The moon hung low over the western mountains, casting elongated shadows across the abandoned training grounds where Long Huang stood alone. The air was thick with the earthy scent of damp pine needles and rich, loamy earth, while the cicadas offered a symphony of distant sounds, joined occasionally by the haunting call of an owl echoing through the stillness.
Zhao Gun's earlier words still echoed in Long Huang's mind, reverberating like a distant thunderclap. "You're insane."
A fleeting smirk crossed his face as he twirled the Blades of Slaughter between his fingers, the moonlight glinting off the blades' polished surface. "Took you this long to notice?" he countered lightly, though beneath the bravado was a quieter truth gnawing at him—a truth that felt different, heavy.
He had lied—not about his fighting ability. Every strike, every dodge had been real, born of countless hours spent honing his craft. But the reason for his strength? That was a deeper story, one even he wasn't sure Zhao Gun would believe for much longer. But even if Long Huang really had ordinary grade bloodline he would have pushed harder than any without rest till he died.
Long Huang exhaled sharply, shaking off the tendrils of doubt creeping into his thoughts. He had come here to train, not to brood, and he sensed the weight of his own unresolved feelings pressing against his chest.Then summoned the Blades of Slaughter and began practicing.
The Blades of Slaughter hummed in his grip as he fell into the first stance of the Archdevil Limitless Blade Art. This was not merely a series of movements to him—it was a dance with purpose and intent. Each position held potential, each swing a promise of ferocity. The second move, Shadow Fang Crescendo, was still rough around the edges, but after tonight, he vowed it would be unrecognizable from earlier attempts.
The blade sliced through the air as he swung.
Eighteen blade images erupted from his movements, splitting into thirty-six jagged shadows that carved through the night like a storm of razors. The move was intended to disorient, to overwhelm—but Long Huang had something more in mind, a personal hurdle to surpass.
"Again," he commanded himself, the determination causing sweat to bead on his temples as he repeated the motion, each execution an attempt to bring forth the flawless technique he sought. Adjusting his grip and refining the angles, he felt the blades whisper hellish promises, their cries growing louder with each iteration.
By the twentieth repetition, the shadows held for four full breaths, their trajectories sharp enough to slice moonlight itself.
"Better," he muttered to himself, albeit begrudgingly, as he sheathed the blades. Improvement felt distant, yet it was the only path forward.
However, training in the Archdevil Limitless Blade Art was never enough; this was merely his trump card. As he restored his Blades of Slaughter back to their tatto form and, from his spatial pouch, he withdrew a slender silver sword—the Frostbite Serpent Sword, its hilt ice-cold to the touch—and began practicing the Phantom Fang Sword Art. Its eight moves were simpler than those of the Archdevil Limitless Blade Art, but he knew well that speed and deception possessed a lethality of their own.
Phantom Fang Sword Art, First Move: Mirage Thrust.
Phantom Fang Sword Art, Second Move: Moonlit Slash
Phantom Fang Sword Art, Third Move: Serpent's Feint.
The blade flickered and vanished mid-thrust, only to reappear inches from a nearby tree trunk. The bark splintered, the impact leaving a deep gash in the wood.
"Predictable," Long Huang scoffed, shaking his head. "But useful if I—"
A twig snapped behind him with an audible crack, cutting the air and swallowing his attention whole.
He spun, sword raised in a defensive posture—only to find Zhao Gun standing at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed over his broad chest, his expression unreadable but his stance firm.
"Couldn't sleep?" Long Huang quipped, lowering the sword, a lighthearted playfulness forced into his tone.
Zhao Gun didn't smile. "You lied to me."
"Oh? About what?" Long Huang's frivolity faltered.
"About your strength. About your bloodline," Zhao Gun replied, his voice flat and unwavering. "You're not just 'lucky' or 'skilled.' There's something else."
Long Huang's grin remained plastered on his face, but the grip on his hilt tightened unconsciously. "And here I thought you came to apologize for doubting me."
"Cut the crap." Zhao Gun stepped forward, his typical arrogance tempered by a sharper edge of sincerity. "I saw your eyes during the fight. They changed."
A beat of silence passed between them, heavy and expectant.
Then—
"Fine." Long Huang sighed, tossing the sword aside with a clang that cut through the tension. "You want the truth? It's nothing grand or heroic. I train. A lot. Mostly at night. Mostly alone." He gestured toward the scarred training dummies, cracked boulders, and the grooves etched into the earth from countless repetitions. "This is what 'Ordinary' looks like after it refuses to stay ordinary."
Zhao Gun's gaze fell upon the undeniable evidence of struggle, hard work etched into the very ground itself. "You're saying... You earned this?"
"I'm saying labels are worthless," Long Huang replied, picking up the Frostbite Serpent Sword once more. "Realms, bloodlines—they're just excuses people use to justify their limits. I don't have that luxury."
He turned away, swinging the blades through the air in a slow, deliberate arc, each movement a manifesto of resolve. "Now, either join me or go back to bed. I've got moves to perfect."
For a long moment, Zhao Gun remained stock still, contemplating the truth laid bare before him. Finally, with a determined grunt, he unsheathed his own sword, the metallic ring echoing into the night.
"Show me how you did that feint."
Long Huang's smirk returned, wider this time, igniting the familiar camaraderie. "Took you long enough."
By morning, the remnants of their training stood as testament to their relentless pursuit of strength—trees cleaved in half, boulders reduced to gravel, and the earth beneath them scarred with evidence of their unyielding dedication. The sun would rise on a new day, but it would not erase the fierce bond forged in the crucible of shared struggle, nor the promise of what they could achieve together.
Zhao Gun staggered to a halt, slumping against the rough bark of a tree, panting heavily. His robes clung to his skin, drenched with sweat as he struggled to catch his breath. "You're still insane," he finally managed to say, a mix of admiration and frustration evident in his voice.
Long Huang, who seemed barely affected by the grueling training, casually tossed a weathered waterskin in Zhao Gun's direction that he took out of his storage pouch. The motion was effortless, a testament to his impeccable control. "And you're still terrible at feints," he replied, a slight smirk playing on his lips.
Zhao Gun scowled at the jab but brought the waterskin to his lips, drinking deeply as the cool water refreshed his parched throat. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he hesitated before asking, his voice still thick with disbelief, "…How often do you do this?"
"Every day," Long Huang replied, a hint of pride woven into his words.
Zhao Gun's eyes widened in shock. "For how long?"
"Since I awakened. Not a single day missed," Long Huang said, his nonchalant tone contrasting sharply with the weight of his statement.
Zhao Gun choked slightly on the water he had just swallowed, his mind racing to grasp the implications. "You're joking."
Long Huang merely shrugged, rolling his shoulders in a relaxed manner, as if the effort had been merely an entertaining diversion. "Like I said. Boring."
But as Zhao Gun looked at Long Huang, the expression in his eyes shifted. No longer was there mere disbelief; instead, he reflected a burgeoning understanding of the commitment and discipline that his companion embodied. And deep within, something began to stir—a tentative seed of respect, perhaps the beginnings of a kinship forged through shared challenges.