Chapter 671 - 69: It’s Not Your Turn to Die

Chapter 671: Chapter 69: It’s Not Your Turn to Die

There were those with empty sockets, lit only by twin balls of phosphorescent fire; those with abdomens lined with compound eyes; and those whose mouths flicked forked tongues.

She recognized some of the monsters that still retained human features.

They were the people who had died when she was a child. People she had only ever seen in portraits from the festival rites. People whose names her father had taught her one by one as he pointed to their tombstones.

But far more were strangers to her. Ancestors whose names had been worn away by wind and rain, their tombstones now illegible. They were older than her great-grandfather, so old she couldn’t even place them in her lineage, so old they predated Eira Village itself.

They all lunged forward.

But the sword light was too fast.

It darted and weaved through the monsters’ encirclement, every slash unleashing a storm of blood and gore.

Before it, the monsters were like paper-mâché—shattering at a touch, sundering with a single strike.

Every slash tore away great chunks of flesh, and every charge carved a bloody path through their midst.

Shredded flesh rained from the sky, landing on tombstones, on the withered grass, and at Mira’s feet. It was still twitching, still struggling, still trying to fly again.

Mira’s smile began to freeze.

She saw Grandpa Oulus cleaved in two by the sword light. The two halves of his body tumbled in the air for a few moments before reassembling into something unrecognizable.

His face was gone, replaced by a circular maw filled with teeth.

Wings sprouted from its stomach, and with every flap, they whipped its entrails out of the wound to dangle from the wing membranes. But still, it lunged forward.

She saw Grand-uncle Cornelius get diced to pieces as well. His re-formed body had become a mass of indescribable shape.

A dozen legs jutted out from all directions. Seven or eight mouths opened and closed across its surface, each letting out a muffled, hoarse roar. Wings grew from the ends of its legs, and when they flapped, the entire body spun like a warped top.

It lunged forward once more.

"Come back... All of you, come back..."

Mira’s voice began to tremble, and tears started to stream down her face.

But the monsters didn’t come back.

One by one, they lunged forward. One by one, they were sliced apart. One by one, they re-formed. One by one, they became uglier, stranger, less human things. And then they lunged forward again.

The sword light wove between them, growing faster and brighter.

The number of monsters was dwindling. Despite their great numbers, they were still dwindling.

The remaining flesh and blood began to slowly coalesce at the bottom of the cliff.

It gathered from all directions—from beneath the tombstones, from deep within the soil, from the scattered fragments, and from the bloody rain falling from the sky—converging bit by bit toward the center.

As each monster was slain, it merged its flesh and blood into the ever-expanding, writhing mass.

The mass of flesh grew larger and larger, its form becoming ever more amorphous.

It was like a crumpled ball of dough, its surface constantly bulging and sinking as if something inside were struggling to break free.

Bones jutted out from the mass, then retracted. Eyes opened and closed across its surface.

Mouths opened and closed, emitting muffled, unintelligible sounds.

Wings sprouted from all directions, only to break, then grow anew.

Finally, it grew into a many-headed dragon.

Seven heads extended from different directions. Some resembled a dragon, some an eagle, some a wolf. Others were no longer recognizable as anything, just massive, tooth-filled maws.

Each head was covered in deformed organs—eyes grew on tongues, ears were inside nostrils, and horns pierced through eye sockets.

Its body was a superimposition of countless limbs: dozens of legs, over a dozen pairs of wings, and seven or eight tails. It was like a mountain built of corpses.

It opened the mouths of its seven heads, and seven streams of dragon’s breath, each a different color, spewed forth at once.

Ashen-gray, emerald-green, dark-red, ghastly-blue—they merged into a torrent that rushed toward the sword light.

The sword light did not dodge.

It met the attack head-on. A crimson streak of Sword Qi shot out from the light, cleaving into the torrent of dragon’s breath like a world-splitting axe.

The dragon’s breath was split in two, fanning out to either side and scorching the tombstones and withered grass in its path.

The Sword Qi did not stop. It continued forward, striking the dragon’s body.

All seven heads shrieked in agony. The body was cleaved down the middle, the two halves collapsing to either side as a waterfall of shredded flesh, shattered bone, and viscera poured out, piling up in a thick layer on the ground.

The light in Mira’s eyes died.

Tears streamed down her face as she watched the still-writhing pile of gore, her lips trembling.

’Even this isn’t enough.’

’The creature formed from the last vestiges of our ancestors’ flesh and blood couldn’t even withstand a single strike.’

Though diminished, the flesh that had been sliced to pieces was still coalescing.

Bit by bit, it pulled itself together from the fragments, from the pools of blood, from the cracks in the earth. It was as if something deep within was driving it, refusing to let it disperse.

However, the sword light suddenly stopped. It hovered above the coalescing mass of flesh, its crimson glow pulsing faintly, as if it were breathing.

Then, it spoke. A voice materialized from thin air, calm and emotionless.

"Are these your ancestors?"

Mira froze.

She stared at the crimson sword light hovering in the air, tears still on her cheeks and lips still trembling, but she couldn’t utter a single word.

The sword light’s voice sounded again, just as calm as before. "Though they have their mortal remains and their will, they are but fragments. They cannot stop me."

Mira’s pupils constricted.

She pulled her fingers from the earth. All ten were caked in mud, the dark brown soil packed beneath her nails.

She looked at the sword light, then at the still-coalescing, ever-growing mass pieced together from the flesh of her ancestors. Suddenly, she smiled, her voice serene.

"You’re right. Can they stop you? No."

She climbed to her feet.

Her body, which had been pierced by the sword light, sliced apart countless times, and re-formed, stood unsteadily, like a tree that had been snapped by the wind and grafted back together.

She looked down at her hands.

Pale, whole, without a single wound.

’This is whole flesh and blood.’

’This is a complete will.’

"But what if I use my flesh and blood, my will, to command those fragments?"

She raised her head, wiped the tears from her eyes with her arm, and looked at the sword light.

Her gray-blue eyes shone with a frightening light.

"One whole being, pieced together with countless fragments... That should be enough to kill you, right?"

She strode quickly toward the coalescing mass of flesh.

The sword light said nothing more.

But it moved. A streak of Sword Qi shot out from the light, aimed straight for Mira.

The coalescing mass of flesh suddenly swelled, like an opening hand, and threw itself in front of Mira.

The Sword Qi sliced into the flesh with the sound of a blunt object hacking into wet mud. Black blood sprayed from the gash, spattering Mira’s White Robe.

A deep gash was cut into the flesh, but it did not disperse. It had blocked the strike with its own body for Mira.

A second streak of Sword Qi followed close behind, and the flesh met it again.

A third, a fourth, a fifth—

The mass of flesh shielded her again and again. It was gashed open each time, spraying black blood each time, yet it never dispersed.

It was shrinking, being consumed, shaved away piece by piece, but it never dispersed.

Mira finally reached the mass of flesh.

She reached out, pressing her palm against the still-writhing mass.

It felt soft and sticky, like a baby’s skin, like an elder’s palm, like her mother’s hand on her forehead when she had a fever as a child.

She didn’t pull back. She pressed her entire hand against it, fingers spread, sinking them into the soft flesh.

"Grandpa, Grand-uncle, and all the ancestors I don’t know, whose names I can’t speak. I’m sorry for waking you."

Her voice was trembling, but every word was crystal clear.

"But this time, I will become one with you, and we will fight together."

She took a deep breath, about to press her entire body into it.

Just then, a hand clapped down on Mira’s shoulder.

"It’s not your turn to die, junior."