Where are you?"
The story starts — not with light, but with chaos.
Within the fortress of Hangfang's brain, a storm is brewing. Not of thunder or wind, but of raw, unfiltered knowledge. Forbidden tomes and ancient scrolls distilled into raw data, concepts not meant for man, crash in tidal waves. Civilizations defeated, techniques forgotten, secrets committed to the blood of fallen gods — all of it pours into him.
Hangfang doesn't scream. He doesn't falter.
He lets the pain come.
He allows the storm to rip through his mind like a cyclone of steel.
And he endures.
With terrifying mastery, he starts to docket the madness — filtering the madness, isolating the useful from the arcane. Each flicker of imagery, each reverberation of ancient voices is drawn into alignment, stars falling into constellation. He's not just getting knowledge — he's mastering it.
Then, suddenly, his body goes, moves.
He doesn't instruct it.
It just answers — as if possessed.
His spine stiffens. His chest expands. Even muscles shake off new energy. Fingers jerk — then bend — then make elaborate, unremembered mudras as if animated by the hands of dead warriors. An energy quite unlike the earthly flows from him deep in his gut, rises like an unleashed predator from its cage.
A sword the color of blood bursts into existence in his hand.
Not summoned. Born.
Its surface light like servitor rubies, but the edge blacker than nothing. It sizzles with a hunger of its own — as if forged not just to slice flesh, but to consume fate itself.
Floating above his shoulder, a mechanized construct materializes—half-machine, half-specter—and drifts around him like a watchman. It hooks onto his aura, following his movements as though it has known him for centuries.
The technique begins to come alive.
His feet float above the ground that's broken. His body bends and contorts with a savage grace — a dance of war: pointed and divine. When he moves, everywhere his feet touch lights up in symbols, burning the rune in the rock like fire on stone.
From then on, the world starts to warp.
The ground begins to shudder. The chamber's sky dims, although there is no sky. The air thickens. Temperature plummets. His sword cleaves the space ahead of him — not through air, but through the laws of existence itself.
The last stage of the technique comes in — like the culmination of a cosmic ritual.
He makes the last motion.
BOOM.
Reality folds inward.
It's not an explosion — it's an evisceration.
Implosion.
The walls cave in on themselves, as if embarrassed to witness.
The light bends. The ground turns to dust — it liquifies. The air itself cries out in pain.
In the space shattered like glass by titanic forces.
Then—a void of silence.
Hangfang opens his eyes.
They twinkle like razor-edged swords—piercing the night, glinting with might. He emerges from the destruction like a god revived, face inscrutable. His training wasn't make-believe. His body — his physical, living body — had executed the technique. And the aftermath was proof.
The entire room is decimated. Craters line the ground. Ragged remnants protrude like shattered ribs. It's not a chapel anymore — it's a battlefield after the wrath of a divine being.
Then, hurried footsteps.
So Rong.
She rushes in, looking a mix of frightened and incredulous. Her boots skid on rubble as she stops, eyes scanning the destruction until they fall on him.
"What the hell is going on here?" she says, voice sharp, breath hitching. "What sort of blast was that? What did you do?! "
Hangfang turns to her slowly.
The dust still hangs in his shoulders. He dismisses it with quiet finality.
"Everything to be fine," he says, tone smooth and unruffled. "Just a little cultivation… it got a little intense. I'm fine."
So Rong gapes at him. "Fine?! Are you serious? That technique… that thing that you just let loose — what if you lost control? What if you'd died, Hangfang?! You're not invincible!"
He doesn't flinch.
He doesn't explain.
"Noted," he replies flatly. "But for right now, we have to get to the next sector. Transportation — did you make it?"
She exhales shakily, frustration and concern battling in her face.
"I rushed to find you. I didn't have the time to explain — but yes. I arranged a space board. It's waiting. It'll take us there quickly, no question."
Hangfang nods
once, expression unreadable.
"Perfect," he says. "Then we leave at dawn."