The Almighty Dominance novel Chapter 640

The mountain wind carried the first distant thunder of hooves and sword-song across the shattered gates of Wudang.

One hundred and fifty Qingcheng disciples swept into the courtyard like a storm front, white robes snapping, blades gleaming under the midday sun.

Their formation was flawless—arrogance wrapped in martial precision.

They had heard the whispers for three long centuries: Wudang was dying—ravaged by the second-rate Yin Yang Sect’s merciless onslaught. Its walls fractured and fell, its legendary name reduced to ridicule among the righteous sects.

A first-rate power like Qingcheng could swallow them whole and still have room for dessert.

They reined in hard. Dust billowed around them.

Every eye took in the half-collapsed outer wall, the great gate hanging drunkenly from a single hinge, the weeds pushing through cracked flagstones. A low murmur rippled through their ranks.

“Wudang was so pathetic. Already on its knees.”

High on the cracked steps of the main hall, Alex waited alone.

Behind him, out of sight, Lu Piao and the others crouched in the shadows, hearts hammering with something fiercer than fear. Anticipation. Hunger.

Alex stepped forward, hands clasped before him, voice calm and carrying.

“Greetings, honored friends from the Qingcheng Sect.” He gave a shallow, respectful bow. “I am Jun Jiu, young leader of Wudang. Our elders and Sect Master lie gravely wounded after the Yin Yang Sect’s incursion. Forgive this younger generation for receiving you in their stead.”

A tall elder at the head of the Qingcheng column—Elder Feng, silver at his temples, eyes like winter steel—stroked his beard and smiled the gentle smile of a man who already owned the room.

“Young Jun Jiu,” he said, voice warm as honeyed wine, “we have heard of Wudang’s dire straits. Unorthodox sects circle like wolves. Demon cultivators sharpen their knives. Even the common rabble grows bold. We come not as conquerors, but as brothers. Let Qingcheng shoulder your burdens. Let us safeguard your lands, your disciples, your very future. Together, we can ensure the righteous path endures.”

Jun Jiu’s face remained politely blank. He heard the offer for what it was: velvet over iron.

Submit. Yield control. Or disappear.

“I agree completely,” he said. “The hidden realm must be protected from unorthodox or demonic sects at all costs. Yet the younger generation of Wudang is… spirited, shall we say.” He paused deliberately, letting the words hang in the air, then smiled. “They may not see the wisdom in your generous proposal.”

“Perhaps a demonstration would convince them. You bring one hundred and fifty. We will match you with one hundred and fifty of our own. One-on-one bouts. The loser obeys the winner. Should your side claim victory in more than half the matches, Wudang will follow Qingcheng without hesitation.”

Elder Feng’s eyebrows lifted. A ripple of laughter moved through his disciples—quick, sharp, confident.

One hundred and fifty against a broken sect? This was charity dressed as sport.

“Very well,” the elder said, spreading his hands. “We accept.”

Jun Jiu’s gaze flicked across the Qingcheng ranks, invisible threads of spiritual sense—bolstered by Gaia’s silent interface—sliding over each cultivator.

Two in Core Formation, their auras heavy as mountain stone. Fifty in Foundation Establishment, solid and proud. Ninety-eight scattered through Qi Condensation, from the first flicker to the tenth layer. He memorized every pulse, every flaw, every strength.

“Done,” Mother Ai whispered inside his skull. “Matches prepared.”

In the hidden realm, the call came without warning.

Transparent windows bloomed in front of one hundred and fifty Wudang disciples mid-spar, mid-meditation, mid-sweat-soaked training. Gaia’s calm voice filled their minds.

“Real combat requested. Opponents waiting in the outer courtyard. Same cultivation level. No simulation. No mercy required. Begin when ready.”

Grins split their faces—feral, bright, relieved. For weeks they had fought shadows, drilled against perfect digital replicas of Qingcheng techniques. Now the shadows would bleed.

They stepped through the shimmering exit portals.

They materialized on the roof of Wudang’s main hall in a ripple of displaced air, then poured down the steps like a silent avalanche—robes clean, eyes shining, bodies humming with real qi.

They spilled into the courtyard and formed up opposite the Qingcheng force. One hundred and fifty against one hundred and fifty. The air crackled.

Lu Piao cracked his knuckles, already paired against a Foundation Establishment bruiser twice his width. “Finally,” he muttered. “Real meat.”

Jun Jiu lifted a hand, his voice steady and authoritative. “Only choose an opponent whose cultivation base matches your own.”

“Understood!”

The Wudang disciples responded loudly and moved with practiced speed toward their pre-assigned opponents, the pairings already determined by Gaia.

The Qingcheng disciples looked at each other in astonishment. How could the pairings be decided so fast? However, the moment they extended their spiritual sense to gauge their opponents, delight bloomed on their faces. Every single Wudang disciple was perfectly matched in realm.

Their eyes shone with confidence.

“Make space for yourselves,” Jun Jiu continued. “You may fight wherever you like.”

Dozens of disciples promptly drifted outside the hall, seeking wider ground for the coming clashes.

“We are ready!”

Elder Feng’s smile had long since faded into a thin line. After a brief pause, he nodded.

“Begin!”

No more words were needed.

The courtyard erupted.

The first clash was thunder. A Core Formation elder from Qingcheng lunged at his Wudang counterpart, sword drawing a crescent of blue fire.

The Wudang fighter—barely forty-five, face calm as still water—met him with a single palm strike that shattered the flame and drove the elder ten feet backward. The second exchange ended in a choke-hold and a quiet, respectful tap on the shoulder. The elder dropped to his knees, stunned.

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