Chapter Seven: The Immortal Master

Lan Yi was flying—in fact, he was floating. The azure radiance coalesced into a ring, absorbing the earth’s magnetic currents, spinning the fierce energies, forming the energy storage structure found in some artificial celestial realms’ spirit stones. Harnessing spiritual power, it cycled through release and absorption, creating a counteracting magnetic field to sustain levitation. For a cultivator well-versed in Daoist arts, this was a trivial feat.

As for the Nine Heavens Divine Book, mastery over magnetism and destructive energies was the foundation. Only after perfecting this fundamental skill could one proceed to learn hundreds of extraordinary Daoist techniques—thunderous blasts, invisible fierce energies, primordial magnetic shields, lightning transference, and more.

Lan Yi moved openly, unmasked, floating through the skies above Puhaicheng, deliberately showcasing himself to the entire city. He wanted everyone to know his presence.

If he merely soared overhead, some might doubt, suspecting foreigners had concocted some ingenious sky-bound contraption. But Lan Yi was not simply flying; behind him hovered a blazing wheel emitting fierce bolts of lightning. As he passed, several foolish foreign constables learned the hard way—their charred remains attested that the wheel was no mere ornament.

Flying through the skies, commanding thunder, bearing a luminous wheel—such imagery was reserved for deities in most mythologies. Unsurprisingly, Lan Yi’s passage stirred an immense uproar. Worshippers knelt in droves, cries of “Immortal! Thunder God! Divine Envoy!” rang out, and after he precisely struck dead several gun-wielding foreign constables with thunderous Daoist arts, the fervor escalated to outright fanaticism.

He had the people’s hearts, their strength. The manpower and resources of this city of over a million would soon obey one man’s command—Lan Yi’s.

This was deliberate. In this era, information spread poorly—at best by telephone, or by telegram over distances. Destroying warships and punishing foreigners would certainly stir rumors, but too slowly, and likely dismissed as superstitious trickery. To swiftly marshal usable forces, Lan Yi had to repeatedly manifest miracles before the masses, displaying powers that surpassed the age.

He had the stage, courtesy of this turbulent era, to perform Daoist arts.

Soon, Lan Yi, floating unhindered, spotted his destination ahead: the International Press Club. Who loved big news more than journalists?

…

“What nonsense are you spouting? How could anyone fly in the sky?” Nong Jin Sun rose, rebuking him.

Had Lu Bing lost his mind? As a disciple of Huo Yuanjia, if rumors of hysteria spread now, it would threaten Nong Jin Sun and his organization, possibly tarnishing the reputation of the Jingwu Athletic Association—wasting two years of careful planning.

“Mr. Nong, Master, I’m not lying!” Lu Bing pleaded. “There really is someone—no, it’s the Thunder God! Thunder God is flying in the sky, wielding lightning to strike people! There’s a bright, round thing behind him… Ah…!”

“If you don’t believe me, just go outside and see for yourselves!” Lu Bing was no scholar like his elder brother Chen Zhen, nor could he study abroad; he was a burly fighter. Faced with such incomprehensible, era-defying phenomena, he became incoherent, sighing and stamping his feet, urging everyone to see for themselves.

The club interior became chaotic. Many journalists were eager to leave—were it not for professional decorum, they would have already chased the breaking story.

Soon, a prominent figure stood up. “Enough with the noisy commotion. Let’s all go out and see this Thunder God for ourselves,” Chen Qimei announced, striding toward the door.

Founder of newspapers, promoter of Western learning, a pioneer of action alongside Nong Jin Sun, Chen Qimei had studied in Japan, learning police, law, and military science. He was knowledgeable and resolute, naturally skeptical of Chinese superstitions—and not only skeptical, but deeply averse.

Such beliefs, he thought, lay at the root of violent cults and must be eradicated. If gods truly existed, would China have fallen to such wretched depths?

He was determined to see whether this Thunder God could withstand a bullet.

Stepping outside, looking up—

“Hmm… Ah?” Chen Qimei’s hands trembled violently. Twenty meters ahead, hovering about ten meters above the club’s green lawn, a figure bearing a blazing wheel of lightning floated serenely, as if resting upon a cloud.

What… what was this? Not even Japanese or Western science fiction had imagined such a sight! Could immortals truly walk the earth?

Lan Yi cared nothing for the onlookers’ thoughts. With a wave of his hand, from the azure radiance flew streaks of bright silver metal—hard, silvery, shaped like dough, transforming beneath his descending steps into blooming lotus flowers, appearing to support his descent, step by step.

Upon touching ground, Lan Yi waved his hand again. The lotuses instantly became twelve handleless longswords, slowly rotating around the wheel behind his head.

The environment was perfect—fitting for what Lan Yi intended next.

The journalists’ cameras nearly smoked from frantic shuttering. Whether immortal or extraterrestrial, this figure would headline tomorrow’s papers. They wished for dozens more cameras and rolls of film—shooting recklessly, desperately.

“Huo Master, I have a great opportunity to bestow upon you.”

His gaze swept across familiar yet unfamiliar faces, settling at last upon the one who had treated him best. Only then did Lan Yi’s stern visage soften.

Huo Yuanjia stood at the forefront; now, named by the immortal for such an opportunity, the intense attention focused on him could have made cold water boil.

Chen Qimei’s heart thundered, Nong Jin Sun’s expression grew anxious.

“May I ask, Immortal Master, what is this opportunity?” Huo Yuanjia, puzzled why he was chosen, stepped forward, hands clasped in respect, despite the obvious supernatural power before him.

“You are a martial artist—naturally, the opportunity is martial skill.” Martial arts were Lan Yi’s other purpose.

Upon hearing this, the crowd’s expressions shifted. An immortal granting martial prowess? Decades ago, that would have been remarkable, but now, with firearms dominating, what use was martial skill? Was this immortal some ancient recluse from deep mountains? Yet his attire and bearing said otherwise.

Seeing their skeptical faces, Lan Yi wasted no words. He swung his fist toward the open space behind him.

Thunder roared.