CHAPTER 173: CH-173: DON’T UNDERESTIMATE HIM

The mountain plateau quaked as Tian Shen advanced. His spear’s silver flames licked the air, twisting qi currents into violent eddies.

Across from him, the foreign leader—armored in fractured iron and bound with pulsating runes—lifted his gauntlet high, calling forth the power of his homeland’s forbidden artifacts.

The gauntlet’s surface cracked and reformed endlessly, as though struggling to contain a wellspring too vast for mortal hands.

The clash was inevitable.

Behind Tian Shen, the Feilun Sect disciples wavered between awe and fear. None dared move closer; the air itself was too heavy to breathe.

Feng Yin alone stepped forward, her aura shimmering like moonlight on steel, eyes sharp yet unreadable. She said nothing, but Tian Shen felt her gaze pressing against his back, steady, certain.

It was enough.

The foreign leader struck first. His gauntlet released a burst of shadow-forged qi, like the screech of broken glass.

The torrent expanded into jagged whips of darkness that split the sky itself, each lash capable of tearing apart a mountain. The earth caved under the first blow, dust and stone scattering like frightened birds.

Tian Shen’s eyes narrowed. His spear moved once.

One thrust—so clean, so precise—that the air sang. Silver fire split shadow apart, unraveling the foreigner’s strike into smoke.

The spear’s echo continued, piercing forward to slam into the enemy’s gauntlet. Sparks burst. The ground between them split into a jagged canyon.

The foreign leader staggered half a step, disbelief cutting through his features. "A mere cultivator from a backwater sect dares—"

He didn’t finish. Tian Shen lunged.

The silver flame roared, spear becoming a storm. Thrust after thrust rained down, each one infused with the solidity of mountains, the fluidity of rivers, the fury of fire.

His cultivation, recently tempered through tribulation, surged with terrifying depth. Every motion carried inevitability, the weight of a man who had stared at death and forced it to kneel.

The foreigner was no weakling. He countered with the full force of his artifact, each blow echoing like a collapsing star.

Shadow qi formed barriers, jagged spears, titanic arms that clawed the air. His every movement distorted the plateau, bending light and time around him.

But no matter how heavy his strikes, Tian Shen did not yield.

He advanced.

Step by step.

Each clash shook the battlefield, cracks spiderwebbing across the plateau. Disciples of both sides fell back, shielding themselves with desperate qi.

Rocks shattered, trees ignited from the heat, and the sky grew darker, as if recoiling from the violence unleashed below.

Still, Tian Shen pressed on.

His spear met the gauntlet in a deafening crash. Sparks turned into meteors, raining around them. His flames consumed shadow, his will crushed arrogance.

The foreign leader gritted his teeth, veins bulging as he poured forbidden essence into the artifact.

"You think yourself strong? You think yourself untouchable? Then face the price of standing against us!"

The gauntlet shone with fractured brilliance, tearing apart reality as it unleashed its ultimate strike. From its core erupted a colossal hand of shadow, easily the size of the mountain itself, descending to crush everything beneath it.

Disciples screamed. Even Feilun elders who had rushed to the ridge faltered, recognizing the unmistakable aura of world-warping force.

Feng Yin’s hand tightened on her sword—but she did not move. Her eyes were on Tian Shen. She knew.

He would not run.

And he did not.

Instead, Tian Shen drew in his breath. His dantian churned, silver flames spiraling higher, purer, until they ignited his very blood. The spear in his hands howled like a beast unchained. His qi condensed into a single point, a radiance so sharp that it tore through night itself.

He thrust.

The world fell silent.

A single silver arc rose from the spear, small compared to the colossal shadow hand—but impossibly sharp, impossibly true. It cut. Not through matter. Not through qi. But through arrogance itself.

The shadow hand shattered.

The silver flame pierced the gauntlet, searing through its artifact runes, burning into the foreign leader’s arm. The man screamed, his proud arrogance consumed by pain and disbelief. His armor cracked, his blood vaporized, and his knees hit the earth.

The mountain plateau, scarred and broken, lay silent.

Tian Shen stood tall, silver flames guttering down to faint embers. His spear rested against the ground, steady despite the storm still raging in his veins.

The foreign leader coughed blood, his voice hoarse. "You... are not ordinary..."

"No," Tian Shen replied, his voice even, carrying across the battlefield like judgment. "I am Feilun."

The words struck deeper than the spear.

The enemy disciples trembled, their formation broken. Some fled. Others froze, unwilling to meet Tian Shen’s eyes. Even the wounded foreign leader seemed to shrink under his presence.

Behind him, Feng Yin finally exhaled, the faintest curve of pride ghosting her lips.

The battle was decided.

But Tian Shen did not relax. He knew this was not the end.

That night, the Feilun Sect gathered in silence. Fires burned across the ridges, disciples tending to wounds, elders whispering strategies. The foreign forces had been repelled—but not destroyed. They would return. Stronger. Angrier.

Tian Shen sat apart from the noise, his spear laid across his knees. His body still ached from the clash, his meridians screaming from the violent circulation of qi. Yet his mind was calm.

He had tasted their power.

And they had tasted his resolve.

Feng Yin approached quietly, carrying a flask of warm tea. She knelt beside him, the light painting her features in soft silver. For a long time, neither spoke. The night hummed with the faint cries of injured disciples, the crackle of flames, the sigh of the mountain wind.

Finally, Feng Yin broke the silence. "You’ve made yourself a target."

Tian Shen smiled faintly. "Was I ever anything else?"

Her eyes lingered on him, sharp yet soft, as if trying to see through his silence. She said nothing more, only handing him the flask. Their fingers brushed briefly. Neither pulled away.

...

In the days that followed, Feilun Sect rebuilt their defenses. Scouts reported scattered enemy remnants retreating east, carrying their wounded leader. But the whispers grew louder: foreigners had crossed borders, bearing techniques and artifacts unlike any seen before. Their intentions were no longer rumor. They were a storm approaching.

Tian Shen trained relentlessly. His cultivation, newly risen to the Utopian Core, demanded stabilization. Nights were spent beneath the lantern tree, silver flames spiraling through his veins. Days were spent drilling with his spear until sweat burned his eyes. Each thrust, each breath, carried the memory of shadow and arrogance, the promise that he would not falter when the storm returned.

Feng Yin often trained nearby. Sometimes she sparred with him, their blades clashing in rhythm. Sometimes she only watched, silent, her presence a steadying weight. In those moments, Tian Shen felt the world narrow to something simpler—spear, breath, heartbeat, and her.

But the world did not care for simplicity.

Weeks later, scouts returned with grim news. The foreigners were not retreating. They were gathering. More sects, more warlocks, more artifacts. The wounded leader had sworn vengeance, and he was not alone.

The Feilun Sect’s council convened. Elder Su argued for vigilance, Lian Hua warned of infiltration, and the Sect Master’s expression grew heavier with each report. At the heart of it all sat Tian Shen, silent, listening.

Because deep within, he already knew.

The storm was coming.

And when it broke, the spear that refused to kneel would be waiting.

...

The council chamber emptied slowly, disciples and elders dispersing with troubled expressions. Plans were drafted, alliances suggested, and messages prepared for friendly sects. Yet despite all the hurried words and ink spilled, Tian Shen knew preparation alone would not decide what came next.

That night, he did not return to his quarters. Instead, he walked to the highest cliff overlooking the Feilun stronghold. The wind howled there, sharp and biting, but he stood unmoving, cloak snapping against his shoulders. His spear rested upright at his side, its faint silver glow painting lines against the dark horizon.

In the distance, beyond mountain ranges and rivers unseen, he could almost feel the foreigners gathering. Each breath carried a faint pressure, like storm clouds swelling before lightning strikes. His body tensed instinctively, his blood responding as though it remembered the clash too vividly to forget.

Feng Yin found him there, silent as the night itself. She did not ask what weighed on him—she already knew. Instead, she stood beside him, her sword tip digging into the stone at her feet, her gaze fixed on the same distant horizon.

"You will fight them again," she said simply, her tone neither question nor doubt.

"I will," Tian Shen replied. His voice carried no bravado, only certainty.

"They won’t underestimate you next time."

"Then I’ll have to grow stronger."

The exchange ended there, words unnecessary. Their presence was enough.

Far below, the sect bustled with activity—disciples reforging weapons, elders inscribing talismans, sentries pacing the walls. Yet atop the cliff, only the two of them remained, watching, waiting.

For Tian Shen, the waiting was a cultivation of its own. His spear was steady. His will sharper still.

The storm had not yet arrived.

But when it did, Feilun’s flame would rise unyielding.