Chương 362: Chapter 353 - Will Manifest

In the absence of sight, his waves and will became his light. They surged from him in pulses—rippling spheres of thought and force that painted the void in living motion. Shapes bloomed where light could not reach. The ground hummed with his presence. The air bent. The beast before him took form, its mass a writhing cathedral of flesh and agony. A storm of souls—stitched together, screaming, clawing at existence itself. His blades sang. Their edges split the currents, mapping every contour of the creature's hate.

In his vision, it was not a body but a distortion—a hollow in reality where his waves vanished into silence. The closer he stepped, the more the void devoured the sound of his own mind, as if the world itself recoiled from its presence. It had a will. Ancient. Endless. And he could hear it. The echoes of pain. The wails of a thousand lifetimes crushed into obedience. The sobbing fury of beings who once begged for mercy and found none. They called to him—not for salvation, but for destruction. Then the hatred rose.

A pulse of venomous will that lashed against his waves, hissing with the weight of centuries. He felt it before it struck. Tendrils warped through his vision —spatial distortions twisting paths into impossible angles. Claws swept from above, slicing through void and snow alike. The ground ruptured. The sky screamed. And he moved. He flowed through the chaos, every motion traced by vectors of intent. Each path he took unfolded like geometry born of instinct, equations written in momentum and blood.

His feet carved arcs of light into the frozen ground. His blades drew constellations in the dark. Every swing birthed a flare. Every parry widened his world. Stars bloomed behind him, fragments of will burning in the wake of his motion. He saw through them. He became them. Each vector met another. Each line of force connected—cutting, folding, converging—until the void itself began to hum with resonance. The beast recoiled, its structure collapsing and reforming in a storm of black sinew and spectral flame.

Its pain was symphonic. The rhythm of its strikes quickened, desperate, unrelenting. The abyss clawed at him, trying to reclaim what dared to shine inside it. But he wove through. He followed the paths his own light carved, moving between collapsing spaces, folding around the creature's attacks before they could reach him. His blades were twin anchors, holding his world steady amid the distortion. Each clash tore a piece of the dark away. Each cut silenced a scream. Each motion was defiance given form.

The creature's will pressed harder, its chorus of souls rising into a tidal roar. They wanted him to break. To surrender. To bow. He did not. He would not. In the rhythm of pain, in the void between the stars, his will burned. His will roared. His will lived. His blades shattered everything they touched. He moved in perfect sync with the void inside him, pushing against the dark that dared to bar his path. Each motion tore reality apart and remade it in his image—his rhythm, his light, his defiance.

But the darkness fought back. It convulsed in rage, bleeding colour from the world as it twisted its own hatred into form. Tendrils of corrupted light spread outward like veins through a dying heart, warping every fragment of his perception. Space bloated. The air curdled. It was as though the beast drained existence itself to birth power beyond creation—beyond reason. A manifestation not of life, but of want. Of the singular hunger that had made it. Destruction. Space cracked.

The echoes of his waves splintered against invisible walls. His vision fractured into shards, his light fading between their edges. The creature expanded, dominating the battlefield as its tendrils tore through his constellations, shattering the stars that marked his Path of Shards. One by one, they went out. The void closed in. And yet, he fought back. His swords traced the impossible—cutting through where he was denied, each slash a refusal, each path an act of creation.

He felt the resistance—each collision like cutting through the bones of existence itself. Darkness struck him in return. Shards of warped energy tore through his flesh, carving wounds that bled heat and sound instead of blood. Still, he did not yield. Amid the ruin, he searched for motion. For rhythm. For a path. He found it—thin, fragile, trembling between collapsing vectors—and he pushed. He met blow for blow, the world collapsing around his movement.

Every clash sent ripples of light and dark colliding, each wave rewriting what was real for a heartbeat before being devoured again. He twisted between the creature's strikes, blades singing arcs of white fire through the gloom. For a moment, he turned chaos into pattern. But it wasn't enough. The onslaught grew. Its tendrils came in waves, faster than thought, heavier than mountains. He blocked two—seven followed. Every strike forced him back, every cut took a piece of his stars.

He felt the pressure closing in, the creature's fury erasing his domain. The ground beneath was no longer ground—it was a collapsing flow of light and unlight, a storm of hatred swallowing itself. He roared, pouring his remaining strength into the Path of Shards, forcing his will through the broken channels. Each pulse from his heart echoed through the waves, trying to reclaim the fading light—but the darkness pressed harder. The beast had forsaken all defence. This story is posted elsewhere by the author.

Help them out by reading the authentic version. It came for him with everything it was—black fire, twisted will, and the screaming mass of countless trapped souls—seeking to drown him in its dark veil. To swallow him whole. To make him one more voice in the endless chorus of those who had birthed it. And he stood before its maw—broken, hollow, alive—and raised his swords once more. If two blades are not enough to stop it, then— He reached into the void between moments, into the fracture where thought met will.

He drew not from strength, but from absence—from the blank space where reality refused to follow. Manifest what the world rejected. What existence denied. Impose what could not be. Bring forth what was unseen. The blade in the dark. The strike that never was. Come forth— — Will Manifest: No-Strike And what was two… became four. The blades of light and the blades of shadow—each mirroring the other—cut forward in unison, striking not through air or flesh but through the very rhythm of existence.

The void screamed as both realities collided. One blade claimed the darkness, searing it with the brilliance of his will. The other called the stars, anchoring light where none belonged. Together, they redrew the battlefield—space itself bending under their resonance—reclaiming lost ground, turning the devoured void once more into his domain. But he did not stop. His blades moved faster, feeding on momentum, on defiance.

Each strike birthed another—every motion, another echo—until his rhythm became a storm of mirrored selves. He became the duality—two versions of one being, both real, both burning. His shadow solidified beside him, matching his stance, his breath, his tempo. Their movements intertwined—twin paths through collapsing night—each blade cutting through corruption, slicing through the choir of souls that sought to consume him. Every strike was a heartbeat. Every heartbeat was defiance.

They fought for the same flame—the will to endure, the refusal to bow. Not to destroy, but to survive. To believe. To stand unbroken before a world that wished to erase him. And with that will… he thrust forward—toward the heart of the abomination. His four blades tore through its form, cut its domain, split its will apart, each strike a declaration of his existence forced upon reality. The air convulsed. The darkness howled. His light carved through everything that claimed to be infinite.

And yet— Its will did not break. For every tendril severed, two more erupted from the wound. For every extinguished soul, a thousand more rose to scream. The creature recoiled, its mass convulsing as the world shuddered beneath its voice. Then came the sound. A screech—like the splitting of a universe. A million fractured voices drawn into one unending tone. It tore through the frozen air, rippling through wave and stone, bending even his senses until the world itself seemed to vibrate in obedience.

It demanded to be heard. It demanded to exist. For it too was will. A will that refused to fade. A will that would not die quietly. A will that would devour all before yielding. And from that defiance—it fought back. Not as flesh, but as conviction incarnate. It struck against him, against his shadow, against every thread of light he had laid. Its fury warped space, its hatred burned with the desperation of a dying god. It gave everything—no, more than everything. It tore itself apart to destroy him.

And yet, within that chaos, within that impossible clash—he understood. The sentiment was the same. They were both remnants of what refused to fall. I cannot lose. I cannot fall. I will win. The rhythm surged again—his pulse and the creature's in brutal sync. He pushed forward, blades crossing, cutting through the storm of tendrils, through the shrieking tide of tortured souls. Each motion doubled—one him, one shadow—both tearing through the void, relentless, unstoppable. His heartbeat became a drumbeat of war.

He screamed. His mind fractured. The pain was beyond pain. Still, he struck. Still, his will surged brighter. Every drop of blood became light. Every scream became sound. Every motion—existence defied. He pushed forward through agony and ruin, through the chorus of dying stars and broken souls—until nothing remained but the sound of his ragged breathing, and the echo of his blades carving truth into the dark. The darkness bled. The darkness shattered. Yet even torn apart, the darkness refused to fall.

It screamed again—a cry like the death of suns, its voice trembling through every plane of existence. The sound warped the air, bending space itself as the fragile threads that anchored it to reality began to snap one by one. It could not hold. The outcome it had denied, the truth it refused to accept, began to consume it from within. And yet— It claimed itself from death. It willed itself back into being. A defiance born not of life, but of purpose twisted into ruin.

It refused to fade quietly, refused to surrender to the end that awaited it. If it was to fall, it would not fall alone—it would take the world with it. The air convulsed. The void expanded, rippling outward like a collapsing star. The ground shook as its waves bent out of rhythm, struggling to map the chaos. The creature's form bulged—an amalgamation of hatred and memory, of countless screams woven into flesh that refused to end. Lightning split the sky, space itself distorting around the surge.

The energy coalesced—every trapped soul, every ounce of loathing it had devoured through centuries gathering into one final, suicidal pulse. A storm of annihilation. A final scream to scorch reality itself. And in front of that rising cataclysm—he stood. No fear. No retreat. The ground cracked beneath his feet, waves rippling outward from his stance. The air trembled against his will. His blades hummed with the resonance of a thousand cuts yet to be made. He did not step back. He did not flinch.

For he would answer in kind. For if it was destruction — Then he would be creation. He stepped forward. Each motion rippled through the collapsing world, through the fractured void that howled around him. Every breath was a vow. Every step—an act of defiance. He pushed toward the heart of ruin itself, toward the core of the beast's cataclysmic storm, and with every stride, his will grew brighter—burning hotter, louder, stronger—until the darkness could no longer contain it. The suns within him awakened.

One by one, they flared to life—hundreds of thousands of stars bursting inside him, each a heartbeat of existence, each a memory of everything he refused to let die. A strike bears a sun. Its shadow births the planets. The planets circled the suns, caught in their gravity, forming systems bound by rhythm and will. Those systems spun together, dancing in synchrony. Their motion birthed galaxies—whole harmonies of light weaving through the black. And within that vast creation, the void ceased to be empty.

It had form. It had meaning. It lived. It became more than absence. More than emptiness. More than a void. For it had meaning. It had purpose. It evolved, it shifted, it trailed forward as it advanced through the echoes of time. And that path forward… that was his path. A path born of light within darkness. A path forged from the first spark that ever shattered the void. A path that lived inside him.

And he called it forth—commanded the world itself to acknowledge it, to see it, to bend before the truth of its existence. His voice tore through creation, layered with will and defiance, as he demanded the world to answer." COME FORTH—" —WILL MANIFEST: PATH OF SHARDS!