallic tang of blood, acrid and heavy, like the air before a storm. The air itself thrums with a low, guttural hum. And then… it appears.

A Blood Sword.

The blade is grotesque — serrated, alive with dark energy, streaked with crawling, vein-like shapes. The moment Hangfang's fingers close around the hilt, a shockwave detonates outward, scoring cracks in the battlefield before the true terror of this unleashing can be seen.

His veins ignite. His muscles tighten. His power surges.

It's instantaneous; his strength doubles, his senses overdrive to inhuman levels. His very breath, a weapon, exhaling raw killing intent.

But then his arm is pierced with a fiery pain.

The hand — the one holding the sword — blacksen. Veins swirl and thicken, the blade trying to devour him alive. His skin fissures, as if some substance inside is blazing its way out.

But Hangfang grits his teeth. He won't let go.

Not now.

Never.

The Clash: Steel Against Steel

First it is the black-robed warrior who moves.

Inhumanly fast, they streak past in a smear of black against the blood-tinted sky. Their sword, cloaked in dark energy, drops like a guillotine.

But Hangfang isn't one to back down.

He lunges forward.

Their blades collide.

And in that moment, the world splits open.

The tremendous force sends a sonic boom blasting outward, shredding the battlefield like a hurricane. The earth beneath them doesn't merely crack — it folds in on itself, carving jagged scars deep into the ground.

Neither fighter is conceding an inch.

Hangfang's Blood Sword shrieks as it catches the black-robed warrior's black steel, showers of sparks leaping like embers before the tempest. Their blows grow speedier, more frenzied — each one hot enough to rip flesh from bone.

And then begins the real carnage.

They vanish.

No, not disappear — disappear — to somewhere beyond sight.

The result is a flurry of afterimages, the battlefield erupting in a furiously misty whirl of velocity. Every impact is a death sentence, their weapons digging deep furrows into the ground, so most it is a raw trail of devastation.

Hangfang's pulse beats like a war drum.

But then—he feels it.

Something screws up in his sword.

It's alive.

The Blood Sword feeds. With each slash, with each wound inflicted, the blade drinks in the spilled blood, coating it, growing darker, hungrier. The veins along the hilt throb beseechingly, even as its grip bears down harder on Hangfang's fingers, like it wants to be used but not without taking an offering.

And Hangfang... lets it take.

Because he is exclusively focused on one thing—killing his opponent

Berserk Frenzy: Losing Your Mind

Both warriors reach their own berserker stages, fighting like animals.

The black-robed fighter growls, his movements becoming wild, monstrous. Their strikes are no longer graceful — only deadly.

Hangfang sees the world through rose-colored glasses.

He can smell their blood. Hear their heartbeat.

Their weapons are an extension of their souls and each strike is a brutal symphony of destruction.

And then—disaster.

The blade of the black-robed warrior clashes against Hangfang's in a final cataclysmic blow.

For a moment, time stops.

Then—CRACK.

A hairline crack snakes along the black-robed warrior's sword.

Then another.

And another.

And then—it shatters.

With a detonation of shockwave, the black-robed figure is sent flying back like a ragdoll. They impact the wreckage of the battlefield, unmoving.

Eliminated.

The Aftermath: Blood and Collapse

Hangfang staggers.

His breathing is labored, his vision cloudy. His whole body's screaming.

Blood gushes from deep, gnashing wounds, soaking his clothes scarlet. His arms tremble, his muscle fibers straining for a snap.

The Blood Sword still thrums in his hand, and speaks to him in a voice no one else can hear.

Then—his vision tilts.

The world turns sideways.

His body gives out.

Hangfang collapses.

But just as he's about to land on the blood-soaked earth — So Rong appears.

She reacts in an instant, pulling him toward her before his shattered body hits the earth.

Her grip is firm yet gentle. Her voice, urgent but threaded with worry, slices through the fog in his mind.

"Hangfang… stay with me."

Hangfang opens her mouth but no words escape. He has nothing left.

She hoists him, struggle after struggle, pulling him toward safety from the battlefield.

Blood threatens to drip with each step they take, leaving behind a trail of crimson evidence of the savagery of the battle.

Hangfang's triumph had not been without cost.

And as the conflict cedes to an eerie hush on the battlefield, the shadow of that price hangs palpably in the air.