The Almighty Dominance (by Sunshine) novel Chapter 650

The ring of five thousand white-robed Wudang disciples tightened like a noose around the five hundred remaining Mount Tai warriors.

General Han Feng sat tall in the saddle, sword drawn, his iron-gray hair matted with sweat. The last of his elite—Core Formation elders and hardened Foundation Establishment fighters—formed a tight knot around him, qi crackling like summer lightning.

They were the best the Mount Tai sect had ever produced. But five thousand fresh Wudang disciples now surrounded them on every side.

Han Feng’s face twisted with fury. He spurred his horse a single step forward and roared, voice carrying across the plain like rolling thunder.

“How dare you gang up on us like common street thugs? Where is the chivalry of the warrior? Where is the honor of single combat you begged for?”

Liu Piao walked forward alone from the Wudang lines, hands clasped behind his back, white robes untouched by the battle. A faint, almost regretful smile played on his lips.

“General, we gave you the choice. One man against one man until one side ran out of champions. You laughed in our lord’s face and demanded a full army clash instead. You wanted steel against steel, formations against formations. This is exactly what you chose. Do you think we take any pleasure in swarming you like this?”

He spread his hands. “Your own stupidity forced our hand. Now two fists will never beat twenty. That’s the price of arrogance.”

Han Feng’s eyes burned with pure hatred. He raised his sword high, qi exploding around him in a blazing aura.

“You think numbers will save you from me? I am in the Core Formation realm! I have shattered armies and crushed sects older than your pathetic Wudang!”

Liu Piao laughed once—short, sharp, and utterly without mercy.

“So what? We have the Twelve-Star Wudang Formation. Twelve of our greatest Foundation Establishment disciples working in perfect sync. Even a Core Formation powerhouse like you won’t break it. Watch.”

At his signal, twelve Wudang elders stepped forward in a precise circle. They raised their palms in unison. A brilliant web of azure qi erupted between them, forming a twelve-pointed star that pulsed with ancient power. The formation snapped into place around Han Feng and his senior elders like an iron cage forged from light itself.

The old general snarled and lunged. His sword strike carried the weight of decades of war—pure, devastating Core Formation qi that should have split mountains.

It slammed into the star formation and rebounded with a thunderclap. The twelve Wudang disciples barely shifted. Their combined power held firm, absorbing and redirecting every ounce of his fury.

“Impossible!” Han Feng roared.

But the trap had already closed.

The remaining five hundred Mount Tai warriors charged with a battle cry that shook the plain.

They fought like cornered tigers—blades flashing, qi erupting in brilliant arcs, elder techniques tearing great gouges in the earth. For a moment, their elite training showed.

A Wudang squad went down under a hail of sword qi. Another group staggered as a Core Formation elder unleashed a palm strike that flattened twenty men.

It wasn’t enough.

Not even close.

Five thousand disciplined Wudang disciples moved like a single living machine. They flowed around the Mount Tai formation in perfect waves, never committing more than necessary, always rotating fresh fighters to the front.

Every time a Mount Tai warrior broke through one line, three more closed behind him. Darts flew. Palm strikes cracked ribs. Sword forms blurred into lethal geometry.

Han Feng fought at the center of the storm, roaring with every swing. Sweat and blood streaked his scarred face. He shattered three Wudang disciples in a single spinning strike, then took a glancing blow to the shoulder that nearly knocked him from his horse.

Around him his elders battled desperately, their Core Formation power now locked and stifled by the Twelve-Star array. They could still fight, but they could not break free.

The Wudang simply wore them down.

A stunned silence filled the hall.

One of the senior advisors stepped forward, voice trembling. “This is impossible. Ten thousand elite soldiers. Two of our best commanders. Gone. Just like Zhao Liang’s five thousand. It’s as if the earth opened and swallowed them whole.”

Liu Dai’s hands clenched into fists on the arms of his chair. He had marched into this campaign with fifty thousand men from Yan Province. Now barely thirty-five thousand remained.

The rest were tied down guarding newly captured cities, escorting supply trains of grain and weapons, or simply lost to the invisible enemy in Qingshui.

Another advisor cleared his throat. “My lord… we cannot keep sending smaller forces. They are being picked apart one piece at a time. If we divide our strength again, the same thing will happen. We must gather every available man—thirty-five thousand strong—and strike Qingshui with everything we have left. One hammer blow. No more probing attacks. No more chances for their tricks.”

Liu Dai sat motionless for a long moment. The torches crackled. Shadows danced across the stone walls.

He had never been a man who scared easily. But for the first time since the campaign began, real fear flickered behind his eyes—cold, sharp, and unmistakable.

Then the fear hardened into something colder.

“Gather them,” he said at last, voice low and final. “Every soldier. Every cultivator. Every horse and wagon we can spare. We march on Qingshui in three days. All thirty-five thousand. We will burn that city to the ground and drag Bai Xiaochun’s head back here in chains. No more mistakes.”

He rose slowly, armor creaking.

“And if anyone fails me this time,” he added, eyes sweeping the room, “I will not bother with dungeons. I will kill you myself.”

The advisors bowed low. Ling Xue remained on one knee, head bowed, fists clenched so tightly her knuckles stood white against the dirt on her skin.

Outside, the night wind howled across the ruined capital like a warning no one wanted to hear.