Under the moon's silver glow, Kaelan watches Tang Luyan and the elders disappear into the distance.
Silence returns.
Only wind and the gentle murmur of the Xinyi River remain.
Kaelan stands alone—and finally opens the bundle of martial art manuals Tang Luyan handed him.
Nine in total.
Each one is the culmination of centuries of blood, battle, and refinement by the Demon Hunting Association.
He reads page after page, his gaze calm, yet his mind dissecting every stroke, movement, intent and conceptual base.
Punches based on tremor force.
Swords based on mountain-cleaving weight.
Footwork based on storms, shadows, or echoes.
Crude… yet brilliant in their stubborn pursuit of strength.
As he reads, his spirit quietly deduces the deeper meaning in each technique—how the wielder's body channels the world, how intent creates form, how form breeds power.
Fog begins creeping along the riverbank—quiet, thick, unnatural.
Kaelan lifts his gaze toward the forest.
He closes the final manual.
Then, without a hint of worry, he flicks his fingers.
A small flame appears.
The books burn.
Ash floats upward like fading fireflies.
From the fog—three figures emerge.
Half-human.
Half-machine.
Wood, metal, flesh, and runes woven together into a single sinful form.
Heavenly Officials of the Divine Puppet Sect.
A threat even cultivators fear.
Kaelan studies them calmly.
"I expected assassins," he says lightly. "But not three."
The right one—broad build, round metal-plated face, mechanical eyes glowing faintly—lets out a distorted laugh.
"You think numbers matter? You think you'll walk away?"
Kaelan answers simply:
"Yes."
The left one—the one with metallic green hair tied into a wooden skull—smiles cruelly.
"Let's not kill him too fast. I want to hear him scream. Break his spirit first."
But the one in the middle—the leader, with a fully mechanical head—speaks in a cold, emotionless tone:
"No. The Lord's order is absolute. Kill him swiftly."
Lightning erupts from the official's metallic body.
"Lightning Spear."
The other two move instantly.
One summons rippling shockwaves.
The other grows towering wooden walls crackling with bloodline runes.
They form a triangle—locking Kaelan inside.
Kaelan exhales softly.
Mana ignites under his skin—like a storm waking from sleep.
Thunderlight ripples through his veins.
A distant explosion echoes from the city—followed by screams.
Kaelan's eyes narrow.
They're attacking the capital to cut off reinforcement.
Cold calculation enters his gaze.
The lightning spear streaks toward him—splitting the air.
Kaelan lifts a hand.
Lightning coils around his arm—
—then snaps outward.
Crack.
It becomes a whip of thunder, alive with storm fury.
With a single sweep, he dissolves the spear.
Then the lightning whip lengthens—multiplying, striking all three assailants at once.
The centre puppet raises a metallic shield of crackling arcs.
The left puppet summons a living wooden barrier infused with sealing runes.
The right puppet punches forward, sending vibrating shockwaves to counter the whip.
All three block—just barely.
The right Heavenly Official hisses, eyes narrowing.
"It's true."
His voice trembles—not from fear, but excitement.
"His strength… has reached the Divine Mind Realm."
Kaelan rolls his wrist.
The lightning whip coils back, sparks gathering—then collapses inward, condensing into a pulse of darkness and thunder.
Kaelan's voice is low, steady, almost quiet:
"Dark Lightning Storm."
Power erupts.
Shadow and thunder fuse—ink-black lightning floods outward like a living tempest. The night sky cracks with pressure, the river below thrashes, and the land trembles beneath the weight of his spell.
The air twists—
—and the Heavenly Officials react.
The centre puppet thrusts his metallic arm forward.
" Lightning Tiger. "
A massive tiger of blue lightning materialises with a roar that shakes the sky, pouncing into the storm.
From the left, runes ignite.
A colossal vine serpent bursts forth, thorned coils glowing with sickly poison.
From the right, a hawk of vibrating wind takes shape, its wings humming with sonic blades.
All three elemental beasts dive into the black storm—tearing through it.
Electric silence follows.
Then—
The Dark Lightning explodes outward.
The storm peels open.
Kaelan stands at its heart.
A sword wrapped in black lightning burns in his hand.
A suit of black thunder-armour clings to his body—runed, alive, pulsing like a beating heart.
His eyes are calm.
His presence—terrifying.
So this is the true purpose of Dark Lightning Storm:
Not destruction—integration.
A magic spell and a combat form merged perfectly.
The elemental beasts reach him.
Kaelan moves.
His sword arcs once—clean, fluid—
—and the lightning tiger splits apart.
He steps forward—another swing—and the wind hawk scatters to dust.
A third slash—cold, precise—and the vine serpent is severed and detonates into burning sap.
Before the shrapnel of energy clears, Kaelan is already in front of the centre Heavenly Official.
His sword meets metal.
Clang—!
Sparks explode.
Runes flare across the puppet's arm as it blocks.
Kaelan does not pause.
Strike after strike falls like a black winter storm—fast, merciless, unrelenting.
Steel trembles.
Circuits glow red.
Cracks form.
The puppet staggers—but before Kaelan can break through, a wooden whip lashes from behind.
Kaelan shifts—body bending like wind—and his sword swings backwards, cutting the vines in a single fluid motion.
The right puppet rushes him with a vibrating fist, air screaming around it.
Kaelan's eyes don't move.
But his domain perceives everything.
He raises his blade—
—and a black lightning arc splits the attack and hurls the puppet back.
The moment the space clears, he lowers his sword and lifts his free hand.
Earth answers.
A stone wall erupts upward—just in time to catch a blast of condensed lightning from the middle Heavenly Official.
Stone melts.
Glass hisses.
The wall evaporates—but the attack is stopped.
Kaelan steps back, letting the shockwave pass over him, while around him the air fills with fire-inscribed runes.
A hundred flaming arrows burst into existence—and streak toward the left puppet.
They shatter bark, they scorch metal—but the living vines keep advancing.
Poison drips.
Kaelan meets them.
His left hand catches the vibrating fist of the right puppet—crushing the shockwave as if squeezing mist.
His sword cleaves downward.
Mana shifts—no longer just lightning.
Death joins it.
The black lightning thickens—turns cold—hungry.
One stroke.
The vines wither instantly, turning to ash mid-air before they even touch the ground.
Across the battlefield—
The centre puppet finally finishes gathering power.
The sky fractures with light.
A sea of pure lightning gathers above them—dense enough to feel like falling mountains.
Weapons form inside the storm:
Spears.
Axes.
Swords.
Chains.
All forged from condensed divine lightning.
The sky hums, glowing, blinding white.
"Great Magic—Lightning Destruction."
The weapons fall—hundreds of them—each strong enough to erase a city block.
The other two puppets retreat instantly, distancing themselves from the kill zone.
Kaelan lifts his gaze.
Black lightning crawls along his armour.
Wind chills.
The very air bows.
His voice—calm, unhurried—cuts through the thunder:
"…Interesting."
He raises his blade.
And the night prepares to split.
Far across the battlefield—in the city—Tang Luyan drives his blade through a lunging corpse puppet, forcing it back. His body freezes for a brief instant as an overwhelming surge of lightning gathers above the river.
His head turns.
A storm—no, a sea of lightning—has formed in the sky beyond Xinyi River. Thunder rolls like an execution drum.
Tang Luyan narrows his eyes.
Kong Wuya… what are you facing?
The corpse puppet shrieks and rushes him again, but Tang Luyan no longer holds back. He channels his newly awakened mana into the Demon Sword. Runes ignite—sharp, ancient, predatory.
The sword hums.
Then—
Slash.
A razor-thin blue sword light tears forward, clean and merciless.
The corpse puppet howls, corpse-qi erupting to form a defensive curtain. But the Demon Sword earned its title through blood and history—the bane of all corrupt life.
The curtain splits like paper.
A deep gash blooms across the puppet's abdomen—flesh and metal unravelling.
Three breaths later—
Three strikes later—
The corpse puppet falls in neatly carved pieces, scattering like butchered meat across the bloodstained street.
All around him, chaos swallows the capital. Martial artists battle puppets in alleys and courtyards. Screams, qi explosions, and collapsing houses shake the night.
Tang Luyan does not rush to another fight.
Instead, he stands atop a rooftop—wind whipping his robes—looking across the river at the storm devouring the sky.
Lightning flashes violently, drowning the horizon in blinding white.
And in that sea of destruction—
He can no longer sense Kong Wuya's aura.
His heart tightens.
"...Did he die?"
The question is quiet—not disbelief, not hope—just a cold calculation of possibility.
Why now?
Why attack in force after the preaching?
If the Divine Puppet Sect feared the Wizard Way, they should have struck before the world heard it—before minds changed—before doubt took root.
Now—even if Kong Wuya dies—
The Wizard Way will not vanish.
It will spread regardless.
It may never fully replace martial arts, but it will stand beside them—equal to Qi Refining. For countless people, the door is already open, and no death can close it again.
A thunderous explosion rips across the river.
The lightning sea trembles—as if something inside it just broke free.
Tang Luyan exhales sharply, tightening his grip on his sword.
There is no more time to think.
He leaps back into the burning streets.
There are people to protect.
There is still a kingdom to defend.
END.