Immortal Paladin
201 The Art of?

201 The Art of?

We cut through the necrotic tide with methodical brutality, Ezekiel’s skeletal wings cleaving beasts like scythes through grain. The sky had begun to darken again with snow-laden clouds, casting a dim pallor over the battlefield. Each swing of my blade, each thrust from Ezekiel’s bony arm, sent splashes of corrupted blood and ichor across the white ground. These demonic beasts weren’t simply feral. The Yama King’s foul hand had been all over them. Their flesh was dead, but clung to motion, their movements erratic yet coordinated, their eyes long lost yet still locked onto the living.

“We’re making a beautiful mess, I must say,” Jue Bu’s voice echoed in my mind, cocky as ever. “You think there’s a ranking system in the underworld for artistic slaughter?”

“I doubt the Yama King gives out participation medals,” I replied, parrying a horned, decayed elk’s charge with Ezekiel’s massive ulna before crushing it with a downward punch. “Clockwise sweep. Stay sharp. No distractions.”

“Oh, bossy now? You weren’t this commanding when you were choking on poison and rot of the Yama King, remember?”

“I was busy dying,” I said flatly. “Don’t get me started.”

“You were crying.”

“We’re in the middle of a siege.”

“Excuses.”

We continued our slow rotation around the perimeter of New Willow, carving a path through the demonic tide. Ezekiel, powered by both Jue Bu’s Immortal Art and the Holy Spirit framework I’d jury-rigged, functioned less like a puppet and more like a hybrid extension of both our wills. His raw strength matched Mind Enlightenment level, but with me dictating spells, timing movements, we reached a synchronized ferocity few cultivators could hope to match. It was absurdly inefficient to have only one construct doing the work of an army, but in the absence of a divine battalion, I would be that army.

“I still think this is a glorified suicide mission,” Jue Bu muttered, deflecting a lunging demonic tiger with a flick of Ezekiel’s radius bone. “We could’ve just… not volunteered for martyrdom.”

“Someone had to hold the line,” I said, recasting Holy Aura to repel the advancing abominations. “And besides, if anyone else tried this, they’d be bones in five seconds. We’ve already lasted hours.”

“Yeah, because I’m the bones. You’re just the flesh bag yelling directions.”

Despite our momentum, I couldn’t help noticing how lax the undead soldiers in the distance remained. They just stood there, neat, square, and orderly. They were simply watching. And not lifting a single bony finger. It was insulting.

By the time we finished our rotation and crushed the last necrotic monstrosity, a hulking lion-faced worm that exploded into fragments of fur and sinew, the eastern horizon had begun to glow faintly. Sunrise. Or judgment. Either way, it brought no warmth.

I stood atop the northern wall again, surrounded by remnants of war, shattered weapons, spent cartridges, and the twitching carcasses of things that should never have walked. Snow fell gently, as if mourning.

I lifted my voice and infused it with Lion’s Roar. The sound rolled like thunder across the empty field. “IF YOU’VE GOT THE BALLS, THEN COME DOWN HERE AND GET ME YOURSELF! STOP STARING LIKE A SICK PERVERT!”

The wind carried my words toward the undead army. Still, they didn’t move.

“They don’t have balls,” Jue Bu said casually. “They’re rotted off. If they did, they’d be shriveled prunes stuck to bone.”

“You think that’s why they’re cranky?”

“Probably. Also, I hate to admit it, but they’re playing this smart. No opening, no response to the bait, and no emotion. I’m starting to think they’re not as brainless as they look.”

“That’s the real problem,” I muttered. “I was counting on arrogance.”

Then, without warning, the entire formation shifted. Slow at first, then certain. The army of the dead marched forward with mechanical purpose. The Yama King had answered, not with words, but with cold, deliberate intent.

I turned on my heel and dashed toward the highest point of the wall using Zealot’s Stride, my boots barely touching the blood-soaked stone. Behind me, the field began to shake under the weight of their advance. The wall was empty of defenders now, just me, Jue Bu, and the scent of spent gunpowder hanging like incense at the edge of a funeral.

As I watched the skeletal legion approach, the sun finally peeked over the frostbitten hills. The red light stained the snow like a prophet’s warning.

“Hey, you worried?” Jue Bu asked, almost gently.

I thought for a moment, then grinned. “If I lose, I’ll spell my name backwards from now on.”

“Wei Da?” he laughed. “That’s dumb.”

“You’re dumb.”

“Also, it won’t matter. You lose, you’re dead.”

“Or undead.”

“That’s worse,” he muttered. “No more eating, drinking, and no more girls. Just bones rattling in the wind, forever alone. Just. Like. Me.”

“That’s fine,” I said, drawing my sword as Ezekiel flared to full height behind me. “We’ve always been a little dead inside anyway.”

Jue Bu sighed dramatically. “That’s just sad. And here I thought we’d get to experience the joys of womanhood together one day.”

“Fuck you,” I said.

“You first,” he quipped, as the skeletal giant behind me snapped its fingers and brandished its clawed arms. “Now, let’s get the festivity going!”

My Divine Sense stretched outward like a net spun from golden thread, probing deep into the ranks of the undead horde. At the center of it all, hidden behind a thick curtain within an ornate black palanquin carried by shambling ghouls, I found him… the Yama King. His presence was like a knot in the fabric of reality, cold and angry and endless. He didn't need to move or speak to be terrifying. The mere fact that he was watching was enough.

I focused on the palanquin only briefly before more pressing matters stole my attention. A fresh wave of elite jiangshi broke from the ranks, leaping onto the wall with unnatural speed. Unlike the rotting mass below, these were weapons given flesh, honed into killers. One wielded a coiled whip that shimmered with blood inscriptions, another had jagged claws protruding from both arms like dual mantis blades, and the third danced forward with a saber crackling with wind and thunder.

The whip lashed first. I didn't dodge. I raised my hand and let it wrap around my arm, feeling the tension as it tried to yank me forward. A mistake. Ezekiel’s skeletal hand snapped out and seized the offending jiangshi mid-yank. There was no ceremony to it; the undead creature struggled briefly before erupting in a self-destructive burst of gore and putrid qi. But Ezekiel was faster, hurling the jiangshi like garbage into the advancing horde below, where it exploded harmlessly.

The claws came next, swift, low, and cunning. A blink and the jiangshi appeared from thin air, using a step technique similar to Flash Step. I sensed it before it happened, thanks to the widening field of my Divine Sense. I turned just as Ezekiel’s other massive hand closed around the creature like a trap. It, too, triggered an explosion upon capture, but again, Ezekiel’s throw carried it out of range before its miasma could touch me.

The saber-wielder didn’t hesitate, flashing in from the side with blinding speed. Wind and thunder surged around its blade, aiming squarely for my neck. I met it head-on, drawing from the currents of my qi and invoking the divine technique mid-swing. “Thunderous Smite.” My sword clashed against the saber and carved straight through it, cleaving the jiangshi in half. Its upper body exploded toward me, but Ezekiel’s wings curved forward like a shield, and not a drop of filth touched my skin.

“More coming,” Jue Bu said in my mind. “At this rate, we’ll be soaked in death juice.”

“I’ll pass,” I muttered, watching a dozen more elites break from their disciplined line and rush my position.

Meanwhile, the bulk of the undead slammed their mass against the northern gate. They moved without purpose, like ocean waves trying to erode a cliff, not intelligent, but relentless. I couldn't let them break through on their terms. If they wanted in, I’d give them an entrance. On fire.

I raised my sword and let the blade drink a trickle of my lifespan, just enough to ignite my technique’s divine properties. “Divine Smite.” The blade lit up as Ezekiel positioned behind me. He pushed forward with one hand, lending weight to my strike. I swung downward, cutting not just through air but stone, splinters, and metal.

The wall beneath me cracked and then collapsed, debris and snow bursting outward like a tidal wave. I spun midair, shifting my stance. I sheathed my sword. The motion wasn’t just a style; it was for something else. From the Summit Hall, I learned the principle of sword unsheathing… the idea of compression and explosive release. I drew the sword in one smooth arc. “Thunderous Smite.”

The blade shrieked through the air, lightning streaking from its edge as barrels of oil placed above the gate burst. The detonation scattered flaming liquid across the undead ranks, blackening bone and charring rotted flesh. The world became thunder, oil, and ash.

I wasn’t done.

I descended, boots landing briefly on a slab of wood that used to be part of the gate. From that brief footing, I leapt again and raised the sword high. “Searing Smite.” Fire bloomed from the blade’s core as I came down with a crash, flames trailing behind me like a comet’s tail. The sword struck the gate’s remnants.

That was the ignition point.

Buried beneath the wooden foundation were crude barrels of homemade explosives. I’d packed them with rusted nails, broken iron scraps, and soaked them in oil two nights ago. Atop each one, a hastily drawn fire-bolt talisman pulsed with unstable blood magic.

The explosion was not elegant. It was not controlled. However, it worked perfectly.

The gate erupted in a horizontal volcano of fire, shrapnel, and divine heat. Hundreds of undead were caught in the blast… some vaporized, others torn apart by iron and wood. The shockwave hurled me back, but Ezekiel’s wings wrapped around me, absorbing the impact like a cocoon of divine bone.

When the fire settled, the battlefield was a crater of ruined corpses and smoldering earth. The front ranks of the undead had been annihilated, their ashes still warm. A few elite jiangshi crawled from the wreckage, their limbs broken or regenerating. But the mass had been halted, if only briefly.

“Hell of a welcome party,” Jue Bu said, his voice ragged with exertion.

“There’s more,” I replied grimly, watching the curtain on the palanquin stir ever so slightly.

“Of course there is.”

I planted my sword into the scorched earth and looked at the charred remains of the wall.

We were just getting started.

I drove my sword deeper into the earth until the hilt trembled under my grip. “War Smite.”

A shockwave rippled from the point of impact, rippling out like a divine heartbeat. The cracked earth moaned beneath the force as boulders erupted from the ground, jagged and wild, forming a barrier of debris that smashed through the front lines of the undead like a holy fist. The wall crumbled further, but I didn’t stay to admire the damage. I turned and retreated into the heart of New Willow, drawing the enemy inside.

Letting them in was always part of the plan. This wasn’t cowardice, it was controlled attrition.

The real battle didn’t begin at the wall. It began the moment I forced them to chase me. One man, one walking corpse-furnace of rage and steel, against a tide of undeath. That was the arrangement.

I led them through alleys lined with makeshift barricades and narrow choke points prepared days in advance. I fought with Ezekiel at my back, pushing back tides of rotting flesh and brittle bones. They came in waves, and each time I held the line. Day and night blurred. I lost track of time after the third sunset. Luckily, I’d stocked my robes with enough sustenance pills to keep me going… cheap ones, bitter and coarse, but they kept the edge of collapse from eating me alive.

Seven nights. Seven days.

I fought like a lunatic, soaked in the bile of the undead and the cracked marrow of bonewalkers. My strikes grew shorter, my movements tighter, conserving strength where I could. It wasn’t the first time I had to survive like this. Back at Hell’s Gate, when I stood alone against a horde of demons for countless days without rest, I learned the rhythm of relentless war. That was worse… demons born of madness, cruel and cunning. These undead were brute repetition.

Still, I couldn’t let my guard down. If I so much as slipped on gore, I’d be trampled. If I misjudged one parry, I’d be torn open. Ezekiel’s form protected me, but it too wore down with time. Half its skull was missing by the end, and only one wing still functioned.

As I stood atop a mountain of corpses, bloodless and bloated, I stabbed my sword down beside me. I breathed in the stench. No point pretending I was clean. My face was crusted with black ichor, my robe shredded, and my limbs ached from backlash.

“Wish this was a game,” I muttered, licking my dry lips, but they cracked instead of quenching. “Could use a few hundred thousand experience points for that.”

Of course, that wasn’t how it worked anymore. That kind of system—leveling up through experience—was a blessing granted by the Lost Supreme, the so-called God of Games. It came with perks: the Item Box, the Party Menu, Voice Chat, and even pop-up notifications when you killed something. At least, that was how it used to be in LLO. But that was in the past. Since losing my Paladin Legacy, those days were over.

Still, I wasn’t bitter. Not really. I had changed. I didn’t need the convenience of a game-like system anymore. I had blood, grit, and purpose. That was enough.

Jue Bu didn’t even quip anymore. For once, the skeleton had gone silent. Maybe he was conserving power. Maybe he was scared. Or maybe he just understood that jokes would feel hollow now.

Then, I saw it.

The shambling ranks of the rest of the dead parted like reeds before a storm. Out came the palanquin… black wood lacquered with gold, veiled by thick, silken curtains that swayed with unnatural rhythm. Four ghouls bore it forward, each one emanating a terrifying pressure. These weren’t common corpses. They were relics of dead champions, now puppets in gilded service.

One had a sword at his waist, another a curved saber. A third carried twin axes, and the last bore iron gauntlets as thick as anvils. Their eyes burned blue, colder than the snow.

From within the palanquin, a figure emerged.

He looked my age… But… His skin was pale like pressed bone, sickly in a way that suggested it had never known health. He wore gold-embroidered robes and an imperial hat with dangling jade ornaments. He walked like a man used to being obeyed, even though he coughed with every few steps.

He didn’t introduce himself. He didn’t need to.

“The Yama King, I presume?” My voice was cracked, parched, and rasping. I didn’t shout. I didn’t need to. The killing intent I radiated said everything else.

He studied me for a moment. Then he spoke, his voice measured, almost bored. “And you are Da Wei. My crows have seen your feats.”

“Big fans?” I muttered, spitting blood.

“Serve me,” he said calmly, “and I shall spare your life.”

I scoffed, planting my foot atop the nearest corpse. “Tempting,” I said, voice heavy with scorn, “but no.”

“I see. Disappointing.” The Yama King’s tone remained cold, but I caught the faint shift in his posture, shoulders stiffening, and fingers twitching with suppressed agitation. He tilted his head, sickly pale beneath the ceremonial golden hat, and continued, “How did you evacuate the villagers when I surrounded this village with my undead? Was it the Seer’s work? Did she tell you just how hopeless this situation is? Where are you hiding the rest of the villagers?”

I didn’t bother crafting an elaborate lie. Sometimes, the simplest answer was best… especially when it wasted time.

“Up.” I pointed toward the heavens, just as a faint shimmer passed over the clouds. From a distance, it looked like a mirage of a floating platform veiled in mist, high above the battlefield.

He narrowed his eyes.

“Built it myself,” I added, dusting off the grime caked on my sleeve like I wasn’t standing in a mountain of gore. “Well, with a little help from Nongmin’s genius. Spirit boat artifacts were out of my reach, but something like a floating platform powered by artificial spirit stones? That I could do.”

His silence told me to keep talking. So I did. Slowly.

“In the past year or so, I’ve been imbuing pretty little rocks with qi until they resembled something close to low-grade spirit stones. That platform has a week’s worth of them. Maybe more if they ration food and spiritual flow carefully. It’s built to carry around four thousand people, which, as you may recall if you’ve done your homework, is the exact population of New Willow.”

I leaned forward slightly, forcing a thin smile.

“Anyway, where am I going with this? Ah, yes—if you destroy me, if you try to harvest their corpses, give it up. The moment those stones run dry, the platform will fall. Then explode. Nongmin’s accrued knowledge helped me rig it with a volatile formation array, compressed spirit flares, and enough flammable compounds to make the underworld jealous. You won’t be getting a single usable body.”

The Yama King’s gaze turned grim. “Don’t be stubborn. Let me turn half of them into undead, and I will let the rest live peacefully in my capital.”

I scoffed, voice hoarse. “You talk like that’s mercy.”

“These four ghouls beside me,” he gestured slightly without looking, “were all Grand Masters in life. Now, they mimic the strength of a Supreme Master. And a Supreme Master is someone strong enough to threaten even the Seven Sages.”

I couldn’t help myself. I let out a dry laugh. “Wow. You really just call yourselves the Seven Sages? Really? The seven prisoners who got locked up in this little world? That’s second-hand embarrassment, truly.”

“You jest because you’re afraid,” he said flatly. “But it’s futile. Stop resisting. It’s only a matter of time. I don’t even need to make a move. You will fall.”

“Indeed,” I nodded, grinning, “it’s a matter of time.”

I paused, just long enough to let him think I had something poetic to say. I didn’t disappoint.

“Do you know why I kept yapping so much? It’s not just for the dramatic flair. I’ve got a friend back in the Hollowed World. He fell into the wrong crowd. Joined a genocide party, of all things. But the guy was smart, I’ll give him that. Had a twisted kind of efficiency about him.”

I straightened and raised my chin toward the palanquin.

“I learned from him that there are two methods for mass extermination that work above all others. One, poison. Two, explosions.”

The Yama King’s eyes widened. His body jerked slightly, hand raised. Behind him, his robe billowed unnaturally, and from his back burst a pair of massive black wings… feathers like jagged obsidian, croaking with every beat like dying crows.

His ghouls bolted toward me. He turned to flee.

Too late.

“Halo of Restriction!” I roared, casting the spell five times in quick succession. Five rings of sacred light burst into existence, each targeting one of the attackers, plus one more. Arcs of brilliance zipped across the battlefield like shooting stars. Upon impact, the halos morphed into shining golden hoops, snapping around their limbs and torsos with brutal precision. Even if it only lasted a few microseconds… it was enough.

“Hallelujah… hallelujah…” The grin on my face twisted into something manic. I could feel it. That old battle thrill. The madness that clung to me like a second skin in times my bloodlust grows so much, that I started wanting more.

My fingers danced in the air. “Activate.”

The sigils etched beneath New Willow, buried deep into its soil, hidden within alley gutters and cellar doors, flared with light. Lines of searing crimson qi spiderwebbed through the ground, cracking apart the stone like it was glass.

The earth roared.

“Do you know?” I whispered as the palanquin erupted into flame and the sky burned gold. “Explosion is an art.”

The detonation was less a sound and more a divine punctuation. The entire village bloomed upward in a pillar of fire and holy light, as three dragon veins ruptured in tandem. The ghouls vanished in a single breath. The Yama King screamed something, maybe a curse, maybe a name, but the wind carried it away.

I stood there, Ezekiel shielding me in what remained of his skeletal wings. My body shook with fatigue, with pain, with the aftershock of channeling power far beyond what my spirit should contain. But I stayed upright.

Because this was my village.

And no matter what anyone said… the art of survival was also an art of beautiful destruction.

“Kaboom, you bastard!”