A week later, Jingxuan leaves the fortress after breaking through to the tenth stage of the Earth Demon Body Refining Technique.

He had wished to continue cultivating—only two stages remain—but the agreement must be honoured.

The vast resources granted by the imperial court came with a price: he must build two more fortresses within two weeks.

With only a few days left before the deadline, and knowing a breakthrough to the eleventh stage is impossible in such a short span, he chooses to complete the construction first and resume cultivation afterwards.

He soars above the mountain canopy, his gaze fixed on the roiling thunderclouds that crown the range ahead.

Lightning flickers ceaselessly within them, the air humming with a strange pressure.

The Thunderstorm Mountains—eternally shrouded in storm—are a mystery few dare approach.

Jingxuan wonders what sustains the phenomenon.

Only Stage Four existences could create such perpetual turbulence—perhaps a treasure, a corpse, or even a living being slumbers within the peaks.

As the thought crosses his mind, his instincts scream a warning.

A wave of killing intent surges toward him.

Without hesitation, Jingxuan swings his hand, forming a barrier of dense, weird energy.

A spinning fan crashes into it, scattering sparks before rebounding toward its owner.

His eyes narrow as he locates the attacker—a red-robed man standing atop a tree, face painted like a mask of festivity and death. The fan returns to the man’s hand with a flick.

Jingxuan steps lightly onto a nearby treetop, the wind swirling around his feet. Then his gaze sweeps the forest below. Five figures emerge—three men and two women—all radiating the oppressive power of the Dark Sun Realm.

He realises instantly this is no coincidence—they have been waiting for him.

The red-robed man flicks open his fan, his painted face twisting into a smile. “Surrender or die.”

Jingxuan’s eyes narrow. He channels the weird energy within his wind core, and in an instant, countless blades of wind shimmer into existence around him.

With a wave of his hand, they shoot toward the six figures like a storm.

The red-robed man, looking more like a stage performer than a warrior, swings his fan. Flames surge out, forming a wall of fire that devours the blades aimed at him.

The man in black armour, his body radiating bronze light, stands firm as the wind blades strike him—each blade splintering harmlessly against the metallic glow.

The scholar in a sky-blue robe exhales softly, a mist of freezing air flowing from his mouth. The temperature drops, and the wind blades crumble to frost before they reach him.

The fourth, dressed in pure white, raises two fingers. Sharp sword energy shoots out like silver lightning, cutting through the air and shattering the wind blades one after another.

The two women stand behind them.

The one in purple raises her hand, and dozens of glowing paper butterflies unfold around her, bursting into tiny explosions that swallow the incoming blades.

The other, robed in white with vines coiling around her wrist, gestures calmly.

A shield of interwoven green vines blooms before her, absorbing the last of Jingxuan’s attack in a rustling wave.

When the wind settles, none of them has moved an inch.

The six figures stare up at Jingxuan through the thinning smoke—six Dark Sun Realm auras, steady and cold, closing in from all sides.

The man in the blue robe lets out a low laugh. “Looks like we have our answer. Let me handle him. I want to see if his strength lives up to his fame.”

He leaps lightly from the treetop, his body floating for a moment before landing gracefully on another crown closer to Jingxuan.

The white-robed man glances up. “Should we join him?”

The woman in the purple robe, her tone faintly amused, shakes her head. “No need. No matter how strong he is, Jingxuan’s still just a Moon Realm warlock. Zhi Ming will handle him easily.”

The red-robed man nods with a theatrical flick of his fan. “Zhi Lian is right. Zhi Ming will take care of him. We’ll make sure he doesn’t run.”

The five others drop from the trees, landing in a perfect star formation.

Their palms slam against the ground, and runes flare to life beneath their feet.

The energy spreads like veins through the soil, converging into a glowing dome that seals the entire area.

Jingxuan’s eyes narrow as the translucent barrier hums to life around him.

Zhi Ming, standing on the nearby tree crown, smirks. “Now you cannot escape.” Ice energy gathers around his hand, condensing into a crystalline sword that gleams with killing intent. “Let’s see where your confidence comes from.”

Jingxuan’s arm hardens as earth energy rushes through his veins.

He forms a stone sword, its weight dense as a mountain, and lowers the tip toward the earth.

The air between them sharpens.

Then both vanish—charging at each other in a flash of ice and stone.

Their blades meet midair with a sound like thunder.

Shards of ice scatter in every direction, slicing through leaves as the tree crown beneath them splinters from the force.

Jingxuan steps back, the wind gathering around his feet, and launches himself toward another tree.

Zhi Ming follows instantly, his movement like a streak of blue light, his ice sword leaving trails of frost in the air.

Stone clashes against ice again and again, each impact sending shockwaves through the mist-filled forest. The surrounding trees groan, branches snapping under the pressure as their battle moves from one crown to another.

Jingxuan swings horizontally, his stone sword splitting into dozens of fragments that orbit around him before shooting forward like a storm of blades.

Zhi Ming raises his hand, and a frost barrier blooms before him, the shards freezing midair and dropping harmlessly to the ground.

He counters with a sweeping strike, unleashing a crescent of frozen light that cuts through the canopy.

Jingxuan twists his body in midair, the wind surging beneath his feet, and deflects the attack with a burst of earthen energy.

He lands on another treetop, cracks spiderwebbing beneath him. Zhi Ming appears a heartbeat later, their swords locking once more.

Neither retreats.

Their faces are calm, but the power behind each swing grows heavier, denser—ice mist and sand dust mix in the air, freezing and shattering with every movement.

Zhi Ming thrusts his sword forward, the tip aimed straight at Jingxuan’s heart.

Jingxuan sidesteps, his stone sword cutting upward, striking Zhi Ming’s blade aside, and the two exchange another flurry of blows too fast for the eye to follow.

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They move like streaks of light through the forest, colliding and separating again and again. Each strike meets its equal, each defence perfect.

By the tenth clash, both stand atop two facing treetops, chests rising and falling, mist swirling between them.

Zhi Ming’s lips curl slightly. “Not bad.”

Jingxuan’s eyes narrow, his tone calm. “You’re not bad either.”

A gust sweeps through the forest, scattering leaves between them—then, as if answering the challenge, they vanish once more, their blades meeting again in the heart of the storm.

Steel and ice collide in flashes of light, but as their swords sing through the air, Jingxuan’s gaze sharpens.

Every swing, every shift of Zhi Ming’s shoulders, reveals a dozen flaws—a dozen ways to cut him down.

Zhi Ming’s movements are fast, but they lack depth. His sword art is elegant, shallow, and predictable.

Jingxuan measures his rhythm with calm precision.

To him, this battle is not a struggle—it is memory, instinct, an echo of countless duels fought over ages.

Swordsmanship does not decay with time. It becomes eternal, like the flow of the blade itself.

He watches Zhi Ming attack again, cold mist spiralling from his steps.

From the man’s aura, Jingxuan can tell—he is young, not yet fifty. His energy is vigorous but untempered.

Jingxuan’s true age, buried beneath his sealed cultivation, surpasses dynasties. Against his experience, Zhi Ming’s technique is a child’s dance.

Yet Jingxuan does not end it. Not yet.

He knows the five below wait for weakness.

If he defeats Zhi Ming too easily, they will all strike at once—and even with his power, he cannot face six Dark Sun Realm warlocks at once.

He needs them to believe victory comes with risk, not certainty.

So, Jingxuan lets his defences loosen—barely.

A delayed parry here, a slower footstep there.

Zhi Ming’s eyes flash with excitement.

The young man believes he’s reading Jingxuan’s rhythm, believes fatigue is setting in.

His sword grows fiercer, his strikes faster, his confidence swelling like a tide.

Jingxuan lets him.

He dodges by a hair’s breadth each time, the edge of the ice blade grazing past his shoulder, cutting strands of his hair.

His breathing grows heavier—an act.

His stance shifts subtly, pretending strain.

Zhi Ming roars and thrusts forward with all his strength, the ice sword gleaming like a shard of lightning.

Jingxuan blocks late on purpose, their blades locking, sparks scattering between them.

A sneer forms on Zhi Ming’s lips. “You’re slowing down.”

Jingxuan meets his gaze, his tone quiet, almost pitying. “Am I?”

Then his sword moves—once, fluid and unseen.

The stone blade twists through the gap between Zhi Ming’s strike, sliding past his guard and slashing across his side. Blood splatters through the air.

Zhi Ming staggers back, shock freezing his face.

Jingxuan steps away, letting his chest rise and fall as if winded, hiding the calm precision behind his eyes.

Below, the five warlocks stir, alarmed but uncertain. It looks like Jingxuan won by luck—barely surviving a desperate clash.

Exactly as he planned.

Jingxuan sees the flicker of shock in Zhi Ming’s eyes before it hardens into rage.

Inwardly, he smiles but keeps his expression calm and steady.

As he expected, Zhi Ming thinks the wound came from his own mistake, not from Jingxuan’s superior skill.

“You got lucky,” Zhi Ming snarls, his tone low and cold, ice energy coiling around his sword.

Jingxuan doesn’t answer.

Their blades meet again with a sharp crack, sparks and frost scattering through the rain-soaked air.

For a brief moment, Jingxuan matches him blow for blow, then suddenly leaps back as Zhi Ming releases a surge of cold energy.

The blast of ice tears through the trees, freezing trunks midair and shattering them to shards.

Jingxuan lands lightly on the broken remains of a frozen tree, his chest rising as if exhausted, though his eyes remain sharp and calm. He waits, blade lowered, playing the part of a man running out of strength.

Zhi Ming mistakes the act for truth. A dangerous gleam flickers in his eyes. “Let’s see you dodge this.”

He thrusts his sword forward, and a massive phantom of an ice cobra coils around his body, its jaws snapping as he charges.

Frost spreads beneath his feet as he shoots forward, merging with the serpent’s image.

Jingxuan stands still until the last instant. Then—he vanishes.

A whisper of wind cuts through the silence, and before Zhi Ming can react, Jingxuan reappears behind him.

The stone sword hums through the air, its edge dragging a faint line of earthen energy.

The sound is soft—a single crack of shattering ice.

Zhi Ming freezes mid-motion.

A heartbeat later, blood erupts from his back. His spine flashes through torn flesh as the cobra phantom collapses into mist.

The ice sword slips from his hand, impaling the ground beside him.

Kneeling on one knee, trembling, Zhi Ming coughs blood and glares upward in disbelief.

Jingxuan lowers his sword, still composed, his breath steady despite the dust and frost swirling around him.

Before he can move again, two new figures flash in front of him—appearing beside Zhi Ming.

The man in black armour and the woman in a white robe land lightly, their presence bending the air with pressure.

Waves of energy ripple outward, shaking branches and scattering frost.

Zhi Ming’s wound begins to knit together under a faint blue glow.

He pushes himself up, face pale but eyes burning.

Pulling his ice sword from the ground, he growls, “I can defeat him,” and charges again.

The man in black armour speaks coldly, “No, you cannot.”

Without waiting, he surges forward too, bronze light flashing as a massive glove forms around his fist.

The woman joins them, her sleeves blooming open as green vines whip out, sharp as blades, slicing through the air toward Jingxuan.

Jingxuan’s gaze hardens. He exhales once, and the act of restraint ends.

A black aura bursts from his body, heavy and suffocating. The forest trembles. To Jingxuan, time slows—every leaf, every spark of frost moving sluggishly in the frozen world.

He steps forward.

In a single instant, he appears before Zhi Ming and presses his palm against the man’s chest, right over the half-healed wound.

Zhi Ming’s eyes widen as the force hits him. His feet lift off the ground, ribs caving slightly as the shockwave sends him flying backwards in slow motion.

Jingxuan doesn’t stop.

He turns, appearing before the armoured man.

His palm covers the man’s face, dragging him forward like a broken doll.

With his other hand, Jingxuan drives a punch into the woman’s abdomen, her white robe rippling as blood sprays from her mouth.

Then—time snaps back.

The ground quakes.

The armoured man slams into the earth with a dull crack, his helmet splitting as his head sinks into the soil.

The woman collapses to her knees, clutching her stomach, trembling as Jingxuan’s chaotic energy tears through her meridians.

Zhi Ming crashes a moment later, skidding across the dirt and leaving a trail of frost and blood.

Silence follows.

Jingxuan stands still, black aura fading slowly around him. Three bodies lie broken on the ground—Zhi Ming groaning weakly, the woman half-conscious, the armoured man motionless.

Jingxuan lowers his hand, his eyes cold. The restraint he had shown until now is gone.

Across the clearing, the man in the red robe, Zhi Lian, and the man in white stare at him in disbelief.

Zhi Lian’s lips tremble. “What… happened?” she mutters, her voice barely steady. Just moments ago, Jingxuan had been struggling to withstand Zhi Ming’s assault—now, three of their comrades lie defeated at his feet.

The man in a red robe snaps his folding fan against his palm, a sharp crack breaking the silence. “You’ve formed your Weird Body.”

Jingxuan looks at him, expression unreadable. That was the reaction he expected—the true reason he acted without concealment.

He studies the man quietly. Though his aura is still that of a Dark Sun Realm warlock, something beneath it feels twisted, almost inhuman. Not a Great Warlock, yet far beyond the ordinary Dark Sun Realm. A half-step Great Warlock.

Zhi Lian’s voice rises in disbelief. “What? That’s impossible! Only a peak Dark Sun Realm warlock can form their Weird Body!”

The man in white speaks calmly, his tone dry. “Not necessarily.” He raises his right arm, and before their eyes, the flesh peels away like mist—revealing a skeletal limb beneath. A moment later, it returns to normal.

Zhi Lian’s eyes widen, horror flickering across her face. “How…?”

The man in white lowers his arm. “Weird Body is not bound by cultivation realm,” he says evenly. “It’s a manifestation of understanding—the fusion of the world’s Laws with one’s weird energy. Even a one-ring warlock could form it, if their comprehension runs deep enough.”

The man in red nods slowly. “Zhi Ning is right. But either way…” He closes his fan with a snap. “Our mission has failed. With our current strength, capturing him is impossible.”

The air thickens again—not with power this time, but with a cold, ratcheting unease as the three warlocks realise, for the first time, the kind of monster they have provoked.

Zhi Ning’s right arm twists grotesquely as bone thrusts outward and hardens into a giant blade that bites into the earth; “Then let us kill him,” he growls, “his existence threatens the Soul Hall’s revival.”

The man in red snaps his fan with theatrical finality and intones, “For the revival of our ancestors, he must die,” as a crimson silhouette flames up behind him and resolves into a winged dragon-man that roars to the sky.

From behind Jingxuan, a closed-eyed armoured figure with two pairs of folded hands appears in stillness and then opens its eyes, releasing an overwhelming pressure—his Weird Body manifesting in full.

After refining the Ice Hell Spider core, Jingxuan could have pierced the threshold of the Dark Sun realm, and with the Weird Body formed, he now faces no barrier to advancing toward Great Warlock, yet he holds back because his plan is not complete.

If he finishes the Earth Demon Body Refining to the twelfth stage, his physique will reach the peak of stage two, and each subsequent breakthrough through Dark Sun—initial, mid, late, peak—will feed back into his body and push that physique toward stage three, so that he will not have to sacrifice his body in a single, reckless leap to Great Warlock.

The monstrous aura of the Weird Bodies shatters the mountain air like a war horn, and across the Thunderstorm Mountains, Dark Sun–realm warlocks and high-level weirds react at once, racing toward the battlefield.

Among those closest to Jingxuan are five figures flying swiftly toward him—one of them is Wenrui, who, unable to fly like the others, moves by leaping from tree to tree. They set out thinking they would rescue Jingxuan, but the sight of two colossal Weird Bodies makes them freeze mid-air. Wenrui stops atop a tree crown, staring blankly. “What are those? Are they weird?” he asks.

Gue Xinlan answers, “Those are Weird Bodies—what a warlock forms to break through the Great Warlock realm.”

The oldest among them, a man with a large wine whisk tied to his back and a sword at his waist, narrows his eyes. His name is Shen Yimo. “One of those auras—I recognise it. That’s Zhi Yan.”

Another man, Bai Ruchen, frowns. “Then who’s the other one?”

Inside Wenrui’s mind, Kratos’s voice rumbles, “It’s Jingxuan.”

Wenrui exhales, his gaze steady. “It’s Jingxuan’s aura.”

The second woman, Liu Hongyi, says quietly, “If that’s really Jingxuan, does he even need our help?”

Silence falls between them.

Wenrui finally says, “Let’s go and watch the battle. If he needs help, we’ll step in.”

Gue Xinlan nods. “Watching might help us understand more—it’ll be useful when we form our own Weird Bodies.”

The others agree, and they move forward once more.