DD Black White [365-366]

Chapter 365: Trauma Response

"Vast Sea Cosmic Shroud!"

Tang San had no choice but to compress his divine power to the extreme, forming outside his body a thick, ceaselessly rotating cerulean water-sphere shield. Ice threads scraped across it with a shrill screech, gouging deep marks. They did not pierce it immediately, but were rapidly draining his divine power; an all-pervading chill still seeped in, slow yet relentless.

No ripples stirred in Jingliu's crimson eyes. Her sword-seal changed again.

"The moon shines on the truth."

The sword turned once more. This time it did not loose ice swords or ice threads, but something stranger, more fundamental—a force of absolute stillness and cold.

Centered on her, a domain that could return all things to silence—freezing even thought—expanded at terrifying speed.

The storm rain Tang San's divine power had roused from the heavens froze in midair before it could fall, turning into countless crystalline motes of ice dust.

Below, the sea, already frozen, silently ground into powder; even space itself seemed frozen and split, veined with innumerable black, frigid cracks.

Tang San was horrified to find the rotation of his Vast Sea Cosmic Shroud slowing to a crawl, nearly at a standstill.

Even his divine sense became mired, his thinking stiff and sluggish.

This power was freezing the very concepts of time and motion.

"Impossible!"

A storm surged in Tang San's heart. He frantically burned the source of this strand of divine sense, trying to break through the terrifying frozen domain.

"True Form of the Sea God—Ten Thousand Streams Return to the Source."

He forcibly manifested a colossal phantom of the Sea God, drawing resonance from all the waters of Douluo Star. A vast tide of water-element power crossed space to pour into his body, striving to pry open the domain that froze all.

For a moment, azure godlight swelled anew, as if on the verge of breaking its fetters.

Jingliu finally moved.

Her motionless figure wavered faintly, like a flower in a mirror, the moon in water.

An instant later, she was no longer at the center of the sword-wheel.

A pale, blurred afterimage crossed distance as if it were time and space, ignoring the boiling Sea God power's struggle, and appeared before the brow of Tang San's colossal Sea God phantom.

The ice-crystal longsword in her hand was so clear as to be almost nonexistent, yet it emanated a chill and keenness that could freeze a soul.

She used no flourish—just a single, simple cut.

"Flowing Shade, Square Radiance."

That strike seemed to condense endless ages of desolation, ultimate cold, and a sword intent that could hew down the stars.

Time, space, light, sound—everything lost meaning before this sword.

Tang San felt an indescribable, incomprehensible, irresistible chill and edge pierce through all his defenses in an instant, pass through the Sea God phantom, and act directly upon the innermost core of this strand of divine sense.

He didn't even have time to react.

Crack—

A faint sound, like ice crystal shattering, rose from the core of his divine sense.

The colossal Sea God phantom froze at once, then, like a smashed ice sculpture, fissures spread from the brow, and it collapsed with a roar, scattering to nothing.

Below, the frozen ocean shattered inch by inch, dissolving into the purest particles of water element and dispersing between heaven and earth.

Tang San's divine-sense avatar dimmed precipitously.

In the split second before Jingliu's freeze-all sword intent fully closed, his body flared into a flickering streak of cerulean godlight and, with a near-teleporting lurch, barely escaped the ice sword-wheel's lock, fleeing thousands of meters away in an instant.

When the godlight gathered back into form, Tang San's face was dreadful.

This avatar bore chiefly the power of the Sea God. Its nature should have been like the vast ocean: inexhaustible, stacking waves upon waves, best at amassing force and protracted battle, ultimately crushing an opponent with an irresistible tide.

Yet Jingliu's power seemed born to counter him.

That ultimate cold froze not only matter, but also energy flow, even the accumulation of momentum itself.

However surging your waves, before absolute zero they can only become a dead, frozen plain.

And the terrifying sword intent emanating from that ice-crystal blade was honed to the utmost, as if it could cut all things, tangible and intangible. His defenses felt like paper before it.

From the perspective of a Douluo Continent soul master, Jingliu's combat mode was simple, brutal, and efficient to the point of despair—freeze everything with absolute control, then annihilate everything with absolute offense.

Lock down. Cut down.

The only one who could resonate with Tang San at this moment was likely the besieged Hoolay.

After all, Hoolay had once encountered Jingliu, and the Borisin Warhead—who made the cosmos tremble—was frozen into an ice statue, captured alive, and thrown into the lightless Shackling Prison to be tormented.

"Jingliu!!!"

As Tang San reeled and raced for a countermeasure, on the distant field, Hoolay, locked in fierce battle with Jeanne and Aglaea, let out a roar of mingled rage and hatred, as if a reverse scale had been touched.

The instant Jingliu acted, Hoolay, who knew that power too well, had a trauma response. He swept his war-blade to force back Jeanne and Aglaea, his gaze fixed on the direction of Jingliu's clash with Tang San.

Even with no sight of Jingliu, the fluctuation of that power—the chill that felt like it could freeze his very soul—was unforgettable for eternity.

It was his lifelong nightmare and shame.

Back then, as the Borisin Warhead who cowed countless civilizations, he led a vast fleet, his arrogance boundless.

Yet before that woman, he was utterly defeated, sealed in ten-thousand-year profound ice. His fleet was annihilated, and he was captured alive, cast into the Xianzhou's sunless Shackling Prison to endure endless torment.

In the long years of imprisonment, he ceaselessly simulated, deduced, and sought to break Jingliu's sword and her path of ice. Night after night he woke to the memory of that cold sword light and bone-deep chill.

The only belief that kept him alive was that one day he would break his bonds, find Jingliu, and avenge the sword that shattered his dignity and faith.

Now, feeling that nightmarish power again, Hoolay went berserk.

He hewed his monstrous war-blade, and an expanding blood-red blade light exploded outward, forcibly driving the well-coordinated Jeanne and Aglaea back a hundred meters.

"Teacher…"

Elsewhere, Jing Yuan also halted his assault, his arrayed blade dipping slightly. He looked toward Jingliu and Tang San's battlefield with a complex expression. In those usually languid golden eyes flickered a trace of something complicated.

He did not summon a divine form, and his strikes were restrained, as though weighing something throughout.

Hysilens and Cerydra did not seize the chance to attack either. They were equally shaken by the two utterly different yet equally terrifying battle auras in the distance.

Compared to the world-rending clash over there, their exchange with Jing Yuan did feel like small skirmishes.

Moreover, though the Xianzhou general was not going all out, the effortless heft and unfathomable depth of his strength exerted tremendous pressure, forbidding any distraction.

The title of Arbiter-General was no empty fame.

This was the Xianzhou general, the Arbiter of the Hunt. Hysilens was strong enough to be in the first tier below the Arbiter—she might even have a chance one-on-one with Hoolay, and could stand against an Arbiter for a time.

Yet though both were Servants, Jing Yuan was clearly stronger now.

"Jingliu—!"

Hoolay roared again, thunderous with hatred, his reason drowned.

He ignored Jeanne and Aglaea entirely, pivoted, his body sinking as he took a coiled stance.

Boom!

The ground beneath him couldn't bear the force and collapsed into a massive crater.

Using the terrifying recoil, Hoolay shot up like a blood-red shell, ripping the air as he hurtled skyward toward the battleground of Jingliu and Tang San.

His murderous resolve seemed poised to punch a hole in the sky.

Watching Hoolay charge madly toward the distant front, the high ranks of the Holy Spirit Cult, who had been fighting the Shrek elders, were dumbstruck. Their assault faltered.

When the now-vacated Jeanne and Aglaea turned their cold eyes on them, a few of the weaker-willed elders nearly cursed aloud.

Hoolay's mid-battle desertion had shoved their Holy Spirit Cult into an abyss.

"Retreat, retreat now!"

Cult Master Zhongli Wu's face went iron-blue as he all but screamed the order.

The Bone Dragon King under him roared deafeningly and lunged at Xuan Zi's Taotie Bull, trying to entangle Shrek's strongest for a moment.

Zhongli Wu himself became a shadow, burst out of the melee, flashed to Huo Yuhao's side, grabbed his shoulder, and tried to wrench his Holy Son free of the battlefield.

"Today, none of you heretics leave alive."

Xuan Zi's roar shook the sky. Yellow light flared around the Godly Taotie Bull as its vast horns, heavy as mountains, crashed into the Bone Dragon King, staggering it. The massive body bore down on Zhongli Wu, forcing him to release Huo Yuhao and turn to drive his Death God puppet to its limit to block Xuan Zi's ferocious assault.

Huo Yuhao's face was so dark it could drip water.

Hoolay was his Servant, yet he could impose no effective restraint, forced to watch him run rampant without a thought for his Master's life. The helplessness was galling.

"Aaah—!!!"

A piercing scream cleaved the battlefield.

The Holy Spirit Cult's Seventh Elder—Masked Douluo, infamous for vile corpse-worms and enslaved wraiths—was engulfed by a descending sanctity of pure light.

That holy radiance was scorching and sovereign, dazzling as a star's heart.

An instant later, a holy lance wrapped with an iris flag tore the air and, with unstoppable force, pinned him squarely in midair.

Under merciless purification, the countless vengeful spirits shrouding him met their nemesis, keening in despair as they dissipated into skeins of black smoke.

He himself, seared by sacred flame, screamed in inhuman agony. His body melted like wax and finally dispersed into points of light, leaving not even ash.

"Those who toy with souls and profane life—your end can only be purification."

Jeanne's lovely face held frost. The gentle saint bore a rare, steely killing intent in her eyes.

Against these evil soul masters who reveled in tormenting souls and inflicting pain, she showed no mercy, revealing the iron of a saint.

A Titled Douluo-level elder, slain in a blink—soul and body annihilated. The scene made Huo Yuhao's hair stand on end.

He knew that if he hesitated further, the Holy Spirit Cult might be wiped out here today.

"You forced me. Gate of the Plane—open."

A decisive light flashed in Huo Yuhao's eyes. He bit his tongue; blood sprayed as his hands flew through seals.

He had not wanted to use this card—there was a fragment of Electrolux's divine sense sealed in his spiritual sea. Repeatedly opening the half-plane of the dead might rouse the Death God Saint Magus prematurely, with unpredictable consequences.

But at a life-or-death moment, he could not care.

With his shout, space warped violently. Several irregular black apertures, reeking of dense death and anomalous holy light, split open above the battlefield.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

Heavy, synchronized hoofbeats pounded like drums from the apertures. Next moment, hundreds of riders surged forth like a tide.

They wore black armor, rusted yet solid, astride skeletal warhorses whose sockets burned with ghostly blue fire—mighty death knights.

Bizarrely, above each death knight's head floated a faint yet tangible white halo, a sacred aura fused eerily with the rot of death.

They completely ignored Jeanne's purifying light that suffused the field, even treating it as nothing, and, unleashing silent roars, launched a massed death-charge at her.

"The hell—holy-attribute undead?! What the—?!"

Ma Xiaotao couldn't help blurting, rubbing her eyes, thinking she was hallucinating.

Undead were naturally countered by light—an iron law of the universe. The sight before her shattered her worldview.

Worse, after the death knights, several larger bone dragons—skeletal frames with a lustrous, glassy sheen and the same white halos—beat their wings and crossed the plane.

They, too, showed strong resistance to Jeanne's light.

Thousands of mutated undead, together with the Holy Spirit Cult's remnant and the Borisin troops Hoolay left behind, surged like a tide of death and instantly counter-encircled the Shrek group.

They ignored casualties, attacking madly. By sheer numbers, they temporarily pinned down Shrek's powerhouses.

Chapter 366: The Outcome of Master and Disciple

Under the undead onslaught, Jeanne and Aglaea had to divert attention to protecting Ning Tian, Wu Feng, and other weaker students, slowing their offense.

Zhongli Wu and the others seized the fleeting chance to fight and retreat, trying to slip Xuan Zi's pursuit and escape the field.

"Chase! Don't let these evil soul masters get away!"

Xuan Zi roared. The Shrek crowd refused to relent, soul power erupting as they bit down on the Holy Spirit Cult's main force with killing intent.

Elsewhere, Xiao Wu, locked in battle with Artoria and Cú Chulainn, suddenly paused.

She sensed Huo Yuhao in great danger far away. Her heart clenched.

She looked toward Tang San and Jingliu's battle. The familiar, warm aura from that direction stirred her, a longing to go—perhaps a family member she had forgotten.

On one side, the kin of her amnesiac past; on the other, her "husband" Huo Yuhao, beset and needing help.

A struggle flickered across Xiao Wu's stunning face.

At last, she gazed deeply at the distant sky, as if to carve that warmth into her heart, then stamped her foot and steeled herself.

"Yuhao needs me more."

Pink light surged around her. She tore the space beside her and slipped into the rift, racing toward Huo Yuhao.

"Huff… ha… that crazy rabbit's finally gone…"

Cú Chulainn could hold out no longer. His magic spear clanged to the ground as his arm gave way.

He staggered back and dropped to one knee. His tight blue battle suit was in tatters, scored with ghastly wounds; blood seeped from countless gashes, staining the ground.

He panted raggedly, each breath pulling at damaged organs, clearly wounded within.

Yet his unruly face showed no defeat—only a pained, feral grin as he looked to Artoria not far away.

"Hey, King of Knights… that was… something. Nearly kicked me back to the Throne, hah… cough!"

The laugh tugged his injuries; he coughed blood-flecked spittle.

Artoria was in slightly better shape but also greatly drained.

She dispelled the silver-white armor, revealing the blue battle dress beneath. Excalibur scattered into golden motes.

Her golden hair was a bit mussed; sweat beaded her smooth brow. Though tired, her emerald eyes held the poise and gravity of a king.

She approached Cú Chulainn. Seeing the wild son of light of Celtic myth, battered yet unbowed, a faint, hard-to-catch respect—and… sigh—flickered in her eyes.

"Lancer."

Her voice was clear and solemn, less cutting than on the field.

"Your valor is impressive. Were it not for you tying her down, I might not have lasted."

"Heh… that polite stuff's not like you, Saber."

Cú Chulainn grinned, showing canine teeth, tried to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand and only smeared more blood.

"Just a good fight. Strong foe, fought to my fill—good enough. As for you—you're not one to brawl like this, but you went mad with me this time."

Artoria shook her head slightly, earnest. "As a knight fighting alongside comrades, one must give all."

She paused, eyeing the black motes drifting from Cú Chulainn as his body turned translucent.

"Seems… your time is up."

Cú Chulainn glanced at his fading hand. No fear—instead a freer smile.

"Yeah… this vessel was at its limit. Making it this far is a win. Tch, didn't drink enough of this world's wine…"

He struggled to stand but lacked strength.

Artoria extended a hand—not to pull him up, but in a warrior's equal clasp, letting him brace.

"Lancer, your spear and valor—I, Artoria Pendragon, acknowledge them."

She met his gaze, solemn.

"Hah, with the King's recognition, this trip ain't wasted."

Cú Chulainn laughed. Though his body was unraveling, his eyes burned clearer.

"Then I leave the rest to you, Saber. Don't you dare lose easy when I'm off, or I'll mock you."

"By the honor of the King of Knights, I shall fight to the end."

Artoria's reply was firm.

"Good… hah… this Holy Grail War sure is fun…"

His voice grew distant. Most of him was black light now, yet his eyes still burned with defiance. He took one last look at the field and at the king before him.

"Next time, let's cut loose again… Farewell, King Arthur!"

With that, his remaining form burst into a swarm of lights firefly-like, drifting up and fading away.

Only the scars of his spear remained to mark that the son of light had fought here.

Artoria stood quietly, watching where he vanished. Complexity flickered in her eyes, soon replaced by resolve.

Far from the clamor of the main field, another duel neared its end.

The air here, unlike the wild ferocity of Cú Chulainn's fight, was still and lethal. Invisible sword intent suffused it, every breath edged with cold sharpness.

Skirk stood straight as a pine, motionless.

Her sword angled toward the ground, its blade dull and lightless, as if swallowing light and sound, radiating a chilling aura.

Her face was indifferent, her gaze a changeless cold pool.

Her opponent—her disciple, Childe Tartaglia—was in a sorry state.

Purple lightning and vapor boiled around him, unstable to the extreme—signs of an overtaxed Vision on the verge of backlash.

His favored dual water blades had shattered. What kept him standing was a flickering thunder lance forged from his last strength.

His splendid Foul Legacy armor was in ruin, his body crisscrossed with fine, bone-deep sword cuts; blood soaked his clothes, bubbling at his lips.

Yet in his blue eyes burned a near-mad, blazing will—and a hint of… contentment?

"Heh… hehehe…"

Tartaglia panted, his laugh hoarse but satisfied.

"As expected… Teacher… still… unreachable…"

Skirk watched him quietly, voice cold and even, neither joying in victory nor mourning a dying disciple.

"Your Foul Legacy is better controlled than last time, yet still you are ruled by its frenzy rather than ruling it. Too many openings."

"Haha… cough…"

He spat blood, his wild grin widening.

"Because… only like this… does it feel good. At the limit… past the limit… that's what I seek."

His eyes slid past Skirk to the distant battles—Jingliu vs. Tang San; Shrek vs. the Holy Spirit Cult. "Shame I couldn't fight more strong ones. A pity."

By the side, Bai Xiuxiu—who had watched, barely daring to breathe—had gone pale, her small hands clenched at her chest.

As the princess of the Demon Soul Great White Sharks, she had seen life-and-death combat. But a duel like this, of master and pupil—its sharpness, finality, and will—shook her.

She saw her senior brother's near self-immolating style, and her master's precision—no waste, every strike a killing of openings.

It was a foregone instructional battle—and a fight that transformed her spirit.

Skirk seemed to sigh—so soft it might have been the wind.

"The journey ends here."

She moved.

Her figure flickered like a ghost—not a lunge, but a sliding into seams of space. The next instant she was before Tartaglia.

Her cold longsword thrust with a speed beyond sight, silent.

No flashy light. No savage detonation.

Only ultimate restraint—and ultimate edge.

Tartaglia did not try to block; he could not.

The last light in his eyes was relief—contentment in a full-strength duel with his teacher, and perhaps a trace of regret for foes left unchallenged.

The sword pierced his heart. Killing cold froze his life in an instant.

"Teacher, farewell!"

With his last breath he forced out a whisper. His feral smile stiffened, then faded.

Skirk drew back her sword. Tartaglia swayed and fell forward.

She did not catch him. She only watched calmly as her battle-mad, fervent disciple—who died by battle—fell on the cold ruins.

Black motes scattered on the wind. Childe, Tartaglia, exited.

Skirk's expression was cool. In their original world, Childe was alive; as teacher, she would hold back, as before—fighting him one-handed for fear of a fatal slip.

But here he was only a memory-body, a summoned Servant. There was no need to pull punches.

Silence fell.

Bai Xiuxiu clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes full of shock.

She had witnessed her master end her senior brother with her own hand—so calm, so… matter-of-fact.

Was this the world of the strong?

Skirk turned, her gaze falling on her new disciple, Bai Xiuxiu. It was still calm, with a trace of something indescribable.

"Did you see clearly, Xiuxiu?"

Her voice remained cool.

"The essence of power is not frenzied venting. Uncontrolled power devours its bearer—his Vision, and the beastly wildness in you."

She paused, glancing where Tartaglia had faded.

"As for your senior brother, he was a qualified warrior. I merely sent him on in a warrior's way."

Bai Xiuxiu drew a deep breath to steady herself.

She looked at her master, then at the place where her senior brother had vanished. She seemed to understand—and also to be more confused.

But she knew her master had taught her a crucial lesson in the most direct, most brutal way.

Skirk narrowed her eyes toward the distant core battlefield, where apocalyptic energies kept erupting.

Tang San vs. Jingliu, the Lord Ravager vs. the Xianzhou General high above, and other auras that even she dreaded… The level there had soared to the incredible.

Her hesitation ended.

At least until Bai Xiuxiu was safe, she would not rashly join those fights.

In her match with Tartaglia, both sides had restrained most of their overflow, keeping the battle tight—thus Bai Xiuxiu remained unharmed.

But the melee to come would have no such tacit accord.

Those combatants could tug the heavens and tear space. Their stray ripples could grind a Titled Douluo to dust.

With Bai Xiuxiu's current strength, a mere brush with their residual energies would mean certain death.

Even Skirk could not guarantee an unscathed exit from that chaos.

The priority was to withdraw with Xiuxiu from this place of calamity.

Her power had yet to return to its peak. With her extreme adaptability and growth potential, she only needed time to become far stronger.

"Come, Xiuxiu."

Skirk's voice was cool. She no longer looked back toward where her disciple fell, but turned away from the core battlefield.

"This storm is not one we should be drawn into now."

Bai Xiuxiu glanced at her master's back, then at the distant, world-rending scene. She shivered and hurried to follow.

She knew her master's decision was right.

Meanwhile, Lu Jingming—rapidly recovering with Black Abyss White Flower and the Dendro Archon's power—stiffened.

He clearly sensed the Holy Grail, core of this Grail War, swell with a great, murky energy.

"Two more Servants have exited, then…"

He murmured, not regretful—rather, as if this were within expectations.