Villains Aren't Stepping Stones!-Chapter 37: Trial Of Combat

The corridor leading away from the Forest of Will was narrow and lined with silver-veined stone that seemed to pulse in time with Haoran’s own heartbeat.

And as he and Xueli ventured deeper into the bowels of the inheritance space, the air suddenly grew heavy, thick with the metallic tang of ancient blood and the humming resonance of a thousand unsheathed blades.

And at that moment, they arrived in a colossal, circular arena.

"An arena, huh? Is the next test about combat skills?" Haoran muttered his breath.

"Most likely. Dammit, I’m bad at combat." Xueli cursed, feeling frustrated.

They stared at the arena, silent, waiting for the trial to began.

And just like that, a beat later, the silence was once again obliterated by that same subterranean, booming voice that echoed not in the air, but directly against the walls of their skulls.

"THE SECOND TRIAL: TRIAL OF COMBAT! ONLY THE VICTOR MAY CLAIM THE FRUITS OF ASCENSION!"

Before Xueli could even gasp, the space between them fractured as a violent spatial distortion, resembling shattered glass, swallowed them both.

When the world stopped spinning, Haoran found himself standing in the center of that colossal, circular arena.

The floor was made of obsidian, polished to a mirror sheen, and the ceiling was lost in a swirling vortex of thunderous gray clouds.

Standing twenty paces across from him was a figure that made Haoran’s eyes narrow in fascination.

It was a perfect, structural duplicate of himself. However, this version was devoid of all color—its hair was a dull slate gray, its eyes were like polished ash, and its skin had the hue of weathered stone.

Even its robes were a monochromatic imitation of his own.

"So, I have to fight a mirror of my own essence?" Haoran’s lips curved into a predatory, and bloodthirsty smile. "Now this is getting a little interesting. Let us see if you can replicate my skills as easily as you replicate my skin."

With a fluid motion, he reached into his spatial ring, and in a flash of dark light, he produced a pitch-black Tang Dao sword, sheathed in a deep, bruised purple, embossed with silver dragons that seemed to writhe under his touch.

The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, a dormant power within him roared to life.

This was his Heavenly Sword Dao Bone—a supreme physical manifestation of talent that his mother, Chu Xueyu, had surgically extracted from his father’s body and implanted into him at birth to ensure his supremacy.

And at this very second, it thrummed with a rhythmic, divine heat.

As he slowly unsheathed the blade, the air in the arena began to scream, the metallic shring of the steel was not merely a sound; it was a declaration, a show of his supremacy.

Once the sword was fully bared, a sharp, suffocating Sword Intent carrying his unique Dao of Supremacy erupted from his body.

His aura was so incredibly sharp that the space around him seemed to fray, and to a lesser observer, simply looking at Haoran at this moment would feel like having their retinas sliced open by invisible needles.

Just as he reached his peak, his gray phantom mimicked his movements with terrifying precision.

It unleashed a near-identical blade, and a near-identical aura of monochromatic gray sword intent surged forward.

The two invisible forces slammed into each other in the center of the arena, creating a visible rift where the air distorted and sparked.

This was a clash of sword intent!

Sword Intent was a tier of power that existed entirely outside the standard realms of Qi.

It was a manifestation of a cultivator’s conceptual understanding of the blade.

History spoke of the current Sword Emperor, an independent cultivator who stood as the strongest expert in the Tian Yuan Empire.

Legend had it he was born a common mortal with zero aptitude for Qi cultivation, yet through sheer obsession, he comprehended Sword Intent, shattering the shackles of mortality to become a god among men.

So for those mortal who couldn’t cultivate Qi, becoming a sword Cultivator would allow them to walk the path of Cultivation, but the path was punishingly narrow.

To become a genuine Sword Cultivator, one had to first perceive the "flavor" of a sword intent.

This required finding a master willing to unleash their own intent for you to study, just this alone was enough to stop 90 percent of would be sword Cultivator.

After all, in a world where everyone hoarded their secrets, meeting a true Sword Cultivator, and even have them willingly show you their sword intent, was a miracle so rare that most people simply gave up and stuck to the standard path of Qi.

Despite the billions of sword-users in the Empire, those who could forge their own unique intent were as rare as phoenix feathers.

Haoran’s eyes flashed with a golden, murderous light as he felt the phantom’s intent pushing against his own, a perfect reflection of his current strength.

"Well then," Haoran whispered, his voice cutting through the pressure of the room. "Here I come."

At that moment, he vanished, moving in a blur of golden light and black steel, he reappeared directly in front of the gray duplicate, his Tang Dao coming down in a vertical arc designed to cleave the world in two.

Clang!

The obsidian arena rang with a sound like a collapsing mountain as the two blades met, with the phantom blocking his strike.

But Haoran didn’t stop with one attack, he unleashed a relentless, continuous stream of attacks that would’ve overwhelmed any lesser Cultivators!

Their clash was so violent it seemed to sever the very fabric of space, creating jagged ripples in the air.

Haoran’s sword—which he had appropriately named the Black Imperial Sword: Azathoth—vibrated in his grip, letting out a low, hungry hum that sounded like the roar of a cosmic beast.

It was as if the weapon itself was screaming in glee at finally being unleashed upon a worthy obstacle.

Azathoth was no ordinary weapon; it was a Growth-Type Sword that evolved alongside its wielder.

Forged within the crushing gravity of the heart of a dying star and tempered using a crystallized droplet of blood from a god from outside the universe, it possessed a weight and a malice that could crush the soul of a lesser man.

And as Haoran slashed the blade, the Heavenly Sword Dao Bone in his chest pulsed with a blinding brilliance, pumping waves of supreme sword essence through his meridians.

The power burst out with even more ferocity, coating the black blade in a violet-tinged aura of destruction.

Haoran couldn’t help but grin, his teeth bared in a look of predatory joy as his Sword Intent hardened, no longer just a pressure, but had become a physical force, piercing through every defensive posture and block the gray phantom attempted.

"Hahaha! It seems even though you have my strength, you are unable to properly use that strength!" Haoran laughed, his voice echoing in the vast, thundering chamber.

He had realized the phantom’s fatal flaw. Sword Intent, as the name implies, is an intent—it is a manifestation of the will, a spiritual concept far more nuanced than a mere energy like Qi.

For a true Sword Cultivator, the sharpness and density of their attack were directly tied to the purity of their ’intent to cut.’

The stronger the will to sever the target, the more unstoppable the strike became.

It was true that this gray phantom possessed a physical cultivation and a reservoir of Qi equal to his own, but it was a hollow shell.

It had no genuine ’intent’ to cut; it was merely a mechanical puppet, imitating the trajectory of Haoran’s attacks without the underlying spiritual fire.

That was the fundamental truth of the martial path: in a battle where two opponents are technically equal in power, there is always one who will inevitably come out on top—the one with the far greater intent to win.

"How disappointing," Haoran sighed, his gaze turning cold as the excitement faded. "I thought I could finally enjoy a fight that would push me. But you’re just a fraud, I guess. A shadow without a soul. Hmm, it’s time to end this farce."

Haoran moved. This time, his speed transcended the phantom’s ability to react as he became a streak of golden lightning, completely surpassing the speed an eye can follow.

Even though the gray copy tried to mimic his velocity, Haoran’s sheer relentlessness was too much for the mimic to handle.

With a blur of motion, Haoran first severed the phantom’s right arm, the gray blade clattering to the obsidian floor.

A second later, the left arm followed.

Finally, with a clean, horizontal sweep that seemed to fold the very air, he cut the phantom in half.

The monochromatic duplicate didn’t bleed; it began to dissolve into a thick, black mist that was quickly swallowed by the shadows of the arena.

"Hmph. I thought I can have some fun, but what did I expect from an inheritance of an Emperor from a Desolate Region."

The moment the phantom vanished, Haoran’s vision blurred, leaving those mocking words behind.

Just then, the thunderous arena dissolved, and he found himself standing in a much smaller, quieter room of white stone.

He blinked, surprised to see a familiar figure already there.

Xueli was leaning against a pillar, her clothes torn and her skin marred by several shallow cuts, but she was grinning at him with a look of pure triumph.

"Fufu, it seems this time, I’m the one who waited for you," Xueli said, her voice a bit raspy from exertion.

Haoran stared at her, his eyes sweeping over her disheveled state.

He could see from the way she was just about to sit down that she had likely emerged from her own trial only moments before him.

Even though he had wasted time attempting to "enjoy" his fight and analyze the phantom’s nature, it was still undeniably impressive that Xueli—a girl from the "backwater" Eastern Region—had navigated her trial of combat before he had finished his.

He let out a short, genuine chuckle and smiled. "I’m impressed. Truly."

Xueli’s grin widened, and she gave him a playful peace sign, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten in the glow of his praise. "So, shall we go? The big prize is just ahead, right?"

Haoran shook his head as he reached into his space ring, pulled out a translucent jade bottle, and tossed a high-grade healing pill to her. "Go and heal yourself first. Don’t be impatient. I have a feeling the next trial will be the final one, and the Emperor’s spirit won’t be as ’kind’ as these illusions."

Xueli caught the pill and nodded, recognizing the wisdom in his words. "Thank you."

She sat down cross-legged on the cold stone floor, tossed the pill into her mouth, and closed her eyes.

As the potent medicine began to knit her wounds together and replenish her Qi, Haoran stood guard, his hand still resting on the hilt of Azathoth, his gaze fixed on the final set of silver doors at the end of the hall.