Alex stood at the edge of the summit, his gaze sweeping across the chaotic landscape. The aftermath of the battle lay scattered before him. The smoke veiled his view of the island landscape, the endless sea, and stars above. He stared at the jungle, his eyes tracing the path of the fire as it leapt from tree to tree, more ravenous than before.

Deadly silence reigned.

He blinked, forcing his eyes away from the fiery devastation, bodies of wolfmen and Titanapes lay strewn across the mountainside and jungle, victims of a devastating force. Some were molten statues encased in hardened lava, their last moments frozen forever; others lay sprawled across the mountainside, their lives extinguished as abruptly as they had been ignited, still, lifeless. His eyes found the scorched remnants of the wolf clan's camp, a mere shadow of its former vitality. Once a buzzing hub of life and energy, it now lay in ruins, decimated and unrecognisable.

A thick grey curtain of smoke obscured his vision. Somewhere beyond it lay the portal, a beacon calling him to freedom. The island was in ruins, a morbid painting of death and destruction, craters both small and gargantuan, littered the jungle in a trail leading to the portal. And here he was, a single spark of life amidst the shifting carnage. He remembered Plantie, the carnivorous flora, and hoped it had survived somehow.

A sigh slipped past his lips.

Yet amongst the destruction, no sign of the pack leaders. No hint of the juvenile phoenix. Relief washed over him. A battle against such a force would be... daunting.

The thought of facing such a creature, given what he had just witnessed, sent a shudder coursing through his body. If such levels of power existed, he had to become stronger. Incomparably stronger.

His journey back was eerily quiet, no creatures stirred, their remains lay strewn about the mountain, an eerie silence hung heavy in the air, a brutal testament to the calamity that had taken place. He trod carefully among the bodies, weaving through the sea of corpses, his sword held high, ready to strike should a monster lunge out from the deathly stillness.

His gaze constantly shifted, scanning his surroundings, warily aware that survivors might still lurk in the shadows. But there were none. Only death welcomed him.

Death that would eventually empower the soil and create life.

His thoughts lingered on the phoenix. Those sword techniques…

Hazy memories of his vision filled his mind. The Phoenix. The battle. The immortal masters. Their power was unparalleled, unlike anything he had seen or experienced in his life. He thought of his grandfather's teachings, the echoes of a past life resonating with the Phoenix's path. A path that he now walked.

The immortal masters were a blur in his mind, the raw power, technique and feats he witnessed a swirling vortex of impossibilities. But the phoenix... its movements were ingrained in his memory, echoing in the depth of his soul. Karmic Blade Dance, Samsara’s Fury, the Cessation Strike.

Nothing in his kendo training had ever hinted at such techniques. No books, lessons, videos, scrolls, no whispered legends. The techniques were transcendent, impossible, baffling in their complexity yet beautiful in their execution. As he descended the mountain, he attempted to emulate those moves, incorporating his enhanced stats and spatial awareness.

The old masters used their divine artifacts, formation arrays, bloodline abilities. But the Phoenix, it had only its blade and an unyielding spirit. And yet, it had triumphed. He vaguely remembered not sensing any mana during the battle… How had they not used magic and still been so overwhelmingly powerful?

Could the Dao achieve such power?

The thought sent a thrill down his spine. His Dao, the path of True Immortality. If he walked this path... what heights could he reach?

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As he entered the jungle, his thoughts turned to his Dao, and the vision of Phoenix and the immortal masters, their techniques continued to flash before his eyes.

Their footwork, the evasion, the powerful kicks, the flurry of sword strikes. Their moves were etched into his mind. He adopted a stance, his feet steady, his grip firm.

He exhaled a deep breath. Then another.

The first strike was swift. His blade cut through the air, the sound rang true in the otherwise silent jungle. It was a simple kendo strike, a horizontal slash. The next move, a vertical cut. The rhythm was slow at first, his movements measured and precise. But as he continued, his pace quickened. The sword became an extension of his arm, moving in a blur of metal.

He leapt into the air, a move he’d never dared before. His body spun mid-air, and he slashed downwards. It was a reckless move, a desperate attempt to replicate the Phoenix's acrobatics. But he landed on his feet, his sword pointing forwards.

He focused on his connection to the truth of immortality, not the illusion that the masters held, but his own dao.

Swiftly, he moved, leaping forward, his sword a blur of motion. He mimicked their movements, their grace, their power. He was no immortal master, no phoenix, but he was a warrior. Each strike he unleashed carried the essence of impermanence, for he understood that true immortality lay not in physical longevity but in liberation from the cycle of birth and death. As his strikes reverberated in the silence, creating echoes, they formed a barrage of profound teachings, a whirlwind of destruction rooted in the impermanence of existence. With every practiced strike, his blade whistled through the air, continuing to leave behind afterimages of swirling destruction. Though he knew he was still far from the harmonious fury witnessed in his visions, the images of the battle stored in his memory drove him forward on the path of understanding, liberation, and enlightenment.

Yet, it was still miles away from the harmonious fury he'd witnessed. The blurred fragments of that vision faded with every passing moment, but the lessons it taught, they were etched into his soul.

The ground crumbled beneath his feet, his trajectory altering from branch to branch, mimicking the celestial beings' aerodynamic prowess. Each leap, each strike was an attempt to capture that uncanny grace he had witnessed. His movements began to flow like water, no longer bound by earthly restrictions.

Then, something clicked. A shift. Subtle, but powerful.

His blade danced through the air, slashing at invisible enemies. A new rhythm pulsed in his veins, one that mirrored the Phoenix’s lethal ballet. And with that rhythm came understanding.

Each movement could disrupt the spiritual balance of his opponents, forcing them to confront their negative karma and suffer the consequences, ultimately leading to their demise. Each successful hit could unravel their life force, consigning them to oblivion and ensuring their permanent liberation from the cycle of suffering.

The strikes offered him a fleeting glimpse of enlightenment, hinting at a distant chance to break free from the perpetual cycle.

He could see it, the way his energy intertwined with his movements. It was raw, primitive compared to the Phoenix's elegance, but it was a start.

In the solitude of the jungle, Alex danced. A whirlwind of bronze, a specter in the night. His form shifted, mimicking the masters, the phoenix. Leaping off trees, pirouetting mid-air, he became a storm, a maelstrom of razor-sharp wind. Kendo merged with the dance of immortals, forming something new.

Something uniquely his.

Phoenix leap.

In a blink, he shot forward, his sword slicing in an arc. He spun in mid-air, evading an imaginary foe, his body twisting, defying gravity. He landed, a cyclone of destruction, his blade tearing through the silence, echoing the Phoenix's karmic dance.

The force of his strike shook the earth, shattering his blade, trees toppled over in a wave, sliced cleanly in two, creating a clearing in the dense jungle far larger than the length of his sword. He stood there, in the aftermath, his breath heavy, his body trembling from exertion. His eyes were wide, his mind in a state of shock.

How had he done that?

He was unsure, but still, he had done it. He had mimicked them. It was crude, nowhere near the elegance and power of the Phoenix and the immortals, but he had done it. A surge of victory rushed through him, his heart pounding in his chest.

His gaze turned to become locked onto the distant portal. But his sword - the bronze weapon he had relied on - lay shattered on the ground. With a sigh, he moved on.

The walk to the portal was silent, save for the occasional crackling of distant flames. He walked past molten bodies, through decimated camps, past the craters left by the Phoenix's rebirth, and found another bronze sword on the corpse of a wolfman, although this one was broken at the tip. Yet, amidst the desolation, there was a certain tranquillity. The chaos of the past seemed muted, reduced to mere whispers by the roaring flames.

He continued to head towards the portal.

And as he arrived, he discovered the Wolf clan alpha and the hulking, giant titanape leader in front of it.

Badly wounded.

But alive.