Page 613

According to the rules, it should have been like this, but...

"What's going on? Did you Shamans make a mistake? Why is my battle with that werewolf scheduled as the first match?" When the match list was announced, the young lion clan prince Beria couldn't help but loudly question it.

The nearby Shaman immediately replied displeased, "The match list was personally decided by His Holiness the Pope of the Radiant Temple. There are no issues."

An elder from the Splitfang Clan quickly pulled Beria back while apologizing. After all, with the current delicate stance of the Radiant Temple, the Splitfang Clan absolutely shouldn't offend them at this time.

Delaying battles between strong contenders wasn't for commercial spectacle but to ensure that the strong achieved results matching their strength, avoiding clashes that might eliminate truly excellent candidates. So how could the Radiant Temple's actions be explained now? Did they intend to eliminate the two strongest teams and let weaker ones proceed to the final divine combat? Regardless of the Temple's own stance, such a move would surely provoke widespread questioning and fury from the hundred beastman clans.

After much discussion, the lion clan found no answers and could only set aside their doubts, waiting for the battle to begin.

The first battle was set in a river valley, currently dry and wide enough to accommodate thousands of fighters. The low ridges on either side limited stray combat energy and magic, making it a famous arena often chosen for duels.

Beria's hundred followers naturally included four-tenths beastmen warriors, along with seven or eight beastmen Sword Emperors serving the Splitfang Clan. With enough attackers, the rest were support roles—thieves skilled in scouting and traps, Shamans and human priests adept in healing, or dark mages specializing in curses. Their equipment was the finest from the Splitfang armory, forming a versatile and battle-tested force.

Yet when they confidently entered the valley and reached its center, they encountered the unexpected.

Only one enemy stood before them.

The silver-haired werewolf, clad in white robes with an amber crystal greatsword on his back and an ancient engraved sword at his waist, faced them as if they were mere ants rather than a hundred warriors.

"Why are you alone?"

Beria recognized him as his opponent, Lord Blizzard Wolf, but couldn't fathom why he stood alone. Suspecting an ambush, his followers reacted instantly—forming battle lines, retreating, and unleashing thirty spells and combat energy techniques at Chen Xuanfeng. Meanwhile, human and leopard clan thieves vanished to scout for "ambushes."

The attacks halted three meters from Chen Xuanfeng, blocked by a dark mist-like combat energy. Yet he didn't counter, merely watching as his enemies formed ranks. Soon, the scouts returned, reporting no hidden foes.

Few knew the full extent of Lord Blizzard's forces, but the Splitfang Clan did: a human girl Sword Saint with divine power rivaling the Pope of the Radiant Temple, a barbarian female warrior matching a Sword Saint's strength, a famed powerful Lich, elven twins who together could challenge a Sword Saint, and several Sword Emperors. Had the Temple not banned super beasts and similar constructs, a six-winged Demon Dragon, three Crystal Dragons, and a black crystal bone dragon would have joined them.

Yet now, the werewolf stood utterly alone.

Beria's expression shifted. "Lord Blizzard, what are you planning? Do you truly believe you can defeat us alone, or have you hidden your forces to obliterate us—and yourself—with forbidden spells?"

Chen Xuanfeng glanced at him. "You must wonder why our battle is first."

"Werewolf, spare your tricks. Here, only strength decides all."

Chen Xuanfeng smirked. "Strength above all—since you understand, I'll say no more. The Pope arranged this because even all candidates and followers combined cannot defeat me."

Beria burst into laughter. "Hahaha! Lord Blizzard, have you gone mad? Who do you think you are? Not even my father reborn would dare—dare—gah—"

Mid-laugh, an immense pressure, as if plunging him into abyssal depths, choked his mockery. His followers too felt it—a crushing force like the sky collapsing. A dozen weaker members vomited blood.

"What... is this?" an injured human mage coughed.

"Unknown, but this power seems to emanate from beyond our plane. Damn it," another replied, his magic robe's automatically activated shield barely helping.

The Sword Emperors, attuned to the Starry Abyss's power, sensed it deeper. Unlike draconic pressure (dragon's spiritual pressure), this was tangible energy pressure, endless as the Astral tides. Though unable to manipulate it like a Sword Saint, they could feel it—like a raft in a storm, battered by waves of energy passing through layers of space, their burden many times heavier than the rest.