CHAPTER 40: UNITY OF HEAVEN AND MAN

Wang Chen let out a long, resigned sigh, as though Bu Fang’s fury had placed him in an awkward, tiresome predicament rather than a life-or-death battle. His expression was calm—almost pitying.

"Fellow Daoist," he said evenly, "it seems anger has clouded your mind. If violence is what you seek... then so be it."

"Good."

Bu Fang’s sneer deepened, a twitch of his jaw betraying the bloodlust beneath his smirk. Sparks of violet danced across his forearms, crawling up his veins like living serpents. His eyes gleamed with excitement—the thrill of impending slaughter. He could almost taste it.

The next moment, the air itself shifted. Qi surged around him in a violent spiral, and the oppressive energy pressed down on the narrow alleyways. Purple arcs of lightning crackled and leapt from wall to wall, turning the dim cityscape into a landscape of flickering death.

Then the skyline itself changed. From rooftop to horizon, streaks of purple carved through the night like veins of a furious god. The smell of ozone and scorched stone filled the air, prickling the skin and making every hair on one’s body stand on end.

Bu Fang’s body blazed with radiance—each pulse of his heart summoned another peal of thunder. He was a man who had forged his foundation upon the concept of static charge, and in his ascension to the Golden Core Realm, he had gone further—fusing one of the thousand greater laws into his core. The result: a Lightning-Origin Golden Core.

Such mastery was no minor thing. His control over lightning was absolute—terrifying, divine.

"Die!" Bu Fang’s roar split the heavens.

The world erupted in violet.

A colossal bolt of lightning tore through the sky, coiling down toward Wang Chen with the weight of judgment. The air turned molten; every breath seared the lungs. Stone walls blistered, wood cracked and smoldered. Sparks leapt wildly in all directions, each carrying the scent of burning air.

Wang Chen’s heart trembled—not from fear, but acknowledgment. The sheer magnitude of the qi condensed in that single strike shook even his tempered soul. He wasn’t someone who could summon such raw destruction with his current cultivation. Not yet.

But his experience whispered something else entirely: power is not everything.

His gaze sharpened. Beneath the storm of purple, his lips moved ever so slightly, the words no louder than a breath lost to the chaos.

Chronoblade.

Wring!

The world... stopped.

Color bled from reality. The roaring thunder froze mid-echo. The descending bolt of lightning halted in the air, suspended mere meters above his head—a pillar of death caught between moments.

Wang Chen could see every tendril of plasma, each arc writhing like a living serpent trying to break free from time’s hold. Even immobilized, the strike radiated unimaginable might. The air vibrated around it, distorted by raw divine qi—the pure, unfiltered will of heaven itself.

This was no man’s attack. It was heaven’s wrath, summoned through mortal hands.

A faint chill brushed down Wang Chen’s spine as he regarded the frozen bolt. It reminded him of one simple truth: no matter how powerful his Tower of Infinite Enlightenment was, this world had its own monsters—people who clawed their way toward Immortality with blood, will, and opportunity.

His gaze flicked toward Bu Fang, frozen mid-laugh. The cruel smile on that face—so full of certainty—was a portrait of arrogance moments before downfall.

Wang Chen’s eyes narrowed slightly. So that’s your plan... overwhelm me before I can react.

It was smart. Calculated. They had clearly studied him—knew he’d killed Vice Head Zhang, but not how. They assumed it was speed.

So Bu Fang, the arrogant lightning tyrant, had chosen to strike first with everything he had, denying his opponent even a heartbeat to respond.

Unfortunately for him... that heartbeat belonged to Wang Chen.

Wang Chen was fully aware of Bu Fang’s plan—its logic, its intent, its arrogance. Yet, he simply didn’t care.

He took a single step forward.

And the world sharpened.

A blade-like stillness swept through the colorless void. Every particle of air, every frozen spark, seemed to hum with a terrifying sense of sharpness, as if reality itself had turned into an edge.

"Come," Wang Chen murmured, his voice calm and resonant, echoing faintly in the silence between stopped moments. His eyes rose to meet the suspended column of lightning above him.

"My heart," he said softly, "is the heart of the sword. Whatever I hold... becomes the sword."

The words were not shouted, yet they rippled through the frozen world like a divine command.

And then—the lightning answered.

The great violet column shuddered, then split with a deafening silence. The divine light coiled and condensed in his grasp, forming a sword—pure lightning, pulsing with heaven’s fury.

Its brilliance should have reduced him to ash; no mortal body could have borne such power. Yet Wang Chen stood unscathed, calm as a saint before a storm. The lightning didn’t burn him—it obeyed him.

After all, he was the Sword, and the Sword was him.

How could the sword harm itself?

The blood in his veins surged like molten fire, his pulse hammering against the stillness. His eyes gleamed with focus—cold, absolute. In that frozen, soundless world, a lone cultivator stood beneath a motionless storm, wielding a blade forged from heaven’s own wrath.

"Three-Turn Sword Style..." he whispered.

The words carried weight, as if invoking ancient law. His body steadied, breath syncing with something older than time itself. All his energy gathered into the lightning blade, the air around him trembling as the technique took form.

The first turn—to become one with oneself.

The second—to become one with the earth.

The third—to merge the sky into the edge of the blade.

With each verse, the world itself responded. The pale void darkened; unseen winds howled like banshee. The sword in his grasp no longer looked forged—it was heaven itself condensed into a single edge.

For a fleeting instant, Wang Chen and the blade were indistinguishable.

Then, without sound or warning, he was already in front of Bu Fang.

Every vein in Wang Chen’s body bulged under the strain, his qi roaring like an enraged sea. His flesh threatened to rupture, bones groaning beneath the weight of power far beyond mortal limits. Yet his gaze didn’t waver.

"Three-Turn Sword—First Style..."

He inhaled, the void tightening around him.

"Wrath of Heaven and Man."

The sword moved.

It was a simple motion—a clean, effortless slash, devoid of excess. But the stillness shattered the moment it cut through.

Boom!

A soundless explosion devoured the colorless world. The heavens themselves seemed to convulse; a tide of divine thunder rolled outward in an expanding sphere of white light. The void quaked, as if creation itself was trying to remember how to exist.

And yet—nothing moved.

The world remained still. The sky was frozen. Bu Fang stood where he was, eyes wide, expression locked mid-smirk.

Only the faintest ripple of violet lingered in the air, and Wang Chen’s blade hummed softly, its glow fading to silver as the light dimmed around him.