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And we have reached third world there, it being Monster Integration.
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He moved again, but this time, he didn't vanish into the shadows. He marched forward, one deliberate step at a time, forcing his way through the crushing weight of the golden domain. Beneath his boots, the earth groaned and buckled, carving deep fissures into the terrain, yet his momentum never wavered.
"Hold him!" the Yangbans bellowed in unison.
The golden field constricted, the atmospheric pressure doubling until it felt as though a mountain were being lowered onto Alan's shoulders. But instead of breaking, Alan's aura surged—darker, heavier, and more suffocating than before. It clawed against the celestial light, warping the very fabric of space.
"He's... resisting it?" a Yangban gasped, eyes wide with disbelief.
"No," another whispered, his voice trembling. "He's breaking it."
Alan came to a halt. He raised his sword, his voice cutting through the tension with a terrifying, icy calm. "Undefeated King Swordsmanship."
The explosion was instantaneous. A tide of abyssal energy erupted from his core, slamming into the golden domain. The collision sent tremors through the earth as fractures spider-webbed across the air itself. Desperate, the Yangbans poured every drop of their divinity into the formation, but Alan simply took another step.
"300,000 army..."
The strike didn't hit a person; it hit the world. For a heartbeat, time seemed to catch in its tracks. Then, a single crystalline crack split the sky, followed by a deafening roar as the entire domain shattered like fragile glass. The backlash was violent, sending the Yangbans reeling, blood spraying from their lips as their formation disintegrated.
Alan didn't give them a moment to breathe. He blurred into motion, appearing instantly before the nearest foe.
"Extinction.."
A flash of steel followed, and the Yangban was sent spiraling away, a jagged wound carved across his chest. Without pausing, Alan pivoted on his heel. "Sword!."
A sequence of thunderous explosions swallowed a second Yangban in a plume of fire and smoke. A third tried to retreat, his feet glowing with the light of a Divine Step, but Alan was already there, waiting. With a casual flick of "Revolve," he parried the panicked counter-attack and delivered a lethal riposte that dropped the god-like being to the dirt.
Only two remained.
The arrogance that had defined them was gone, replaced by a cold, paralyzing dread. "Monster..." one muttered, his voice breaking.
Alan met their gaze and raised his blade once more. "Come."
They didn't charge. They fled. But before they could take their first step into the distance, Alan vanished. A dark blur streaked through the air, and silence reclaimed the ruins.
Alan stood with his back to them, his sword lowering as the edge hummed. Two thin, crimson lines bloomed across the backs of the fleeing Yangbans before they collapsed in unison. The dust settled, the suffocating pressure vanished, and the battlefield fell deathly still.
Alan stood alone amidst the wreckage. His aura receded into the shadows of his cloak as he stared toward the horizon.
"...Next."
The word drifted into the silence, swallowed by the settling dust. For a heartbeat, the world held its breath. Then, Alan's gaze shifted, cutting through the haze toward a lone figure standing amidst the wreckage.
The man stood apart from the ruins, untouched and entirely unshaken. With his hands clasped behind his back and a faint, mocking smile playing on his lips, he watched the carnage as if it were nothing more than a passing amusement. He was the final Yangban.
"So," Alan said, his voice level. "You're the last one."
The man tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous sort of curiosity. "I thought it would have been wiser for you to bow," he replied casually. "But instead... you chose this. Interesting."
Alan didn't waste breath on a retort, but his focus narrowed. Floating above the man's head was a name that carried a weight the others hadn't: Garam.
He wasn't like the rest. This wasn't just another arrogant official; the air around him felt different—heavier, sharper, and far more lethal. Garam took a slow, leisurely step forward, his expression almost bordering on boredom.
"You defeated them too easily," Garam mused. "It makes me wonder... just how far you can actually go."
A faint golden aura began to bleed from his form. Unlike the volatile, explosive energy of his fallen comrades, Garam's power was terrifyingly stable. It was dense, controlled, and perfectly channeled. The atmosphere didn't shatter; it bent, yielding to his sheer will.
Alan's grip tightened on his hilt—a subtle movement, but Garam caught it. His smile widened. "Good. At least you understand the difference."
The battlefield grew heavy once more. This time, the pressure didn't come from a formation or a hundred men, but from the singular presence of the man standing before him. Garam stopped just a few paces away, well within the threshold of death.
"Show me," Garam whispered.
Alan didn't hesitate. As he lunged forward, the earth cracked simultaneously beneath both their feet. In an instant, the world blurred into motion.
The collision was not a sound, but a physical shockwave that stripped the topsoil from the earth.
Garam didn't draw a weapon. As Alan's blade descended with the weight of a falling star, the Yangban simply raised a hand. His fingers, glowing with a serene, terrifying translucence, caught the edge of the sword. The impact screamed, a high-pitched metallic wail that forced the air out of the surrounding square mile, yet Garam's feet didn't move an inch.
"Is this the 'Pinnacle' that shattered the domain?" Garam asked, his voice undisturbed by the gale-force winds swirling around them. "A bit light, don't you think?"
Alan didn't answer. His eyes remained cold, focused. In a fluid motion, he twisted the hilt, shifting his weight to transition into a flurry of strikes.
The air was carved into ribbons. Four, five, six slashes—each one capable of cleaving a mountain—converged on Garam from impossible angles. But the Yangban moved with a grace that defied physics. He didn't dodge; he flowed. He stepped through the gaps in the sword's path, his body blurring like a mirage. To the untrained eye, it looked like Alan was swinging at a ghost. To Alan, it felt like trying to cut the wind.