Mirror Dream Tree V.4.74. Battlefield Realm (4)

rin’s expression cools, his body still, but his aura slowly surges like a tide about to break.

He lifts his hand, weaving seals, and the Fantasy Clone Dao technique blooms into being, its power threading into his illusion space.

Though no physical double appears, his grievous wounds vanish instantly, the damage transferred into the boundless depths of his inner world, where it dissolves like a drop in an ocean.

His breath evens, his fra steadies, and in an instant, the bloodied cultivator transforms back into an unshaken warrior, aura stable and fierce.

The five approaching figures draw near, their oppressive intent thick with the intertwined essence of the Law of Blood and the Law of Darkness.

rin’s eyes narrow—there is only one race known for this scent of corruption, the Dark Blood race, a high-level clan infamous for their arrogance and contempt toward so-called lesser beings.

The certainty of battle settles into him, as natural as drawing breath.

The five appear, floating before him with cold expressions, their presence blotting out the stars above the desert.

One sneers, voice dripping disdain, “Hand over the deer.”

Another laughs harshly, adding, “And everything else you carry.”

rin’s inward sigh turns to steel, his decision clear—words are useless here.

He channels the Law of Five Elents, power swirling into a brilliant convergence of fire, water, earth, wind, and tal, rging into one vast, luminous hand.

The five-colored giant hand roars forth, tearing across the desert sky, its fingers outstretched to crush the Dark Blood cultivators before they can press closer.

The five-colored giant hand shatters against the thorned shields, the desert ringing with the collision of laws, sparks of elental light scattering like teors.

In that heartbeat of chaos, rin’s figure blurs forward, his aura folding inward before exploding with ruthless intent.

The Dark Blood cultivators snarl, voices sharp with arrogance—“Bastard!” “Lowly race, you dare!” “Kill him!”—but their jeers co too late.

rin’s fist coils with the Law of Wood, the first form of the Destruction Fist, and he drives it into his chosen target with rciless precision.

One strike becos two, then four, then a cascade, each layered with a different elent, his mastery cycling through the five until the final punch manifests.

The last blow cracks reality itself, fissures spiderwebbing through space like a broken mirror, and the Dark Blood cultivator is hurled downwards, body slamming into the desert floor with bone-shaking force.

The earthquakes, sand erupts, and the band of five is reduced to four.

But before rin can retreat, a storm of counterattacks tears through the air, blood-dark and brimming with corrosive law.

The four survivors unleash as one, their combined might smashing into rin’s chest and sides, hurling him backwards across the dunes.

He crashes into the desert, the impact gouging a crater, clouds of dust rising to cloak the battlefield in choking haze.

The sandstorm whirls outward, but when the dust settles, the spot where rin crashed is empty—his body erased as if the desert itself had swallowed him.

One of the Dark Blood cultivators glares at his fallen companion. “Zed, how are you?”

Zed’s face twists as he probes his wounds. Inwardly, he snarls, Bastard, these injuries will take months to heal. His voice drips with hatred as he growls, “I want to drink his blood.”

The group turns, their gazes fixing on the re-erging figure as the dust clears.

rin steps forward, his aura steady, his body spotless, not a trace of damage left.

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Their eyes widen.

“How is he uninjured?” one hisses.

“Must be so advanced healing technique,” another mutters.

“Doesn’t matter,” the leader snaps. “Kill him!”

Five attacks surge at once, blood and darkness swallowing the sky as they converge on rin.

His form shifts. A werewolf cloaked in black fur erupts from his body, its howl tearing across the desert. A wave of raw destruction explodes outward, ripping through the incoming strikes.

As the shockwave dies, the five dive together to finish him off.

rin ets them head-on, his gaze locking onto the injured Zed as he launches his counterattack.

rin surges forward, his body swelling with strength, each muscle brimming with destructive power. His fist gleams with the essence of the Destruction Fist, the air cracking as space quivers under the strike.

Zed’s eyes widen. He conjures a barrier of blood-thorns in desperation, but rin’s punch shatters it like brittle glass, driving the Dark Blood cultivator back.

The other four descend at once, their combined strikes tearing across rin’s back and sides, leaving wounds that should cripple him. Yet each injury slips away, transferred to the illusion space through his Fantasy Clone Dao technique, the damage dissolving like mist.

rin doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even turn. His eyes burn with killing intent, locked solely on Zed.

Another Destruction Fist smashes through Zed’s defences, the sound like mountains grinding together. Blood sprays as the cultivator staggers, coughing violently.

“Zed!” one of his companions roars, unleashing another blood-darkness storm that rips the desert apart. But rin drives through the storm, his aura unyielding, his fists hamring down again and again.

Cracks spread in the very air around them, each blow of Destruction Fist threatening to collapse the space itself.

Zed screams, his body folding under the relentless barrage, bones splintering with each strike.

The other four grow frantic, their attacks slamming into rin’s fra—yet he remains undeterred, his technique feeding all that ruin into the void of his illusion space.

With a final roar, rin’s fist crashes down, space itself shattering like a mirror around Zed as he is smashed into the desert floor, half-buried in blood and sand.

The battlefield trembles, the four surviving Dark Blood cultivators staring in shock at the rciless figure standing over their fallen kin.

The four Dark Blood cultivators roar in unison, their killing intent flooding the desert.

One raises a bow of bone, its string thrumming with darkness, and an arrow materialises, its tip dripping with thick, sinister blood.

Another ignites his palms, conjuring dark crimson fire that seethes like molten hatred, its heat cracking the ground beneath his feet.

The third clenches his clawed hand, lightning surging down his arm until it becos a talon of crimson thunder, arcs of ruin dancing along its edges.

The fourth hisses an incantation, and from his chest bursts a serpent of blood and shadow, its fangs gnashing, its length coiling to strangle the world itself.

Together they unleash their Dao techniques, the sky turning scarlet-black as destruction rains down.

rin braces, but the tide is overwhelming. The blood arrow pierces through his shoulder, the fire engulfs his chest, the lightning claw rends across his side, and the serpent coils around him, smashing him into the desert.

His spiritual body shatters, the towering werewolf dissolving into fragnts of shadow, leaving only his battered true body exposed.

Sand erupts in waves as his body hurls across the desert, tumbling before he crashes hard, gouging a crater.

Blood floods from his mouth, bones snap, muscles tear—his arm hangs ruined, one leg twisted grotesquely, his skin flayed by searing flas.

But his gaze remains calm, unyielding.

The Fantasy Clone Dao technique pulses, and the ruin flows away, devoured into the illusion space. Torn muscle regrows, bone realigns, his shattered hand and leg knit back together, skin crawling back over sinew like reborn steel.

He staggers to his feet, still dripping blood, as the four descend on him physically, their blows raining down with fists and claws, each strike shaking the desert floor.

rin blocks with his arms, his body rattled by their fury, but their combined might drives him into defence, unable to retaliate.

Their arrogance flares, confident the four can overwhelm him by brute force before he recovers.

Yet deep within, the pulse of destruction in rin’s fists gathers again, silent but inevitable.

The desert shakes as the four Dark Blood cultivators hamr rin from every direction.

A claw rakes across his ribs, a bloody fist slams into his jaw, fire sears his back, and the serpent whips its tail across his chest.

rin blocks with forearms that crack under the weight of each blow, his body sliding back, feet digging trenches in the sand. Every strike he takes, he transfers into his illusion space, but even so, his rhythm falters under their relentless pressure.

He darts left, trying to break through the encirclent, but a wall of lightning claws forces him back. He twists right, yet the serpent rears up, coiling into a barrier of shadows. Behind, the blood arrow user fires in rapid succession, forcing him into the storm of crimson fire ahead.

rin breathes hard, his fists still glowing faintly with the pulse of destruction, but his attacks can’t pierce their coordinated defence. Every opening he reaches for slams shut, their formation tightening with cold, practised cruelty.

His mind works even as his body fights, shifting, blocking, sliding across the battlefield like a fla under siege.

Destruction Fist alone won’t break this. The Fantasy Clone keeps him alive, but he’s being pushed into a cage of blood and shadow, and sooner or later, their Dao techniques will tear through even that.

His teeth grit, the thought burning in his mind.

The Devil Saint spiritual body.

The technique he swore not to use unless forced, its power dangerous, its influence perilous. But now, under the suffocating weight of four peak Great Dao Lords, pressed to the edge of annihilation—what other path is left?

His fists clench, blood dripping between his knuckles, eyes burning with a decision that could tilt the battle.