Blood Wuyang had endured the mockery, the provocation, the naked humiliation for as long as he could. But a man ranked sixth on the Longevity Candidate List, a true prodigy of the Blood Shadow Demon Sect, did not tolerate being shamed forever. At last he struck.
He didn't violate the rules of Linglong Heaven by attacking Fang Han directly. No—he aimed for the hundred high-grade treasures floating behind him. A technicality, but enough. Fang Han had said Wuyang could "pick one." So Wuyang decided he'd pick them all—drag Fang Han's face into the mud and reclaim ground he'd lost in spectacular fashion.
If he couldn't win in wealth, he'd crush him in power.
"Your hundred trinkets dazzled my eyes," Blood Wuyang said, voice rolling with demonic authority. "How am I supposed to choose just one? I'll take them all back to my sect, slowly sort through them for the next decade, and when I finally find one I like, you can come beg for the rest at the Blood Shadow Demon Sect gates."
His voice struck like a crimson thunderclap—Great Soul-Seizing Demon Sound. A single note could blow apart the souls of Heaven-Human experts. Along with it, his enormous Blood Demon Hand Seal tore through the air, grabbing for the treasures.
Almost everyone watching thought those treasures were gone.
Almost.
"Stealing my treasures? These scraps catch your eye?" Fang Han's voice carried a cold, effortless disdain. "Like a beggar who's never seen gold. And you think you're worthy of fighting me over Linglong Immortal Venerable's techniques? Go home, drink milk for two more years, and come back."
In the space of a single fraction of a thought—a sliver of a blink—Fang Han moved.
His fist erupted.
Boom.
The Blood Demon Hand Seal shattered like thin smoke.
Since forming his Golden Core, Fang Han's ninety divine abilities could suppress the likes of Xingmie Xie. And after absorbing the Seven God-Kings, he'd reforged half an immortal body. Even without the Yellow Springs Diagram and the Eight-Direction Floating Pagoda, he could already contend with Yan Shuiyi and Brahma Qingying. His power was bottomless, terrifying.
One punch—and Blood Wuyang's opening move was dust.
Fang Han's body swelled, muscles knotting like divine stone, standing over twice a normal man's height. Lightning hissed from his pores, the sound of war drums, conch horns, and collapsing worlds echoing from within his frame.
He vanished.
"Not good!"
Blood Wuyang reacted on pure instinct, honed through centuries of battle. His true soul burst forth—Blood King God, wrapped in scales, eyes, and countless blood vortexes capable of swallowing even supreme treasures whole.
At the same time, a fist-sized blood-red furnace spun into his hand—a skull with seven natural openings, radiating ancient dread.
A Dao-Artifact.
Forged from the skull of a fallen Longevity Realm giant. Refined by his sect's emperor. The Blood-Transmuting Divine Furnace.
His reaction, empowered by the demon sect's "Soul-Startling Mantra," was faster than most could think.
But not fast enough.
Fang Han appeared behind him.
And struck.
A palm descended with the weight of a collapsing sun. The runic shadow of an ancient character flickered—Yi, the power of one hundred million galloping warhorses.
The furnace cracked instantly.
Though not destroyed, it was severely damaged—decades of painstaking refinement undone in one blow.
"You—destroyed my Dao-artifact! You must've drained yourself dry with that strike! I'll kill you!"
Blood Wuyang howled. He spat a mouthful of blood laced with countless talismanic runes—burning away a full sixty years of his lifespan. His Blood King God swelled, tearing the void apart.
"Blood Sea of Heaven and Earth—ANNIHILATE THE WORLD!"
Scarlet tide rolled out. The world dimmed. Space cracked. Blood rain fell like the end of days.
"Notify the Immortal Venerable!" the Linglong disciples shouted, fleeing behind layers of protective light.
But another voice cut through:
"No need. He could spray out every drop of blood in his body and still lose."
Fang Han's voice rose like thunder.
He stepped into the blood sea.
One palm—split the sea apart.
Second palm—blew the entire blood mist away, like a cosmic beast inhaling an ocean.
Blood Wuyang stood naked in the void, his Blood King God forced back into his body by sheer pressure.
Then came the third.
With a deafening crack, Fang Han appeared beside him and slapped him so hard his massive body flew like a rag doll—tumbling across a thousand feet—
—and slammed onto the stone steps of the Golden Sumeru Mountain.
He landed like a burst sack of rotten meat, robes torn, body purple with bruises, a ruined parody of the legendary genius he was supposed to be.
The Blood Shadow Demon Sect's first true disciple—
Defeated in four palms.
Fang Han stood over him, letting him see nothing but his boots.
"I've robbed countless people. No one has ever robbed me. You were the first. If I don't teach you a lesson, everyone will start thinking they can steal from me." Fang Han's voice was calm, even bored. "You're too weak, Blood Wuyang. Compared to Yan Shuiyi or Brahma Qingying? You're not even close. Four palms. That's all you're worth."