The difference in qi between even the strongest of giants and a cultivator in the celestial ascendancy realm was that of a little pond before the ocean. Such vast deviations were more than sufficient to allow the simple ritual triggers built into the defensive formations laid atop the Killing Fields to operate only upon the arrival of true powers. The moment the trio of demonic cultivators entered into Mother's Gift, three overlapping formations detected them and activated. Unleashed in rapid series, they launched massive devastation across a vast area.

  The first attack was a rain of stones from on high. Fist-sized rocks dropped from the very boundary of the hidden land, manifested out of the spatial distortions that made its separate existence possible. Heated the by the furious formation that empowered their formation and accelerated downward by the static ban on flight laid over the entire area, they dropped a rain of fire upon the horde. Many exploded in midair, unleashing a terrible blast of razor-sharp shards as they fell. Others slammed through demon flesh, smashing bone, skin, and muscle to pieces and then spattering against the earth to blast out blobs of super-heated mud that burned and scourged. Red skinned monsters collapsed in droves, ripped apart by those stony knives.

  Several such meteors, collectively massing as much as a full grown human, streaked down directly toward the Fuming Shade. Though even an attack such as this, which would reduce an elephant to torn ruins, had no chance to penetrate his armor, he saw no reason to endure such indignities. Raising his war pick, he cloaked the weapon in qi, projected power outward, and swung a single time.

  A bolt of black smoke blasted from the point of the spike, rose upwards, and reduced the meteor barrage to dust at the moment of contact. Its power far from spent, this attack carved a red-orange streak across the sky, setting fire to the air until finally dissipated by the spatial distortion at the edge of Mother's Gift itself. Wreckage splattered about beside him, nearby demons succumbing to the attack, but a handful of swift sidesteps served to evade such debris.

  Even as the meteor swarm ceased its short but devastating barrage, lights materialized in the sky. Beams of white-hot power descended from the stars above, projecting luminous obliteration across the ground in black marks and melted clay. Anything the light touched ignited instantly, burning with terrible blue flames that ripped flesh and bone alike apart.

  The beams lasted only moments, and each one covered only a few short meters of ground in their arcs, but they numbered in the thousands. Rippling through an overlapping pattern at the heart of the densely packed horde, they destroyed countless demons. The grass at the edge of their touch ignited secondary fires from the overwhelming heat, briefly cloaking the entirety of the killing fields in prairie fire.

  The third attack compounded upon the second, for it came in the form of a howling, relentless wind, cold beyond all natural measure. Fires ripped away in a brief surge of heat, replaced by endless ice shards that ripped and tore into skin cracked and blistered by the flame; a tandem of destruction that redoubled the injuries beyond what even demon flesh could sustain. Blood sprouted across the surface of thousands of red-shaded bodies only to freeze solid and be ripped free, feeding additional jagged projectiles to the wind's brutal lash.

  A single blast, strong enough to knock ghouls flat, and then it was gone.

  Everything was suddenly still, leaving the damage apparent.

  The Fuming Shade dodged the carving lights through a single stride of his Formless Smoke Steps. Coating his armor in a layer of qi-infused ash served to render the wind naught but empty noise. These attacks, broad and destructive as they were, offered no challenge to one of his strength and skill.

  Nevertheless, he was impressed. The evasion of these static traps cost him considerably more qi expenditure than he'd anticipated. More importantly, the assault had not been targeted at him at all, it had been designed to deal maximum damage to the horde, a strategic choice representing dangerous confidence on the part of the defenders.

  And the damage had been immense.

  He tapped a talisman attached to the inside of his palm, one that transmitted words upon the wind and dispatched them to specific recipients regardless of distance. Such simple implements of battlefield communication were ordinary for conflicts like this, but remained essential. “How many did we lose?” He demanded.

  “Upwards of one hundred thousand,” Scoria Scorn's voice never changed. She spoke as if someone had granted a stone the power of speech. Circumstances did not influence her, ever. “At least half as many more have injuries that will slow them.” Creations of the plague, demons were not bound by the limitations of ordinary organisms. In time, they would restore themselves to full function, a restructuring rather than healing. Useful, but these things took time. Lost limbs, especially, might take days to regrow, rendering legless demons useless in the interim.

  Over a quarter of the horde, lost in a single opening stroke. A most formidable attack by any estimation. Indeed, the Fuming Shade was rather surprised there was no immediate follow up. Additional formations, embedded deep in the surrounding soil, stone, and air, abounded. He could feel them, oil layers upon the smoky membrane that passed for his skin. They pressed against him, restricting his actions in subtle but profound ways. To fly, to burrow in the earth, or even to jump to a great height – though that was a foolish action in a cultivator battle – was banned. Doing so would require expending the immense quantity of qi necessary to break the formation. Similarly, his sensory range, normally measured in tens of kilometers, come to a complete halt at the ramparts of a vast dark stone wall that fully encircled the gateway.

  It seemed that Scoria Scorn was correct. This whole section of the hidden land had been prepared as a deadly gatehouse.

  Dangerous, such preparations, and backed by numbers. There were many cultivators attached to this trap, gathered together on that grim wall, on watchtowers, and on spike-girded fighting platforms. Over four hundred defenders, and while many were weaklings, a very significant number were powerful disciples. They would rip through the horde, and swiftly at that.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  A singular beacon of qi, a blinding red light across his senses, nearly drowned out all these observations. A celestial ascendancy realm cultivator, and not a weak one, not at all. Long years of raiding hidden lands had refined his ability to estimate the power of his foes to a precision implement. This one was in the fifth layer, a mighty wall of qi auguring the presence of a foe stronger than any he'd faced in seven centuries.

  And the prize whose defeat would unlock his rise to the seventh layer.

  Briefly, following the initial bombardment, he'd considered retreat. Such numerous foes and well-prepared fortifications suggested an enemy more dangerous than he'd prepared to oppose. No longer. An incalculable prize lay before him, one he refused to let slip from his grasp.

  Among all demonic cultivators the Fuming Shade acknowledged only one as his true superior. If he consumed this enemy that obstacle would be removed, he would stand unbowed at last, free upon his own path. It would take much more qi to stabilize that achievement, but with as many mortals as this realm must contain, he would find strength in abundance.

  He knew Scoria Scorn believed they could not ascend. He disagreed, vehemently, but even if she was correct it made it all the more important to be the strongest one of all as the last vestiges of the old world were slowly and inevitably swept away.

  He had bowed for centuries in the old world. He would not bow in the one to come.

  Seizing on this motive, a dream deferred for almost three thousand years, the Fuming Shade charged forward.

  The demon horde, diminished but still hundreds of thousands strong, followed.

  Though its leader charged forward in a perfect line, the red legion spread wide behind its herald. It moved to reach the wall at every point, but quickly fell behind as cohesion collapsed. Channeled by ditches, blocked by spiked fences, divided by towers, and under attack from all sides, the demon horde broke apart. It wrapped about strong points and splashed against the closest edges of the walls, but could not advance with the tsunami strength the plague desired to bring forth. Scattered apart, its ability to overwhelm weakened precipitously.

  Early though it was, with a bare handful of cultivators skirmishing at spearpoint and arrows streaking through the sky in high arcs rather than the short strikes toward the base of the wall, the Fuming Shade knew the demons were likely doomed. Even without immortal intervention, the great dark wall, strengthened by deeply entwined formations, would not be overcome. The giants might, if they managed to unite, force a breach or two, and many of the defenders would fall, perhaps most, but the barrier would stand no matter what the horde accomplished.

  Regretfully, he had to acknowledge that Scoria Scorn's initial judgment proved correct. Their mindless minions lacked the necessary quantity to achieve an easy victory.

  Instantly, the Fuming Shade acknowledged this new reality. The demonic cultivators would need to slay all defending elders and then purge this place down to the last cultivator themselves. Beneath his mask, the faceless mass below formed into a smile. That was fine. None of the trio assembled would balk at such grunt work. Black Howl lusted for blood, and Scoria Scorn had long ago discarded any sense of morality as inefficient. As for him, well, he simply enjoyed the expression on the faces of the doomed as he tore the qi from their souls. There was something simply delightful about it.

  Nor was he the type to jeopardize victory by toying with dangerous opponents. The elder would be struck down, and swiftly. A quick victory was vastly superior. Pleasure could be taken by stretching out the looting to come.

  The enemy sect leader, for so he presumed the powerful fifth-layer immortal must be, did not wait upon the walls. Unusually courageous, but welcome given that delay was presently detrimental. She, for this foe was a tall and sinuous woman with a long-limbed frame, advanced to an empty platform raised up in the center of the battlefield.

  Twenty meters on each side and forged out of great paving stones two meters on a side cut and bonded perfectly level, it offered a most suitable arena. The invitation to engage was clear. The Fuming Shade did not refuse.

  Foolish, for though the foe wielded a spear of extraordinary craftsmanship and a battle gown woven of endlessly shifting colors no simple blade would ever pierce that he found himself immediately envious of, the tyranny of cultivation was nothing a modest superiority in artifacts could overcome. He knew this, and knew how to fight accordingly. Time would wear down talisman and tendon alike. Victory was inevitable, so long as the fight remained between the two alone.

  Upon running up to join his foe upon the platform, he realized that his foe's plan acknowledged this truth. Sense strengthened by a moment of stillness, he detected two other concentrations of qi initially concealed by distance and the barrier of the mighty wall. One, to his far right, represented a diffuse but numerous group of elders in the soul forging realm. The other, to his left, represented the most dangerous variable. A second defender in the celestial ascendancy realm. Weak, the first layer and no more, but no immortal could be discounted.

  The intention was clear. Attacks would be lobbed from long range upon each side in the intent to pin his movement long enough for the spearwoman to pierce him fatally. A simple, but highly effective strategy. Had he been alone, and had the woman before him been willing to launch a strike that laid her open to mortal riposte, it was almost guaranteed success.

  He was, in that moment, distinctly grateful for the extreme caution of Scoria Scorn.

  It had supplied him with more than sufficient means to counter this scheme. “Black Howl, the prize on the left is yours,” he sent the message immediately via communication talisman. “Scoria Scorn, eliminate those elders on the right.” Orders sent, he grasped the haft of his weapon tight and raised it high. A powerful and capable foe lay before him. He intended to enjoy stripping her qi away and taking it for his own.

  To his immense surprise, the woman before him displayed not even a shred of fear. Her exotic appearance featured orange and red hair in a long raised ponytail, and counter-shaded skin across her face, a deep soft red shade above her eyes that faded to milky pale pink beneath them. An inner glow, seeming to rise up from within her flesh, illuminated every surface of her body, as if someone had lit a candle within her. The shifting, constantly altering, multi-shaded battle robe, pattern rippling and reflecting with every move, was truly astonishing. A dark toned contrast to her pale skin, it made her appear a true light in the darkness. As expected, her face was beautiful, with a refined oval shape, broad lips, and brilliant eyes of orange and brown that sparkled with deep fire. Those orbs conveyed true eagerness, the vibrancy of youth, delighted to have the enemy before her.

  “You cannot win,” the Fuming Shade announced. He allowed the full potency of his ashen presence to billow out from beneath his armor. The difference in layers could not be missed. Clouds of cold ash flowered around his body, still in the air even as battle raged on all sides. “Do you not fear death?”

  Pale red lips the color of rose wine bent into a bright smile. “No one around here uses a war pick,” her voice was light and breezy, but each word snapped out with increasing energy, as if she was a pot about to boil over. “This is going to be fun.” The spear rose up into a classic guard position, and her body fell seamlessly into an opening attack stance. Qi, bright white and astonishingly pure, flushed through every movement. Her body held its posture with utterly perfect poise.

  Affronted by such daring bravery, all willingness to indulge idle curiosities dissipated. The Fuming Shade took two strides forward and attacked. His pick swung forth with earth-shattering force, the full strength of his cultivation exerted behind a classic opening, a horizontal sweep at full power.