The sky was grey because it had been raining, and the sun was hidden. Very far away across the ashen sky, a piece of paper bearing resemblance to a shadow could be vaguely seen. The shadow could only be described as extremely straight and simple, like a sword crudely made from melting down one’s own door. Yet it gave one the feeling that the item drawn on the paper seemed to be elsewhere, nonexistent within this world - it was something outside the world, and only a shadow of its true self was projected.
Upon entering sainthood or immortality, the individual becomes a world within a world. Although they were unable to break the rules of this world, they could manipulate it to do acts impossible in the minds of normal man… such as travelling hundreds of miles in a single second.
The space surrounding the shadow bent to the shadow’s will, as a result, a terrifying hurricane formed high up in the skies.
Yet the object travelled so fast that it was impossible to a hurricane to fully form before space returned to normal. Yet this scene caused explosions to appear behind the shadow like a sonic boom. However, there were no sounds in the shock waves, only the whistling of the wind, creating an eerie silence.
The silence was not one of powerlessness or meekness. The cold and formless cutting edge contained within that piece of paper could cut through mountains like mud and were it not for the exceptional control contained within the ink, all living and non-living creatures would break into countless pieces, turning the fertile soil and forests… along with countless lives into a fine dust.
This was as the contents on the paper… the shadow was a. The sharpest sword tp have existed in the past one hundred thousand years. Although it was only a shadow, a sword intent drawn on a piece of paper, it was impossible to imagine it to be anything else other than a sword.
When the sword intent appeared and pierced through the sky, it happened so quickly that no one except the few saints and fortunate bishops could feel it. Margrethe was naturally one such individual.
She squinted her eyes, and her normal pridefully or even arrogant expression became extremely sharp. Although the piece of paper was far away and small in size, the effect of it could be seen. However, after arriving not a few miles away from her, the sword intent suddenly disappeared.
Before it disappeared, a breeze across from where Ovid stood.
The sword intent defied the laws of space, acting even more unpredictable than wind. It was also quite without a sound, and able to disappear without a trace. If it were for a single factor, Margrethe would have doubted the sword intent existed, to begin with.
Ovid raised his hand, now free due to the destroyed scabbard, toward the sky. It seemed as though he was laying down his weapons and surrendering to Margrethe.
But there was something in his hand.
A sheet of paper fluttered messily in the wind, its’ uneven surface sounding somewhat similar to a flute as it divided the wind.
Ovid’s hand holding it trembled slightly, and his brows creased.
The instant the paper appeared in his hand, he felt like his fingertips became pincushions, pain piercing into his hand, into his arm, and finally into his heart.
When he had suffered countless cuts in Gael’s tomb, his expression did not change in the slightest. From this fact alone, one can understand how monstrous Cai Hua’s sword intent truly is.
Ovid eventually brought the paper infront of him and tore it apart. He did not tear the paper into pieces but used his slender and nimble fingers to trace the line as he tore. He carefully ensured no ink was lost in the scraps, but also there existed no whites outside its’ boundaries.
After brief contemplation, he placed a small, thin and crooked sword beneath his undergarments, and between the blossom of this body.
The sword intent could only be beneficial to him. To closer the sword it was to his heart, the more effective he could utilise its strength.
Margrethe’s eyes lowered from the sky toward Ovid. Her confidence in herself allowed this change to happen to Ovid… after all, she had yet to take out her sword, much less transformed into her true form. Furthermore, her wings are still folded - the cards in her hands were far more numerous than Ovids’.
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Yes, that must be the case, Margrethe told herself.
There was no way she would be scared from that time Cai Hua had forcibly extracted her blood essence.
The silent ambience was disturbed by a swish. It was the sound of two wings unfurling.
Her wings had never been unfurled before today, which was a true loss for this world. These pure white wings spanned over thirty meters in width, covering up the grey sky like a patch on a broken shirt. It was something truly beautiful.
These white wings jolted, causing a fierce wind to spread throughout the grass field and into the forest. The dew that resided on the leaves and blades of grass from the rain were shot away consecutively. Powerful mana shook the trees, knocking off the vibrant green leaves. Margrethe disappeared from Ovid’s sight and in the next moment, reappeared attacked Ovid with extremely ferocious killing intent.
Ovid’s gaze passed through the scattered leaves and the humid air, meeting with Margrethe’s respective gaze. He saw Margrethe’s stubborn determination to kill, and an unfamiliar feeling appeared in his heart.
This strike can actually cause him to fear that was impossible to resist!
Although his body was reluctant, his mind was still calm and tranquil like a tall oak tree. As a result, he tightened his grip on the pig-steel sword and slashed through the scattered dew and loose leaves before him.
He did not have complete confidence that his strike could block Margrethe’s most powerful blow yet.
However, he was extremely confident in Cai Hua, in the sword in his hand.
The dagger slashed through the scattered dew and loose leaves.
It did not stop there, it continued until it cut through the grey sky, breaking the storm.
At that moment, the second rate pig iron sword that cost only half a liang arrived before Margrethe’s forehead.
The force behind this strike was not as simple as before, his heart was no longer as calm, and so the force and speed of the slash should be weaker. It was worse than any sword technique, and a disgrace to the art of swordsmanship.
However, the sword intent was strong, very, very strong.
How could this strike, that travelled in a strange path, lacked a committed heart, is so powerful? Simply put, it was because the sword in his hand was never his, and now Cai Hua’s sword intent had arrived, the fact was even less so. The sword acted on Cai Hua’s will, or perhaps it’s own will, cutting into the grey sky and Margrethe before it.
It used a sword technique he never learnt, slashing out with a complex yet simple technique.
This slash was executed extremely recklessly and based on instincts alone. If the person observing him was inexperienced, he or she may think that Ovid was either drunk or flat out suicidal.
Indeed, the actions made were completely based on his instincts, or Cai Hua’s instincts, or perhaps the sword’s instincts. Regardlessly, the final result was a strike that divided the leaves and dews into two. The path it travelled was somewhat crooked, like the messy streets in Juliana or the scribbles Cai Hua made on the piece of paper. The technique was fundamentally simple - it was so simple it became incredibly complex.
Cai Hua had recovered more than ninety per cent his original strength, at a level even greater than when he had first arrived on the continent. In a way, it was the first time he used a sword since he had been injured by the natural world’s will.
As a result, a carried with it a feeling of neglect, but also ecstasy of finally coming out its sheath and shedding the rust it had accumulated. The sword was in extremely high spirits and made a mistake.
Because… it was so exciting that the blade had trembled, diverting it from a straight course.
How could such a blunder cut so cleanly through the leaves and split the dews, blocking Margrethe’s full-forced blow in the process? How could it have such disregard for the terrifyingly strong phoenix?
However, it was Cai Hua’s sword, although its path was crooked, it easily parted the sky, arriving before Margrethe’s eyes.
On the edge of the forest, there was a very light stab, like a chef preparing a pigeon with a sharp knife.
Closely following it, there was a piercing cry, as if a whole squadron of birds simultaneously shrieked from a single tree.
A strong tremor appeared, uprooting the grass and creating a wave of dirty soil.
Amidst the earthy wave, Margrethe’s angry cry reverberated just like when Cai Hua sneaked attacked her. Her cry this time was even more miserable and full of confusion, for compared to that night, Cai Hua’s sword was far stronger.
The field of grass had been cleared, creating an unobstructed area.
Margrethe came quickly and retreated even quicker. Her feet landed in the now loose soil, which condensed under her weight. Her straw shoes sank into the ground.
A colourful rectrices around three meters long slowly implanted into the ground, causing the black earth to cover its beautiful colours.
The gaze on Ovid from Margrethe’s startled and narrow eyes was filled with anger and slivers of bewilderment. A quick moment later, these emotions faded as her gaze retracted, and she twisted her body to look at her back.
A phoenix has a total of only three rectrices, and each one was valued more than her own life! But now she only saw two feathers remaining!
The now flat plain fell into silence.
Margrethe was the genius of this generation, and was naturally able to tell the sword intent was the same as the one that had attacked her. The anger she felt from realising that disgusting man had ruined her twice soon brewed into indifference - the indifference one could only possess when looking at a dead man.
She thought to herself; Sister and Julia were indeed right, men are terrible creatures.
After swiftly griefing for her now rectrices, Margrethe’s emotions recovered. The blast of warm air emerged once more as the thirty-meter long wings turned the residue dews now in the air into bullets and using it to hit Ovid.
His face in particular.
The piercing cry once more resounded.
The cold silence of the blade too resounded.
Margrethe appeared before Ovid once again and used a very broad sword to chop at his forehead.
When fighting Ovid, she had unfurled her wings for the first time. Subsequently, this was also the first time she had used a sword that truly fitted her.
In other words, her fierce attitude had disappeared, and a calculative callousness had taken its’ place.