Wang struck with both palms, Merciful Death Palm at full force. Palm winds merged into a vortex, swallowing Alan—warmth tangled with killing intent, a gentle trap luring him to death.
Alan charged, right fist blazing. "I'll drag you down!" he roared, fist crashing toward the vortex's core with world-splitting force.
"BOOM!"
Light erupted, blinding. Shockwaves rippled out, sending gravel avalanching down Repentance Cliff, snapping trees in half.
When the light faded, both staggered—bloodied, broken. Alan's left arm hung twisted; blood oozed from his the corner of his mouth, but his gaze locked on Wang, unflinching.
Wang fared worse: robe torn, chest branded with a fistprint, face ashen. Fear flickered—then the manual's memory sharpened his eyes. "I underestimated you. But it ends here." He pulled a flywhisk, flicking it—silver threads hardened into iron, shooting at Alan. Soul-Locking Flywhisk—its 丝 (threads) bound souls, leaving victims helpless.
Alan dodged, threads grazing his cheek, drawing blood. He moved like a ghost along the cliff, evading, searching—then spotted it: a split-second dip in Wang's aura as he swung the whisk. A flaw!
Alan spun, dodging the whisk, and drove his last strength into a fist aimed at Wang's belly. Wang froze, too slow—Alan's fist connected with a wet "splat."
Wang doubled over, coughing blood, eyes wide with disbelief. How? A junior weaker than him…
Alan stood over him, chest heaving, eyes burning with unending hate. "This is just the start," he said, voice cold as a grave. "You'll pay for every drop of blood."
Wang met that gaze—feral, demonic—and flinched. He tried to speak, but blood flooded his mouth. Darkness swallowed him.