The sky cracked.
From the swirling golden clouds descended a streak of light, sharp and blinding. A man stood at its center, clad in silver-gold robes that bore the triple scars of his sect — a symbol of their dominance in the Lower World.
His aura was vast, pressing down like a collapsing mountain range.
Elder Mu — Core Formation cultivator of the Three-Scars Sect.
Dustfall Ridge trembled as he arrived. The remaining mountain beasts scattered, trees bent at unnatural angles, and even Elder Shan's knees wobbled under the pressure.
But Zhen Wuji stood tall.
Shirtless, barefoot, body marked with blood and force. His hair whipped in the storm winds the Core Formation aura brought — yet his eyes were calm. Quiet. Focused.
"You're the one who crippled disciples of my sect?" Elder Mu's voice rang out like thunder. "Even destroyed a Three-Scars formation node?"
Wuji didn't answer.
Not with words.
Only a slow step forward — the ground caving beneath his footfall.
Elder Mu's brows twitched. "How arrogant. No cultivation I can sense… and yet, this pressure… what are you?"
Zhen Wuji raised his head. "The answer to your sect's sins."
He stepped again.
BOOM.
The air shook.
Elder Mu's face darkened. "You dare?!"
A golden blade of Qi formed in the sky — sharp, radiant, imbued with years of refined Dao comprehension.
"Fall."
With that word, the blade descended like judgment. A Core Formation elder's full-force sword intent — enough to split a small mountain.
Elder Shan cried out. "Wuji! Retreat—"
But Zhen Wuji raised his hand slowly. Not to block — to punch.
No technique. No Qi.
Just force.
Primordial Tyrant Fist: Heaven-Breaker.
His knuckles cracked mid-swing.
His heart beat once — the Titan Drum resounded.
Lungs compressed — the Storm-Breath Furnace ignited.
His organs harmonized — the divine machine of his body moved.
Then—
BOOOOOM!
Fist met sword.
Gold light shattered.
Sky sundered.
A shockwave erupted in every direction, flattening hundreds of trees, sending loose boulders flying miles away.
Elder Mu's body was flung back like a comet, slamming into a distant cliff. Blood sprayed from his mouth, his spiritual robes torn open, chest caved in.
Silence.
Wuji lowered his hand.
Steam rose from his fist. His knuckles bled — but the bone was intact.
Unbroken.
Because even the heavens couldn't break what he had forged.
Elder Shan stared in open disbelief.
"That was a Core Formation elder… with Qi laws, flying sword technique, decades of refinement… and Wuji just… punched through it?"
Zhen Wuji's breathing calmed.
That single punch had pushed his body to the edge. But he had confirmed something.
He didn't need spells.
He didn't need spirit weapons.
He didn't even need the so-called 'Dao.'
Absolute force was enough.
Wuji turned toward the stunned elder in the rubble.
He wasn't dead — not yet.
But his eyes no longer held arrogance.
Only fear.
"You," Wuji said slowly, voice heavy as falling stone, "go back to your sect. Tell your masters…"
He stepped forward again. The ground caved, forming a crater.
"…this is your final warning. Dustfall is no longer yours to oppress."
Elder Mu coughed blood, but crawled backward, eyes wide.
Zhen Wuji didn't chase him. He turned away, the sun breaking through the clouds behind him as if to mark the moment.
The heavens had just witnessed a new variable.
In the Lower World where Qi was king, and cultivation technique ruled, a boy from a forgotten village had punched through an elder's legacy with only flesh and will.
Elder Shan finally spoke, voice trembling with awe.
"You're no longer a child of Dustfall… You've become a storm of the Lower World."
Wuji looked up at the clear sky.
"Not yet," he said.
"My storm hasn't even started.