Chapter 16: The Battlefield of Fate

The moment Ling Chen stepped through the door, the world shifted.

The oppressive silence of the cavern was replaced by the deafening roar of battle. The air was thick with the acrid stench of blood and burning corpses. Jagged, skeletal remains of buildings loomed like forgotten tombstones, their shattered forms barely holding against the ceaseless onslaught. The ground beneath him was slick with gore, the bodies of fallen cultivators and creatures alike strewn in grotesque patterns across the battlefield.

And at the heart of it all stood Zhan Yi.

A war god among mortals.

Clad in his midnight-black robes, embroidered with golden threads now darkened by soot and blood, Zhan Yi was an unmoving pillar amidst chaos. His obsidian ring gleamed as if absorbing the very carnage around him. His sword, sharp enough to carve through spirit itself, was drenched in the lifeblood of countless adversaries. He did not revel in the slaughter, nor did he hesitate. His movements were precise, each slash efficient, each step measured. He fought not as a man, but as inevitability incarnate.

Ling Chen's breath hitched.

This wasn't the man who had held him in a bruising grip just hours ago, whispering words too raw, too close to being something more. This was Zhan Yi, the Obsidian Tyrant—unstoppable, unrelenting.

Yet, as if sensing him, Zhan Yi's blade slowed mid-swing. His gaze—cold, unwavering—lifted to meet Ling Chen's across the blood-soaked battlefield.

And in that instant, the world stopped.

The distant clang of weapons dulled to a whisper. The screams of the dying faded into an eerie hush. Ling Chen couldn't move, couldn't breathe, trapped under the weight of a gaze that bore into him like a spear through the chest.

A flicker of something unreadable crossed Zhan Yi's expression—too quick to grasp, too fleeting to understand. But before Ling Chen could even process it, Zhan Yi turned away.

As if Ling Chen was nothing more than another specter in the chaos.

A sudden explosion of energy erupted from the center of the battlefield. A monstrous entity, its form shifting between beast and shadow, lunged towards Zhan Yi with a roar that rattled Ling Chen's bones.

It never reached him.

Zhan Yi moved in a blur, his blade severing through the creature as if it were mist. Blood splattered in a crimson arc. He did not stop. He did not waver. He kept cutting down foe after foe, his movements a deadly dance of precision and power.

But Ling Chen saw it.

The exhaustion in his stance. The imperceptible delay in his strikes. The way his left hand trembled ever so slightly before gripping his sword hilt tighter.

Zhan Yi was not unscathed.

And that realization struck Ling Chen harder than the battlefield itself.

He moved before he could think. His body surged forward, weaving through the wreckage, his heightened senses guiding him through the chaos. The screams, the clashing steel, the sickening crunch of bones breaking—it all became background noise. His only focus was on reaching Zhan Yi before it was too late.

A shadow leapt at him from the side. Ling Chen ducked, pivoting sharply. A blade swiped past his shoulder, nicking the fabric of his robes. Without hesitation, he struck—his palm meeting the attacker's chest. His energy surged outward in a concussive blast, sending the assailant flying into the ruins.

Another enemy lunged. Ling Chen twisted, grabbed a fallen sword, and drove it through the attacker's throat. The body crumpled before him, blood pooling at his feet.

He had no time for regret.

Zhan Yi was slowing down.

A towering beast, its flesh stitched together with cursed sigils, loomed behind Zhan Yi. Its claws, crackling with dark energy, swiped down—aiming for the back of the war god's skull.

"Zhan Yi!" Ling Chen shouted.

Zhan Yi didn't turn. Didn't hesitate. He only moved.

The moment Ling Chen's voice reached him, Zhan Yi twisted sharply, his blade slicing upward in a vicious arc. The beast let out a guttural shriek as its arm separated from its body. But Zhan Yi staggered—just for a breath, just for a moment.

It was enough.

The beast retaliated. A second claw, hidden beneath its grotesque form, shot out like a viper—aimed directly at Zhan Yi's chest.

Time slowed.

Ling Chen moved before he could think, his body a blur of motion. He reached out—

A sharp, burning pain lanced through his side.

Blood splattered across the battlefield.

For a heartbeat, all he could hear was the rushing of his own pulse, deafening in his ears. He had thrown himself between Zhan Yi and the beast, taken the blow meant for him.

A mistake.

Or a choice he couldn't regret.

Zhan Yi's face twisted in something primal. Something furious. Something terrifying.

The war god's blade cleaved through the beast in a single, devastating blow. The world shook with the force of his rage. Shadows splintered. The battlefield trembled.

And then, silence.

The beast was no more.

But Ling Chen's body swayed, unsteady, blood staining his robes in widening pools.

Zhan Yi caught him before he fell. A hand—firm, steady, and unbearably warm—grasped Ling Chen's wrist, holding him in place. His grip was tight, as if willing him to stay, to remain.

"You're a fool," Zhan Yi's voice was low, barely audible above the wind. But there was something else in it—something that made Ling Chen's breath hitch.

Zhan Yi's fingers ghosted over Ling Chen's wound, the warmth of his touch seeping through the pain. His gaze darkened, unreadable, filled with something Ling Chen couldn't name.

Ling Chen opened his mouth to speak—

And then the ground beneath them fractured.

A deafening crack split the battlefield as something ancient awakened beneath the ruins. The very air twisted, the fabric of reality warping.

A voice, cold and omnipresent, slithered through the air.

"So, you have finally arrived."

The battlefield was no longer just a battlefield. It was the epicenter of something far greater. Something darker.

And the true fight was only beginning.