CHAPTER 166: CH-166: ASHES

The valley became a crucible of thunder and fire.

The foreign commander’s glaive burned red like molten steel, each sweep carving trenches into the earth. Sparks and embers burst from his strikes, scorching stone, melting snow into steam. He was a titan of flesh and steel, his roar carrying like a war drum, each step shaking the battlefield.

But Tian Shen did not yield. His spear sang with lightning, arcs splitting the night sky. Every thrust was a thunderbolt, every sweep a storm tearing mountains apart. His qi surged wildly, no longer restrained—violent and glorious. The Utopian Core within him pulsed with hunger, demanding more blood, more battle, more proof of its strength.

The first exchange sent shockwaves through the valley. Glaive met spear, fire met thunder. The impact burst outward, collapsing trees, shattering rocks, sending soldiers—friend and foe alike—flying. The disciples watching from Feilun’s walls had to brace themselves, eyes wide in awe and terror. Some fell to their knees, unable to withstand the oppressive force of two titans colliding.

The foreigners, disciplined and drilled, rallied around their commander. They surged forward in waves, shields locking, blades flashing, arrows raining down. Hundreds of them, their armor black as night. The tide of steel closed around Tian Shen like a noose.

And still he laughed.

It was not the laugh of joy, but of a predator given prey. His spear spun in a circle, arcs of violet lightning exploding outward. Dozens fell instantly, armor smoking, their screams drowned by thunder. He lunged forward, lightning striking through ten men in a line, their bodies collapsing before they could even fall.

"Storm fiend!" the foreigners cried, voices trembling with both fear and fury. Yet their discipline held. They pressed tighter, desperate to overwhelm him with sheer numbers.

On the walls, Feng Yin’s eyes narrowed. She could feel it—the storm inside him spiraling out of control. The Utopian Core was devouring his restraint, urging him to burn brighter, fight harder, destroy everything in his path. And yet, even as she worried, she could not look away. He was magnificent, the very embodiment of martial will.

"Root Division!" she shouted, her voice sharp as steel. "Form the barrier line! Support him!"

Disciples leapt down from the walls, qi flaring. Formation banners unfurled, talismans ignited, and the Root Division moved as one. They slammed their staves and swords into the ground, weaving a net of protective qi that pulsed behind Tian Shen, sealing breaches, cutting down stragglers, and shielding him from arrows.

But Tian Shen did not look back. His world was narrowed to one thing—the giant before him.

The foreign commander laughed as well, a booming sound that echoed off the mountains. "Good! You are worthy prey! Let us see if your storm outlasts my fire!"

Their weapons met again. This time the clash did not simply shake the valley—it cracked the very air. Lightning split the clouds, fire consumed the ground. Their duel became a world of its own, the battlefield reduced to ash and smoke around them.

Each strike threatened to tear Tian Shen apart, but his eyes only burned brighter. The beast inside him howled, demanding more. His veins felt like molten thunder, his bones like crackling lightning. Pain was nothing—only the storm mattered.

The foreign commander drove his glaive downward, fire exploding like a volcano. Tian Shen braced, his spear catching the strike, sparks and arcs blasting outward in all directions. For a heartbeat, the two forces were equal—immovable storm against unyielding fire.

Then Tian Shen let go.

He channeled everything, unleashing the storm inside him. Lightning roared from his core, bursting outward in a sphere of destruction. The glaive was thrown back, the commander staggering as arcs shredded his armor, searing into his flesh.

But the storm did not stop. It expanded, swallowing soldiers in every direction. Hundreds screamed, their bodies breaking beneath the thunder. Even Feilun disciples cried out as the pressure slammed against them, barely shielded by formation barriers.

"Tian Shen!" Feng Yin shouted, her voice cutting through the chaos. "Enough! Control it!"

Her words were knives of clarity. For an instant, his storm flickered, the beast within snarling in protest. His spear trembled in his hands, as though it too demanded endless destruction.

But he forced breath into his lungs. He gritted his teeth, anchoring himself to her voice, to the memory of her words on the balcony: Control is not only discipline. It can also be trust.

The storm contracted, focused. Not wild destruction, but a spear thrust honed to pierce the heavens.

He lunged.

The spear tore through the commander’s defenses, lightning exploding from the point of impact. The glaive shattered, metal fragments scattering like sparks in a forge. The commander’s chest split open, blood and fire spraying into the night.

The titan roared one last time before falling, his massive body striking the ground with a quake that silenced the battlefield.

For a long moment, no one moved. The storm quieted. The valley lay in ruins, the snow melted, the ground scorched black.

Then the foreigners broke.

Without their commander, discipline faltered. Their cries turned to screams, their charge into flight. Hundreds turned and fled into the mountains, abandoning the dead, their banners trampled beneath fleeing boots.

"Pursue!" Feng Yin commanded, Root Division surging forward to cut down stragglers. But she herself did not chase. Her eyes remained fixed on Tian Shen.

He stood alone in the ruined valley, spear dripping with blood and lightning. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, but his aura did not fade. It was still violent, still hungry. He had won—but the beast within still demanded more.

Feng Yin descended from the walls, walking to him through the smoke and corpses. She placed a hand on his arm, grounding him. His eyes, still glowing with stormlight, flickered toward her. For a moment, she feared he would not recognize her.

Then he exhaled, and the storm receded just enough.

"It is not over," Tian Shen said, voice low, rough as thunder rolling over distant hills.

"No," Feng Yin agreed, her grip firm. "It has only begun."

Above them, the storm clouds parted, revealing the cold moon. Its pale light bathed the battlefield, illuminating the cost of their victory. Hundreds of corpses littered the valley, both foreign and Feilun. Blood ran like rivers, steam rising from scorched earth.

The disciples who survived stood in stunned silence, their eyes fixed on Tian Shen. To them he was no longer simply a man, nor even a cultivator. He was something more—a weapon forged by heaven’s tribulation, a storm given flesh. A figure to both revere and fear.

Whispers began, spreading through the survivors. Some called him a protector, others a demon unleashed. But all of them spoke his name.

Tian Shen.

...

That night, the Root Division carried their wounded back to the sect. Fires burned in the distance where fleeing foreigners had set villages alight, reminders that this battle was only the first of many. Rumors spread like wildfire—that the western tribes had united, that shadowy hands armed them, that Feilun Sect was but the first obstacle in their path.

Within the Grand Hall, the elders convened again, the weight of the coming storm heavy upon them. Elder Su’s face was grim, his arguments muted by the undeniable fact of Tian Shen’s victory. Elder Meng spoke of opportunity, of striking back before the foreigners could regroup. Others whispered of alliances, of reaching out to neighboring sects for aid.

Sect Master Feilun Yao remained silent through it all, his eyes distant. He had seen the storm unleashed, and he knew—Tian Shen was both their greatest weapon and their greatest risk.

When the council dispersed, he summoned Feng Yin alone.

"You saw it," he said simply.

"Yes," she answered.

"And do you still believe he can control it?"

Feng Yin met his gaze without flinching. "He can. But not alone."

Feilun Yao’s eyes lingered on her, as though weighing truths unspoken. Finally, he nodded. "Then stand by him. If the storm devours him, Feilun sect may not survive the fire, even the ashes."

...

In his quarters, Tian Shen sat cross-legged, spear resting across his knees. His eyes were closed, his breathing steady, but inside his core raged with wild qi. Every pulse threatened to tear him apart, every breath was a battle against the beast demanding release.

He remembered the laughter of battle, the hunger, the ecstasy of unleashing his storm upon hundreds. It called to him still, whispering promises of invincibility, of conquest without end.

And he remembered Feng Yin’s voice, sharp and clear, cutting through the chaos. Control is not only discipline. It also represented trust. It also represented love.

His grip tightened on the spear. His storm snarled within, but he held it. Not by force alone—but by tethering it to something beyond himself.

The war had only begun. But so too had the forging of Tian Shen.

He would not be merely the storm.

He would be its master.