Chapter Forty: Divine Might

In this era, the very concept of air defense did not exist. The power of aerial assault was still in its infancy, and no one had given any thought to defending against attacks from the sky. Naturally, the dreadnoughts had no means of anti-aircraft defense. When the fearsome Phoenix-Dragon, wreathed in lightning, swooped down upon them, their so-called anti-air measures amounted to nothing more than desperately angling their naval guns upward, hoping that the thunderous barrage might somehow reach the predatory beast and, by some stroke of luck, bring it down.

These ignorant white men did not even realize the truth. What they witnessed—the descent of a mythic spectacle—was, in their intelligence reports, described as an illusion conjured by a martial artist. The vague shape of the thunder phoenix rapidly sharpened as it streaked across the sky; their bodies trembled, hair rising uncontrollably, and their hearts instinctively turned to prayer and faith.

Whether it was to the Lord or to Satan, it mattered not. If only a miracle would save them this once, they would spend the rest of their lives as the most devout of lambs.

But their prayers went unanswered.

The raptor, crowned with nested halos and clad in feathers of lightning, appeared immense—no less imposing in the heavens than the dreadnoughts themselves. The target was enormous; by all logic, with so many shells fired, at least one should have struck true. Indeed, through the officers' spyglasses, they saw the shells hit their mark.

Yet what they struck was not real.

It was nothing but an illusion cast upon the mind by inner vision and mystical arts—a mirage, a reflection in the water. The shells that howled into the thunder phoenix seemed, to ordinary eyes, to have no effect whatsoever; they rippled through its form and passed unhindered, leaving not the slightest scratch, not even stalling its assault.

The French-flagged men could only watch helplessly as the apparition flickered above their heads—then dove straight down.

A thunderous crash exploded directly within their minds, leaving every soldier and officer utterly disoriented and paralyzed, their limbs numb. In their despairing gaze, they saw a torrent of thunder that paid no heed to steel hulls, pouring in unchecked—a mighty storm of lightning arcs that leaped and danced, mercilessly licking and piercing every living body.

And so, wracked by pain and numbness, the French-flagged men closed their eyes one by one.

From the vantage point of the Starhan armored ships, they saw Immortal Master Lan Yi transform into the thunder phoenix. The thunder phoenix spread its wings, soaring headlong through the enemy fleet’s cannonade, ignoring the shells entirely as it swept above their ships, then suddenly dove in a violent descent.

In the next instant, the thunder phoenix vanished.

The guns that had been firing so futilely fell silent all at once after the phoenix’s fall. Though the ships themselves remained afloat, all vitality had left them, shrouding them in an unspeakable dread, as if, in the span of a heartbeat, living vessels had been turned into ghost ships.

From a certain perspective—

Seen from a distance, it was as if insecticide had wiped out the ant-like men aboard the ships in an instant; this was far more terrifying than sinking the ironclads through brute force. Because it was unknown, because it was unfathomable.

Immortal Master Lan Yi’s methods had already transcended their understanding.

“Hurry over there!” As soon as Zhao Sikong recovered from the terror of Lan Yi’s psychic and mystical onslaught, he urged the ships to quickly approach and see what had happened.

He hardly needed to give the order. The officers and men, eager to redeem their previous humiliation, had already pushed the engines to their limits. Excitement and trepidation warred within them—they could not wait to see the state of the foreign ships. If their shame truly had been washed away, they needed no further proof; they would forever follow martial artists, and Lan Yi most of all.

Soon enough, in just over ten minutes, the powerless American ironclad drifted in circles, showing no response to the rapid approach of the Starhan ships. It exuded a sinister, eerie air, the whole region smelling oddly of metal and fish.

Lan Yi was nowhere to be seen.

But his masterpiece was plain for all to witness.

The thunder phoenix’s descent landed directly atop one of the warships below. It had been sliced clean in two! The cut was not smooth: molten iron and smoldering planks twisted together in a grotesque, ugly seam. But the ship had, in truth, been severed, its complex insides laid bare like a gourd sliced open. The two halves rocked with the waves, and now and then figures tumbled from the jagged break into the sea below.

“This...!”

“My God!”

“The Immortal Master’s divine might!!”

Cries of astonishment erupted among the crowd. Those whose resolve was weak had already dropped to their knees in worship, while the reporters jostled for the best shots, desperate to record the scene.

‘The Demon-Binding Rope... it’s not just this immortal art, but also the Metal-Slashing Sword Qi, and the Overturning Thunder Pool—so this is what it looks like when the Immortal Master unleashes his full power? Even what appears to be a killing technique can... cleave a warship in two!’

Zhao Sikong was Lan Yi’s shadow. In the presence of martial artists, Lan Yi kept no secrets; he would even explain the principles of his mystical arts for all to hear. Zhao Sikong was no stranger to arts like the Metal-Slashing Sword Qi or the Demon-Binding Rope.

What was unfamiliar was the restraint Lan Yi had shown in demonstrations, compared to the grandeur of his power when fully unleashed.

A phrase Lan Yi had once uttered in passing during martial instruction suddenly surfaced in Zhao Sikong’s mind: ‘Even if you are only throwing stones, when you can magnify that force ten million times, it becomes a weapon that can destroy armies and nations.’

The Immortal Master had not deceived him.

Other than the ironclad that Lan Yi had sliced in two, the remaining ships were largely intact—but everyone aboard had lost consciousness. More precisely, they were all brain dead.

The martial artists who leapt aboard to seize the ships were astonished to find the French-flagged soldiers slumped everywhere, completely motionless, as stiff and unresponsive as wooden puppets. A slap would get no reaction; even a bullet to the thigh brought nothing. Were it not for the faint movement of their chests, one would think them already corpses.

As it stood, even if not truly dead, they were little better than so.

In fact, left alone, within a dozen minutes or so, their organs would fail and they would die entirely. Moreover, those devoured by the thunder phoenix’s vision bore various marks of electrical injury, inside and out—wounds so ghastly they shocked the onlookers.

The martial artists could not help but marvel. They had seen a few generals unleash psychic attacks that projected inner visions upon others, but never to such an extent—at this level, it was impossible to tell whether it was martial arts or sorcery.

When the news reached Zhao Sikong, the corner of his mouth twitched.

Nearly two thousand people had been slain with a single stroke by Immortal Master Lan Yi. Not a single survivor.

And as for Lan Yi himself? Where had he gone after so effortlessly exterminating this foreign horde?

The answer soon became apparent.

On the deck of one of the ships, Lan Yi had left a line of scorched letters burned into the metal by lightning. He stated he would go ahead to stretch his limbs, and instructed Zhao Sikong to send men to secure these ships and bring up the rear as quickly as possible. If they were too slow, they might miss the Immortal Master’s next display of divine prowess.

To miss witnessing the Immortal Master personally annihilate the foreign devils was a minor regret. But to delay the spectacle he wished to display to the world at large—that would be unforgivable.