The lightless vacuum of deep space hung motionless, draped in the cold, indifferent majesty of the cosmos.
High above the sapphire curve of the mortal world, Shen Haoran stood solitary and unblemished upon the void, his moon-white robes drifting weightlessly in the solar winds.
The Black Imperial Sword, Azathoth, rested firmly in his grasp.
Its obsidian edge was already aligned with Yun Ming's forehead, poised to cleanly bifurcate the trembling sect master's skull and reap whatever broken marrow remained within his flesh.
Haoran took a step forward, his wrist pivoting to deliver the final blow.
The strike was neither theatrical nor hesitant.
Azathoth descended with the absolute, irreversible momentum of a guillotine, carving a clean, silent furrow of pitch black chaotic qi through the orbital firmament.
And in that instant, the dimensional space between the dark blade and Yun Ming's trembling brow collapsed to zero.
BZZZZZZT!
