The Soul-Forged Blade

Skarl furrowed his brow as he surveyed the plaza. In just a short while, the square had turned into a small hill of corpses with Azazel standing atop it, his blade sweeping through the air like a war deity personified. Such ferocious resistance and the intensity of the battle were beyond Skarl's expectations. The crack of his whip echoed once more, and the zombies and skeletons began to retreat in an orderly fashion, gingerly stepping back on his command. Though their eyes simmered with a craving for the living flesh, they could not defy the edicts of their superior.

Azazel stood alone, blade in hand, panting heavily, seemingly unable to pursue any further. For a moment, the plaza returned to its initial state, except for the new mound of corpses encircling Azazel at the center.

The command echoed again, resonating in everyone's ears.

Above Azazel, the wandering spirits began to coalesce, swirling in a vortex that resembled a school of fish. The ghosts gathered in greater numbers, forming a giant ring. Thousands of them connected end to end, creating a massive spiraling cone with its apex pointing directly at Azazel.

"Death comes for you at this moment," Skarl declared, his arms outspread toward the sky.

The ghosts dove down from above, forming a funnel resembling a tornado dropping from the heavens, except this one was composed of countless spirits in formation, hurtling towards Azazel.

For the ghosts, they didn't need to do anything but pass through Azazel's body. Bearing a vast amount of negative energy, a mere touch from a ghost could leave a weak person bedridden or even result in death.

And now, millions of these spirits sought to embrace Azazel, ready to drain all his life force. The negative energy would saturate his body, leaving him devoid of vitality. Even for Azazel, now a devil, being penetrated by so many ghosts would mean instant death.

But Azazel seemed powerless to stop them. Ghosts, lacking physical form, were unstoppable. Existing between the planes of reality and the ethereal, they could pass through shields and swords, impervious to conventional weaponry.

Before such an attack, he could neither block nor retaliate, nor even flee.

He was doomed! Skarl's heart swelled with anticipation, ready to welcome his friend to the afterlife, to join the Dustmen in death.

But things took an unexpected turn.

Azazel stood the sword upright before him, and from his lips spilled archaic and obscure verses. The ordinary longsword floated before him, emitting a faint black mist.

What was he doing? Skarl felt a sense of foreboding; he could not comprehend the language Azazel chanted, a tongue he had never heard of, let alone the magic Azazel was using.

But whatever spell it was, it couldn't possibly stop such a formidable strike.

The ghosts, like a drill bit, descended from the sky, stabbing down into Azazel's chest, the colossal ghostly drill bit boring into him again and again!

A shrill wail rose before Azazel, the cries of countless anguished souls. His hair fluttered wildly as his face contorted in agony as if enduring immense torture.

The ghosts penetrated deeper, and in the blink of an eye, only half remained in the skies.

The number of ghosts dwindled.

Wait, why were they decreasing? They were supposed to pass through him, the ghosts incapable of, nor meant to, remain within Azazel's body. Something was amiss; the ghosts were vanishing!

In a panic, Skarl ordered the ghosts to withdraw from Azazel, but it was too late. The swarm of ghosts could no longer stop, as if a black hole had opened in front of Azazel's chest, sucking them relentlessly in.

When the last ghost disappeared before Azazel's chest, Skarl saw what had taken all his ghosts.

It was just the sword Azazel had drawn, a blade that should have been ordinary! But now, it had become terrifying and monstrous.

Visible black mist swirled around the blade. Azazel gripped the hilt, lightly waving the sword. As the blade cut the air, the wails of wronged spirits could be heard in the wind.

Skarl was beyond shocked: "What have you done? What have you done to my ghosts, to this blade?"

"Reforging!" Azazel grinned through the strain; forging was far from easy for him. But he continued, unsure if he was speaking for himself or for Skarl to hear. "Gideon 'crafted the five weapons,' and the Yellow Emperor fought Gideon for 'three years without breaching his fortress,' 'nine battles without victory.' On one hand, the Yellow Emperor was effete, while on the other, Gideon's five weapons were miraculous. This is one of my Five Weapons, the Blade. Crafting it is not simple. Aside from a suitable weapon embryo, it requires countless living souls."

Back then, Gideon's Blade had been nothing more than a bronze longsword, a divine weapon by the standards of the time. Yet compared to the refined steel blade now in Azazel's hands, it paled in comparison. The primary reason for Gideon's five formidable weapons was the absorption of innumerable living souls.

Skarl: "What are you talking about? I don't understand a word!"

"Nevermind, I know you don't understand. I just needed someone to talk to. Truth be told, you're unlucky. The Five Weapons technique—I've only just learned it." As soon as Azazel finished, he seized the longsword, slicing through the air. Powered by the souls absorbed by the 'Blade,' he unleashed his own strike.

It was as if it was a replay of the day Gideon beheaded Bird, the same body but with Azazel now wielding the sword instead of Gideon.

At that moment, Azazel became a streak of black lightning, surpassing the limits of speed, like a black dragon from the East, streaking towards Skarl.

Skarl's mind couldn't even react, his teleportation spell ready, requiring just a syllable to transport him safely a hundred yards away. But he had no time for even that single syllable; the strike was too swift.

The soft hum of the blade and the wails of the souls within echoed around them as Azazel stood behind Skarl, sheathing his sword.

Skarl's black robe split in two, a cool breeze scattering the halves. A translucent figure disappeared into thin air. Skarl had so much he wanted to say; he didn't understand the nature of the strike, where all his ghosts had gone, why someone with shared ideals would reject his kindness, and how a simple hunt had spiraled into this outcome. Thousands of words were reduced to one sentence: "Azazel! You traitor! You've betrayed our cause, the grand Dustmen! I will come back! I will find you! Death follows you like a shadow; you cannot hide!"

The voice seemed to rise from the depths of hell, chilling to the core.

"Great line, now I know you're the sidekick," Azazel muttered, surveying the countless out-of-control zombies and skeletons around him. They drooled for his blood, lusted for his flesh.

Without Skarl's control, the undead had become beasts.

But they couldn't stop Azazel anymore, for these beasts had no wings.

"Goodbye then." Azazel leapt up, flapping his demonic wings, ascending into the sky. He needed to leave this place quickly. Despite having dispatched Skarl, Azazel still felt uneasy, the sensation of dread wrapping around his heart, signaling the crisis was far from over.

On the ground, the bisected black robe came together once more, and a transparent figure emerged within it. The mist within the hood dissipated for the first time, revealing Skarl's skull head—he was indeed a lich.

The newly reformed Skarl couldn't wait to speak: "Azazel, I keep my word! I'm back, I've returned!"

Azazel, in his first flight, nearly fell from the sky. Gritting his teeth, he flapped his demonic wings even faster: "Who is this guy? How can he be so fast?"

To reach the portal, he'd have to traverse half the city, but with his new wings, Azazel had a shortcut.

The gate was directly above, atop the city's grand clock tower.

Behind him, Skarl, having cast some spell, was taking to the air in pursuit.