They arrived at the Inquisition's guild hall as dusk fell like a shroud across the ruined horizon.
It loomed at the center of the city of Suora, a monolithic construct of marble and spirit-forged iron, its walls etched with suppression runes older than recorded dynasties. The city bowed to it. The people feared it.
It was not a temple of justice.
It was a palace of silent tyranny.
And Jian Wuxin walked toward it with frost in his veins and the echo of blood in his shadow.
Frostveil followed behind. Her aura was calm—but her eyes traced every sigil, every guard tower, every hidden cultivator cloaked in Divine Rank seals.
The moment they passed the threshold, the city noticed.
And so did the Inquisition.
---
Ten elite inquisitors stood atop the guild's watchtower, each one clad in soulplate armor, their cores reinforced by Heaven-sanctioned Dao Seals.
Below, hundreds of guards gathered.
The sky turned black—not from nightfall, but from the suffocating spirit pressure exuding from the tower.
A voice descended.
"You have slaughtered our hand of judgment. You have taken from us a chosen anomaly. And now you come here?"
Jian stood still.
Unblinking.
Until he whispered:
> "I've come to return something."
---
The tower shuddered.
A figure emerged—tall, regal, faceless beneath a crown of bound light. The Inquisitor Praetor, a being who had long since merged with his own Dao of Order, spoke with a voice that sounded like law being carved into stone.
"She belongs to Heaven now."
Frostveil stepped forward, but Jian raised a hand without looking.
He moved slowly. No arrogance. No grandeur.
But when he took his stance, the world recoiled.
His feet set.
His palm rose.
The wind stilled.
Even the Dao paused—as if holding its breath.
---
He whispered the name of the technique only once:
> "Heavenly Blade of War."
The sky did not flash.
It tore.
---
There was no sword in his hand.
But the air itself obeyed him.
Qi condensed into a single, impossibly fine line, stretching from horizon to horizon. Time buckled. The city screamed in instinct, not in sound. All who were wise turned to flee.
Too late.
He stepped forward.
And swung.
---
The world split.
Not metaphorically.
The city of Suora was cleaved clean in half.
Not a cut. Not a wound.
A division.
Every street, every foundation, every building—parted.
The Inquisition's tower shattered down the middle, its holy wards shrieking in failure before the raw force of a Dao that refused to bow.
Those touched by the edge vanished—not killed, but rejected from existence. Flesh and armor became mist. Divine seals blinked out like dying stars.
The scent that followed was not smoke.
It was gore.
---
Frostveil could not move. She could only watch.
As the blood rained down, Jian stood beneath it, silent.
His hair matted.
His robes cut by wind.
His aura… almost gone.
He fell to one knee.
Not from pain.
From cost.
The Heavenly Blade of War wasn't just a technique.
It was a judgment he carved into reality.
And it demanded its toll from both target and wielder.
---
Frostveil ran to him.
He didn't speak.
His breathing was shallow.
Qi leaked from his skin like ink bleeding from a broken talisman.
"You… you could've—died," she whispered.
His mouth twisted into a half-smile.
"I already did. A thousand years ago."
---
Above them, the sky cracked again.
A rift opened.
Heaven had seen.
And now… Heaven would come.