Fighting Forty Martial Gods Alone

Wang Hao withdrew his gaze and gripped the Heavenly Sword tightly.

“I said before I came—three days from now, we march on Dark City, and within seven days, we take down the Eight-Band Alliance.”

“Three days haven’t passed yet, and I won’t break my own rule.”

He raised the tip of his sword, pointing it at Li Cangming, who stood at the center of the formation array. His voice boomed like a great bell: “So my answer is—”

Before he could finish, another voice cut him off.

That voice was ancient, deep, carrying a force that surged from an endless abyss: “You, Li.”

At those three words, all forty martial gods turned their heads at once.

In the council hall of Dark City, a banner that had remained aloft suddenly burst into flames. This was no ordinary fire—the totem on the banner ignited of its own accord. Black-purple flames surged from the demon crest on its surface, consuming the entire banner in a blazing conflagration of violet fire.

The banner of the Ten Thousand Demon Cave was immolating itself.

Self-immolation of a banner meant one thing: the lord was either dead—or burning his own life force.

The Demon Lord launched himself from the watchtower, his black robes whipping in the night wind.

The twin vortexes swirling in his pupils spun at a speed never seen before. With each rotation, a sliver of his life essence faded, yet his aura skyrocketed—middle-stage Martial God, peak Martial God, finally halting just short of half-step quasi-sage.

“Ten Thousand Demon Blood-Burning Art,” Li Cangming murmured, a flicker of surprise passing through his fiery blood-red eyes. “You’ve sacrificed your entire lifespan for this fleeting power. Was it worth it?”

“You, surnamed Li, have lived for seven thousand years, but there’s one thing you don’t understand.”

The Demon Lord took his place beside Wang Hao. The hem of his black robe had already begun to crumble into ash, his body disintegrating inch by inch, yet his voice remained steady as a boulder:

“The people of Dark City may die at the hands of their enemies, but they will not accept a handout from the Sacred Lands. You want to slaughter the city? Then come—step over my corpse first.”

Wang Hao stared at the Demon Lord’s burning form. His lips parted, but in the end, he only managed two words: “Demon Lord—”

“Don’t misunderstand,” the Demon Lord interrupted. His vortex-filled eyes locked onto Wang Hao. In those twin whirlpools, countless fine cracks had begun to splinter outward.

“I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this for seven thousand years of Dark City’s backbone. You can annex this city—but them—"

He raised his hand, pointing at the forty martial gods hanging in the sky.

"They don’t deserve that right.”

As his words fell, four more figures soared up from the council hall.

The first was Yue Ji. Her dull, pale eyes no longer held their usual calm, replaced by a mad gleam—the frenzy of a cornered beast. Her Crescent Moon Ring spun above her head, casting down a halo of ghostly green moonlight.

The second was Feng Wanli. The black wind marks on both his palms swirled wildly, each one igniting—Wind Demon Anathema, the forbidden technique of the Black Wind Sect, identical to the Demon Lord’s Ten Thousand Demon Blood-Burning Art, exchanging a lifetime of life for fleeting power.

The third was Ghost Granny. Her hunched back straightened in an instant. Her ten pitch-black fingernails snapped off at the roots, and from the broken stumps flowed streams of jet-black blood. That blood solidified around her into ten suspended blades of darkest sheen.

The fourth one was Yin Jiuyou. His elusive figure finally solidified, revealing a pallid face. He raised his hand, and in it appeared a black banner—the supreme treasure of the Soul-Seizing Hall, the "Soul-Seizing Banner," ranked sixty-seventh on the Artifact List.

Four figures now stood beside Wang Hao and the Demon Lord, forming a strange standoff against the forty Martial Gods in the sky.

Then came the fifth.

Xue Wuhen.

His chest still bore the imprint of Wang Hao's palm, and his injuries were not fully healed. But he glanced at the arrogant Martial Gods of the Holy Lands in the sky, then at Wang Hao, cursed under his breath, and soared into the air.

"I can't stand the sight of them," he said.

He took his position five zhang behind Wang Hao, with crimson mist churning around him. But his eyes weren't on Wang Hao—they were locked onto Li Cangming.

"I'll settle accounts with you later. Let's get rid of these old bastards first."

Then came Shadow.

His lifebound artifact had been taken by Wang Hao, his combat power plummeting to the edge of the Martial God realm. But he still flew up, taking his place at the outermost edge of the formation. Without a word, he silently unfurled his damaged bat-like wings.

Then came the vice master of the Ghost Hand Hall, the vice president of the Netherworld Society, the deputy sect leader of the Blood Fiend Sect—one by one, figures rose from the Dark City.

Six faction leaders, along with dozens of Voidwalkers, formed a wall of humanity behind Wang Hao. The same expression was on every face—not courage, not loyalty, but rage. It was the instinct that erupted when the Holy Lands pushed them to the brink.

Wang Hao turned to look at them, his smile still radiant, but a flicker of something indescribable appeared in his eyes.

"What are you doing? I was just figuring out how to kill you all."

"Your Majesty," Yue Ji said, a hint of relief in her dead-gray eyes. "You don't understand."

"Understand what?"

"Having you in charge versus having them in charge—they're two different things." Yue Ji's voice was soft, but every word struck like iron. "You swallowed us because you won in a fair fight. You're stronger than us, so we accept our fate. But them—"

Yue Ji looked up at the forty Martial Gods in the sky, her eyes full of contempt.

"They came to offer us charity. Seven thousand years ago, they did the same to the Tianluo Empire. Now they want to do it to us again. But the Dark City is not the Tianluo Empire."

She turned to Wang Hao, a stiff, forced smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

"At least you called us 'fellow companions.' What do they call us? Ants."

In the sky, Li Cangming watched the scene. A flicker of gloom finally passed through his blood-red flame-tipped eyes.

He didn't care about the few dozen people in the Dark City—six Martial Gods and dozens of Voidwalkers meant nothing before forty Martial Gods.

But the Demon Lord, burning his entire lifespan to reach the peak of the Martial God realm, combined with these six men burning their life force to unleash forbidden arts—that would be enough to tear a crack in his Sixteen Heavenly Net Formation.

And a single crack was all it took. Because Wang Hao was still there.

The young emperor, wielding the Heavenly Sword and crowned by the Thunder Abyss Tower—he was the greatest variable of all.

"Leave," Wang Hao's voice suddenly rang in their ears.

Yue Ji froze. "What?"

"Your loyalty, I accept." Wang Hao turned to face the six faction leaders. His smile was more genuine than ever before.

“But this battle is my affair. I have a flaw — I can tolerate owing others, but I cannot sleep if others owe me. If you die here, the debt I owe you will never be repaid in this life.”

“Your Majesty—” Yue Ji started to say something, but Wang Hao raised his hand to cut her off.

Then he did something no one expected.

He bowed deeply to the six leader of the gangs and the dozens of Dark City’s elites.

His bow was precise—hands clasped in a fist-palm salute, waist bent at ninety degrees, head lowered level with his knees.

This was the most solemn ritual in the Eastern Wasteland, reserved only for a subject before their sovereign. But now, an emperor performed this ritual for the forces he had just annexed a day earlier.

“I am a greedy man. The three hundred billion spirit stones you owe me—I will never forget that debt. But today, because you had the courage to stand up here, I respect you.”

He straightened up, taking one last, long look at Yue Ji, the Demon Lord, Feng Wanli, Ghost Granny, Yin Jiuyou, and Xue Wuhen, as if carving their faces into his memory. “Live well. When I return, I’ll still be collecting interest from you.”

With that, he channeled all his royal destiny force through his own body. The power was not golden but a transparent, silver-white radiance that rippled like spacetime itself.

The light erupted from his body, enveloping Yue Ji, the Demon Lord, and everyone who had stepped forward. As the silver-white glow touched them, a twisted vortex formed beneath each person’s feet.

It was not a teleportation circle—it was a chasm torn open by the sheer force of royal destiny forcibly slicing through space.

“This is—” Yue Ji began, but her figure, along with all the Dark City elites, vanished from the spot.

When they reappeared, they found themselves in the meeting hall of Dark City. Around them were the familiar stone thrones and gang banners. The Eternal Night Moon Talisman still shimmered on the vaulted ceiling. But the silver-white vortex beneath their feet had dissipated, replaced by several thick, pitch-black lines of formations bound by seals.

It was one-way.

Only entering, never leaving.

The Demon Lord’s eyes, swirling like black vortices, constricted sharply. He spun around, lunging at the hall’s exit, only to slam into an invisible barrier. The barrier was transparent and traceless, yet so solid that even his peak Martial God strength, after burning his life essence, could not shake it.

“Wang Hao!” He pounded against the barrier, his hoarse roar echoing through the empty hall. “You—”

A flicker of disturbance crossed Yue Ji’s dead-ash eyes.

The Eight-Gang Alliance owed Wang Hao three hundred billion spirit stones. Wang Hao had come with an army of seven hundred thousand, forced them to sign a merger agreement even as they plotted rebellion. They had expected Wang Hao to retaliate, to use them as pawns. Instead, Wang Hao had sent them back to the safety of the city, leaving himself alone outside to face forty Martial Gods and the Sixteen Heavenly Formation.

“Your Majesty—if you do not return, we your subjects will burn these three hundred billion spirit stones for you!” the Demon Lord knelt, his voice like a trapped beast’s growl. He turned to Yue Ji beside him. “Activate all attack formations in the Eternal Night Moon Cover! Fire at all those bastards in the Central Region! Whatever damage we can do, do it!”

Outside the hall, three million people still gazed at the sky. The Eternal Night Moon Cover’s eerie green light flickered across every face, painting them in uncertain shades.

In the night sky, Wang Hao stood alone against forty Martial Gods.

He stood alone, with no one beside him. The dark city below was shrouded under an eternal night sky, and that eerie green barrier sealed off the breaths of three million people within the city, cutting off even the last path of retreat.

He gripped the Heavenly Sword tightly. The Thunder Abyss Demon-Suppressing Pagoda slowly rotated above his head. The holes in his imperial robe flapped in the wind, revealing his red-hot skin beneath.

One man, one sword, one pagoda, facing forty Martial Gods, eight hundred Void Transcendents, and the Sixteen Heaven-Trapping Arrays.

“Li Cangming.” Wang Hao raised his sword, its tip pointing at the blood-red figure at the center of the formation. Against the backdrop of the colossal array, his silhouette seemed as insignificant as a grain of sand in the ocean, but his voice rang out so fiercely that it made the entire night sky tremble.

“I can now give you your answer.”

“Wang Hao, what’s the point?” Li Cangming’s voice came from within the array, his tone as indifferent as if he were stating an established fact.

“Even if you’re strong, you alone can’t break the Sixteen Heaven-Trapping Arrays. Surrender the Dark City and seal your own cultivation, and I guarantee you won’t die.”

Wang Hao did not reply.

He looked down at the Heavenly Sword. The golden light on its blade still blazed brilliantly, silver-white lightning leaped along its edge, and the annihilation-pattern lines—white-gold veins flowing along the spine—pulsed slowly.

“Sword spirit, are you ready?”

“I’m ready.”

The voice of the Heavenly Sword was unusually free of its usual sarcasm, carrying only a pure, burning battle intent.

“Wang Hao, I suddenly feel that being your sword in this life—it was worth it.”

Wang Hao smiled.

Then he lifted his head and locked eyes with Li Cangming.

“Then let me show you—how an Emperor of the Eastern Wastelands fights.”

The moment his words fell, his figure vanished from where he stood.

He wasn’t fleeing. He was attacking.

One man, charging at forty Martial Gods.