Chapter 701: Anya, the Battle Maniac

“That—That’s the Battle Maniac of the Absolute Sword Palace! Anya Stout!” someone cried out in shock the moment her image appeared on the massive floating screens.

Murmurs and gasps spread like wildfire across the entire Battle Realm as countless cultivators recognized the black-haired girl standing opposite White Death on the grassy plains.

“She’s one of the rising geniuses of the Middle Domain right now!” another voice chimed in, filled with disbelief.

“Forget about that,” someone else added, lowering their voice as if sharing a forbidden secret, “I heard she’s a complete freak. She enters the Battle Realm every single day just to fight. There are even whispers… that she’s gone mad.”

“That’s not a rumor,” another replied with a grim nod. “She’s obsessed with the sword. They say she doesn’t care about anything else in the world—not fame, not power, not even life. As long as she gets to train with her sword, nothing else matters to her.”

And the more people talked, the more terrifying the stories became.

“The Absolute Sword Palace is full of monsters,” someone muttered. “First, there’s the number one genius—Sword Saint. It’s said that when it comes to swordsmanship, if he says he’s number two, then no one in the younger generation of the Middle Domain would dare to claim number one. Then there’s Crazy Sword, Sword Demon, and so many more it’s hard to even keep count. That palace is a nest of monsters.”

“What else do you expect?” another voice reasoned. “The Absolute Sword Palace is one of the Seven Overlord Forces of the Middle Domain. And now that the Great Ruler Empire is declining, they’re easily one of the top contenders for the strongest force in the entire Middle Domain—aside from the Four God Nations.”

“I heard she’s already at the 4th level of Champion Rank…” someone whispered, eyes wide with awe and concern. “White Death versus the Battle Maniac… who’s going to win?”

Excitement and tension gripped every corner of the Battle Realm as all eyes locked onto the screen.

On the battlefield within the grassy plains, a subtle breeze passed between the two figures. Max stood still, red hair swaying from the wind created by the peaceful world—peace that was on the verge of being shattered.

His masked gaze never left her. He had sensed it the moment she raised her sword—her strength. Her cultivation had reached the 4th level of Champion Rank. That meant she was stronger than Roger Hale. Stronger than Old Man Burning Cloud.

And yet… Max remained unmoved. He could feel it. This battle would be different. Anya wasn’t just another opponent. She was like a blade given form, forged by obsession, tempered by madness. And she wasn’t here to win. She was here to fight.

Anya raised her sword with slow, unhurried grace, the dead look in her eyes never changing. The long blade in her hands gleamed coldly under the soft light of the grassy plain, as if it had no warmth, no weight—only purpose.

And then, without a word, she moved. The air around her suddenly shifted, trembling as a sharp aura surged out like the slicing of space itself. She slashed forward at Max, and in that very instant, the world seemed to shatter.

WHOOSH!

It wasn’t just a single attack. It was the first move of her feared technique—Seven Slashes of the Splitting Art. The moment the sword cut through the air, it left behind a blinding white crescent, filled with sword intent so sharp it could slice through a mountain like paper.

Max’s eyes narrowed behind his mask, and with a wave of his hand, a black flaming sphere materialized before him. The blade struck the sphere with a deafening clang, sending a ripple of black and white energy through the plain, but the sphere held firm, absorbing the full force of the strike.

Anya didn’t pause. Her second slash followed immediately, crossing at a sharp diagonal angle. The momentum behind it was frightening—it carried not just sword energy but a slicing force that seemed to split wind, light, and even the very space it passed through.

Another flaming sphere appeared in front of Max, intercepting the slash.

BOOM!

The impact exploded in a clash of sword light and cursed black flames, but Max remained unmoved, his stance steady.

The third, fourth, and fifth slashes came in rapid succession, one faster than the last. Each time, Anya seemed to grow more terrifying. Her dead eyes didn’t flicker with emotion, but her blade—her blade screamed with power.

Every strike was precise, clean, and unbelievably destructive. She wasn’t just swinging a sword—she was dissecting reality. Trees in the distance split in half, the ground cracked under the shockwaves, and even the wind ran in opposite directions as her sword sliced through it.

Yet, each time, Max countered with the same calm mastery. More flaming spheres formed in front of him, each made from the searing darkness of his Crimson Reaper Inheritance.

BOOM!

CRACK!

BOOM!

The clashes echoed louder and louder across the plain, painting the battlefield in flashes of black and silver.

Then came the sixth slash—a vertical arc that descended from the sky itself, like a heavenly punishment. This strike was unlike the others. The sword was raised above her head, and as it came down, it carried the weight of thunder, like it could split the sky and bring judgment to all below.

Max summoned a larger flaming sphere this time, its surface rippling violently from the pressure of the incoming attack. The moment they collided, a towering pillar of black and silver flame erupted, shaking the entire realm.

And finally—the seventh.

Anya’s final slash was silent. No roar of energy. No tearing of the air. She simply vanished. Then, a breath later, appeared right in front of Max, her sword already moving in a flash so fast it couldn’t be followed. It was clean. Elegant. Deathly quiet. A strike aimed not at the body, but the soul.

Max’s eyes glowed faintly beneath his mask, and just as the blade was about to touch him—

HUMMMM

A black sphere burst into existence around him like a cocoon, swirling and blazing with chaotic fire. The blade struck it head-on.

CRACK—BOOM!

This time, the explosion shattered the ground beneath them. The grass was vaporized. The sky darkened for a heartbeat. The flames and sword light clashed in pure chaos.

And then, as the smoke cleared, Max stood unharmed. His clothes fluttered in the fading heat. The red of his hair gleamed, the mask still hiding his face.

Anya, breathing softly, slowly lowered her blade. Her dead eyes remained lifeless, but deep within, perhaps for the first time… a flicker of interest stirred.

She had used the full power of her Seven Slashes of Splitting Art, a sword technique known to devastate even Champion Rank experts—and Max had blocked every single one with black flaming spheres, without moving from his spot.

“You are the first to block all my sword attacks without getting injured,” Anya said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper, yet it carried clearly across the battlefield.

There was no anger, no frustration—only quiet acknowledgment and a burning intent that simmered beneath the surface.

Max noticed it immediately—the deadness in her eyes, that hollow, uncaring emptiness that had stared back at him before, was starting to fade. In its place rose something far more dangerous: fighting will.

A terrifying, pure, unshakable desire to battle. Not for victory. Not for fame. Just to clash blades with someone worthy.

Your gift is the motivation for my creation. Give me more motivation!