Lin Mu's Advanced Sword Intent surged.
No flashy technique. No special arts.
Just the pressure of one who had walked through countless real-life battles, who had fought monsters, immortals, and 'heretics'.
The puppet responded in kind, pressing in even harder.
Their blades clashed, scraped, bit through air—and time seemed to blur. Minutes turned to hours.
He broke a piece of the puppet's faceplate—but it regenerated.
He shattered its sword arm's outer casing—but it reforged.
Only when he managed to strike at the core formation circle behind its spine did it finally lock up—motionless, its internal mechanism overloading in a harmless burst of light.
Lin Mu stood in the circle, chest heaving, arms sore, a sheen of sweat on his brow.
Five hours.
That's how long it had taken to defeat the sixth puppet with only his sword and his will.
He lowered his weapon slowly.
Then he looked around the training hall, his gaze flickering with raw excitement.
