Word Spirit

He Lingchuan had a sharp eye, however. "There's no blood—it shouldn't be dead!" Besides, the creatures here all had the ability to revive automatically. Could the black flood dragon, an artifact spirit, lack it? As if in response to his skepticism, plumes of smoke burst from the flood dragon's head, and a complete lower jaw quickly regenerated. The severed pieces littering the ground dissolved into black water, rolling back toward its tail to rejoin the body. No matter what, this was the flood dragon's home ground, where the laws favored it above all else. Needless to say, another round of life-and-death struggle ensued. The black flood dragon fought desperately to swallow Nian Songyu whole, while the young officer charged with unrestrained ferocity, more vicious and overbearing than before. Most astonishing of all was the exceptionally brilliant cyan light radiating from his body, showing that his utilization of the Qiankun coin had reached its absolute pinnacle. It seemed the illusion realm's suppression of Nian Songyu had vanished entirely. Possessed by the white light, Nian Songyu fought as if wielding impossible cheats. He shattered the black flood dragon twice in a row, though fortunately the beast recovered swiftly each time and fought with dogged tenacity. When the surrounding demonic apes and sand leopards attacked, he swept the battlefield and shattered them to pieces as well. This was downright bizarre. By all rights, the price of unleashing Primordial Might was steep. After enduring those few dozen seconds, Nian Songyu should have been exhausted, short of breath, dark-eyed, and unsteady on his feet. While he might not have needed to lean against a wall to walk, trading thirty blows with He Lingchuan would have been completely out of the question. Yet now Nian Songyu was having a sudden second wind, even more vigorous and fierce than the first. It had to be the work of the possessing white light. He Lingchuan felt not the slightest bit of envy. Power was never free in this world. For Nian Songyu to force another burst of dominance halfway through had to come at the cost of damaging his sinews, wearing down his bones, and burning his essence-blood to push his body to its absolute limits. He would undoubtedly suffer terrible aftereffects. Evidently, neither friend nor foe present cared about that right now. Another round of clash erupted. "Too weak! Is this all you can do?" Nian Songyu rested the tip of his saber on the ground. "To have me make this trip in vain—hardly worth the trouble." He Lingchuan could hear the genuine disappointment in the being's tone, and his mind stirred. He did not know how complicated the divine summoning process was, but history had recorded only three successful divine descents. Counting this one, there were only four; it was clearly no simple feat. Disappointment meant the payout failed to match the cost. So what was this guy disappointed about? Shouldn't an artifact spirit be as weak as possible, making it easier for them to claim the Dafang Pot? The black flood dragon did not get angry. It laughed boisterously. "I can keep fighting like this for three or five years. Can you?" Though cut into three pieces this time, its body was rapidly knitting back together; within twenty breaths at most, it would be completely whole again. The demonic apes that had been wiped out were also coalescing once more, preparing to launch another offensive. Endurance and stability were the true way to triumph. What did it matter how overbearing the opponent was? The borrowed vessel was battered and fundamentally lacking. In the end, time and victory would belong to the flood dragon. Nian Songyu wasted no words. Biting his fingertip, he traced three runes in midair. The blood that flowed out congealed in the air, turning the runes into characters of blood. His movements were swift at first, but grew progressively heavier and sluggish, as if these few strokes weighed thousands of jin. Only when the black flood dragon had fully reformed and charged forward once more did he barely manage to flick the final strokes into place. Then, he let out three great roars. Each roar was a single syllable in an eerie tone, yet each immediately compelled a blood character to transform into red light and shoot toward the black flood dragon. After the three shouts, three blood-red chains wrapped around the dragon's body! The chains were ethereal phantoms without tangible form, yet the black flood dragon was instantly brought crashing to the ground under their weight, as if shouldering three great mountains. Every step forward became excruciatingly difficult, demanding three to five times the effort. The onlookers atop the wall paled. On its own home ground, how could the black flood dragon be suppressed to such an extent? Was this the "heavenly god" Sun Fuping had expended so much effort to summon? Overpowering indeed. "This is an imitation of the Word Spirit art, carrying three effects: Heavy, Sluggish, and Fatigued. Even your regeneration will slow." Thus, any creature struck by the Word Spirit art would find its movements slowed, its body heavy, and its combat power sapped. Nian Songyu smiled faintly. "Strange. Can you not break it?" The black flood dragon stared at him in silence, crawling toward him with slow, stubborn resolve. "If you can't break it—" Light gleamed in Nian Songyu's eyes, his voice trembling with sheer excitement, "—then you are not the true master of this world!" He Lingchuan frowned. Even if it was the master of this illusion realm, surely it couldn't do whatever it pleased? Otherwise, it could have simply crushed the intruders with a snap of its fingers, so why bother tangling with them until now? Yet this summoned heavenly god clearly meant more than he was saying, and his expression was so thrilled it was as if he had hit the jackpot. At the thought of the divine summoning technique's price, and the thought of He Chunhua, a sudden pang of ache gripped He Lingchuan's chest. This pain seemed rooted deep within the original host's memories. Now that the divine descent had manifested, wasn't there a ninety percent chance He Chunhua was dead? He Lingchuan hastily forced his thoughts elsewhere. The dead could not return to life; what mattered most was what he should do next. Ever since the white light had latched onto his face, he had felt a splitting headache and grogginess, wanting nothing more than to collapse and sleep for three days straight. Connecting this with the bizarre experience he had just undergone, he knew he had suffered some form of harm. If nothing else, the sand leopard born of shadows had nearly disemboweled him. Upon waking, he had checked his chest and abdomen; aside from internal injuries caused by the rolling stone, the skin was completely intact. So, was the injury in his mind? He Lingchuan forced himself to ignore the discomfort in his head and heart, steadying his breath. Those two rounds of ballista fire had completely blasted apart any relationship between him and Sun and Nian. He had no choice but to help the black flood dragon take down his own nation's National Preceptor. Yet was the flood dragon guaranteed to keep its word? Once Sun and Nian were eliminated, wouldn't the flood dragon swallow them as well? After all, the dragon guarded the Dafang Pot, and they too were intruders, fundamentally no different from Sun and Nian. At this moment, everyone atop the wall was gripping the parapets and staring downward, with no attention to spare for anything else. He Lingchuan's eyes darted about, and a peculiar thought suddenly sprang into his mind. It seemed somewhat feasible—why not give it a shot? ... Struck by the Word Spirit curse, the black flood dragon's offense was severely crippled. Where it had once moved like an agile swimming dragon, it was now as slow as a snail. Forget Nian Songyu; even Zeng Feixiong could have rolled up his sleeves and traded a few blows with it. Nian Songyu plunged his long saber into the black flood dragon's head and once again wrote in blood upon the empty air. This time there was only a single character, yet Nian Songyu wrote with even greater strain, his fingertip trembling so hard he could scarcely continue. Had the flood dragon's movements not been restricted, he never would have been able to finish the task. Nian Songyu's face flushed red, then drained of color. He finally finished writing and barked the command, immediately vomiting a mouthful of black blood. Clots of flesh were mixed in the blood—fragments of coughed-up internal organs. Yet the effect of this Word Spirit curse upon the black flood dragon was even greater than the previous ones: Frost began to congeal where the blade had pierced, spreading downward from the head. Wherever the white frost spread, that part of the dragon ground to a complete halt. Evidently, Nian Songyu had finally found a way to deal with the black flood dragon: freeze it entirely, sparing himself the hassle of seeing his foe regenerate again and again after being smashed to bits. The only flaw was that he had to chant supportive incantations to sustain the process. Clearly, the Word Spirit curse was not so easily wielded.