As the battle drags on, the pressure builds.
The skeleton bird doesn't let up. Its vast phantasm body sweeps through the sky like a storm of bone and black fire, relentless and overwhelming. With every movement, it pushes closer, trying to cage Kanoru in, trying to crush him beneath sheer size and weight.
Kanoru's breath grows heavy. Not from exhaustion—but calculation.
He knows.
Without a phantasm of his own, he can't match the bird in raw power. Their energy levels may be equal in intensity, but not in form. Kanoru's grey energy, refined and precise, slices through the air in deadly arcs—but the bird's phantasm is a fortress. A moving, burning, monstrous shell. Every blast Kanoru launches dents it, scorches it—but nothing decisive. The skeleton bird's true body hides deep inside its flaming bones, untouchable for now.
And if just one of those colossal wings lands a hit on him… his body will shatter.
He knows.
The gap is clear. In energy, they're equals. But in defense and physical might, the bird stands far above. He can't afford to take even one blow. And unlike him, the enemy doesn't have anyone to protect.
Kanoru's thoughts flicker downward.
His sister. Her family. Their small, exhausted group watching from the forest floor.
He cannot lose here.
He sends out another grey wind blade. Then another. Each one curves, weaves, slices through the air—aimed not to kill, but to push back. To slow. To delay.
To buy time.
He glances toward the ground. His eyes linger there.
He searches his mind, fast.
And the only place that feels far enough. Strong enough. Safe enough.
The Sacred Continent.
If he can get them there, they'll survive.
And he can retreat too—if it comes to that.
Kanoru exhales. Wind wraps around him, forming a jagged ring of grey blades. Each one spins slowly at first, then faster. His eyes stay locked on the skeleton bird, who burns like a second sun in black flame. Kanoru knows he cannot fall. Not yet. As long as his lungs pull breath, he'll keep this monster at bay.
But this is no longer just survival.
He needs a plan.
A way to move Meriko and the others. Far from this bleeding sky. Far from him.
Far from the battlefield.
Above the sky of the Sacred Continent, six councillors clash against three of the Grey Rose Circus's leaders. Their battle splits clouds and shakes mountains—but it's turning. Because of Kanoru. His ruthless sweep through enemy forces—slaying spirit kings, crippling entire battalions, wiping out the lower realms without hesitation—forced the circus to withdraw many strong fighters.
And in doing so, he bought the Sacred Continent a chance.
Now only one true commander remains—one with power rivaling the rhino and this flaming bird before him. The others, weaker. Manageable. Qin and the other high-rankers on their side can hold their own. The tide has shifted.
The Sacred Continent is the safest place left in the world.
Even now, while Kanoru battles in Athia, he feels the scale of the war shift across continents. The rhythm of battle intensifies everywhere. Even across the ocean, in the Five Beast Continent, the sound of energy clashing echoes like a storm.
The Grey Rose Circus is vast. Too vast. Their numbers stretch beyond reason. And too many of them carry powers stronger than anything most in this world have ever seen.
If he can send Meriko to the Sacred Continent—to his army—then he doesn't need to worry.
He's already eliminated most enemies capable of threatening them. His wives will protect her. Shelter her family. There, she'll be safe.
But the Sacred Continent is far. Too far.
Now, only the ocean route remains, and it's a long journey—at least a month. Safer than the war-torn land routes, but not without danger.
Kanoru knows better than anyone.
Years ago, he was still just a samurai, barely into the Spirit Realm, when he and his men encountered a lone Spirit Realm cultivator at sea. If he hadn't created that spell and used it, they would've all died.
But the spell was a double-edged sword, and after using if he did not break through the spirit realm he would've died.
So for Meriko's journey, a Spirit King escort isn't just ideal—it's necessary.
There is one. But he's locked in battle now—clashing steel and fury with an enemy Spirit King. The Knight and the Lizardman are locked together, and while the Knight holds a slight advantage, the pace is slow, the outcome far away. Days, maybe more.
Kanoru could kill that enemy Spirit King with ease—
But not while fighting the Skeleton Bird.
He feels the pressure rising. The bird grows more aggressive, throwing its massive body around, forcing Kanoru to retreat again and again. Each second, the gap in physical power widens.
He must think.
Fast.
And then something clicks.
Spirit Kings can split their consciousness. Channel their power into fragments. Clones.
Not true bodies, but enough.
His eyes dart to the battlefield—three blobs of devouring water ooze across the ground far below, absorbing everything: corpses, blood, spirit essence—ally or enemy, it doesn't matter. They feed on it all, storing energy for later.
A plan begins to take shape. One that could work. One that 'must' work.
Kanoru closes his eyes for a breath, then sharpens his senses—searching. Reaching.
He finds it. Near the ruin of Entori.
A blob of devouring water, pulsing with stolen life, crawls through shattered stone and dust. It hums with power, full of energy absorbed from the dead.
Kanoru lifts his hand. A wisp of grey energy splits from his palm—soft, sharp, purposeful. It streaks through the sky, weaving past burning debris and collapsing structures, and slips into the blob near the ruins.
The moment it touches, Kanoru feels the connection tighten. His consciousness anchors inside the blob. It shifts, swells, reshapes—grey energy forming a humanoid figure, a partial self born from will and battle.
And then the clone moves.
It forms a spear of condensed grey energy. The tip crackles with pressure. The clone doesn't hesitate—Kanoru doesn't hesitate. The spear flies.
The enemy Spirit King, deep in his duel with the Knight, only notices the attack when it's too late. The grey spear tears into the Lizardman's phantasm, cracking scale and illusion in one piercing blow.
The Knight doesn't miss the opportunity. His massive sword comes down like judgment, cleaving through the damage left by the spear. The phantasm shatters.
Kanoru's clone throws a second spear before the enemy can recover.
It strikes true—through heart, through body.
The Lizardman Spirit King crashes to the earth.
Dead.
Above the ruin, the towering Knight phantasm fades. The ally descends, his true form revealed—a man of Athia, steel-eyed, calm.
He looks toward the sky where grey wind clashes with black flame. Where Kanoru fights the Skeleton Bird alone.
"Thank you for helping me," the spirit king says. "Do you need my help?"
Kanoru's clone turns to him. "Not there," it replies. "I want you to escort my sister and her family to the Sacred Continent."
The man's silence speaks first. His eyes drift downward—hesitation clear.
Kanoru feels it. "Is it because of your family?" he asks. "Then take them, too. The Sacred Continent is the safest place left. It's where we have the advantage."
The man's jaw tightens. "But the council ordered me to remain here."
"Tell them I gave the order," Kanoru says. "I'm staying. If the council complains, let them talk to me. Besides—if you stay, what will you do against that thing?" He glances up at the burning skeleton in the clouds.
The man follows his gaze, then lowers his eyes again. "You're right. But what about the others? There are still enemy spirit lords and spirit realms on the field."
Kanoru answers without pause. "I'll handle them."
They are energy. Fuel.
The man nods. "Okay then."
Without another word, he flies off toward Meriko and her family, wind trailing behind him.
Kanoru watches him go. Then turns to the broken corpse of the enemy spirit king still smouldering on the ground.
He walks toward it.
Time to feed.
Kanoru's clone kneels by the fallen spirit king. The corpse still sizzles with faint traces of will and power. He plunges his hand into the chest, and the devouring begins. Grey energy floods his limbs, swells within his form. Once the last wisp of strength is consumed, the clone rises—full, glowing.
Without delay, it launches skyward, a grey streak racing toward the clouds.
His true body, high above, trembles. Chakra below twenty percent. Blood, less than fifteen. Muscles sear with strain. Bones ache from pressure. Then—impact.
The clone merges into him.
A rush of warmth floods his limbs. Wounds close. Strength returns. Chakra surges, blood replenishes, and his eyes sharpen once more.
He exhales hard, steadying.
Two more blobs of devouring water remain on the battlefield. Kanoru raises his hand and releases two new wisps of grey energy—each carrying a shard of his consciousness. The wisps spiral downward, vanishing into the blobs. Under his guidance, they move faster. Hunt smarter. Strike cleaner. He can save his allies while bleeding the enemy dry.
Then—something shifts.
The wind changes.
The grey energy surrounding Kanoru, once howling in gales and blades, flickers—then ignites. Grey fire flares across his arms, coiling like serpents. His heart pounds as understanding dawns.
The grey energy has entered a new phase.
Wind mastered. Fire awakened.
Wings unfurl behind him, crafted of dancing grey flame. They lift him higher, faster. He darts across the battlefield, his speed nearly doubling. The Skeleton Bird claws toward him, but it lags, falling behind.
From above, Kanoru spots the ship. His sister, the spirit king, and several survivors board and push away from the land. Sails catch wind. They leave the coast behind.
Safe. For now.
He veers away from them, luring the Skeleton Bird in the opposite direction. Distance widens. Soon, they will be beyond reach.
But he stays. Two clones are still harvesting below. And when they're done, they will join him.
The flames at his back roar. Grey energy in fire form boosts his strength, but to truly stand against the Skeleton Bird, he needs more. One element remains.
Water.
If he masters it, he may not just survive.
He might win.
On the ground, his clones descend like grim shadows. Grey fire dances across their arms, flaring with each movement. The battlefield shifts—one-sided, absolute.
The enemies don't stand a chance.
Spirit realm cultivators rush to intercept but fall within seconds. Slashes of grey fire split bodies in half, burning flesh and soul alike. The devouring begins instantly. Their screams don't echo—they're swallowed by the fire.
A group of spirit lords try to flee.
One clone raises a hand.
A single arrow of grey energy forms above his palm and launches. It tears through the sky in a quiet streak. When it strikes, it doesn't explode. It consumes.
The spirit lords vanish, dissolved into ash.
Their energy burns inside the grey flame—contained, sealed. Not even a wisp escapes. The grey energy doesn't fade. It lingers, pulsing like a living thing. Sixty... seventy... eighty bodies fall.
The clones watch the fires do their work.
New understanding flows into Kanoru's mind.
This method—this evolution—is efficient. Ruthless. Divine.
The grey energy, unlike spiritual energy, doesn't disperse into the world. It isn't broken down. Even outside his body, it remains intact. Untouched. Eternal.
When the fire touches an enemy, it becomes a prison, locking their energy inside. It devours flesh, bone, phantasm... everything. Thirty per cent of the energy fuels the fire, making it burn hotter. The rest—seventy per cent—is stored, waiting for him.
When the last enemy is consumed, the flames return to the clones. Threads of grey light swirl around them and then surge upward, straight into the sky—into Kanoru.
He shudders as power slams into him. His body surges with grey light. His wounds seal faster. Muscles harden. Chakra flows wild. Steam escapes from his skin, hissed out through his pores, cloaking him in a rolling mist.
The healing deepens.
The steam gets hotter—more refined—as his mastery of grey energy sharpens.
Then it happens.
'Click.'
Inside his body, something snaps. A sound not heard with ears, but felt in the marrow.
A shackle. One of many.
Gone.
The relief floods him like warm water. If he weren't fighting, he might have moaned in pleasure. Instead, his mouth tightens into a smirk.