Chapter Forty-One: The Diagram of Supreme Polarity, Myriad Swords Converge

Slaughter is an utterly unique state of mind, rarely grasped in isolation; only amidst life-and-death struggles, within the endless dance of survival and annihilation, can one sense the peculiar power concealed within the act of killing. To forge oneself through death, to wield the sword as law—this is the awe-inspiring, unparalleled intent of slaughter by the blade.

In the path of aggression and offense, it reigns supreme.

Though masters have yet to comprehend the profundity of such intent, they can sense its presence. In this moment, the four Grandmasters—Zhao Zhengyi and his companions—struck at once, their hearts chilled. Each unleashed a peak blow, fearsome in its might, forcing all other contenders to retreat.

A deep, buzzing tremor resounded through the void, murderous intent soaring to the heavens. Zhao Zhengyi’s sword energy pierced the skies; a single stroke stirred wind and cloud, grandeur tinged with a hint of sinister venom. The monk’s Vajra staff, the frail elder’s palm, and the last man’s blade, splitting the vastness—each attack converged from all directions, a culmination of long-laid plans. Even a grandmaster would blanch when faced with such an assault.

Yet Jiang Ming neither dodged nor blocked. Instead, he remained immersed in the intent of slaughter, delving deeper into its mysteries. His aura grew ever more formidable. Just as it seemed he would be struck down, his body suddenly radiated with light, forming a shield of true energy that enveloped him.

This was a defense of Astral Qi, yet it was most unusual.

Within it, two opposing forces—icy chill and blazing heat—twined together, distinct yet mutually entwined, as if forming a living Taiji, spinning with Jiang Ming at its center.

Crash—

The next instant, the attacks crashed down, causing the barrier to shudder violently, but not to break.

“How is this possible?” Zhao Zhengyi cried out in astonishment.

The other three turned pale as well.

The combined blow of the four should have shattered any defense. Even Old Daoist Zhang, standing idle, would have coughed blood from such an attack—yet they could not pierce even a single layer of Jiang Ming’s true energy shield. It was beyond belief.

A nameless dread weighed upon their hearts.

“I have studied the Dao of Nine Yin and Nine Yang, seeking their union to comprehend the Taiji of Yin and Yang. Yet something was always missing; I dare not speak of it as a ‘scripture’—I call it merely the Art of Yin and Yang,” Jiang Ming’s voice rang out.

Clearly, he was still contemplating the intent of slaughter. This was not merely divided focus—rather, he was juggling multiple streams of thought.

“For this defense, I draw on the ceaseless cycle of Yin and Yang, endless and seamless, shifting as the stars, borrowing force to deflect and rebound, ever strengthening. Yet it has never been tested in true battle, and flaws remain. Nevertheless, it suffices to withstand your assault,” Jiang Ming said calmly. “I place great hopes in this method—let it be called the Taiji Diagram, the Diagram of Yin and Yang. When I have fully grasped the intent of Yin and Yang, this art will reach its first completion.”

“What kind of monster are you?” Zhao Zhengyi’s voice trembled. “Just months ago, as a mere master, you shook the grandmaster Xuanming, breaking through mid-battle to comprehend the true intents of ice, cloud, and rain, fusing them into the unprecedented intent of water. Now, in the midst of combat, you’ve grasped the sword intent of slaughter, and even created this terrifying defense, mightier than any Golden Bell Shield! Jiang Ming, are you truly human? No, you cannot be. No one of this earth could reach such heights. Are you ghost, demon, immortal, or fiend?”

“Benefactor Zhao, whether he is ghost, demon, immortal, or fiend, today he must die—this is the Buddha’s will, and Heaven’s decree!” The bald monk was equally shaken, yet his resolve was iron.

Clearly, having acted so openly and decisively, retreat was no longer an option. With an opponent like this, even escape would mean being hunted to the ends of the earth. There was only one path forward: annihilation.

In a battle of life and death, there can be no retreat, only advance.

“Demon-subduing Staff! Ten Thousand Demons Fall!”

The monk struck again, his incantation thunderous. The blow was truly fearsome, threatening to shatter the heavens as it descended upon Jiang Ming’s head.

“Demon? By slaying a demon, I become the truest demon!” the deep-eyed elder snarled, a vicious gleam in his gaze. Suddenly, his body swelled, growing to nearly two meters tall, burly beyond measure.

His aura surged, nearly matching that of a grandmaster.

“God-Slaying Finger!” He thrust a finger toward Jiang Ming, his massive frame shrinking as if all his power was channeled into that single point.

The force of that finger made even Jiang Ming pause, prompting him to remark, “What a formidable secret art—worth studying in the future!”

The swordsman said nothing, slicing forth with a single, sweeping strike.

Jiang Ming remained unmoving, but his attitude grew more solemn. He raised his left hand and pressed forward; the spinning Taiji Diagram accelerated abruptly. If one looked closely, countless tiny, indistinct Taiji diagrams seemed to ripple upon its surface, though their power was still unstable.

The barrage of attacks nearly shattered the blurry Taiji, but it held firm, growing steadier in its rotation.

“Indeed, true knowledge comes only in battle,” Jiang Ming laughed. “But this ends now.”

“I have a sword art, forged from one hundred and thirty-six sword techniques: Drizzling Rain, Swift Rain, Torrential Rain, Raindrop Blade, Great River Sword, Six Veins Divine Sword, Pure Yang Sword, and countless others.”

“To gather a hundred swords as one, to smelt them in a single furnace, to seek the ultimate variation of swordsmanship.”

“I call it Myriad Swords Return to Origin!”

“A hundred blades return to one, ten thousand swords to their source, gathering the essence of all swordsmanship, manifesting its ultimate transformation.”

“It retains the capacity to absorb the subtleties of all sword arts, until, at last, a single sword becomes the Dao, a single stroke forms a world.”

“Alas, my realm is too shallow; I have only just begun to master it.”

“Today, I shall test my sword upon you!”

With that, Jiang Ming’s Taiji Diagram exploded outward like a sweeping tempest, flinging Zhao Zhengyi and his three companions far and wide.

Dust billowed, murderous intent filled the sky.

With a flick of the Heaven-Splitting Sword, torrents of sword energy erupted from his body, condensing the very essence of the void into a dense net of blades that filled the air.

He stood like a sovereign, commanding ten thousand vassals.

“Die!”

At the fall of his sword, sword energy surged like a storm.

It was as if rain battered banana leaves, piercing the air and rending all before it.

This was truly a storm of sword energy.

Centered on Jiang Ming, a vortex radiated outward, reaching its zenith in an instant.

A chorus of screams erupted, piercing and mournful.

When the four Grandmasters attacked, the other warriors had withdrawn but not fled far enough. Now, all were swept up—whether third-rate, first-class, or even innate experts, all were caught in the storm and slain on the spot.

The four Grandmasters recoiled in horror, retreating desperately.

“What kind of monstrous sword art is this?” Zhao Zhengyi’s face was ashen. He spun his sword, unleashing waves of blade energy in a desperate defense, but in moments his sword was shattered.

Next, his protective Astral Qi was torn apart by the relentless onslaught.

“No!” Zhao Zhengyi screamed in terror, “Help me, save—”

In the blink of an eye, he was engulfed.

A hero of an age, slain where he stood.

At last, the rampaging sword energy faded.

The battlefield was a scene of utter carnage, littered with corpses and blood.

Only three Grandmasters survived, along with a handful who had escaped to the distant periphery. All others were dead.

With a single stroke, he had slain over a hundred men.

“He’s a demon, a demon, truly a demon king!” the great monk trembled.

His body was covered in myriad fine wounds.

By his reckoning, such a sea of sword energy should be weak in force, but the opposite was true—each strand was powerful enough to pierce even his Diamond Vajra Body.

Thankfully, his strength was great enough that, though he appeared miserable, he remained fundamentally unharmed.

“A fiend!” groaned the deep-eyed elder, grievously wounded, one arm severed.

“Demon or fiend, the moment you came here, your fate was sealed—especially after I learned of the destruction of Blackwind Fortress. Today, even if the King of Heaven himself descended, you would die,” Jiang Ming’s voice was icy. He raised his sword high, his aura surging, ignoring Zhao Zhengyi’s earlier cries for help. “That last stroke contained no true intent. But this next one…”

His smile was cruel.

“I have just now comprehended the sword intent of slaughter; let me fuse it into Myriad Swords Return to Origin and see what heights it may reach.”

His gaze sharpened, murderous intent erupting, shaking the air itself, filling all creation with dread.

Once again, countless strands of sword energy gathered—each now brimming with a killing aura far beyond before, enough to make all hair stand on end and hearts freeze in terror.

“Die!”

The sword fell, ten thousand blades swept forth, and the heavens darkened.