Chapter 107 – If the World Demands My Demise, Then Let Me Reign as a Tyrant

The severed hand fell too swiftly for any reaction…

Though Zhao Kuo was a grandmaster of martial arts, his age had withered his vitality, dulling his reflexes. The black figure struck like a thunderclap of night, severing Zhao Kuo's arm in an instant. Blood sprayed through the air, and the pain drained all color from his face.

This scene shattered everyone's expectations.

The old eunuch sprang into motion, his horsetail whisk cracking with such force it seemed to shred the very air. The grandmaster warriors who had been shielding Zhao Kuo ignited their vital energy, leaping forth to intercept the eunuch.

Battle erupted in the garden.

Vital force surged, weapons clashed with the sweep of the whisk. The old eunuch, unrivaled within the imperial city, overwhelmed both martial masters single-handedly.

Zhao Kuo's face was ashen, his gaze bloodshot as he clutched the void where his arm once was. He turned his head—only to see Yu Wenxiu laughing maniacally…

A serpentine shadow, black as night, coiled around his waist.

It was a creature shaped like a serpent, yet its neck bore gill-like scales resembling coral. Four claws protruded from its abdomen, gripping Yu Wenxiu's waist and shoulder.

That was... a dragon?!

Zhao Kuo's pupils constricted. He inhaled deeply.

A black dragon coiled around the Son of Heaven.

He staggered back a step, staring into the creature's eyes—within which burned a glimmer of excitement…

Yu Wenxiu gazed at Zhao Kuo's bleeding stump, a look of relief and exhilaration upon his face. He had been repressed for far too long. Though emperor in name, he had been manipulated like a puppet by his ministers. The commanders of the palace guard had been bought, military forces moved without his word, even imperial edicts stolen before they could be issued.

He was an emperor in title only, stripped of all dignity.

Beyond the capital, storm clouds loomed—Northern and Western Command armies watching like hungry beasts.

Within the court, treacherous ministers sowed chaos, inundating him with memorials of impeachment and defiance, each act a flagrant rejection of imperial will.

State Preceptor Kong Xiu remained cloistered in seclusion. Yu Wenxiu bore him no grudge. In fact, he was grateful—for it was only in the preceptor's absence that he had come to see the court's darkness in full.

The black flood dragon coiled tighter, spiritual energy rippling. The clear waters of the pond surged wildly. The creature was no ordinary beast but a spiritual entity, its fate intertwined with Yu Wenxiu's. His nature influenced it—and it, in turn, shaped him.

"Old dog, do you see clearly now?!"

"This is a true dragon…"

Yu Wenxiu pointed to the obsidian flood dragon entwined around him and laughed wildly at Zhao Kuo.

Sweat drenched Zhao Kuo's brow. He took a trembling step back, gasping for breath.

"Lu Ping'an was right. In this world, power is the only truth... You humiliate me because I am young, weak! You fear Kong Xiu only because he's a sage of Confucian might! You cower before the Overlord because of his unmatched strength..."

"But me? I am the one you dare to trample!"

Yu Wenxiu advanced step by step, his voice hoarse with suppressed fury. He had endured too much—he needed release.

The dying light of the sun bathed his face in crimson, as though stained with fresh blood. His twisted, maddened visage made Zhao Kuo's heart quiver.

This was no longer the gentle, scholarly boy he once knew.

"If I had strength like Lu Ping'an's—power enough to shake the heavens—would any of you dare to defy me?!"

"Cowards! All of you, bullies of the weak!"

Yu Wenxiu roared with rage, pointing a trembling finger at Zhao Kuo.

"Kill!"

"Slaughter them all for me!"

"If the world deems me cruel and unrighteous—then let me be a tyrant for all eternity!"

The black flood dragon's eyes gleamed, sucking a wisp of dark energy from Yu Wenxiu. Then, with a roar, it lunged like a bolt of black lightning.

Zhao Kuo, as if struck by terror itself, retreated swiftly and shouted:

"The palace guard is under my control! Eight thousand elite troops will crush the Northern Luo cavalry!"

"Your Majesty… you have no hope!"

But the flood dragon struck. Zhao Kuo tried to flee—but the dragon sank its fangs into his shoulder.

He screamed in agony.

"Protect me! Protect me now!"

The two martial grandmasters, alarmed, broke away from the eunuch and rushed toward Zhao Kuo. One unleashed his vital energy, shouting as he slashed with his longsword toward the dragon's vulnerable spot.

The creature released Zhao Kuo's shoulder. The coral-like gill scales around its neck flared open, and it shrieked at the approaching warrior. A strange power shimmered in its eyes.

The warrior froze, his gaze briefly clouded with confusion.

And then—blood sprayed through the air.

The flood dragon pinned him, tearing him apart in a frenzy.

Flesh and blood were devoured, piece by piece.

Zhao Kuo was drenched in gore, trembling violently.

"The Emperor consorts with demons… Chaos shall consume the realm!"

He howled in despair.

Yu Wenxiu stepped forward, the hilt of a fine sword hanging from his waist. Smiling, he approached Zhao Kuo.

"I am unrighteous?"

"So be it."

He raised the blade. A surge of spiritual force pulsed through it—and with a single sweep, a head flew skyward, painting the imperial robes in crimson.

…

Lakeheart Island, Northern Luo.

Lu Fan's pupils danced with flickering lines. The breeze played through his hair and white robes.

Ni Yu scooped a ladle of warm wine. The thick, amber liquid trailed in ribbons as it poured into a bronze cup.

The patterns in Lu Fan's eyes faded.

He sighed lightly.

The scenes within the capital were laid bare before him. The flood dragon's transformation—whether it was a blessing or a curse—remained to be seen.

Through the Dao Platform, Lu Fan had crafted eight dragon cultivation techniques. The black dragon had inherited one—but where that path would lead, only fate could decide.

Still, Lu Fan was not overly concerned.

If the creature strayed too far from its destined path… then it could simply be reforged.

…

The Imperial Capital's long streets were soaked in blood and strewn with corpses.

Blades and shields lay shattered across the ground. Rivers of blood ran like streams into pools.

Five hundred against eight thousand—an impossible battle.

Yet the result defied belief.

The Northern Luo iron cavalry—just five hundred strong—stood tall, blood surging, eyes ablaze with fervor.

It was a massacre.

Nie Changqing, wielding a butcher's blade, carved through two thousand armored soldiers with a single strike.

Ning Zhao, radiating her spiritual pressure, floated in a white dress and stepped lightly across the battlefield. Wherever she passed, soldiers knelt in reverence; with a sweep of her sword, corpses fell in her wake.

Yi Yue's whip cracked, scattering phantom images that lashed countless soldiers into screams of torment.

Cultivators against common troops—even elite warriors stood no chance. It was an utter slaughter.

A young scholar in azure robes sat astride a horse, face pale as death. The one-sided carnage left him dazed.

On Wolong Ridge, the Overlord had once slain five thousand foes with a hundred warriors, earning eternal glory—but the scholar had dismissed it as mere legend.

Now, he had seen true cultivation power with his own eyes.

He finally understood why the Prime Minister held Du Tao in such high regard.

Six servants carried Du Tao's sedan chair. Inside, his face was pale as bone.

They were too strong… despairingly strong.

This was the power of true cultivators—far beyond his half-baked training.

"Encircle them! Kill them all! Close in and wear them down! Drain their spiritual energy!"

Du Tao barked commands, panicked in his seat.

The only tactic he could think of was a war of attrition—to use endless waves of men to exhaust the cultivators' energy. Once depleted, they would be no more than mortal warriors, easy to slay.

But…

The sun sank. The dying light bled crimson.

Shadows of blades fell like a storm.

The butcher's blade danced again—breaking through armor by the thousands.

The eight thousand elite troops… were rapidly dwindling.