Chapter 339: Fortress of the Serpent

Chapter 339: Chapter 339: Fortress of the Serpent

Grand Marshal Vane’s voice echoed across the colosseum.

"Match 3 of the Top 16: Black Tortoise Sect versus Sky Sword Manor!"

The crowd roared as both teams entered the arena.

Damon sat forward in the Azure Dragon dugout, his eyes fixed on the stage. Ariel leaned against his shoulder, while Mio and Mia flanked him on either side.

Flare and Seraphina stood behind them, watching. Selene remained seated, her arms crossed.

"This should be interesting," Damon said.

Ariel looked at him. "You think the shell can hold against sword Qi?"

"It held against the Mist Walkers. And the sword cultivators are known for offense, not endurance."

Mio snorted. "So they’ll run out of steam." ℯℯ𝘭.

"Exactly."

The Black Tortoise disciples took their positions, their blue-black robes rippling as they formed a tight formation. Their leader, a broad-shouldered man with a shaved head, raised his hand.

The Sky Sword Manor disciples spread out, their silver robes gleaming under the arena’s light. Their captain, a lean woman with a scar across her cheek, drew her blade.

The gong sounded.

The Sky Sword captain moved first.

She raised her sword, and the air around her began to hum. The other six disciples mirrored her, their blades glowing with silver light.

Then they struck.

Sword Qi lines erupted from their blades, weaving through the air like threads of light. They formed a geometric grid that covered the entire stage, a lattice of razor-sharp energy that hummed with killing intent.

The crowd gasped.

Damon’s Incubus Celestial Eyes tracked the pattern. The grid was intricate, designed to trap and slice anything that moved within it. Every line intersected at precise angles, creating a web that could cut through flesh and bone with minimal effort.

"Impressive," he muttered.

Mia’s voice was flat. "But not enough."

She was right.

The Black Tortoise disciples didn’t flinch. They formed their shell, a dome of interlocking water and earth Qi that rose around them. The blue-black barrier shimmered, its surface rippling like a pond struck by rain.

The sword grid crashed into it.

Thousands of strikes rained down on the shell in seconds. The sound was deafening, a constant clatter of metal against stone. The shell vibrated with each impact, but it held.

Not a single crack appeared.

The Sky Sword disciples pressed their attack, pouring more Qi into their technique. The grid intensified, the lines becoming denser, sharper. They struck the shell from every angle, seeking weakness.

The Black Tortoise disciples remained motionless inside their bastion.

Damon watched the exchange, his mind analyzing the technique. The shell was efficient, but it required constant energy to maintain. If the Sky Sword disciples could sustain their assault long enough, the shell would weaken.

But that was the question.

Could they sustain it?

The answer came five minutes later.

The Sky Sword disciples began to slow. Their Qi reserves were depleting, their sword lines growing thinner. The grid flickered.

And the Black Tortoise disciples struck back.

Tendrils of dense Water-Earth Qi emerged from the shell, snaking through the gaps in the sword grid. They moved like vipers, fast and precise, seeking the Sky Sword disciples.

The first tendril wrapped around a swordsman’s ankle.

He tried to cut it with his blade, but the tendril was too thick, too dense. It tightened, and the swordsman lost his balance, crashing to the floor. The tendril pulled him toward the shell, and a second tendril bound his arms.

He was disarmed and immobilized in seconds.

The crowd roared.

The Sky Sword captain shouted orders, her voice cutting through the noise. The remaining disciples adjusted their formation, trying to protect each other from the tendrils.

But the tendrils were relentless.

They came from every direction, slipping through the sword grid like water through a sieve. Each tendril found a target, binding limbs, disarming blades, and dragging disciples toward the shell.

Within ten minutes, five Sky Sword disciples were bound and helpless.

The captain was the last one standing.

She looked at her fallen comrades, her face twisted with rage. Then she turned to the Black Tortoise shell, her blade glowing with concentrated energy.

She was going for a piercing strike.

Damon leaned forward.

’This is the moment.’

The Sky Sword captain raised her blade, and all the remaining Qi in her body flowed into it. The sword blazed with silver light, so bright that the crowd shielded their eyes.

She screamed.

And she struck.

The blade shot forward like a comet, a single point of concentrated sword Qi aimed at the center of the shell. It hit the barrier with explosive force, the impact sending shockwaves across the arena.

The shell cracked.

A single hairline fracture appeared at the point of impact.

The crowd held its breath.

The Black Tortoise captain looked at the crack, then at the Sky Sword captain. He didn’t panic. He simply raised his hand, and the shell reformed, the crack sealing as Water-Earth Qi flowed into the gap.

The Sky Sword captain’s blade shattered.

The pieces scattered across the stage, glinting in the light. She stared at her empty hand, her expression one of disbelief.

Then the tendrils wrapped around her.

She struggled, but it was useless. The tendrils bound her arms and legs, lifting her off the ground. She hung there, suspended in the air, defeated.

Grand Marshal Vane stepped forward.

"Black Tortoise Sect wins! 7-2! They advance to the Quarterfinals!"

The crowd erupted.

The Black Tortoise disciples released their shell, their formation breaking apart. They raised their hands in victory, their faces calm and composed.

Damon watched them leave the stage.

The arena’s energy shifted as the projection array updated, showing the next match.

But Damon’s focus was already on the Quarterfinals.

On the Black Tortoise.

On the path to victory.

He would not be stopped.

The afternoon sun beat down on the colosseum as the next match began.

Damon settled back, his eyes scanning the stage, his mind already working through the possibilities.

The tournament was far from over.

But he was ready.

He was always ready.