CHAPTER 160: CH-160: STORM

Tian Shen walked out.

Not rushed. Not hesitant. His steps were measured, deliberate, each one ringing with authority. His spear lay casually in his hand, yet its point gleamed with a suppressed light that seemed to pierce the horizon itself.

The black-spear general, tall and armored in black steel, watched him come. Around the man, the serpent banners snapped in the cold wind, and behind him a tide of disciplined riders shifted uneasily, their mounts stamping the earth.

This was no rabble. This was an army drilled for slaughter.

But Tian Shen’s gaze did not waver. His body, tempered through blood, storm, and breakthrough, radiated a calm violence.

The general sneered. "You dare step out alone, boy?" His voice thundered. "Do you think yourself equal to me?"

Tian Shen tilted his head, eyes sharp as blades. "Equal? No."

He lifted the spear slightly, the edge humming as faint arcs of lightning coiled along its shaft.

"I came to bury you."

The soldiers stirred at his words, but the general only laughed, slamming his spear against the earth. A pulse of heat rolled outward, cracking the stone beneath. "Good! Then die like a warrior!"

He surged forward.

The ground split as his spear swept, wreathed in flame. The earth itself howled, black cracks racing outward. The strike could have split towers in half—yet Tian Shen moved with terrifying simplicity.

He stepped into the storm.

His spear thrust forward like the wrath of heaven. A single straight pierce, but backed by the violent force of a fresh Utopian Core realm cultivator. The air collapsed, a vacuum screaming as the thrust carried more weight than mountains.

The black-spear general’s eyes widened. He twisted his weapon up, parrying desperately.

The clash rang out—metal shrieked like tortured beasts, sparks showering into the sky. The impact hurled shockwaves across the field, knocking soldiers off their feet and ripping trenches into the ground.

But Tian Shen did not stop.

His body blurred, a shadow interlaced with lightning. Spear strikes poured like an endless storm: thrusts, sweeps, and arcs that carried both precision and unstoppable force. Each blow carried the essence of violence refined through cultivation, his newly tempered core fueling attacks that felt boundless.

The general staggered back, roaring, his armor scorched with every exchange. "Impossible—your realm—!"

Tian Shen’s voice cut through the thunder: "This spear doesn’t recognize your disbelief."

He twisted, spear sweeping sideways. The motion was elegant yet savage, shattering the general’s guard and carving a molten scar across his chestplate.

Blood sprayed.

The soldiers gasped, silence choking their throats. The invincible general—wounded.

The general bellowed, veins bursting as his qi flared violently. Flames engulfed his entire form, his spear igniting into a blazing serpent of destruction. "Then I’ll crush you with everything!"

He lunged.

The serpent of fire roared, swallowing the world.

Tian Shen’s expression hardened. He planted his feet, channeling the storm inside him. His qi surged violently, tearing the ground beneath him into fragments.

Then his spear moved.

It was not just an attack. It was annihilation.

The thrust broke sound, broke air, broke the serpent of flame as if it were paper. The storm gathered into the spearpoint, condensed into one merciless strike.

The serpent howled—then shattered, torn apart into embers that scattered uselessly.

The strike did not stop.

It punched through the general’s chest.

The man’s armor cracked apart, ribs splintering as the spear impaled him clean through. For a heartbeat, the battlefield froze—the only sound the hiss of lightning crawling across the spear.

The general’s eyes trembled with disbelief. His mouth opened, blood spilling, words choking in his throat.

Tian Shen leaned closer, voice a blade of cold steel. "You are nothing before the Feilun Sect."

Then he wrenched the spear free.

The general collapsed to the dirt, lifeless.

Silence.

The enemy riders, who had marched like a tide, now stared as if thunder had struck them all blind. Their general, their pillar—slain by a single man.

Tian Shen lifted his spear, spinning it once to shake off blood. His aura flared outward, a violent storm of lightning and pressure that tore at banners, whipped dust into spirals, and made even the bravest riders’ hearts falter.

"Go back," he said, voice carrying over the field like a decree. "Or you will all die here."

For a long, breathless moment, none moved.

Then—like a wave breaking—shouts erupted. Soldiers tugged reins, commanders barked orders, and the tide of riders turned. The serpent banners shrank into the horizon, swallowed by their retreat.

The field was left scarred, the ground torn, blood soaking the dirt where the general had fallen.

Tian Shen exhaled, lowering his spear.

Behind him, the Feilun Sect disciples cheered, the sound rising like thunder. But he did not turn. His eyes lingered on the horizon, sharp, unrelenting.

Because he knew this was no victory.

It was a warning.

If armies were moving with such generals, then greater storms were coming.

That night, as the Sect gathered in the Hall of Victory, Tian Shen remained apart. The disciples celebrated, voices loud with relief and pride. Feng Yin sat near him, watching silently, her gaze soft but worried.

"You carry too much alone," she said finally.

Tian Shen looked at her. For a moment, the warrior’s mask slipped, and she saw the exhaustion in his eyes—the weight of every life depending on him.

But he only smiled faintly. "If I don’t carry it, who will?"

She wanted to argue, to tell him he didn’t have to stand alone. But the words died in her throat. Because when he smiled like that, resolute and calm despite the blood on his hands, she knew: this was who he was.

A spear against the storm.

Feng Yin reached out, fingers brushing his hand. No words were spoken. None needed.

The Sect cheered louder, their voices echoing against the mountains, as Tian Shen and Feng Yin sat in the quiet center of it all.

The night stretched long, lanterns burning until their light blurred against the stars. The Feilun Sect celebrated as though their very survival had been gifted back to them by the heavens. Wine flowed, laughter rose, and songs cracked the air like sparks. Yet at the heart of the revelry, Tian Shen remained still.

His spear leaned against the table beside him, polished clean, yet its weight seemed heavier than ever. He turned the cup in his hand, though he had not touched the wine.

The disciples sang of his strength, his victory, but Tian Shen’s mind lingered on the serpent-banner army. Their retreat had not been routed chaos—it had been orderly. Even without their general, they withdrew as soldiers drilled to fight another day.

"They’ll return," Tian Shen muttered under his breath.

Feng Yin, seated close, caught his words. Her brow furrowed.

"Then we should prepare."

Tian Shen’s lips curved faintly, a humorless smile.

"Always preparing. Never resting."

He rose, ignoring the startled glances of younger disciples who wished their hero to stay, to bask in their gratitude. But Tian Shen had never fought for gratitude. He walked to the balcony overlooking the courtyard, where moonlight painted the stone pale silver.

From here, he could see the scarred earth outside the Sect’s gates, still dark with blood. The general’s corpse had been burned, but Tian Shen swore he could feel its shadow lingering.

The heavens had granted him breakthrough, and his spear had proved itself once again. But cultivation was not a finish line—it was a staircase that never ended. Each step only revealed higher mountains, darker storms.

"Tian Shen."

Feng Yin’s voice followed him out into the night. She did not ask permission to stand beside him, nor did she need it. Her presence was steady, like the grounding roots of an ancient tree.

"You saw more than the others," she said softly.

"Yes." His voice was flat, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him. "The man I killed was not the strongest of them. He was a test. A probe. They wanted to see what the Feilun Sect could field."

"And they saw you," Feng Yin murmured.

Tian Shen’s grip on the railing tightened.

"Which means they’ll send worse next time."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with understanding neither wished to speak. Finally, Feng Yin exhaled.

"Then what will you do?"

"What I must." He turned, eyes hard. "I need to strengthen the Sect. And myself. A single spear won’t be enough against the tide that’s coming."

Feng Yin met his gaze, her own steady despite the sharpness in his. "And if the Sect begins to rely only on you? What then?"

He had no answer.

The question burned deeper than he wished to admit.

...

Morning broke with a clear sky, the mountain winds sharp with promise. While the disciples nursed their celebrations, Tian Shen stood alone in the training fields, spear in hand. He thrust again and again, each motion splitting the air with violent cracks.

Every strike was heavier than the last, each arc of lightning summoned not to dazzle but to kill. He drilled not for ceremony, but for war. His body, already tempered, carried the afterglow of the tribulation, but he pressed harder, pushing the limits of his new realm.

Sweat ran down his back. His breathing stayed calm.

When at last he lowered the spear, his gaze drifted to the Sect walls. The scars of last night’s battle were still there. Stone split, earth torn.

But Tian Shen did not see ruins. He saw reminders.

Each scar was a warning, a demand.

"Stronger," he whispered to himself, fingers clenching around the haft of his weapon. "I must grow stronger."

For the storm was not approaching.

It was already here.