With a heavy sound, the scabbard-cum-sword accurate hit Margrethe’s wrist. Although the scabbard was extremely blunt, anything can become a sword, just as a blade of grass can possess an edge, so can the scabbard. With his exceptionally pure and sharp sword intent, he would be able to slice deep into Margrethe’s wrist.

Even if he could not achieve this, the seemingly slow and heavy scabbard still carried within it an extremely powerful blunt force, such that even a saint had to divert some of their attention towards it. Yet Margrethe still carried her prideful expression.

Her finger that was as forceful as the honed beak of a phoenix had continued advancing, though it’s direction has now been diverted to Ovid’s chest.

A tremor ran through the earth, shaking grass and trees alike. Ovid’s body flew back several miles in a stream of light, crashing heavily against a tall oak tree. The old oak quivered before collapsing onto the ground, parting the grass and scaring off the small animals. The whole scene became chaotic.

Amidst the sound of scattering leaves, Ovid slid down against the broken trunk onto the soil. His clothing was a little torn and his face was abnormally pale. He coughed up a mouthful of blood that dyed the grass red. His blood vessels had suffered ruptures from the intense shock. Not to mention the pain a normal man cannot bear, the flow of mana within his body had been disrupted, like a river encountering a landslide.

Margrethe’s seemingly casual attack - even without her true form - had injured him so severely that the simple act of standing was an insurmountable task.

The ruptured points were reinforced with mana, causing the flow of his mana to gradually turning to normal. He stood up and wiped away the blood by his lips, awaiting the next attack.

Margrethe did not immediately follow up with another attack, but instead, gazed at his right hand.

The broken sword Irene had given him had been discarded, and an old and worn sword made of pig steel had taken its place.

However, her eyes only lingered upon the new sword for a moment, before her thick eyebrows furrowed like a feather stained in ink.

She had fought Ovid once, though, with a rapier, which she did not excel with, she did learn that Ovid’s body was unnaturally strong. It was strong to the point of strangeness. Only today, when her finger imbued with truly terrifying power and killing intent, did she understand truly how strange it was. Ovid had not even been knocked out, and even managed to stand on his two feet after taking the blow!

Even if his body had been strengthened an unimaginable degree by the star Tanin, all her force was concentrated on Ovid’s heart like an extremely thin needle. As far as she can tell, there are three creatures that can possess such a powerful physique; the phoenix, dragon and a human king called Fredrick. Ovid should not possess the bloodline carried by any of the three, so just what does he possess which let him stand back up?

However, Margrethe was not one to think too much, to begin with. As long as she was stronger, the victor would inevitably be her.

With these thoughts gone, her figure similarly disappeared amidst the sea of trimmed grass and in an instant, she appeared with her finger extended forward once more in front of Ovid. Once more it aimed at his forehead.

More than a month ago, she had complained that Ovid was too beautiful of a creature. Today, she wanted to disfigure that round and petite face with a deep and blood hole.

No matter how many reincarnations she had gone through as a phoenix, she was, in the end, eight years old. It was inevitable for children at this age to throw tantrums and break their toys. However, Ovid was certainly not a doll, nor was Margrethe’s attack child’s play. The result could only be described as horrifying.

Ovid was good at learning, and from his crushing defeat, he certainly understood that he could not match Margrethe’s speed, whether it was in the terms of movement or attacks. Even if his attacks were exceedingly simple, there was no way he could stand on the offensive.

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A burning hot wave of heat hit Ovid’s face, causing two patches of red to appear on his face.

A finger appeared, thrusting forward at his forehead. Margrethe had travelled several miles in a split second.

The finger was not slender like a willow tree, but stubby and rough like a mountain. It also carried with it the force of a mountain.

Ovid held the scabbard vertically, using its thin body to protect himself.

Somehow, Margrethe’s finger landed on the scabbard. It was like a boulder smashing through a dead log, creating a crunching sound.

She had destroyed the scabbard to prevent it from being used like before. Still, she acted vigilant, retreating into the open fields with her white wings brushing against the grass.

Ovid’s body was blasted backwards, breaking through the trunk and landing against a boulder.

Even though the impact was absorbed by the scabbard and tree trunk, the moss and rainwater amassed on the boulder were jolted upwards by the collision.

There were far too many tears in his clothing, appearing so pathetic due to the streaks of blood flowing from the wooden shards in his body.

His decision may have seemed to be foolish, but the force behind Margrethe’s finger was now distributed more evenly across his body or embedded deeply into the soil.

Seeing Margrethe standing proudly, Ovid’s eyes were still confident but behind it, countless calculations were being made.

Compared to him, Margrethe was too powerful. Whether one judged through the vigour of their respective mana, experience in battle, familiarity with mana, or even the most fundamental speed and strength, Ovid was no match for her.

His only advantage was in the quantity of mana - but he doesn’t even know how to use it aside from manifesting his sword intent.

His sword intent was of utmost quality, like a perfect silver mirror, it showed no dust nor dents, clear and bright.

Yet what good was the most perfect of sword intent when confronting a mountain? No matter how smooth its’ surface was, how detailed its’ decorations, or how chilling the sword intent was, the only result was to be crushed beneath this mountain.

How could he defeat this great mountain?

His influx of the purest of mana from Tanin could only do so much, especially since Margrethe had affiliations with flames due to her bloodline as a phoenix. If he frantically overpoured it’s contents as he had done with Glafx, the damage it would create was still not enough to kill her.

Then there was only one option: To borrow another’s sword.

Cai Hua had been chased like a dog in his earlier days, yet survived through constantly maneuvering the bigshots to fight among themselves.

Even when he had become an immortal, he still acted shamelessly, escaping while Julia was fighting the Pope.

After Ovid became Cai Hua’s disciple, inevitably, some of these shameless acts will rub off.

Where could he get another sword?

He carried with him Cai Hua’s sword. It was as simple as that.

Suddenly, his eyes lit up, engulfing the image of Margrethe’s finger.

The light in his eyes was the reflection of the dazzling white light given off by Cai Hua’s sword.

The antique sword made from pig-steel began to shudder.

The light rose up several miles into the sky, travelling hundreds of kilometre to the Great Dividing Range.

It was permanently snowing in that area. The white-snow covered everything, making it seem like a sea of silver.

In that area, a solitary stalk of flower grew from the mountain cliffs.

The sheet of ice behind its petals was abruptly broken into pieces.

A carefree and sharp figure stood atop the mountain like a lone sword.

---

Cai Hua’s eyebrows had accumulated some frost, but the ice shards were all dispelled once his eyes were opened.

His two eyes, normally carefree and arrogant, were permeated with shock. Yet he showed no hesitance as he took out a brush and carefully wrote on a piece of yellowish paper.

He actually was not writing but drawing.

The soft, ink pen moved on the unbleached paper. Line twisted and knotted, trembling like a frightened animal from time to time. Despite the brush being quite heavy, the lines were thin and indistinguishable.

The picture was very crude, bearing little resemblance to the object he was drawing; a sword. This was because Cai Hua had never done this before, so the drawing was naturally somewhat amateurish.

However, such a crude drawing seemed to have exhausted Cai Hua. His face appeared paler than the snow of the ground.

His fingers trembling as he held the paper, causing a number of wrinkles to appear on its’ smooth surface.

The ferocity of the snowstorm suddenly increased, and the paper was swept away along with the countless flakes of snow.

Placing his hands within his sleeves, he confirmed the sword had journeyed to Ovid, before turning his body towards a recently made cave carved on the face of the mountain.

“Something’s happened regarding Ovid.”

“You solved it?”

“Yes.”

Afterwards, Cai Hua once more closed his eyes and rested.

From the cave, Li Zhan stared Southwards, her face overcame with complex emotions.

How did they manage to reach Ovid with the protection of Julia? Wouldn’t it have been wiser ambush him while he was travelling with Martha?

No, she had been protecting Ovid right until they reached Juliana, where she was attacked and suffered heavily injury.

It was not fatal, yet she had no choice but to retreat into the protection of Cai Hua

Ah, if Cai Hua were not at a critical point in his recovery, she would have forced him to rush South and protect Ovid.

If she wasn’t so critically injured, she would have gone to protect Ovid as well!