Level 1 to Infinity: My Bloodline Is the Ultimate Cheat!

In the chaos of clashing steel and roaring beasts, a sudden silence cut through the battlefield. Then, as if on instinct, ten thousand blades cleaved at the same point in the void.

Julian raised his greatsword. A strange pull drew every phantom blade behind him into one, fusing into a strike that seemed to split heaven itself. The sword light pierced the air, tearing through the Blood Clan elites. Weapons shattered in their hands, bodies crumbled into ruin, and a vast chasm ripped straight through the enemy formation.

Gasps spread like wildfire. "What… what kind of technique is that?"

No one had ever witnessed such a terrifying strike. That single blow carried a weight that rivaled the full strength of a Saint-rank powerhouse.

"Brute, what about you?" someone asked, their gaze turning to the Saint-rank expert who had once crossed blades with Ethan. The man had been flung aside by Dragon-Phoenix earlier and was now skulking behind the crowd.

"I could dodge it," he admitted reluctantly, "but to block it head on… no. I'd be crippled."

His honesty only deepened the awe surrounding the Central Dominion Guard.

"Rainstorm Needle Formation!" Julian's voice rang out again.

High above, Ethan hovered in the air, suspended in the afterglow of the Wild Blessing. He didn't join the clash; he simply watched.

At Julian's command, the Central Dominion Guard shifted. Their once tight formation scattered apart in sudden disarray. It looked like chaos—yet to the eye, it resembled the legendary Rainstorm Needle technique, a hidden weapon said to unleash countless blades at once.

Where before their power had been one massive strike, now it was countless piercing ones. Men and mounts burst from their ranks like arrows loosed from a bowstring.

Ethan frowned. At first glance, scattering seemed reckless. It should have been stronger to fight as one. But then he realized the truth: every single Guard was an army unto himself.

Each soldier moved as though born to battle. Their Qilin mounts braced as shields while the riders struck as blades, the two moving as one, their coordination seamless. Calm faces, steady breathing, and blows that cut down Blood Clan elites as though it were nothing—these were not men stumbling into war. They were masters, every one of them.

From the rear, the sight was unbelievable. An army this disciplined, this overwhelming, must have been forged through years of blood and fire.

But Ethan knew the truth, and it made even him uneasy. These men had trained barely half a month since bonding with their Illusionary Qilin. Half a month, and already they fought like this. He himself had led them only once in real battle, when they had wiped out several beast clans. Back then, some had barely been Awakened-level. Now, every one of them stood as War Gods, while Julian—their captain—was ironically the weakest among them.

"They really are Beastfall City's strongest force," someone whispered, awe filling the words. "Every last one of them an elite."

Even Baelor Wane and Shaw Zilo, lords in their own right, could not help the envy flashing in their eyes. Then they glanced behind at their own followers—pampered, trembling, useless—and their faces darkened.

"Clearspring City!" Baelor Wane shouted, his teeth gritted. "Take position and hold the line! Buy time for the array to complete!"

His order was met not with action but with hesitation. Faces turned pale, mouths twisted. Not one soul moved.

"Lord City Master… you can't mean that."

"Yeah… we should fall back. We can't fight them!"

Baelor's face turned ashen. He wanted to scream. But the truth was, he knew them too well. Clearspring had always been a safe haven, a city of wealth and peace. There were no beasts nearby, no constant threat of war. Its people lived fat on luxury, most of them clan scions or their relatives who had bought their way into the city's walls.

They had come for safety, not for blood. Many had betrayed their own tribes for a chance at comfort. Clearspring City was a paradise of cowards and opportunists who had sold their souls for an easy life.

And Baelor had fed into that, promising them riches and—more importantly—no danger. He had told them this campaign was nothing more than pressuring Forgotten City into handing over the City Lord's Seal.

Now he was ordering them to fight monsters. Of course they balked.

"You…" Baelor's fists trembled, rage flooding his veins.

"Cuty Lord, why don't we just go back?"

"That's right! Clearspring has its own defenses. Once we bring back the Blue Dragon Beast Spirit, we'll be safe!"

"That's the best way. Why risk dying out here?"

While the Dominion Guard spilled blood at the front, Clearspring's proud warriors began murmuring about retreat.

Then, like lightning, blue light flickered among their ranks. The air split open, and a figure stepped forth, cloaked in frost.

"Those who sow panic in battle… die."

Baelor staggered back in shock. His voice stuck in his throat, not at the sight of Dragon Child herself, but at what dripped from her hands—six still-beating hearts, torn fresh from the chest.

"You…" he croaked.

The corpses hit the ground before he finished. Blood welled from their wounds, freezing solid before it could spread. Gasps erupted from every throat.

"What 'you'?" Dragon Child's gaze was ice. She dropped one of the hearts with a wet splat. "Ethan gave his orders. Anyone who talks of fleeing dies on the spot. Do you want to test me, Baelor?"

The crowd shuddered. No one spoke again.

Then another voice cut through, colder still, counting numbers at inhuman speed. "Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. One hundred sixty-eight…"

All eyes turned. A woman in a red dress traced sparks from her fingertips, each flicker shooting into the distance. And with every spark, someone collapsed, turning to ash before they hit the ground.

"What's happening?" a Saint-rank from Forgotten City gasped. He spun around—only to see the last deserter crumble into dust at the spatial boundary.

"They tried to run…" his voice shook. "They're all dead. Even… even a Saint-rank among them."

The words chilled every bone.

"What? A Saint killed instantly?!"

The woman in red didn't even glance back. Her voice was calm, detached, as if reciting a grocery list. "Deserters should burn three days before execution. I'm too busy for that, so ashes will do."

The silence that followed was absolute.