Chapter Sixty-Three: The Final Struggle

Flames, red flames, twisted air forming a peculiar perspective, as if even space itself had warped. From outside, the few onlookers could see nothing but a vague silhouette, all other details obscured. Naturally, none could witness the contorted agony on Zhou Yi’s face, nor comprehend the magnitude of pain he now endured. All they saw was his body, motionless since the flames erupted, unmoving like a sculpture, as if the terrifying blaze engulfing him was mere illusion.

This sight alone filled them with dread. Yet even if they could peer through the flames and see Zhou Yi’s twisted expression, their shock would be scarcely diminished. After witnessing the destructive force of that tattered flame firsthand, seeing Zhou Yi surrounded by something even more terrifying, and not being reduced instantly to dust, was enough to leave anyone who understood the fire’s power utterly dumbfounded.

Now, none of them cared whether Zhou Yi was enduring the flames with ease or struggling painfully—such distinctions no longer mattered. The fact that he had not immediately turned to ashes filled their hearts with nothing but astonishment.

If the roles were reversed, if any of the three outside stood where Zhou Yi did, even a single intact flame would force them to reveal their deepest secrets just to survive. Any more, and they would be bidding farewell to the world. Thus, for them, Zhou Yi’s endurance—whether effortless or desperate—made no difference.

The white-haired elder exchanged a silent glance with the woman in gauze, a trace of undisguised fear flickering in his dark pupils.

With a low hum, the elder quietly drew a small green wooden sword from his breast and looked at the gauze-clad woman.

She hesitated, suppressing the impulse to retreat that had surfaced earlier, and sighed silently in her heart. With a flick of her hand, a tiny wooden gourd, barely the size of a finger, lay delicately in her palm.

There was no retreat now. Things had reached a point where, even if she wished to withdraw, neither the elder Mo Hu nor the purple-robed Xue Kai would consent.

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The three had arrived together, and now Xue Kai had played his final card, unleashing terrifying power, yet still failed to defeat Zhou Yi. Would Xue Kai agree to retreat? Even if he did, would Mo Hu? And if they all did, once Zhou Yi survived this ordeal, would he let them go unscathed?

Having intended to kill, failing and then retreating—would their target not seek vengeance?

Xue Kai had exhausted himself, having wielded his fire fan with full strength, now barely able to stand, utterly powerless. If they retreated, Xue Kai’s fate was sealed.

Mo Hu, aged and near the end of his days, saw Zhou Yi and his companion as his last opportunity. If he failed to seize it, he would not live much longer, no matter how formidable Zhou Yi appeared; Mo Hu would not retreat.

As for herself, though Zhou Yi’s performance was astonishing—his strength not merely beyond expectations, but beyond comprehension, reaching heights they had never imagined—at least he remained trapped within the flames. This meant his power had not yet reached absolute, hopeless levels.

There was still a chance.

Thinking thus, under the influence of various factors, the woman’s wavering resolve was rekindled with a sliver of hope. If all three played their final cards, might there be a possibility?

Most importantly, the exquisite little gourd in her palm inspired confidence.

If it were merely the gourd alone, she might as well accept defeat. Yet perhaps fate itself favored her.

Wind feeds the fire.

Watching Zhou Yi engulfed in flames, the phrase surfaced in her mind, and her confidence soared.

The gourd, known as the One-Breath Wind Gourd, held a stored gust within. She had tested it lightly once, releasing a thread of black wind. In front of her was a forest, and once the wind emerged, only a vast basin remained; with a heavy rain, it would have become a sizable lake.

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That was merely a faint, barely perceptible wisp of black wind.

From this alone, the gourd’s power was comparable to the fire fan wielded by Xue Kai.

Yet, if even Xue Kai’s fire fan could not overcome Zhou Yi, her gourd would fare no better.

But the crucial point was, now, it was not just the fire fan, nor merely the gourd, but both together: flames from the fan, wind from the gourd.

Wind feeds the fire. Perhaps the flames’ power could be amplified to unimaginable levels, perhaps enough to reduce Zhou Yi to ashes.

Even if not, it would at least wound him, and then there remained Mo Hu’s wooden sword, whose power was unknown. They had never heard of it, never seen it, unsure whether it was weaker or stronger than their own artifacts.

Yet one thing was clear: since Mo Hu produced it at this moment, it must be his final trump, and not insignificant.

Among the three, the woman was the weakest, Xue Kai next, Mo Hu strongest. By this reckoning, even if the sword’s power was beneath their own treasures, it would not fall far short. At worst, it could serve as the final straw to break the camel’s back.

“Once I unleash the wind, enhancing the fire fan’s flames and wounding Zhou Yi, then Mo Hu’s wooden sword strikes, surely we can kill him!” She rehearsed the sequence in her mind, quietly forming a plan.

Mo Hu and the woman exchanged another glance, their gazes reflecting each other’s resolve. They nodded silently.

Success or failure, it would be decided here.

She rotated the gourd to her fingertips, resting it between two fingers, her thumb poised on the lid, her eyes narrowing in concentration.

Mo Hu gripped the wooden sword, channeling his internal energy into it until the air around him grew heavy and dense, silent yet palpable.