Chapter 25: The Lost Forest And The Final Battle
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As the supply convoys blended into the dense edges of the Lost Forest, the soldiers formed up in silent ranks. Elves loaded crates of spirit-infused food, iron, and siege materials into hidden caches under moss and roots. The air was thick with tension, the calm before inevitable violence.

Cao Suyin approached Lu Sang, watching the elves work with precise, quiet efficiency.
She frowned slightly and asked, “Where did these elves come from?”

Lu Sang didn’t even turn at first, his gaze scanning the trees ahead. Finally, he said,

“Immigrants. Dreamers. They came to Fanism with nothing but hope for a better future. A life where their children wouldn’t be enslaved by the old kingdoms. Not many made it to the destination they dreamed of… but those who did chose to fight for it.”

Cao Suyin studied him, sensing a weight behind his words. She pressed further.
“And now? What matters most in all this?”

Lu Sang’s expression hardened, but his voice remained even.

“From the moment you are born, you carry ideals—what you think the world should be. But the truth is, for every ideal you believe in, there are those who hate it. They fear it. They will fight to end it, not because it is wrong, but because it does not fit their vision of a perfect world.”

“You either accept that reality—that the world always has enemies—or you live in delusion, pretending that ideals alone create harmony. They don't. Too many ideals lead to conflict. Some will call your dreams evil simply because they aren’t their dreams. That is the nature of the universe.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the quiet work of soldiers preparing for a war that could not be avoided.

Finally, Lu Sang turned away, his orders sharp and clear.

“Stay here. Fortify this edge of the forest. Guard the supplies. I’ll scout the first village myself.”


Lu Sang moved like a ghost through the trees, his sword humming low against his back. By midday, he spotted a patrol near a border village—simple wooden walls, a few stone watchtowers. Enemy soldiers saw him and rushed forward, weapons drawn.

They didn’t last.

Lu Sang's blade sang once, twice, three times—each stroke clean, final. The patrol fell, blood soaking into the roots at his feet.

He wiped his blade clean on his cloak and entered the village, eyes sharp for further movement. Finding no larger force, he turned back toward the forest.


Back at the hidden camp, the elves continued their work.
Within two days, they had stored enough food, arms, and healing supplies to feed and maintain a town of 5,000 people for two years—or sustain an army of 100,000 for a brutal campaign.

And that army was already forming up.

100,000 troops stood ready, concealed under the natural camouflage of the Lost Forest, their banners hidden, their swords sharpened.

But stealth couldn’t last forever.

Two days later, a Fanism patrol, unaligned with Lu Sang’s secrecy, spotted the massive gathering. A hawk messenger was dispatched. By evening, word reached the Holy Sword Kingdom’s outer defenses:

“The Fanism Empire has crossed the border. An army marches.”

The chain of command jolted awake. A week later, Mei Lan, ruthless and calculating, was leading her forces personally toward Lu Sang’s position.

War wasn’t just approaching.

One week later, the earth trembled under the march of Mei Lan’s forces.

Her soldiers moved in perfect formation, chanting spells of resilience as they advanced. Fortification Formation was activated across the ranks—sigils glowing across their skin, bones reinforced, spiritual veins hardened to withstand the collision that was coming.

Ahead of them, Lu Sang's 100,000 soldiers stood ready, blades drawn, armor shining dimly under the heavy mist rising from the forest floor.

Without hesitation, Mei Lan ordered the charge.

Steel slammed into steel. Shouts tore through the forest as both sides collided in a brutal clash of strength and spirit. For every soldier that fell, another rose to take their place. Blood soaked into the roots, and the trees seemed to tremble.

In the midst of the chaos, Mei Lan, sensing the delicate balance of battle, dropped to one knee and prayed—not to the gods of heaven, but to something far older, something darker.

High above the Mortal Realm, the ancient being Mei Chang heard her plea.

With a flick of its wrist, Mei Chang dropped a stone of chaos into the heart of the battlefield.

It struck like a meteor, shattering the center of both armies—craters blooming where soldiers once stood, bodies flung like broken dolls. A massive shockwave knocked fighters off their feet.

The soldiers staggered back from the ruined center.

Cries echoed across the ruined forest:

"Duel! Duel!"

Both sides roared, the bloodlust and chaos demanding a champion’s duel to decide the outcome.

Mei Lan walked forward, her sword glinting under the blood-red sky.
Lu Sang, breathing heavily, stepped out to meet her.

Without a word, she charged.

The duel was brutal—five minutes of savage strikes, spiritual techniques flashing faster than the eye could follow. Trees shattered under stray blows. The ground cracked where their feet struck.

But in the end, Mei Lan’s blade found Lu Sang’s throat.

His head separated cleanly, falling into the mud as his body crumpled.

The forest went silent.


The Underworld

Darkness swallowed Lu Sang.

Dragged by a cold, skeletal hand, he was pulled into the endless line of souls waiting to pass through the Gates of the Underworld.

Before him, a monstrous 45-foot Minotaur—a guardian beast of the first gate—breathed deeply, inhaling the flesh and remnants of broken spirits. It devoured bodies, only to vomit out raw, wandering souls.

Lu Sang was shoved forward with them.

Ahead, the Underworld Gate creaked open. Shadows slithered out—undead goblins, liches, hellhounds, and armored centaurs—guardians of the boundary.

The earth shook under their collective steps, and every soul was herded forward under their gaze.

The Minotaur roared, its breath lava-hot, and incinerated a rebellious arachne queen who dared resist, her soul reforming only to be erased again.

As Lu Sang moved forward, he saw 7 billion undead envoys patrolling the immense outer walls of the underworld—silent, tireless.

A cultivator at the Foundation God of War stage tried to break free. One envoy engaged him, clashing soul energy against soul energy. Within seconds, the cultivator was banished to the second layer of the underworld, screams lost in the howling mist.

Crossing the walls, the dead arrived at a vast circle of white mist.
At its center stood a towering reaper, voice like grinding stone.

“Step into the mist to reincarnate into your old world," it said, "but your form will not be your choice.
Or take the stone bridge to the White Lich’s Fleet.”

Beyond the mist, the stone bridge arched over a river of black water.

On the far bank, The White Lich’s Fleet waited—an armada of ghostly triremes, each manned by 50 Angels of the End, their wings like tattered silk, blades gleaming with death-light.

Lu Sang watched one cultivator at the Emperor of War stage challenge the fleet.

He lasted 50 blows before his soul was shattered.


Led by the Minotaur, Lu Sang and 300,000 souls moved forward, reaching a strange, eerie city built from black bone and red mist. Spirits drank undead wine in crumbling taverns. One drunken soul fell into the Blood and Mist River, only to be dragged down by unseen hands and imprisoned deep below.

The guide—a skeletal envoy cloaked in gold chains—whispered:

“East lies the Reincarnation Temple.
West lies the City of Eternal Residence. Choose your fate, broken one.”

Lu Sang, headless yet conscious, clenched the spirit of his sword tightly in his spectral hands.

The battered soldiers of Lu Sang’s once-mighty force limped back into the Fanism Empire, bloodied, broken, and hollow-eyed. Their uniforms were torn, their spirits thin as ash. They had lost not just a battle—but their leader, the pillar that had carried them through every fire.

Inside the cold marble halls of the palace, Queen Pan Lian waited.

When the soldiers dropped to their knees and delivered the message—
"Lu Sang has fallen on the frontlines."

The air in the throne room froze.

Pan Lian rose slowly, every step from her throne echoing with suppressed rage. She stared down at the soldiers, her gold-etched robes rippling around her like a storm ready to break.

Then she shouted, her voice splitting the silence:

“Execution!”

The guards hesitated for only a second before seizing the broken warriors. No trial. No words of comfort. Only steel flashing in the courtyard an hour later.

Pan Lian watched from the palace balcony, eyes like stone.

As she turned to leave, she muttered, loud enough for all to hear:

“Do not look at me as though I have sinned,
when your ways are sinful before others without even realizing it.”

In her mind, she saw Lu Sang’s death not as fate but as betrayal—a failure of those meant to protect him. No excuses were enough. No forgiveness would be given.


For a week after the executions, an eerie silence gripped the Fanism Empire.

Whenever Queen Pan Lian traveled through the towns and cities, shutters were drawn and windows slammed shut. Streets emptied. Children were pulled away from doors. Even the nobles lowered their eyes in fear when she passed.

Pan Lian said nothing.

She didn’t need to.

The message was clear: she ruled through terror now.


At the edge of the Lost Forest, where the soil still bore the scars of battle, a peace summit was called. Queen Pan Lian and General Mei Lan met under the broken archway of an abandoned temple, their entourages small and tense.

After long hours of negotiation—measured words and thin smiles—a treaty was signed.

The Treaty of the Two Thousand Years.

No Fanism blade would cross into the Holy Sword Kingdom, and no Holy Sword Sect would step into Fanism territory for two millennia.

As they sealed the agreement, Pan Lian’s gaze lingered coldly on Mei Lan.

She asked without ceremony, “Are you at the True God of War stage?”

Mei Lan met her gaze, unblinking.

“Yes,” she answered simply.

There was no pride in her voice. Only the unspoken weight of what it had cost.

For a moment, it seemed Pan Lian would say more—demand more—but she simply turned away, her shadow long and sharp against the ruins.

Peace had been forged, but the fires beneath it still smoldered.
And neither woman truly believed it would last.

 

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