Chapter Seventy-Four: An Ant Shakes a Tree

Hearing such blunt words, Wang Daoming dared not show the slightest hint of dissatisfaction—not only because they were true, but also because of the irresistible aura exuded by Zhang Liaoyuan.

“In such remote mountains, to find a pulse wielder of your extraordinary talent is truly unexpected. If you have the chance, please register with the National Martial Arts Association in Tianjing.” Weng Dongqi cast a glance at Wang Daoming, then walked toward Adongsa.

Weng Dongqi, too, walked upon the water, each step sending ripples across the lake’s surface, the splashes blooming like lotus flowers beneath his feet.

Zhang Liaoyuan remarked, “Lotus blooms with every step—Weng Dongqi, your progress is remarkable.”

“To earn praise from such a venerable elder as yourself is indeed an honor,” Weng Dongqi replied, frowning as he gazed at the crystal coffin. “What is that?”

“The key to awakening the Emperor of Black Death,” Zhang Liaoyuan answered calmly, unafraid of any obstruction from Weng Dongqi.

Weng Dongqi sighed deeply. “Zhang Liaoyuan, when the Three Elders exhausted themselves sealing you in the Great Snow Mountain Prison, it was not merely because they could not bear your indestructible body to become a lost legend. More importantly, they believed the mountain’s cold would quell your desires and guide pulse wielders onto the right path.”

“The right path?” Zhang Liaoyuan circled Weng Dongqi atop the water, as if walking on solid ground. “To spend decades cultivating, only to hide in the mud, smugly content, allowing the nation to rot—this is what you call the right path?”

Weng Dongqi retorted loudly, “We are pulse wielders, seekers of the heavenly way, and should not meddle in mundane affairs. The world of mortals has its own rules.”

Zhang Liaoyuan halted, unmasking his scorn. “The heavenly way? Are all pulse wielders now as naive as you? If cultivation is not for power, not to stand above the masses, how is it different from a turtle that lives ten thousand years? Besides, this so-called heavenly way—”

He shook his head, as if the topic was beneath him.

“You—!” Weng Dongqi could scarcely believe Zhang Liaoyuan’s rebellion had reached the point of scorning even the heavenly way; arrogance seemed insufficient to describe this man, the first under heaven.

The surrounding lake seemed to boil and surge—a manifestation of Zhang Liaoyuan’s mounting power, vast and pure, transmitting through his feet, agitating the water molecules and raising their heat.

“Words are futile. In the end, arguments among pulse wielders are always settled by strength. Let us skip these pointless debates. I wish to see just how much of the Three Elders’ power their inheritors truly possess.”

Weng Dongqi’s fighting spirit soared to its zenith. “Put down that coffin. You cannot protect it and fight me at the same time.”

“No matter,” Zhang Liaoyuan replied.

He hurled the coffin high into the air and stepped forward. The water’s surface caved in, forming a pit the size of a study, tons of water forced aside by an eruption of power akin to a mountain torrent.

In an instant, he stood before Weng Dongqi and delivered a palm strike.

The touch of an immortal, conferring longevity! You oppose me, yet I neither rage nor fret; I would send you to immortality—what magnanimity, what terrifying mastery.

That palm, barely the size of a handspan, came down as if the very sky were collapsing, leaving Weng Dongqi nowhere to escape.

Fighting so powerfully while bound by restraints filled Weng Dongqi with shame, but facing this grand and awe-inspiring palm, he finally understood what indestructibility and supremacy truly meant.

He managed to lift both hands to meet the blow, but the water beneath him split open, a rift over ten meters long, and he was blasted deep into the lake bed.

With a single move, Weng Dongqi’s blood and essence surged chaotically; his pulse nearly shattered.

Yet, almost crushed to the lake bottom, Weng Dongqi forcibly suppressed the backlash. His toes gripped the current, and he launched himself from the underwater grasses, a burst of white bubbles erupting from the pressure. He shot back to the surface—not to clash head-on, but to seize a torrent of high-pressure water and fling it at Zhang Liaoyuan.

Weng Dongqi could tame even the air; water, substantial and tangible, could serve him even better. One must know that high-pressure water can slice through tungsten steel alloys—such softness, once imbued with ultimate force, becomes truly terrifying.

But even with every advantage, his opponent remained the indestructible emperor who had dominated the land for decades—Zhang Liaoyuan, the Star of the Empire.

With a single punch, Zhang Liaoyuan shattered the water mass that could have crushed a car, caught the falling crystal coffin with one hand, and let out a long, exultant howl—for him, this was the fiercest battle in thirty years.

Thus began a chaotic melee.

———

The duel between Weng Dongqi and Zhang Liaoyuan instantly seized everyone’s attention, and in the next moment, all the pulse wielders who had been cautiously testing each other threw aside their inhibitions and fought savagely, the noise of battle erupting everywhere.

Zhang Liaoyuan’s followers and the Martial Arts Association’s enforcers clashed in a furious struggle, their destructive might so great that even Adongsa wished to avoid being drawn in.

Countless split-bodied aberrations, formed from division, carefully skirted the chaos and surged toward the Witch’s Waters.

Yet those pulse wielders who had devoted themselves to the path of the divine were not to be taken lightly. Adongsa’s grotesque, alien presence could not go unnoticed for long.

Soon, one after another, mysterious and powerful pulse wielders intercepted the split bodies.

Before Judah stood a swordsman wielding twin blades, thin and sharp, his sallow skin rough as a whetstone.

“My name is Qin Tie,” the swordsman declared without preamble.

The razor-sharp aura radiating from Qin Tie put Judah on the highest alert, every muscle fiber contracting, bone spurs protruding all over his body.

“Creator, I fear I cannot proceed,” Judah trembled, uncertain whether it was from preparation or excitement. “This is a worthy foe. Please permit me to fight with all my strength.”

To fight, and then to evolve—this was why Adongsa had created Judah.

Seeing Judah enter a kind of manic battle state, Adongsa leapt down, landing on all fours, and scampered up the trees like a sable, moving swiftly ahead.

A flash of blades—Adongsa’s body and three large trees were instantly severed in half.

Before the body could heal, Qin Tie’s hands flickered: in a single second, he delivered seventy-three slashes, turning the small form to mincemeat, such that even healing would take immense effort.

Adongsa simply abandoned that body, shifting its consciousness to the remaining split forms.

In truth, Adongsa had no fixed true body; every split form was itself, and as long as one broke through, Adongsa could reach the Witch’s Waters.

This sight, however, provoked Judah. His body swelled in an instant, knotted muscles distorting even his exoskeleton.

“Bastard! How dare you harm the Creator!”