Lightning crashes, space trembles, and Kaelan encloses himself in a spherical shield just as the Thunder Destruction Great Magic Power falls upon him.
Blazing weapons of pure lightning smash into the shield one after another, exploding into raw elemental energy and merging into a violently growing lightning sea that swallows him whole.
More weapons form—larger, heavier, sharper—each one carrying killing intent powerful enough to melt mountains, and the spherical shield begins to tremble under the assault.
Kaelan breathes slowly, calm even as thunder tries to erase him from existence.
"Then let me use my original strength," he murmurs, eyes half-closed, "and see whether the world notices."
He will not release everything—his severed existence cannot restore what is lost—so he lets only a thread of his true origin leak into the world.
Void power seeps outward.
Space around the shield stretches unnaturally—one metre twisting into ten—warping reality into razor-edged silence.
Within that warped space, his destruction and devouring authority spreads, dissolving the incoming lightning weapons into nothingness and swallowing the scattered lightning energy to replenish his mana.
As he slowly increases the output of his original power, the spiritual space within him trembles—heaven and earth merit recoiling as if recognising something they should not.
Kaelan stops instantly.
He withdraws the void, allowing only enough presence for survival, and waits—not resisting, not struggling—for the great magic power to exhaust itself.
Outside the lightning sea, the three Heavenly Officials regroup, their mechanical joints clicking softly.
"Do you think he can survive that?" the right one mutters, voice buzzing like metal dragged across bone.
"With his cultivation, he won't die," the left replies, his tone cold with certainty, "though he won't come out unscathed."
The centre puppet, the one who unleashed the spell, turns his metallic head with emotionless precision.
"Probability of survival: high. Probability of severe damage: ninety-three per cent."
The left Heavenly Official smiles, a grotesque bloom of crimson petals appearing in his palm—its scent thick, hungry, parasitic.
"He will make excellent nourishment for my beloved."
The right Heavenly Official glances at the flower, an unnatural emotion flickering across his metalwooden face—revulsion, or fear.
"I will check the situation in the city," he says abruptly, lifting himself with mechanical grace into the air.
From above, he watches the distant horizon—lightning devouring the river, fire consuming streets, and screams cut apart by blades and puppet roars.
The city still stands only because countless martial artists remained after the preaching, now fighting desperately against the puppet invasion.
His artificial eye zooms, calculation arrays lighting inside his mind as he processes troop strength, terrain, casualties, reinforcements, and probability of victory.
The numbers shift, settle, and finalise.
A conclusion forms—cold, precise, merciless.
"Capture probability: rising."
His mechanical mind continues processing possibilities.
He factors in Veena—another Heavenly Official—and commander of the corpse puppets rampaging inside the capital.
Next, he includes the rumoured weapon of the Demon Hunter Association, said to wound or kill even a Divine Mind Realm cultivator.
The right puppet accesses the Divine Puppet Sect's intelligence archive, reviewing five centuries of recorded events.
He finds it—one entry.
One hundred and ten years ago, when a Divine Beast attacked the capital, the Demon Hunters used the mysterious weapon, killed the beast—
and then vanished.
No elders appeared again. No record. No activity.
His conclusion forms with chilling clarity:
The weapon can kill once, but not twice.
And now—facing three Heavenly Officials, plus Veena—the Tang Kingdom cannot win after Kaelan's death.
He transmits the result to the other two.
The left puppet grins wildly.
"Then let's conquer the Tang Kingdom."
The centre puppet senses its Great Magic Power nearing its limit.
"We must kill him before reinforcement or accidents interfere."
The left raises his hand, confidence swelling.
"Leave it to me."
Above them, the lightning clouds begin to thin—their destructive spell nearing completion.
Before Kaelan's silhouette fully emerges from the fading lightning sea, the left Heavenly Official releases his technique:
"Flower Burial."
The crimson blossom falls from his palm, hits the ground, and expands grotesquely—
petals splitting, jaws forming, teeth unfolding like blades.
With a predatory shriek, the flower lunges, intent on swallowing Kaelan whole.
Then—
The lightning sea surges, and Kaelan's silhouette slowly becomes clear.
The Heavenly Officials freeze.
Kaelan stands untouched.
Not burnt.
Not bleeding.
Not trembling.
Only calm, eyes cold and almost bored.
He notices the incoming flower.
Lightning gathers around his arm—condensing, shaping into a spear, fused with killing death energy.
Without ceremony, he throws.
The lightning spear pierces the monstrous flower, detonating inside it—death energy spreading like rot through flesh and metal.
The flower screams—a violent, dying, unnatural sound.
"MY BELOVED!" the left puppet howls, rage twisting his wooden metal face.
But Kaelan is already moving.
In the blink of a thought, he is in front of them—
sword drawn, black lightning dancing along its edge.
Thunder shatters the air as his blow lands—
a shockwave ripping outward and forcing all three Heavenly Officials backwards.
Unseen behind him, his holy spirit—now transformed by his new meditation method—rises from his spirit space.
No longer a humanoid figure.
No longer gentle or bound.
It takes shape as a growing storm cloud entity, unseen by the puppets as it silently expands above the battlefield.
The night trembles.
And the real fight begins.
Kaelan doesn't hesitate.
His sword flashes—black lightning trailing like a serpent—and he dives toward the three Heavenly Officials.
With his normal strength, he could match them.
But tonight is not a night for evenly matched battles.
Tonight is a night to end threats.
Enough.
Kaelan lets a sliver of his original power bleed through his mana and sword-hand.
The metal-bodied Heavenly Official raises his mechanical arm to block—
Clang—CRACK!
The sword cuts clean through the arm as if it were made of wet clay, sparks erupting in a dying metallic scream.
The other two move instantly—one with vine whips sharp as blades, the other with vibrating force punches that could shatter mountains.
Kaelan simply vanishes.
His body flickers into pure lightning, dispersing into crackling arcs for a heartbeat, dodging both attacks before reforming behind them, boot hitting solid air as his physical form settles.
This—elementalization.
A technique born after perfecting the Golden Wizard stage and walking the edge of Spiritual Wizard completion.
A technique no martial artist or qi refiner possesses.
The left puppet shouts, frustration twisting his wooden features.
"Stop running!"
Kaelan appears in front of him—too fast to follow—and the sword comes down.
Black lightning blooms.
A metallic scream tears the night.
---
Meanwhile, inside the capital.
Fire and screams fill the air.
A corpse puppet lunges over the shattered tiles of the palace courtyard—eyes glowing sickly green, claws raised toward the inner walls.
Li Xueyao stands calmly at the centre of the formation of royal guards—her palm glowing with runes.
She thrusts forward.
BOOM.
A fireball spell explodes from her hand, swallowing the puppet in roaring flames. The creature melts into ash and blackened sludge.
Another one leaps from the shadows—
Before it reaches her—
"Hold!"
A voice beside her.
THWIP—
An arrow whistles past her cheek.
Meilin releases her next shot before the first corpse hits the floor.
"Third one incoming—six o'clock."
Li Xueyao nods, mana rising again, warmth gathering in her palm.
She has learned many spells—yet in this chaos, she finds only fireball truly efficient, quick, and brutal.
She releases another burning sphere, and another corpse puppet turns to blackened ash.
She looks around.
Her city burns, flames reflecting in her eyes, and her jaw tightens.
Today was supposed to be a day of celebration.
Hours ago, the nobles and ministers finally recognised her right to ascend the throne—by tomorrow, the entire Tang Kingdom would have known her as its rightful Queen.
Now the palace is a battlefield.
Royal guards fall one after another to protect her, and every death twists something in her heart.
She clenches her teeth.
She should have listened to Wuya—she should have broken through to the Official Wizard stage immediately.
If she had done so, if she had reached the Bronze realm, she could have shielded these guards, could have changed the tide, could have saved lives.
"Princess," the Royal Guard commander shouts—his armour cracked and stained with blood—"we can't hold the line, we must retreat!"
Li Xueyao's gaze flicks behind her.
Civilians huddle in the courtyard—families, children, elders—seeking safety in the palace, while more still pour in through the outer gate.
Yet more guards fall.
She must choose—save her soldiers or save her people.
Her breath trembles as she readies to order retreat—
—and then a cold drop touches her cheek.
Then another.
Then the rain pours.
It washes over her like a wave of fresh life, clearing her fatigue, soothing the pain she hadn't noticed until now.
All around her, corpse puppets scream as the rain strikes their flesh—smoke and rot rising.
Meilin gasps beside her.
"The rain… It's restoring my strength—my wounds—Princess, it's healing us!"
Li Xueyao looks at the burning sky, at the falling rain, and realisation sparks.
This is Wuya's doing.
Her lips curve—not into a smile, but into steady resolve.
She turns to the commander.
"Do we still need to retreat?"
The commander, whose gashes are visibly closing beneath the rain, shakes his head with sudden hope.
"No, Princess—under this rain, we can win!"
Li Xueyao switches her spell—fire fading, water gathering instead—and arrows of condensed blue energy shoot forward, piercing puppet skulls with far greater efficiency.
Elsewhere, Lin Zian faces puppets radiating the strength of the Core Formation realm.
Normally, he would not dare face such foes head-on.
But under this rain, his vitality surges—his sword feels lighter—his spirit keener.
And the puppets falter.
With a calm breath, Lin Zian's blade darkens, swallowing moonlight.
He steps forward—and darkness cleaves through rotten flesh, tearing the puppet apart as easily as paper.
Tonight, the city bleeds—but the rain fights with them.