A Waste of Time

Chapter 90: Veiled Cascade

The magnitude of destruction was on an entirely different scale this time compared to when Zhan Lei had unleashed his Sky-Tear ability. Back then, the spectators—already keeping a safe fifty-meter distance—had only shuffled back a few paces when the trenches were carved into the battlefield.

Now? They were scrambling. The very air seemed to convulse as Daemon’s Lightning ripped into the earth, gouging deep furrows in the muddy ground, each one glowing faintly from the residual heat. The soil didn’t simply tear apart; it rolled and heaved in violent ripples, as if the earth itself had become a restless sea under a storm’s wrath. The shockwaves were relentless, carrying a rumble that pressed against the chest and rattled the bones of everyone watching.

Several of the merchants abandoned their wagons entirely, diving for cover behind whatever solid object they could find, while even seasoned travelers could be seen clinging to tent poles or tree trunks just to remain upright.

Only by the grace of Elder Ping’s quick reaction did disaster not claim them all.

From her position, the beauty in the black dress moved with lethal precision, pulling a folded talisman from her Space Ring. A faint shimmer of protective energy clung to its leather surface as she channeled her thick, viscous Darkness Qi into it. The once-plain strip of leather shivered under the infusion, dark veins racing across it like frost patterns in reverse.

With a practiced flick of her wrist, she whipped the talisman open, the scroll unfurling midair as an ancient sigil blazed into existence. Her voice rang like a bell, cold and commanding:

“Verdant-Bloom!”

From beneath her feet, a surge of life erupted. Thick, gnarled roots speared upward from the soil, their bark glowing faintly green as they spread outward in a radial burst. They crossed and wove together into a living barricade, spreading faster than the tendrils of Lightning that tore through the mud. The roots didn’t merely block the current—they seemed to drink in its force, diverting its path away from the vulnerable onlookers.

Even so, she noticed something immediately—a good portion of the Lightning’s wrath wasn’t even heading toward the crowd. More than half of that divine current was racing straight toward the massive Spear Daemon had planted earlier in front of Kirin.

The towering black-feathered mount was already waiting. Its sharp golden eyes widened in delight, its beak parting as it inhaled greedily. In the next instant, the creature drank in the roaring cascade of Lightning as if it were the sweetest and rarest delicacy in existence, arcs crackling and dancing over its feathers like living jewels.

As if the God of Lightning Himself had been provoked—or perhaps the Heavens were personally delivering their Punishment upon some mortal foolish enough to meddle in the affairs of Immortals—bolt after bolt crashed down from the roiling grey above. Each one struck with the weight of worlds, their fury channeled unerringly into the Steel shaft gripped in the boy’s hands.

The Spear became more than just a Weapon in that moment—it was a conduit for divine wrath. Every blast hammered Daemon’s frame, the electric force clawing at his flesh, scouring his bones, and testing the limits of his willpower. His knuckles whitened, muscles locking under the strain, yet his grip did not loosen. The defiant spark in his silver eyes seemed to challenge the Heavens themselves: Come. I can take more.

In front of him, Zhan Lei was in a state far from defiance. The tall youth was barely standing, his own Spear no longer a weapon but a crutch to keep him from collapsing entirely. His protective shell of purple Lightning Qi flickered desperately like the flame of a candle about to gutter out, each wavering pulse revealing the strain gnawing at his Spirit-Roots and Dantian. The drain on his energy was monstrous, an expenditure far greater than his reserves could hope to sustain.

The crowd, realizing Elder Ping’s earlier actions had rendered them safe from the worst of the storm, cautiously pressed forward through the coils of roots. Through the gaps, they saw a sight that silenced even the loudest among them: two figures locked in the heart of an unending tempest, both enduring the merciless downpour of Lightning.

But it was clear who bore the brunt of the punishment. Daemon, standing at the true epicenter, seemed to draw the lion’s share of every bolt, his presence almost… magnetic to the divine fury. His body was wracked with strain, yet he remained upright, teeth clenched, eyes locked forward.

Zhan Lei was not so fortunate.

Bfff…

A guttural sound tore from the young man’s throat, his face twisting into something almost demonic before his cheeks swelled. His lips parted, and a hot rush of blood burst forth—only to be instantly vaporized into a crimson mist that was swallowed by the searing light. His purple Lightning flickered… then failed for a fraction of a second.

That was all it took.

In that heartbeat of vulnerability, his skin blackened under the direct kiss of the Lightning, muscle fibers sizzling and smoking as if they had been seared over a forge. His body jerked violently, spasms ripping through his limbs as his eyes rolled back into their sockets.

It might have been the end—if not for the fact that Daemon finally lowered his Spear. The silver current flowing through it vanished, severing the channel between the angry clouds above and the battlefield below. The oppressive roar faded into the low growl of distant thunder.

Even Daemon’s chest heaved, every muscle trembling from numbness. His limbs felt like lead, but there was no mistaking the quiet pride in his posture. He had done it—he had beaten a true Lightning Cultivator, and not in some minor exchange, but in the man’s own specialty.

Zhan Lei collapsed forward without grace, face-first into the mud like a felled tree, motionless save for the faint rise and fall of his breathing. Daemon didn’t spare him so much as a glance.

His attention was elsewhere.

One was the beauty in the tight black dress, standing composed with her open Fan hiding most of her face—save for her eyes, which studied him with a measuring sharpness that could pierce steel.

The other… was Kirin.

The giant Soul-Snatcher Eagle was changing before everyone’s eyes. Every bolt that had struck the massive Spear Daemon had planted earlier had been greedily devoured by the beast. Now, its black feathers were alive with electric arcs, the Lightning leaping and dancing between them in restless chains. The entire creature shimmered like a living storm given flesh and wings.

The boy tilted his chin toward the one person in his camp he considered the most knowledgeable—Yan Jia—and asked plainly,

“What’s going on with Kirin?”

The girl blinked, caught completely off guard. It felt as if her young master Daemon had just shoved her onto a stage under a hundred eyes. Why me? she thought with mild exasperation. Her specialties lay elsewhere—deep within the study of Spirit Formations, a healthy grasp of Medicinal Ingredients, some idle gossip about Alchemy, a smattering of Pill uses, and perhaps a handful of Talismans she could competently draw. Beasts, however, were an entirely different chapter in the great book of Cultivation… one she’d barely even skimmed.

Yan Ru glanced at the towering Soul-Snatcher Eagle, then at his sister, then simply shrugged. A gesture so casual it somehow managed to convey both I have no idea and Don’t look at me.

Truly a raw and ignorant bunch, Elder Ping thought to herself, suppressing a sigh. It was to be expected—Daemon was a child, and these two siblings had been mere mortals only a week ago. Expecting encyclopedic knowledge from them was like expecting a fish to understand swordplay.

“It is Evolving into a Magic-Beast,” the beauty in the tight black dress finally spoke, her voice cool yet clear as she folded her Fan and lifted it slightly to gesture toward Kirin. “Right now, it’s forming its Beast-Core—condensing the Lightning into Spirit-Energy, then refining that into Qi.”

“Oh.” Daemon nodded as if that single word explained everything, folding his arms and looking up at the massive bird. Kirin’s eyes were closed, its body trembling in a way that could have been pain… or some deeply strange form of pleasure. The boy’s brow furrowed. “Is it in any danger?”

“Yes and no.” Elder Ping mimicked Yan Ru’s earlier shrug—only with far more elegance—and felt a private flicker of satisfaction when the boy rolled his eyes at her answer out of pure reflex. “We Cultivators are no different from Beasts. Every step we take on the Path of Immortality treads the edge of danger. Risk is the price of progress.”

Then her expression shifted—a slow smile curving her lips, sweet in appearance but carrying an undertone that was unmistakably predatory. She snapped her Fan open with a flick of her wrist and began fanning herself lazily as she added,

“You, on the other hand… your Path is certain to be full of pain and torment if you wish to keep up with the rest of us. Hmph. Damn Body-Refiners and their thick hides… yours especially are a source of envy. So—what’s your secret? Tell me. I won’t tell a soul. Promise.”

Daemon’s spine stiffened involuntarily. He could feel the weight of eyes on him—not just Elder Ping’s, but every female present. Their gazes were bright, unblinking, and entirely too reminiscent of a pack of starving tigresses circling fresh prey.

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