A Waste of Time

Chapter 89: Striated Calm

The haze thickened until the battlefield became a blurred watercolor of shifting shadows. Through the rising steam, the crowd could barely make out two silhouettes—one tall, one short—darting, twisting, and colliding in a relentless rhythm. Each clash rang with the harsh clang of steel on steel, sharp and jarring against the muffled hiss of boiling water.

But after every exchange, it was the taller figure who staggered back, boots splashing or scraping for purchase, while the smaller one surged forward again—unyielding, unrelenting, chasing like a wolf scenting blood.

Flashes of sparks burst between them, blending with sudden arcs of blinding Lightning that lit the fog for a heartbeat at a time. The temperature on the field kept climbing, oppressive and suffocating, sweat beading on brows even among the spectators. From time to time, the boy would drive the butt of his Spear down hard into the earth, sending a deep reverberation through the ground. Each impact split the wet surface, letting the pooled water seep into the cracks. Bit by bit, the mud lost its treacherous softness, the ground hardening beneath them.

It was a subtle but devastating shift—Zhan Lei’s last real advantage was slipping away. His boots, reinforced with cyan Qi for stability on the slick ground, were now little more than dead weight on firm soil.

Daemon’s stance changed the moment his footing solidified. His movements grew sharper, his attacks heavier, his pursuit more feral. The aggression doubled, and the pressure mounted until Zhan Lei’s defenses quivered under the strain.

It’s now or never, the young man thought, jaw tightening as he steeled himself.

“Thunder-Clap!”

Lightning flared violently around him, a sudden explosion of sound and light that cracked the air like the heavens splitting. He used the Technique not to strike, but to drive the boy back and carve himself a moment’s breathing space—a single heartbeat in which to bring out his trump card. His eyes burned with fighting spirit as he dropped into a low stance, feet braced wide in the dirt. Both hands gripped the butt of his Spear, muscles coiling like a bowstring drawn to its limit.

“Sky-Tear!”

He thrust.

The Spear shot forward in a blur, its tip dragging a thick beam of purple Lightning that lanced across the battlefield. The attack split the air with a deafening roar, tearing into the earth and leaving a raw trench in its wake. The ground peeled apart under the violent discharge, the force culminating in a thunderous explosion that ripped through the circle. A shockwave hammered outward, flinging dust, dirt, and loose debris into the air.

The crowd vanished behind raised arms, cloaks, or the cover of wagon wheels. Some were knocked onto their backs by the sheer force of it, others scrambling for shelter behind the carriages of the merchant caravan.

Then, through the settling cloud of dust, came a sound—light, almost childish in tone, yet carrying the wild, untamed edge of something primal.

“Hahaha…”

They turned to see him.

Daemon stood at the very heart of the circle, his Spear planted casually into the ground. From Zhan Lei’s position, a deep trench carved its way straight toward the boy’s feet, the scar in the earth splitting into two branches just before reaching him—one running past his left side, the other past his right. The central channel, aimed directly at his body, was far deeper than the forked paths beside it, yet it ended abruptly in front of his Spear, its force cut short.

The shallowness of the split channels told the story well enough. Not only had Daemon met the full brunt of his opponent’s ultimate thrust head-on, but he had bled the attack of its power, stripping it down before it could reach him. And he had done so without so much as a scratch.

“Were you trying to tickle me back then?” the boy asked, voice laced with mockery and amusement, as if the attack had been no more than a playful poke.

For Zhan Lei, the answer was silence—but his knuckles around his Spear whitened.

“Let me reciprocate your action of showing me a couple of your moves,” Daemon said, voice smooth but tinged with mischief. He gave his Spear a casual twirl above his head, the weapon cutting arcs through the hazy air before he planted its butt firmly into the fork of the trench carved moments ago.

“I call this one… Lightning Rod.”

His fingers curled around the cold Steel shaft with one hand, while the other rose, palm open, to face the sky. His expression didn’t change, but in the depths of his eyes there was that faint spark of calculated risk. Hopefully this works according to plan, he thought, or this’ll be so embarrassing.

Then came the flash.

From his raised palm burst a jagged bolt of bright silver Lightning—not aimed at Zhan Lei, not even at the ground between them, but lancing upward toward the low, brooding clouds overhead. The arc tore through the humid air with a sharp, electrifying crack, vanishing into the shifting canopy of mist and vapor.

“Scree—!”

Above, Kirin’s hawk-like eyes lit up with predatory excitement. The massive bird’s wings unfurled to their full span, sending a rippling gust across the field as it let out a piercing call of joy, its voice slicing through the thick air like a clarion.

On the ground, confusion rippled through the crowd like a slow-moving wave. Faces turned, brows furrowed, glances traded.

What was he doing?

Zhan Lei, still catching his breath from his failed ultimate attack, blinked in disbelief. The boy had him cornered—his footing was shot, his stamina dwindling, and the weight of Daemon’s Spear meant there’d be no more easy exchanges. This was the perfect opportunity to finish him… yet instead, he was doing that.

Murmurs started to rise from the edges of the circle, hushed voices carrying threads of speculation, awe, and doubt. Some were sure it was a feint, others thought it was arrogance. A few wondered if the boy had finally lost his mind.

But Daemon didn’t spare them a glance. His focus remained on the Steel shaft rooted in the trench before him, his fingers flexing subtly as arcs of residual current crawled along its length like silver serpents. Above, the clouds seemed to stir.

Elder Ping’s head tilted upward first, her sharp gaze narrowing as the faint tremor in the air caught her attention. A heartbeat later, the rest of the Cultivators followed suit—each of them sensing the sudden weight pressing down from above, a heavy, suffocating presence that carried the taste of ozone on the tongue.

The open clearing dimmed noticeably. Grey clouds gathered as if summoned from the farthest reaches of the horizon, rolling and folding into each other in a turbulent mass that blotted out the sun. The golden rays that had warmed the gathering moments ago vanished beneath this oppressive ceiling, leaving the world draped in a cold, shadowed hue.

Then it came.

From within the shifting wall of cloud, a vein of Lightning slithered downward, twisting and writhing in a zigzagging dance as though hunting for prey. Its pale silver-blue glare cut across the sky, splitting the gloom for the briefest of instants.

Rumble.

The sound arrived a moment later—deep, resonant, and unrelenting. The thunder didn’t merely echo; it roared, a bellowing howl that rolled across the clearing like a living beast’s challenge, shaking loose the dust and rattling the bones of all who heard it. The vibrations seemed to creep beneath the skin, making even seasoned warriors glance uneasily toward the heavens.

Eyes widened. Mouths parted. Even those who knew the taste of battle and blood could not ignore the primal awe—and the sliver of fear—that such a display inspired.

It should not have been possible.

This morning had been bathed in flawless sunlight, the autumn chill softened by a rare stretch of perfect weather. Merchants had bustled through the streets, grateful for the clear skies as they haggled and loaded goods without fear of sudden storms. Villagers had smiled as they worked, freed from the threat of cold rains that would slow their labors and soak their bones.

Yet now, that comfort was gone. The sky above had turned on them without warning, smothering the warmth and replacing it with a brooding menace. And all eyes—whether full of disbelief, wonder, or dread—turned to the boy standing in the center of the circle, as if he were the cause of this sudden wrath of the heavens.

Daemon’s Lightning-Cocoon Skill erupted to its absolute limit, silver arcs lashing across his body in wild, jagged surges. The Steel shaft of his Spear became a conduit, greedily swallowing the Electric-Current before channeling it deep into the ground. The earth trembled faintly underfoot—an unspoken invitation, a direct challenge to the fury of the heavens themselves to descend upon this patch of soil and engulf both him and his foe in divine wrath.

Yan Jia’s breath caught in her throat, panic flashing in her eyes as the temperature of the air shifted and the oppressive weight of gathering power pressed down on her chest. Beside her, Yan Ru’s slit pupils contracted to sharp, gleaming points. The snake-like Swordsman stood frozen for a heartbeat, his expression torn between shock, primal fear, and… undeniable respect for this audacious young master of his. With his Elemental-Compatibility being Water, the very idea of standing near such volatile natural energy was madness.

He didn’t hesitate. In one fluid motion, he hooked an arm around his sister’s waist, dragging her bodily away from the circle. The pair dove behind the enormous bulk of Kirin, who had already lowered its head slightly, its black-feathered crest bristling as the charged air prickled against its skin.

Of course, the Soul-Snatcher Eagle was the most delighted creature present, its golden eyes glowing with unrestrained anticipation. It gave a piercing, trilling cry that echoed through the clearing, as if welcoming the storm with open wings.

Across the field, the beauty in the black dress reacted just as quickly, her grace undiminished even under the mounting tension. With a sharp flick of her wrist, she snapped open her ornate Fan, the ribs whispering against the air. A single sweep forward conjured a wall of pure Darkness—dense, layered shadows folding over one another until they stood like an unyielding curtain before her. She didn’t stop there; the barrier unfurled wider to cover the nine Inner Disciples of her Sect, swallowing them into protective shade.

Elder Ping’s sharp eyes caught the subtle movement of Daemon’s lips as he turned his head toward his opponent. Even through the haze of electrical light and building static, she read the words clearly:

“We’re both men of culture. Let’s see which of us has the right to brag about holding the power of true Lightning. Don’t croak on me now.”

Boom.

The sky answered him instantly.

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