I Become Sect master In Another World

The wind fell silent.

Shaurya stood amidst the ruins, his body bloodied and bruised, golden light leaking faintly through the cracks in his skin. His head tilted slightly forward, strands of hair falling over his eyes, his breath slow but steady.

From his chest, a soft, rhythmic pulse of golden light began to spread.

Thump… thump… thump…

Each pulse grew stronger.

The veins beneath his skin glowed like molten threads of sunlight, crawling up his arms and neck. The ground beneath his feet trembled, tiny cracks forming in all directions as if the very realm responded to the divine frequency in his blood.

Yang Ling narrowed his molten-gold eyes, his grin faltering slightly.

"What is this…?" he murmured, voice echoing low and cautious.

Then the grin returned—forced, cold, mocking.

"You're just struggling to stay alive, boy. Stop pretending to be divine."

But even as he spoke, the air began to shimmer.

The crimson mist evaporated around Shaurya, burned away by the radiance bursting from his body. Golden embers floated upward, each one swirling like a star freed from the heavens.

Shaurya raised his head. His eyes glowed completely gold—no pupils, no whites, just pure light.

Yang Ling clicked his tongue, irritation replacing confidence. His grey aura flared violently, forming a dome of shadow that warped the space around him.

"Playing tricks of light won't save you!" he roared, thrusting both hands forward. "Ghost Devour Art!"

The ground split open as countless spectral arms reached upward—souls screaming in agony, writhing as they lunged for Shaurya. Their claws raked the air, trying to pull him into darkness.

Shaurya finally spoke, his voice calm—yet it carried a weight that seemed to echo across realms.

"You… have no idea what power truly is."

He shift his stance in power up pose. His voice like thunder.

"My power... Its my Fury."

He roared.

From the ground to the heavens, a pillar of golden aura erupted, rising higher and higher until it collides with the realm's dark sky. The forest glowed like day, the darkness retreating in all directions.

the moment souls touched his aura—

SSSSHHH!

They disintegrated into motes of light.

The divine energy burned through the spiritual corruption like fire through dry leaves.

Yang Ling's eyes widened. "Impossible…"

Lin Shu's breath caught in her throat. Her heart pounded. "This feeling… it's like… divinity itself."

Elder Wan stepped back, awe-struck. "His aura—it's destroying the darkness…"

Yang Ling hissed, stepping back despite himself. His own shadow aura flickered, reacting violently to the purifying energy. "You—what are you!?"

Shaurya's gaze lifted slowly to meet his. His golden eyes burned—not with rage, but with unshakable truth.

"The Power of Truth," he said softly, voice steady as the world itself began to listen.

"The Light in the darkness. The fire that cleanses evil."

His words rolled through the battlefield like a divine echo, resonating through every trembling heart.

"I am the man blessed by God.

Across the higher heavens and the deepest Abyss, I alone bear the crown of glory."

He opened his arms wide — standing tall in a T-pose, his form framed by a brilliant golden radiance.

For a moment, it was as if heaven itself had descended.

The ground beneath him glowed white-gold, cracks of light spreading outward like veins of molten divinity. His body turned completely golden, burning with sacred fire — his very presence purifying the corrupted mist that dared to approach him.

Then—

WHOOOSH!

The golden aura around him burst outward, erupting into countless embers that danced through the air like stars scattering from the sun. The brilliance was overwhelming; even the mist recoiled, evaporating into nothing under the weight of his light.

His injuries sealed instantly. The bleeding stopped.

The faint scars across his body vanished like illusions under dawn.

His pupils shifted, glowing molten gold.

And on his forehead, the golden Sudarshan Chakra mark blazed alive radiating divine energy.

Lin Shu's lips curved into a small, relieved smile, her voice barely a whisper. "Shaurya…"

Shaurya rolled his neck lightly, a soft cracking sound breaking the silence. Then, his lips curved upward into a faint grin.

He stepped forward once.

BOOM!

The earth split beneath his foot. Cracks spread outward like lightning veins, golden sparks escaping from the ground.

Then he vanished.

The air screamed as his body blurred into motion, the force of his step tearing the atmosphere apart. The aftershock alone uprooted the earth behind him, sending a shockwave that scattered stones and shattered gravestones.

In less than a blink, he was there —

Right in front of Yang Ling.

His right fist glowed pure gold, aura coiling around it like a divine serpent.

He struck.

The world itself seemed to compress around that single blow — pressure bending the air,

But—

Before the fist connected, Yang Ling's eyes flashed.

He smirked.

In an instant, he twisted his body sideways — moving like smoke.

Shaurya's punch sliced through the air, missing by a breath.

BOOOOOM!

The sheer power of the near-miss detonated, shockwaves tearing through the battlefield. The ground cracked open, a crater exploding outward from the invisible pressure of the punch alone.

Yang Ling, grinning wickedly, turned on his heel. His movements were smooth, eerie — his body bending with inhuman flexibility.

He shifted into stance, dark aura surging violently.

And before Shaurya could recover from his swing, Yang Ling's right fist shot forward — fast, precise, unstoppable.

Shaurya stepped into the attack. His left arm moved, intercepting Yang Ling's punch, their forearms clashing.

Crack!

A shockwave shattered the ground between them, dirt erupting like a geyser.

Yang Ling snarled and twisted, swinging a kick low. Shaurya blocked with his knee, sparks and light bursting from the contact. The force blasted both of them backward — but neither yielded.

They charged again.

BOOM!

The second impact blew apart the earth, flinging shards of stone through the air. Shaurya ducked under a strike and countered with a palm thrust directly on Yang Ling chest. Yang Ling was hurled backward, rolling across the broken ground before flipping upright, his laughter echoing through the ruins.

"Not bad," Yang Ling grinned, blood leaking from his mouth, "but not enough!"

He raised both hands. The sky above turned red as spectral shapes burst from the clouds — writhing phantoms screaming in torment.

Yang Ling's arms twisted unnaturally as he brought his palms together. "Soul Reaper Claw!"

The ghosts formed into two enormous hands made of Yin Qi that lunged toward Shaurya, raking through the earth, tearing trees from their roots.

Shaurya's eyes flared gold.

The battlefield was drowned in shadow.

Yang Ling's ghostly claws loomed above the wasteland like monstrous towers of darkness—each spectral hand large enough to crush a hill, dripping grey energy that hissed as it devoured the air itself. The ground shook beneath their weight, the entire forest groaning as though the world itself could not bear their existence.

Shaurya stood at the center of it all—his coat whipping violently in the storm of Yin Qi, his gaze locked on the descending claws.

He exhaled slowly.

Then his right hand gripped the hilt of his sword.

The sound of his thumb pressing against the guard rang sharp and clear through the chaos—a single metallic click that silenced the storm for the briefest instant.

He drew the blade in one clean motion.

The sword blazed to life, glowing with divine golden energy that shimmered like molten sunlight. The brilliance painted the ruined battlefield in gold, pushing back the grey shadows.

Shaurya bent slightly, one knee lowering, muscles coiled tight with focused strength. His expression hardened—calm, but fierce. The air rippled around him from the sheer density of his aura.

Then—

He leapt.

The earth cracked beneath his feet as he shot upward, a streak of golden light tearing through the corrupted air.

His voice echoed like thunder.

"Ultimate Sword Strike!"

He swung his sword mid-flight—precise, swift, absolute.

From the arc of his blade burst a storm of golden energy.

Dozens of slashes ignited the air, each one slicing forward in blinding light.

The golden strikes tore through the sky like falling stars—each cut carrying the weight of divine force.

They collided with the spectral hands.

BOOOOOM!

The first impact shattered the air; the second exploded like a celestial drumbeat.

Golden blades cleaved through the giant claws, slicing them apart effortlessly. The ghostly matter sizzled and disintegrated, evaporating into wisps of smoke.

The spectral claws wailed—screams of agony that echoed for miles before fading into silence.

When the last sound vanished, the sky cleared—light spilling through the cracks of dissolving shadow.

Shaurya's golden aura burned against the darkness like a solitary sun.

He looked down toward Yang Ling, eyes sharp, unyielding.

Then, without a word, he sheathed his sword.

The sound of metal sliding into the scabbard echoed clean and final.

His body fell gracefully through the air, spinning once before landing. The moment his boots touched the ground, it cracked, spiderweb fissures spreading outward under the sheer weight of his power.

Dust billowed.

Smoke twisted around him.

He straightened, never breaking eye contact with Yang Ling.

Yang Ling stood at a distance, his lips curling into a cruel smile.

Then, slowly, he began to laugh—low at first, then louder, rising above the sound of burning earth.

The forest seemed to darken once more beneath that laughter.

Their eyes locked.

No words, no movement—just the weight of two powers clashing in silence.

Then—

They vanished.

In the blink of an eye, both disappeared from sight.

The watching disciples froze, eyes wide, hearts hammering.

Not even the elders could track their movements.

And then—

Both figures reappeared midair, fists drawn back— a storm gathering between their blows.

The air screamed once more.

They struck at the same time.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Each blow shattered the air. The trees bent away from the pressure. The soil ripped apart beneath them. Shaurya's golden aura burned brighter, wrapping around him like a phoenix cloak, while Yang Ling's ghostly mist clawed and hissed, refusing to die.

They fought through the flames and smoke — exchanging hundreds of blows in seconds. Shaurya ducked under a hook, slammed his elbow into Yang Ling's jaw, then twisted into a spinning kick. Yang Ling absorbed it with his arm, grabbed Shaurya's leg mid-spin, and slammed him into the ground.

BOOOM!

The forest floor cratered.

Shaurya kicked off the ground, flipping upright, his golden aura crackling violently. Yang Ling leapt from the smoke, a ghostly blade of compressed Yin energy forming along his arm.

He slashed down. Shaurya crossed his arms, golden energy bursting in defense. Sparks of divine gold and ghostly grey rained down like a storm of falling stars.

Yang Ling roared, his strikes becoming faster — each blow heavy, precise, ruthless. Shaurya blocked, parried, countered — his every motion a blur of discipline and instinct.

The ground beneath them melted from the sheer heat and impact.

They vanished again.

The space between them shattered—air rupturing with every step, every strike too fast for mortal eyes to follow.

Only the sound remained.

BOOM!

CRACK!

BOOOOM!

Shockwaves erupted outward with every collision, tearing through the battlefield. Each impact sent waves of pressure rippling across the broken ground, turning dust into storms and stones into shrapnel.

Explosions bloomed in rapid succession, lighting up the ruins like thunder made visible.

A blur of gold cut through the haze—Shaurya reappeared mid-air, his body twisting, blood dripping down the side of his cheek. His boots struck the earth hard—

THA-DOOM!

The ground cratered beneath his feet, but before the debris even settled, he was gone again—

vanishing into streaks of golden light.

A zigzag pattern of explosions followed in his wake—

each footstep detonating as his speed ripped the air apart.

From the rolling dust, Yang Ling's figure emerged, half-hidden in grey mist, his expression twisted into a feral grin. Black blood rippled from a cut on his forehead, sliding down across his face like ink. His aura hissed around him, the shadows feeding on the chaos.

The disciples watching from afar could barely stand upright.

The sheer force of the battle pressed down on them like an invisible storm.

Even the elders strained against the pressure—standing before the disciples, their spiritual energy flaring desperately to form barriers.

But even they trembled, sweat beading on their foreheads as the shockwaves rattled through their bones.

"Stay behind us!" Elder Liya shouted, her voice nearly drowned by the roaring wind.

BOOOOM!

A massive explosion tore through the center of the battlefield—far greater than any before. The blast sent a pillar of dust and shattered stone spiraling into the sky.

The shockwave raced outward, flattening what remained of the forest.

For a long, breathless moment, everything vanished into swirling grey smoke.

Then—

as the dust began to settle—two figures stood at the heart of the destruction.

The earth beneath them had collapsed into a crater several meters deep, glowing faintly from residual heat.

At its center stood Shaurya and Yang Ling.

Both were bloodied.

Shaurya's chest heaved, his breaths sharp and heavy, golden aura flickering erratically around his battered form. His once-flawless robes were torn, his arms and face marked with gashes that still glowed faintly from impact burns.

Yang Ling wasn't unscathed either. His face was pale, his breaths uneven. Black blood dripped steadily from his nose and mouth, each drop sizzling as it hit the scorched ground. His aura pulsed weakly for a moment before flaring again, feeding on his rage.

Their eyes locked—two storms of will colliding without words.

Then Yang Ling grinned.

He started laughing. A deep, guttural sound that echoed across the battlefield, mocking and cruel.

"Is this the best you can do?" he sneered, voice sharp like broken glass. "So much talk… and this is all it amounts to? You're not even a match for your own words."

Shaurya's jaw tightened. His hand clenched into a trembling fist.

He inhaled deeply—then exhaled, slow and steady.

A small, confident smile spread across his face.

"The battle," he said softly, golden light flickering once more in his eyes, "is only starting."

He cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing through the silence like the prelude of a storm.

The wind shifted.

Golden sparks began to rise again from the ground around his feet.

Yang Ling voice came out cold, hollow, layered with a thousand whispers.

"Then allow me to finish... This battle."

The ground shuddered.

Grey shadows began to coil around him, thick and heavy like liquid smoke. They spiraled upward, circling him like a cyclone. Then—

The shadows burst outward.

From within them, hundreds of ghostly figures emerged.

Their faces were hollow, eyes lifeless, bodies translucent and twisted—cultivators long dead, trapped forever between worlds. Their mouths hung open, releasing soundless wails that curdled the blood of everyone who heard them.

The temperature plummeted. Frost crawled up the broken gravestones.

Meng Liyu's breath hitched. "What are those…"

Elder Liya's voice trembled. "Those… are human souls. He's enslaved them…"

Lin Shu's expression hardened, her hand tightening on her sword. "Shameless…"

Yang Ling threw his head back and laughed, the sound deep, echoing, monstrous.

His laughter rippled through the air like cracks in reality itself.

"Ghost Art: Soul Torrent!"

The grey shadows thickened, swirling behind him like a storm front.

Then—like a tidal wave—the legion of ghostly spirits rushed forward.

They screamed in unison—hundreds of voices that weren't alive, weren't dead.

Their combined cry shook the air like thunder.

The ground exploded beneath their speed as they surged toward Shaurya, a wall of spectral energy consuming everything in its path.

Trees crumbled into ash before touching them. Stones melted under their Yin Qi.

The sky dimmed until only grey and red light remained.

Shaurya stood still, his golden aura flickering like a lone torch in an ocean of darkness. His expression didn't waver. His eyes glowed faintly gold, reflecting the oncoming tide.

The wave of ghosts loomed higher—like the wrath of a forgotten world—before crashing down toward him.

Shaurya stood still, golden aura flickering gently, his face calm beneath the rising storm. His eyes lifted, reflecting the countless souls rushing toward him.

For a heartbeat, he inhaled—

and the world seemed to pause.

Then he moved.

His right hand slid to the hilt of the sword at his waist.

Golden sparks leapt from his fingers.

The moment his thumb pushed against the guard, golden energy rippled outward, twisting the air itself.

He drew the blade. With a defying roar.

"Divine Sword Art—End of Darkness!"

The sword sang.

A single, radiant flash tore through the night.

The golden slash burst forth the instant the blade left its scabbard—swift, absolute, untraceable.

It cut through the darkness like dawn through shadow.

The wave of ghosts collided with the golden arc—then light devoured every ghost Spirit then it collides with Yang Ling, his eyes widened in shock.

BOOOOOOM!

The light devoured everything.

The explosion of brilliance drowned out every sound.

The crimson mist vanished, burned to nothing.

The howls of the undead faded into silence as their forms disintegrated into glittering dust.

The golden arc carved through the forest. The shockwave rolled outward for miles—trees vaporized, the ground split apart, the air turned molten. The roar of destruction drowned even the cries of the damned, its light sweeping for miles before fading into a soft glow.

When the light finally faded, silence reigned.

The once-crimson forest was gone—reduced to a wasteland of ash and shattered stone. The earth itself glowed faintly from the heat, smoke coiling upward into the grey sky.

At the center of that ruin stood Shaurya—kneeling slightly, one hand on the ground, his body trembling. His blade still hummed softly, golden light flickering from its edge.

Before him, Yang Ling staggered out of the smoke. His right arm—gone. Torn off completely by the force of the strike.

Black blood poured down his shoulder, hissing as it hit the scorched ground.

His once-smooth chest was marred by deep, glowing cracks where the golden energy had burned through him.

He coughed, blood spilling from his mouth. His body shook. His ghostly aura flickered like a candle in storm.

Shaurya rose to his feet slowly. His breathing ragged. Sweat rolled down his forehead, dripping from his jaw.

He exhaled, calm but heavy.

"…So this is how much it takes to break you."

His tone was light—almost amused. But exhaustion weighed behind it.

He raised his sword slightly, its blade still gleaming faintly gold.

Yang Ling took one staggering step forward—then stopped. His body trembled.

Lin Shu's eyes widened. "He… he's finished…"

Meng Liyu nodded, awe on her face. "That strike—it destroyed everything…"

Elder Wan's voice was low, reverent. "The End of Darkness… truly divine destruction."

Shaurya smiled faintly, eyes calm, his golden aura flickering around him like fading sunlight.

But then—

A low chuckle.

Soft at first. Then louder.

"...Heheheh…"

Yang Ling's head tilted back, a wide grin twisting his bloodstained face.

He started laughing.

Not weakly—but madly.

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

The sound echoed through the ruins, sending chills down every spine.

Shaurya's eyes narrowed.

Crimson mist began to rise again from Yang Ling's wounds—thick, heavy, alive.

It wrapped around his body, coiling upward like a serpent of blood.

The ground beneath him darkened as if bleeding.

His broken arm twitched—then, slowly, regrew. Bone formed, sinew stretched, flesh sealed.

In moments, the limb was whole again.

His chest wounds vanished. His skin reformed. His aura flared back—stronger, heavier, far darker.

He was floating now—suspended in the air, surrounded by crimson vapor that twisted like screaming faces.

His molten-gold eyes shifted—

turning into pure, blood-red orbs, glowing with malice and hunger.

Elder Liya stepped back, her voice trembling. "That… that's impossible!"

Elder Wan clenched his fists. "He's regenerating through pure Yin essence! His spirit energy—it's devouring the world around him!"

Yang Ling raised his head, smiling wide, his voice cold and resonant.

"You thought you could destroy me with light?"

He extended his right hand—dark mist condensed, forming a long, jagged blade, pitch-black with crimson cracks running through it.

It pulsed with an aura that twisted the very air around it. The sound it made wasn't a hum—it was a low, distorted whisper of countless souls screaming at once.

"Now," he said softly, "let's begin the real battle."

The crimson mist swirled violently around him, shaping into wings of shadow.

Shaurya tightened his grip on his sword. His breath came slow and steady, though his chest rose and fell with exhaustion. Sweat dripped down his neck.

Still, his expression didn't waver.

He slid his right foot back, blade angled low, eyes locked on his enemy.

Even drained, even bleeding, his aura still flickered gold.

His voice was steady.

"Come, then."

Yang Ling's smile widened, eyes gleaming crimson.

"Gladly."

The mist burst.

Both vanished.

A shockwave split the ground where they once stood, the sound of steel and flame colliding once more—

the battle far from over.

To Be Continued...