Chapter 44
There was no trace of fear upon his face—only a clear gaze that reflected conviction, the certainty that his actions were right, that the world would not collapse merely because he dared to challenge someone like Huan Zheng.
And when Huan Zheng looked at him sharply, with an oppressive aura strong enough to make most beings kneel, the man met his gaze without bowing, without trembling, and without showing even the slightest hint of guilt.
The faint gleam in his eyes carried a mockery—a silent sneer that stung nonetheless, as if he were silently judging that someone as powerful as Huan Zheng could only display courage before those weaker than himself.
But what made it even more unsettling was not the mockery itself, but the realization that lingered behind it.
He knew that before him might stand one who had surpassed the Third Star of Basic Cultivation—a being whose power could shift the tides of war with a single breath.
And yet, despite knowing that, he still chose to provoke.
Not out of ignorance or arrogance, but because something deep within him wanted to see, to assess firsthand whether someone as unyielding as Huan Zheng still possessed control over himself.
The words he slipped out—subtle yet sharp—made the air around them grow colder.
The mockery was not mere insult, but an invitation, a challenge to prove whether Huan Zheng was truly nothing more than a creature born of rage alone.
On the surface, everything seemed to stop and freeze at that very moment, like a breath trapped between two stones.
Ling Xu felt a tremor deep within his soul. The vibration was not simply a sign of danger, but a recognition of something "beyond"—a force unspoken, surpassing sacred doctrines and transcending the limits of the mortal world.
The glimmer upon the stranger's skin lifted shadows like a moon reflected upon water, and that light compelled everyone around to reconsider the boundary between the divine and the fragile.
Huan Zheng stood under the heaviest pressure.
Every muscle held the possibility of explosion.
Yet, something deeper than anger restrained him.
'The whispers among the waiting crowd continue to ignite feelings of humiliation.'
Those whispers defiled humanity as lowly creatures, placing the Gods upon thrones of scornful observation.
Ling Xu watched from the sidelines, aware that the stranger's presence was a trial far greater than it appeared—a mirror reflecting the assault on one's dignity—and he restrained the turmoil in his chest that longed for an explanation while refusing to yield to fear.
The crowd was made of shadows—some pure and sacred, others stiff and distant—unfolding into waves of unspoken mockery, strong enough to make Huan Zheng feel pierced.
The mockery was not merely words, but an insult rooted deep in the history of shifting orders, when humanity rose as the new rulers and the Gods lost their thrones.
The nameless man who blocked Huan Zheng's punch moved like a blade cutting through the fabric of honor—and his act birthed a quiet prejudice that spread through glances and whispers.
'Implying that human courage is a joke—something amusing and unworthy of respect.'
Each whisper stabbed at Huan Zheng, feeding his mind with the image of violence as the simplest and most satisfying solution.
He yearned for an explosion—not just to silence the mockers, but to shatter the skulls filled with false grandeur.
Yet within him, there was a cage stronger than fury itself—a spiritual resistance that tormented him, forcing him to hold back the urge to destroy everything.
The stranger stood calmly, his movements deliberate, stripped of all courtesy—and in that silence, thick with pressure, he carved his provocation purposefully, as though testing who still held control.
His eyes were cold yet piercing, revealing the arrogance of Huan Zheng down to its core; within that gaze, Huan Zheng saw the reflection of himself—his rage vast, yet bound by something stronger than flesh.
Ling Xu became the silent witness to this scene, sensing the paradox surrounding the stranger—a fallen grandeur that still radiated light, a perfection so painful it could belong neither to heaven nor to earth.
Amid it all, the crowd continued to watch—aloof and disdainful—measuring the fate of the two figures before them as though they were mere objects to be categorized and judged.
As the air around them quivered with endless whispers, Huan Zheng stood within a small storm born of hatred and resentment.
Every sound, every glance, became the sharpest thorn in silence.
He tried to brush them away, but the harder he resisted, the deeper those whispers pierced into the core of his soul.
His breathing grew heavy, his eyes widened, and his gaze flared like uncontainable embers—burning anyone who dared to look back.
Not only the stranger who blocked his punch, but the entire crowd fell under that gaze.
It pierced those who hummed softly beneath their breath, those who watched with curiosity wrapped in arrogance.
In that moment, the world became a pit of mockery, and Huan Zheng stood as the man trapped between pride and destruction.
The rage within his chest was not mere emotion, but a storm born of old wounds and undying humiliation.
He did not rely on words, for to him, voice was weakness—a deformity borrowing reason's name.
Huan Zheng trusted only his hands, the pulse of his bones and muscles that throbbed in rhythm with fury.
In his mind, nothing could erase ridicule except the sound of breaking bones.
And in his eyes, the stranger before him was the perfect symbol—the target meant to be crushed.
He wanted to trample him, to once again raise the dignity of humankind before the Gods draped in arrogance, to show that the world they despised still held a fire that would never die, no matter how many times it had been cast down.
Yet beneath that determination, there was something else—something trembling along the lines of his face.
'A small doubt not yet grown, but shadowing him like a remnant of a past he failed to understand.'
Ling Xu stood not far behind, caught between fear and a strange reverence for the two figures.
He could feel the pressure radiating from Huan Zheng—so dense, so heavy, that the air itself seemed to solidify into walls pressing from every side.
When Huan Zheng's fist began to tighten, marking the start of inevitable ruin, Ling Xu hesitated.
A single second stretched like a chasm before him.
He swallowed hard, trying to comprehend the power emanating from that man's body—a force five thousand times more terrifying than anything he had ever faced.
His heart pounded wildly, not just from fear, but because amidst the chaos, he saw another kind of suffering.
'The suffering of one who has lost control over himself.'
To be continued…