The Supreme Commander of the Immortal Guard

Chapter 9

Wesley stared at the man standing across from him, his expression slowly twisting into a look of absurd disbelief.

A laughter erupted from Wesley’s throat, echoing across the silent stadium and through the live broadcast microphones.

"A maintenance worker with a dead twig?" Wesley sneered, his eyes burning with mockery as he lifted his katana high above his head. "Has Harlow Cross run out of fighters so completely that they send a servant to plead for mercy? I will split you in half alongside your precious sign."

With an explosive roar, Wesley lunged forward, swinging his katana blade down toward Logan's head with bloodthirsty intent. The blade carried enough cutting force to slice through solid stone.

“Logan!” Clara shouted.

Logan didn't flinch, he remained unfazed. As the blade came within inches of his brow, Logan simply flicked his wrist.

It was a lazy motion, a subtle twist of his bandaged arm that sent the thin wooden branch tapping lightly against the side of Wesley's blade.

CRACK!

A sound like a clap of thunder detonated across the arena stage.

A tiny thread of Sword Force, an ancient energy that had been asleep for six years, ran through the dry branch and hit the katana with perfect aim.

Wesley's legendary weapon didn't just break in two. It blew apart into a thousand shiny pieces, which flew across the ring like sparkling glass.

BANG!

Before Wesley could understand what had happened to his sword, an invisible shockwave hit his body, and pressed on his inner energy paths with tiny precision and shut off his life energy at once.

"What!"

Wesley dropped onto both knees, slamming onto the ring beside Elliot. He clutched his chest, coughing up a mouthful of dark blood.

He looked up at Logan, his eyes wide, and filled with agonizing pain that went far beyond physical pain.

"The Immortal Sword Force." Wesley stuttered, his voice shaking as his body trembled. "You are…”

Logan didn't let him finish the title.

He opened his bandaged fingers, letting the simple wooden branch drop casually back onto the ring. The thin piece of dry wood, quiet tap without a single scratch.

Logan turned his back.

The stadium remained stunned,

Ten thousand spectators stared at the stage with their mouths agape, eyes wide with disbelief and surprise.

The news camera crews stood motionless, their lenses capturing the staggering image of the terrifying foreign master kneeling in his own blood before a caretaker who had already turned away.

Lying in his own pool of blood on the ring, Elliot stared up at Logan’s receding figure with wide eyes.

A horrifying realization washed over Elliot's mind, cutting deeper than his broken knee or fractured jaw ever could.

The man he had forced to sweep the courtyard, the helpless husband he had mocked and insulted.

The coward he had pressed down onto one knee with a blade during the tournament had defeated the mighty Wesley with a thin branch.

It was unbelievable!

Elliot’s chest heaved as he realized how close he had walked to total annihilation.

Logan stepped off the stage, stepping past the disciples who scrambled backward in disbelief and fear to make a wide path for him.

Clara stood near the bottom of the steps, her hands shaking, her tearful face full of amazement. She stared at her husband as if she were seeing him for the first time.

Logan stopped beside her, his eyes softening as the deadly aura faded away. He was the gentle man she knew again.

"Let's go home, Clara," Logan said softly, extending his bandaged hand toward her.

Clara swallowed hard, her mind spinning, but as she looked into his warm eyes, she slowly reached out and placed her cold hand in his.

As Logan walked Clara out of the stunned arena under the blinding stadium lights,

Across the blue waters of Harlow Cross harbor, a giant fleet of warships glided toward the commercial docks.

At the bow of the lead ship, a tall man in crimson armor looked toward the city center through iron binoculars.

An ancient burst of Sword Force had just flashed across the sky there.

High above the warship's deck on a flagpole was a black banner with a golden seal, the personal crest of the true traitor who had orchestrated the Red River massacre six years ago.

The figure lowered his binoculars, a curled smile spreading across his face.

"The Sword God has finally unsealed his inner energy," the man murmured softly "Signal the entire fleet. The final war for Harlow Cross begins today.”