The Almighty Dominance (by Sunshine) novel Chapter 616

The illusionary realm shimmered and dissolved around Alex like mist burning off under morning sun.

In its place stretched a vast, rolling hill crowned with ancient trees, a crystal-clear river winding lazily through the valley below, and a dense forest of emerald pines and flowering maples that whispered in the breeze.

Sunlight dappled the grass in golden patches. The air smelled of pine resin and wildflowers, crisp and alive.

An old man stood beside the river, tall and straight-backed, his silver hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck.

He was strikingly handsome even in age—high cheekbones, warm brown eyes that sparkled with quiet mischief, and a smile that carried the easy charm of someone who had once turned every head in a room.

He wore simple gray robes that moved with the wind as though they belonged to the landscape itself.

Alex approached slowly. The old man tilted his face toward the open sky, watching a lone hawk circle overhead.

“I don’t know how many centuries have passed since anyone last mastered Wudang’s Heaven Sword Art,” he said, voice low and resonant, carrying the weight of forgotten years.

He turned those bright eyes on Alex. “How long has it been since the Wudang Sect was founded?”

Alex hesitated. “A few thousand years ago, I think.”

The old man exhaled a soft laugh that held no bitterness, only wonder.

“Thousands of years…” He shook his head, gazing out over the river as though he could see every lost decade drifting past on the current. “Time really does slip away like water.”

“Will we fight?” Alex asked.

The old man’s smile widened, gentle and knowing. “Maybe later. Not today, though. You don’t need to worry about the clock out there.”

He gestured lightly at the sky. “In this place, one day in your world equals a hundred here. Plenty of time.”

He clapped his hands once. The sharp sound echoed across the hill. ‘

From behind a cluster of ancient trees stepped three figures, each dressed in the distinct uniforms of different sects—crisp and unmistakable even at a distance.

Gaia’s calm voice bloomed in Alex’s mind, feeding him names and histories in a single heartbeat.

Mount Hua. Emei. Qingcheng.

“They’re disciples of the Mount Hua Sect, the Emei Sect, and the Qingcheng Sect,” Alex said aloud.

“You’re right,” the old man replied, pride flickering across his face.

“In my time I learned every technique they possessed. If they wouldn’t teach me willingly, I took what I needed. I know their sword arts better than most of their own disciples ever did. I spent long nights drinking tea and trading stories with their head sect leaders—back when they still walked the earth.”

He studied Alex for a moment, eyes sharpening.

“On every peak of the Wudang Sect, the moment you claim the first rank, the secrets of the Five Great Clans and the Nine Great Sects open to you.”

Alex felt the words land like a stone in still water. “What?”

The old man nodded toward the horizon, as if the peaks themselves were listening. ‘

“Go to the Fist Peak of Wudang. Conquer its top rank and you’ll find the complete fist arts and cultivation methods of Shaolin Temple—everything they guarded so jealously.”

“You’ll also unlock treasures from the other great sects: the Eighteen Dragon Subduing Palms, the Drunken Fist, techniques that once shook the martial world.”

Alex’s pulse quickened. A sudden realization slammed into him, bright and electric. “I’m already ranked first on the Thousand Herb Peak…”

He met the old man’s gaze, voice tight with sudden hope and disbelief. “Does that mean… I’ve already learned something?”

The old man smiled. “Then you must already have learned the Tang Clan’s poison techniques.”

The realization crashed over Alex like cold river water. In that final stage of the Thousand Herb Peak, the ancient records had never been about medicine at all.

They were poison manuals—page after meticulous page of lethal formulas, hidden in plain sight.

No wonder the forbidden arts had come so easily to him when he faced the Discipline Department disciples. The knowledge had been waiting for him all along, coiled and patient.

“What do you want me to do?” Alex asked.

The old man’s smile deepened, warm yet commanding. “You will learn every one of their sword arts. I will guide you myself.”

Alex frowned, the weight of the task settling on his shoulders. “Do I really need to study all of them?”

“Full-spectrum analysis initiated. I am projecting a real-time visual overlay directly into your visual cortex. Follow the blue holographic form exactly. It will show you the ideal path—every angle, every micro-adjustment. Match it. I will refine the guide as you move.”

A translucent blue silhouette materialized in Alex’s sight, superimposed over the world like augmented reality only he could see.

The glowing figure stood in the exact same stance as the disciple, sword raised, every joint, muscle, and breath marked in crisp, luminous lines. It moved slowly at first, repeating the opening sequence with flawless grace.

“Now, it is your turn,” the old man said.

Alex took his sword. The moment his grip settled, the holographic guide began to flow. He stepped into the stance and mirrored the blue figure step for step.

Where his elbow dropped a fraction too low, the overlay pulsed brighter, gently nudging his awareness until he corrected it.

When his wrist stiffened, the guide slowed, showing the exact wrist flick in glowing detail.

“Breathe into the pivot—now,” Gaia whispered, and the hologram demonstrated the perfect inhalation synced to the cut.

Within the hour, the full Twenty-Four Plum Blossom flowed from him without pause. The blue guide had become an extension of his own body, a silent teacher that never tired, never judged, only refined.

The old man watched from the riverbank, arms folded, one eyebrow raised in quiet surprise, but he said nothing.’

That was only the beginning.

The old man, watching Alex practice his sword art, suddenly began reciting the Mount Hua Sect’s secret cultivation technique. He used it to guide the flow of inner force specifically for the Mount Hua Sword Art—a style that was normally a closely guarded secret, passed down only within the sect itself.

By the fiftieth day, the entire sword canon of Mount Hua—dozens of forms and hundreds of variations—had fused into Alex as naturally as breathing.

The old man laughed heartily. “Good! You have perfected the Mount Hua Sect’s sword art—even better than their own masters.”

He gestured toward the woman from the Emei Sect. She stepped forward with quiet dignity, her white robes edged in pale green and her long black hair braided with silver threads that shimmered in the sunlight.

She drew her slender blade, its edge gleaming like moonlight on snow. “This is the Emei Lotus Heart Sword Art,” she said, her voice soft yet carrying clearly across the hill. “It flows from within, not from force. Watch.”

After another fifty days, the old man clapped once more, and the man from the Qingcheng Sect stepped forward.

“This is the Qingcheng Windcleaver Sword Technique.”