Immortal Paladin

[POV: David_69]

Twenty-five years ago.

The sacred mountain of the Ward existed in a world without time.

It was the work of formations that Shouquan had left to the mountain; their inner workings were only available to Tao Long.

The Arch Gate loomed behind him, its titanic structure carved from obsidian, humming with the resonance of laws older than the heavens themselves. Before it, an endless tide of soldiers from the Heavenly Temple, their banners snapping with fury in the stormlight.

At Dave’s side coiled Tao Long, vast and terrible in his draconic majesty. His serpentine body gleamed with sapphire scales, each etched with veins of lightning. With every twist and roar, thunder shattered across the battlefield, striking down entire formations of men. Unlike the dragons Dave once knew in Losten, Tao Long bore no wings. His power was not one of flight, but of dominion over storm and stormlight.

The soldiers screamed curses as they rushed forward, blades and spears rattling.

“Heretic! Blasphemer!” one spat, his face purple with rage.

“You defile the sacred gate with your wretched presence!” another howled.

“Lay down your false sword! The Temple will grind you into dust!”

“You and your beast ally will know the wrath of the Heavenly Host!”

Their fury was a wave, and Dave answered it with simple violence.

His grip tightened on the Holy Sword, an extension of himself, forged of pure quintessence. The blade pulsed with radiance, a soft counterpoint to the storming chaos of Tao Long. Dave raised it, feeling the familiar rhythm of power within him, the resonance of the Paladin’s Legacy he had nurtured through decades of war within this pocket dimension.

The ‘Voice’ that once guided him in Losten was gone, but he no longer needed it. The enemy was his teacher. Their endless charges and their relentless hatred honed him sharper than any sermon.

He swung his sword.

Light split the battlefield. Divine Smite and Holy Smite merged into a single brilliance, a hybrid force that obliterated flesh, armor, and spirit alike. Whole ranks of soldiers disintegrated beneath its arc, their curses cut short in screams.

Still, more came. They always came.

Dave’s vessel bled, torn by spears and seared by spells, yet his hands glowed as he pressed them against his wounds. Flesh knit. Bone straightened. Pain dulled to nothingness. He healed, stood, and fought again, each cycle polishing the edge of his will.

An eternity. That was what this place had become. Time-frozen, yet filled with struggle without end.

And then, silence.

The last wave broke. Bodies lay scattered across the sacred slopes, the stench of burnt ozone thick in the air. Tao Long’s coils relaxed, stormlight fading from his scales. Slowly, he shrank, the colossal draconic form giving way to that of a tall man clad in azure robes, his eyes still glowing faintly with thunder.

Dave stood still, chest heaving, sword hanging loosely at his side. He stared at the gate, then at his own hand, flexing the fingers as if measuring his own strength. He felt the culmination of ceaseless battle. The Paladin’s Legacy within him thrummed with stability and power.

It was enough.

“Tao Long,” he said, his tone carrying both gratitude and resolve. “I believe my time here has come to an end. I have fought beside you long enough to carve my path forward. Thank you… for letting me fight by your side, and for being the storm that sharpened my blade.”

David_69. Dave. Dai Fu.

The names clung to him like shadows, fragments of different lives, yet none of them truly mattered. He had long since buried the thought of ‘who’ he was beneath the mantle of ‘what’ he was. A Paladin. The vessel of light and steel. The one who endured for the sake of others.

The ‘person’ in him was unimportant. Or so he told himself.

In truth, deep within the silence of this stolen body, there remained a flicker of doubt, a question that refused to be smothered: if the person did not matter, why did the names linger still in memory? What was the reason for people to give names to others? A label? Something for the sake of convenience?

Dave didn’t think so.

At least, he knew there was more to the ‘self’ than what the name offered.

For an eternity in the time-frozen world of the Ward’s sacred mountain, he had fought, bled, and endured. He had honed himself on the endless armies of the Heavenly Temple, each battle tempering the Paladin’s Legacy within him. He had clawed his way once more to the peak his Lordship had once occupied… the realm of a Demi-God.

And though the ‘Voice’ that once guided him was gone, though he had not heard it for so long, he refused to believe his Lord had fallen. No… He could still feel his Lord. Meager, faint, and fleeting, yet present. A warmth that explained the sudden blossoming of skills he should never have known, the mysterious whispers that taught him how to manifest weapons like the Holy Sword.

Dave dismissed the blade now. The construct of pure quintessence dissolved into motes of radiant light, folding back into him. He gathered them carefully, no drop wasted. Quintessence was everything, and in this mountain of eternity, he had hoarded enough to unleash Ultimate Skills again and again without fear of exhaustion.

He looked to Tao Long.

The dragon stood in his human guise, azure robes torn, and eyes glowing faintly with stormlight. The weight of many years spent together pressed in his voice as he spoke.

“Without you,” Tao Long admitted, his tone grave, “defending the Arch Gate will be more difficult. You have been my storm-forged sword, Holy Spirit of Da Wei. Your presence was no mere aid. Instead, it has become a bulwark against the tide. To lose you here is to leave a wound in the mountain’s defense.”

Dave inclined his head, his expression calm, yet resolute. “My path leads beyond this place. I cannot stay, Tao Long. I will carry forward what I have learned here, and perhaps in doing so, I will one day return the strength you lent me.”

Tao Long’s gaze lingered on him for a long silence, stormlight swirling in his pupils. Then he raised his hand. The air trembled. Ancient sigils, carved into the mountain itself, shuddered and cracked as the draconic lord pressed his will upon them.

The formation that had sealed the sacred mountain for an eternity groaned, then tore. Light split the slopes as Tao Long carved a path, the Arch Gate rumbling in resonance.

“Go,” Tao Long said, his voice as steady as thunder across a distant horizon. “Carry your Lord’s legacy. This world beyond the mountain waits for you, Mighty Warrior.”

Dave stepped forward. Each pace carried him closer to the light, closer to the future he had fought so long to reclaim. The storm faded behind him, the mountain shrinking to memory.

And then…

The present.

The flickering lamplight of his office in the main branch of the Adventurer’s Guild in the archipelago washed over him. The desk was heavy with documents, the shelves lined with reports of expeditions and quests. The air smelled of parchment, ink, and sea salt drifting through an open window.

Dave sat alone at his desk, his hands resting on the wood, and exhaled.

“Joan, wait for me just a bit more… I am almost ready…”

It had been twenty-five years since his Lordship sundered the Summit, the day Dave was forced into this vessel, the body of the young man once known as Mao Xian. The memories of that moment were carved into him like scars. His own essence had been wrenched, grafted, and forced into foreign flesh. He had hated it at first, hated the weakness of the vessel, hated the name. But with time, he reshaped it, refined it, until it was no longer Mao Xian… it was his.

Nineteen years had passed since he reclaimed Mao Xian’s assets and resources, turning them into his own arsenal. From that inheritance, he obtained one of the greatest tools of influence in the Hollowed World, the nascent but very effective Adventurer’s Guild. In the beginning, he had considered it only a means to accumulate wealth and power. But soon, it became more. A nexus of information. A machine of influence. A network spreading tendrils across kingdoms and seas.

Sixteen years had passed since he rose among the ranks of the Union. His rise was not quiet, nor was it clean. He carved his path with light, steel, and sheer will. They called him Warlord, though the title was but another stone upon the mountain of burdens he carried.

Twelve years ago, he had stumbled upon knowledge that shook him to his core: two methods to kill a god in his current realm. He had walked in silence since that day, rehearsing those methods, refining them, shaping them until they became truths carved in his bones. And yet, no opportunity had come. No stage grand enough. No god vulnerable enough to risk testing it.

Five years ago, whispers began. Whispers of his Lordship’s presence, not in legend but in flesh. In the Hollowed World, rumors spread like fire, and the cry of Unholy Taint echoed from faction to faction. The people spat the name of his Lord with fear. Dave, however, felt only the ember of hope burning brighter.

Four years ago, the Hollowed World erupted with news of the Empire’s Civil War. The Empire, mighty and unbending, now fractured upon itself. The Union scrambled, preparing armies for invasion. The Martial Alliance sharpened their blades. The Heavenly Temple raised their banners. War loomed like a storm across the horizon.

But Dave’s eyes did not turn to the Empire. His gaze was fixed elsewhere.

The Nameless City.

Twenty-five years ago, when his Lord sundered the Summit, His Lord fought a god-like being, one who had stolen Joan’s body. The aftermath of that clash had birthed something dreadful. The city that rose from the ruins was no longer bound to mortal laws. A labyrinth of unyielding stone and warped sanctity, haunted by angels that devoured all who dared approach. A forbidden wound carved into the land.

Dave’s fingers drummed on the polished surface of his desk in the Adventurer’s Guild’s main branch, the steady rhythm echoing his thoughts.

“The Empire burns, the factions conspire, but the Nameless City… That is where my path lies. That is where Joan sleeps.”

The knock at the door was soft, polite, and yet the presence that accompanied it pressed faintly on the walls of the office. Dave glanced up from the documents strewn across his desk, his gaze steady as the door eased open.

It was Xing Tuzi.

She moved with the light step of her race, her silver hair spilling over her shoulders, a pair of long, silken bunny ears twitching faintly with every movement. She carried herself with practiced grace, an effortless mix of innocence and allure. But beneath that was the sharpness Dave valued most. It was the keen eyes of a scout, the instincts of a hunter, and the intuition of one who could smell treasure and danger long before others did.

She had been part of his core staff for years. Reliable. Capable. Irreplaceable. Dave never embarked on anything important without ensuring she was at his side.

“Lord Mao Xian,” Xing Tuzi said, closing the door behind her. Her voice was smooth and careful. “A member of the Seven Warlords has come to see you.”

Dave leaned back in his chair, his expression calm, though a shadow flickered behind his eyes. The Seven Warlords of the Union were not a group one met lightly, even if you were already a member of them for years.

“Which one?” he asked, tone clipped. “Who among them has stepped into my halls?”

The Union was a beast that devoured itself and others alike. Its leadership was not chosen through consensus, nor through votes, but through strength. Strength measured in personal might, in the number of martial forces one could command, and the rivers of wealth one could pour into war. To be counted among the Seven Warlords meant one had clawed their way into the Tenth Realm, giants in a land of mortals. Dangerous, each of them. Dangerous enough that Dave measured every word when dealing with them.

Xing Tuzi, however, did not answer immediately.

Instead, she tilted her head, her silver hair catching the lamplight, and stepped closer. Leaning forward over his desk, she lowered the stack of papers, her blouse shifting as she did so. From the reflection of the glass cabinet nearby, the curve of her thighs was revealed, her skirt riding higher than propriety would demand.

Her bunny ears twitched again. “Who indeed, my Lord?” she asked with a sly lilt, her eyes darting toward him expectantly.

Dave’s gaze remained firmly on the parchment in his hands. His lips moved slightly as he reviewed the inked reports, muttering calculations under his breath.

“Whoever it is, they wouldn’t come here idly,” he said flatly, eyes never leaving the page. “Tell me directly, Xing Tuzi. There is no need to tease me over this… Who is it?”

A faint sigh escaped her lips, though she masked it with a professional smile. Her ears twitched again, sharper this time, betraying her annoyance.

“It is the Sword Sage,” she finally revealed, straightening as if nothing had occurred. Her voice was even, but there was a flicker of satisfaction at delivering the name. “Zi Cheng himself has come to meet with you.”

Dave set aside the last parchment with a brisk stroke of his quill. “I shall meet him immediately,” he said. “Where is he?”

“The lobby,” provided Xing Tuzi.

Dave stared at the bulk of paperwork. “Just a bit more, I guess…”

The stack of papers in front of him diminished one by one with approvals for resource acquisition stamped with his seal, allocations of S-rank missions delegated with swift certainty, and minor disputes resolved with short notations. His efficiency was ruthless, precise. By the time he pushed back his chair, there was not a single sheet left unattended.

He rose, moving to the tall mirror set against the wall. His reflection gazed back. He smoothed the creases of his robe, tugging at the fabric with meticulous care.

It was a plain robe, the sort one might find in a common market stall, but it had been given to him by a kind granny who had refused to take his coin. He had paid her anyway, more than the cloth was worth. Still, he kept it.

Behind him, Xing Tuzi lingered. Her silver hair shimmered as she approached, her steps slow, deliberate. The soft twitch of her bunny ears gave her away; she was enjoying herself.

“My Lord,” she said, her voice dipping low, brushing past his ears like silk. She leaned close, her breath warm against his neck, the curve of her body pressing into his arm. “This robe clings to you so… firmly. Perhaps you should allow me to… adjust it.” Her fingers grazed the fabric, dangerously near his chest.

Dave frowned faintly, his eyes still fixed on the mirror. “Indeed, the stitching has held up well. Remarkable craftsmanship for such a simple garment.”

Xing Tuzi blinked, her lips parting slightly before she let out a soft laugh. She circled him slowly, each step measured, her skirt hiking higher as she angled herself deliberately into his line of sight. One hand trailed down her thigh, pale skin glowing under the lantern light.

“My Lord,” she whispered, voice sultry, “do you not find this office… unbearably warm?” She arched her back, exposing more of her chest as she brushed away a nonexistent bead of sweat.

Dave turned, his brow furrowed in thought, not desire. “Tuzi, you should wear longer skirts. You might be feeling cold with your legs so bare.”

Her smile faltered. She stared at him, ears twitching once, then twice. Quiet.

A beat of silence lingered before Dave’s own expression softened. “Ah. Nonsense of me to suggest such a thing. Given your cultivation, you would not feel the cold.”

He smoothed his sleeves one final time, nodding with satisfaction. Then he turned back to her, his voice calm and resolute. “No one shall disturb me and my guest. Spread the word… If an incident occurs, because if a ruffian decided they want to see what an angry Tenth Realm looks like, know that the offender wouldn’t be punished lightly.”

Xing Tuzi’s lips curved again, though the glimmer in her eyes was unreadable. “As you wish, my Lord. Your guest is waiting in the lobby… er… doing strange things… Please, if you need anything. Just holler.”

Dave inclined his head and strode to the door.

The lobby opened before him, its wide hall bathed in the glow of suspended lanterns. And there, seated calmly upon a bench, was a middle-aged man. His features were sharp, his bearing unshakably serene, and in his hands rested not a weapon but a small book. He was reading it aloud, voice low, as if the words were meant only for the beloved sword propped beside him.

It was the Sword Sage, Zi Cheng, also formerly known as Sword Fanatic.