CHAPTER 75: DISCIPLE CULTIVATION SYSTEM CH75 END OF RANK GAMES.

Art woke up with a strained headache, yet he merely scoffed and walked out of the infirmary.

The nurses tried stopping him, their voices ringing with dozens of complaints and compliance orders, but he found their chatter a nuisance. With a flicker of annoyance, he unleashed his aura, quickly silencing them. The weight of it pressed against their throats, and not a single word left their lips as he stepped outside, where the vast night sky stretched endlessly above him.

He threw the moon a strange glance before willing his body toward the headmistress’s office.

On his way, he saw a few exhausted students trudging home after a long and eventful day. He gave them a sympathetic nod as he passed, silently praying he hadn’t missed his chance of meeting the Sword Saint.

"Shit... my head."

The pain from that final strike he had received from Valaria—still lingered inside his skull. It was like the aftermath of a strong perfume that never left, except this one was bitter, agonizing, and ceaselessly spinning his mind.

"I have to warn her."

An event was about to transpire in Kingford, one that would hinge heavily on the presence of two Saints. If Valaria wasn’t ready—and she wasn’t—then disaster mustn’t follow. He had to prevent it, even if it meant altering the plot itself.

"Ha..."

Stumbling through the empty hallway, he pressed one hand against the wall to steady himself as dizziness flooded his vision. The pain from Valaria’s attack, the demonic blood still mixed in his veins, and the backlash of abusing his intent—all of it weighed him down. He was at his absolute limit, and yet, he kept walking.

Valaria wasn’t prepared. She couldn’t bear the weight of the world’s fate just yet. But the Saints could. So he had to ensure nothing happened to them before she was ready.

Encouraging himself again and again, he turned toward a window and caught sight of a crimson moon. His face drained of color, dread creeping into his heart like a vice. The last time that moon had glowed like that... she had appeared. And when she appeared, everything shifted.

"No... she’s trying to stop me."

Looking back, his stomach lurched. A pool of dark blood seeped across the ground behind him, spreading with unnatural speed. Its surface bubbled grotesquely, bursting into gory explosions that gave birth to dark hands, reaching, stretching, clawing toward him.

Hahahahahahaha.

The haunting laughter echoed inside his mind, cruel and mocking, as he quickened his steps in a desperate attempt to escape. The pool slithered across the floor faster and faster, the hands stretching further with each heartbeat.

"I have to run."

He tried to draw upon his aura from deep within his core, but the effort made him cough violently.

"Ugh..."

Instead of power, only blood spilled out of his mouth, splattering the floor in crimson drops.

Drip—!

The sound echoed like a tolling bell. His strength was slipping away by the second. From behind came a wet, sloshing noise, and his instincts screamed. If he was caught, he knew exactly what would happen.

He would lose his memories.

All of them.

The weeks he had spent painstakingly piecing them back together would vanish, swallowed whole. He couldn’t allow that. Never again.

Looking ahead, he spotted the end of the hallway—his destination.

"I can make it," he told himself, even as his face paled.

But then space twisted. The hallway elongated, stretching infinitely, mocking him with its impossible length.

"Arghhhh!"

He screamed in agony. His mind spun, his body trembling violently.

"It’s not fair..."

He didn’t wish for this. He never even wanted to come here. He had only been a college student, struggling to finish school without failing. That was all. Then he met a pretty lady on a train, and everything had been ruined. His entire life shattered simply because he had spoken to her.

"You bitch... you hear me?"

The pool of blood rose, surging forward, transforming into a towering tsunami of darkness meant to engulf him. His throat burned as he screamed at it, eyes wild, bloodshot, and undying with fury.

"I’ll kill you...!"

His fists clenched tight as he tried to stand against it.

"I’ll hunt you down... I’ll make you pay... I fucking swear it!"

The blood rippled with ghostly whispers, like countless souls murmuring within it, before surging even higher, threatening to crush him.

And then—

[??????: Terminus]

Step.

The clicking of heels echoed, sharp and deliberate.

The world froze.

The tide of blood came to a complete halt just before it touched him. Its pitch-black hue drained away, shifting into a dull, lifeless grey. Not just the tide—the whole world had turned monochrome. And in that static, colorless realm, only two figures remained untouched: Art and... her.

Untouched by the monochrome paralysis, her platinum-blonde hair billowed violently behind her as though defying the frozen air. She stood tall, imposing, shielding him with nothing but her presence. Her sword, wrapped in a grandeur of aurora light, shimmered with violent intensity.

It was not a sword of this world.

The blade burned brighter than the moon itself, as if in that instant, it had stolen all the colors of reality and condensed them into its edge. Its radiance was not just light—it was the fire of existence itself. The universe bent under it, reality glitching violently. The world stopped, unable to comprehend her, unable to move until she moved.

A Saint.

No—an entity wielding power that touched the realm of gods.

Art’s breath caught, his body trembling as his gaze was drawn inexorably to her blade.

"Remember..."

The word left her lips, soft yet absolute.

Art blinked—

—and in that blink, reality fractured.

She did not swing her blade. No movement existed to witness. Instead, she had skipped the very act of swinging, the essence of action itself erased. And before Art even realized, the tide of darkness had already been severed, cut cleanly in two.

Her sword angled toward the ground, radiance still humming violently at its tip.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The world shattered like fragile glass. Shards of reality fell away, scattering into a bleached white void untouched by shadow or time. The silence was absolute, crushing.

But before everything could unravel, golden webs materialized from nothingness. They latched onto the broken fragments, pulling them back together, reassembling existence like pieces of an ancient puzzle.

Art’s jaw hung slack. He could only watch as the world rebuilt itself. He had known Saints could shake reality, but to experience it firsthand was beyond words. Abstract. Terrifying. Beautiful.

"I can’t even put into words how I feel about this," he admitted quietly, his body sliding down until his back pressed against the wall.

Seconds later, the world was whole again. The hallway returned to its normal state, the pool of blood gone as though it had never existed.

The Sword Saint scanned the now-empty corridor, her gaze sharp. Satisfied, she turned to her weapon—only for it to shatter in her grip, the blade unable to endure the burden of such overwhelming power. She discarded the remnants without hesitation.

Then, with scarlet eyes gleaming, she approached Art.

She looked strikingly like Trish—only older, fiercer, her eyes burning with a far more dangerous shade and that cool prosthetic arm of her’s flickerd with her aurora aura.

"Do you have something to say?" she asked, crouching to face him directly.

Her voice was soft, gentle even, but her gaze cut like a blade. Art didn’t flinch.

"The exploration team... don’t let them go into the Rift."

"Why?" she asked, not suspicious—merely curious.

"They’ll bring back something harmful."

"Is that all?"

"...No."

It should have been yes. He knew it should. But something in him refused silence. He leaned back, putting just a little distance between them before spitting out the final truth.

"You’re a bad guardian"

And at that exact moment, Cassandra, having just walked out of her office, bore witness to Art collapsing after delivering that insult.