The Almighty Dominance (by Sunshine) novel Chapter 617

Alex had spent days absorbing every sword art the old man offered from the Murim traditions.

Mount Hua’s flowing strikes, Emei’s precise cuts, Qingcheng’s relentless pressure—he had mastered them all with Gaia’s quiet assistance, the system recording each form perfectly in his mind.

“What do you think?” the old man asked, his voice low and steady.

Alex hesitated. He had turned the question over in his head for hours now.

The old techniques felt natural after Gaia’s help, like extensions of his own body.

But this new art the old man wanted to teach him—the Limitless Sword, the origin of life and death—left him completely lost.

No matter how hard he tried, he could not grasp it.

Even Gaia had failed. The old man’s movements refused to be captured. Every swing shifted and changed, impossible to pin down.

Limitless, just as the name promised. The system could only report the same empty message: No pattern detected.

The old man rose slowly to his feet. “I know you possess a sharp mind, boy. But even the sharpest mind is trapped in the third dimension. What I am about to teach you cannot be reached by thought alone. Only the heart can achieve it.”

“Heart?” Alex echoed, frowning.

The old man gave a single, patient nod. “The simplest language humans ever created is spoken words. The most complex is feeling—the language the heart speaks.”

Alex’s brow furrowed deeper. “Can the heart even talk?”

“Of course,” the old man replied, his eyes softening with something close to kindness. “Your voice travels only a short distance. But when two people share a deep connection, their feelings cross any distance and any span of time. That is the language of the heart.”

He paused, letting the words settle. “The Wudang sect built its core on yin and yang—the origin of all things. To touch the boundless light, the source of creation itself, you must reach your heart through the feeling of love. To touch the complete destruction of everything, you must embrace your darkest emotions.”

The old man lifted his plain white sword. “If you can open your heart and truly understand the language of feeling, you will stand at the source of life.”

He began to move.

The sword danced in his hands, graceful and alive. Petals unfolded in the air around him, flowers blooming in sudden, vivid color across the barren ground.

For a moment the world felt warm, full of promise and light. Alex’s chest tightened with an emotion he could not name—hope, maybe, or wonder so sharp it hurt.

Then the old man’s expression changed. His eyes darkened, and the sword’s path twisted with raw, negative force.

Everything withered.

The flowers curled and blackened. Leaves crumbled to dust. The air grew cold and heavy, as if death itself had breathed across the clearing.

Alex felt the chill sink into his bones, a hollow ache that mirrored the old man’s sudden fury and grief.

The old man lowered the sword. The darkness faded.

“Remember this,” the old man said quietly. “The Limitless Sword is only the beginning of the true art.”

Alex’s eyes snapped open in sudden clarity. Enlightenment flooded through him like a quiet storm, sharp and undeniable. He folded his legs beneath him and sank into meditation, breath steady, heart wide open.

This sword art was different.

Gaia could never touch it. The system lived only in the third dimension, bound by logic and data. But humans could reach further—past every rule, past every limit—straight into the origin of their own creation. The True Source.

When Alex opened his eyes again, the world had vanished.

He stood alone in an endless realm of pure light and shadow, vast beyond imagining. No ground beneath his feet, no sky above, only infinite space stretching forever in every direction. A soft, living silence pressed against his skin.

The old man appeared at his side without a sound.

“I never thought you would reach this place so soon,” the old man said, voice calm yet laced with quiet surprise.

“What is this place?” Alex asked, turning slowly.

“The Realm of Spirit,” the old man answered. “A place that can only be found by the heart.”

Alex lifted his gaze. In the distance, an immense, radiant light pulsed with gentle power—boundless, warm, alive. It called to something deep inside him.

“That,” he whispered, pointing, “is the True Source of all creation.”

The old man nodded once.

Alex shifted his hand toward the opposite horizon. There, a darkness so complete and hungry that it made his chest tighten with instinctive dread.

“And that?” he asked.

“That is the core of darkness,” the old man replied simply.

The old man’s eyes met Alex’s with solemn weight. “You are now standing on the first true step into the reality of everything.”

He raised a hand, indicating the two vast forces that flanked them. “From here, you have three choices.”

“First, you may walk into the light. You would become one of the angels, one of the holy spirits—those who choose life and everlasting existence.”

Inside the brilliant glow, Alex glimpsed countless forms: humans, spirits, and beings of breathtaking beauty, all woven together in harmony, creation blooming endlessly around them. The sight filled him with a longing so pure it ached.

“The second path,” the old man continued, voice dropping lower, “is the side of darkness. You would choose only destruction, the ending of all things. You would become one of the dark creatures that exist solely to unmake everything.”

A cold wave passed through Alex. For a moment he felt the raw terror of that path—the endless hunger, the final silence it promised. Fear prickled along his spine.

He swallowed hard. “Can I choose neither?”

The old man’s expression softened with understanding. “Of course. That is what some call the middle path, or nirvana. But you would remain trapped in the middle of nowhere—never touching the light, never falling into the darkness. You would enter the realm of nothingness and stay there, stagnant, for an eternity.”

Alex stared into the vast emptiness between the two forces. The silence felt heavier now.

He turned back to the old man. “Where was I created from?”

The old man let out a slow, weary sigh, as if the question carried the weight of ages.

Outside, in the physical world, the disciples of Wudang had gathered in silence for days.

They stood in hushed rows across the peaks, eyes fixed on the motionless figure of Alex meditation at the center of Sword Peak test stone.

He had not stirred, not even breathed visibly, for nearly a week. The elders and the sect master watched with growing unease.

Then the sky tore in two.

A deafening crack of thunder rolled across the heavens. One half of the sky turned black as pitch, filled with roiling storm clouds and jagged bolts of angry lightning that lit the darkness in violent flashes.

The other half remained perfectly clear—bright blue, scattered with soft white clouds and bathed in warm sunlight.

The divide was razor-sharp, as if the very heavens had been split down the middle by an invisible blade.

No one at Wudang had ever witnessed anything like it. Disciples whispered in awe. Elders exchanged wide-eyed glances. Even the sect master stood frozen, unable to explain the impossible sight.

From the highest peaks of the sect, two swords suddenly rose from an ancient grave, gleaming as they shot into the air.

They streaked across the fractured sky and plunged toward the center of Sword Peak arena, landing with a resonant clang that shook the stone beneath everyone’s feet.

When the black sword struck the ground, the stormy half of the sky answered.

Thunder roared without end. Dark winds howled around the blade, whipping up dust and shadow, as if the sword itself commanded the fury of the storm.

At the same moment the white sword touched down, a wave of pure warmth washed over the arena.

Joy bloomed in every chest. A gentle harmony settled across the crowd. People felt lighter, renewed, as though years of weariness had been lifted from their shoulders in a single breath.

The two swords stood side by side, pulsing with opposing forces.

Then, in the blinding flash of lightning and sunlight colliding, a man appeared out of nowhere in the center of the arena. He reached out and seized both blades—one in each hand.

Thunder crashed louder than ever, forcing every eye to close and every ear to ring. Voices cried out in shock. A fierce wind exploded across the peak.

And then, just as suddenly, the storm vanished.

The dark half of the sky cleared in an instant. The raging clouds dissolved. The lightning died. A final gust of wind swept through, and the entire heavens turned brilliant blue once more, calm and endless.

When the light settled and everyone could see again, Alex stood tall in the middle of the arena.

The black sword rested in his left hand, the white in his right. His robes stirred faintly in the breeze.

Power radiated from him like visible aura—celestial, commanding, almost divine. Under the newly cleared sky, he looked transformed: shoulders squared, eyes sharp with newfound understanding, as if a hidden star had ignited inside him.

Every disciple stared in stunned silence. The elders leaned forward. Even the sect master could not hide the awe on his face.

Alex had returned.

And something far greater had returned with him.