Hangfang on the ground with his head in the arena. The ground is cold beneath him, and the air seems to hold its breath, like the world itself is waiting. Before he can fully take in his surroundings, a sharp voice calls from behind him:
"Hangfang is disqualified for breaking the rules! "Entering the arena prior to the time permitted is a violation of the rules."
The words hit him like a hammer. Disqualified? He could hardly even explain what had just happened. He digs his fingernails into the palms of his hands, their fisting in and out of his fists a rhythmic accompaniment to the bubbling frustration he couldn't shake. His thoughts whirl, scrambling to connect the last few moments before he ended up here. Then it dawning and he curses himself in his head.
"Why on earth did Yan Xiao just throw me into the main arena? Why didn't he make me wake up in the alarm chamber first?! "
Hangfang gasps, with his heart in his mouth. His head is humming with rage, but he makes himself settle down. Drawing in a great breath, he mumbles to himself,
"Well, at least I've discovered some secrets about major player. For now, that's what matters most."
We learn more along the way; he turns his anger towards what he had learned. Something about this place, about the way things were going down — it wasn't just an accident. This came from somewhere, and he needed to understand where it came from.
So with that thought, he walks toward So Rong. She stands at the edge of the arena and peers at him with quiet concern. She tilts her head, seeing the troubled look in his face.
"I got disqualified… I don't know what I did wrong. Maybe I stepped on to the wrong portal, or something, and it ejected me," Hangfang says, shaking his head.
So Rong gives a tiny smile, her voice gentle but firm. "We all do it to some extent. "Don't worry about it too much."
Something about her words has an eerie quality, as though she possesses so much more knowledge than she's willing to admit. But Hangfang doesn't push her about it. Instead, they leave the competition floor together, and head to their hotel room to regather and rest. The walk is quiet, each lost in thought, but So Rong looks up at him periodically, as if deciding whether to speak.
He enters his room and closes the door behind himself, his face hardening. He immediately gets into a meditative pose, legs crossed and eyes shut. His breath slows, his consciousness submerging itself deep inside his brain.
He flails in the empty space of his thoughts, trying to touch the real Hangfang, the thing inside of him.
"Why didn't you tell me about this before?" he demands, his voice sharp.
A deep laugh reverberates through his brain. "Because you also weren't ready to know. But count your lucky stars — you've gotten a heads-up. The truth is that you weren't even meant to find this out at all.'
Hangfang's face darkens at that. His fists clench in his lap. "Even I didn't know about this … so how could I have warned myself?"
He doesn't say, but holds it close and deep. Instead, he listens as the real Hangfang goes on,
"Get fixated on the fruit you already have. You need to refine it. That's what will unlock its real power."
Hangfang nods, brushing past his residual frustration. He digs into his possessions, and retrieves the alien fruit, his fingertips brushing what is smooth yet pulsating with a living energy. He studies it closely, reveling in the unbridled force seething inside.
"Dig it in your hands, and try to make it more exotic," the real Hangfang says.
After the command, Hangfang holds onto the fruit for dear life, focusing energy into it. Heat rushes through his palms and he winces. The temp spikes, the flesh struggling against him, barely responding to the firepower directed at it despite the obscene energy fed into it.
Days turn into weeks. This refinement process is excruciatingly slow, it takes at least twenty to thirty days, and the outermost layer is only Refining. However, within the fruit flows a mighty amount of Qi energy that leaks out in every moment, day and night. "He breathes heavily but cannot suppress the energy brewing in his body from breaking through a slight amount, increasing his cultivation." His nosing face is a battle every day, every minute pushing him and his limits.
And then, all of a sudden — a vision hits.
A wash of memories floods his mind, pulling him into a different space.
He is in a place covered in darkness. The air is filled with smoke and the ground is charred as if there had once been an epic battle here. Screams and clashing steel can be heard in the distance. Before him, a dark, cloaked figure—ancient, yet formidable, radiating a terrible beauty.
In the figure's hands he holds a sword blacker than the void, its edge radiating an ominous glow, as though a blade wrought from the depths of oblivion.
It raises the sword above its head, the blade glinting menacingly. With a simple downward slash, all of reality crumbles like fragile glass before them, the sky ripping asunder like a shattered mirror.
The figure turns slowly towards Hangfang, and they make eye contact, and for the first time Hangfang experiences a sensation he rarely feels—fear.
This technique is known as Dark Deva Soul Tempering — one of the lost arts of the world.
The figure drives the technique straight into Hangfang's mind before he can react.
A deluge of knowledge, techniques, and combat experiences washes over his consciousness. His soul is being engraved and he learns this ancient power from the inside…
And there, i
In the silence of his meditation, the course of his fate starts to change.