A Waste of Time

Chapter 93: Lacuna Drift

Finally, Daemon had the chance he was waiting for. He had been channeling his Skill through his Blade for far too long, and when Yu Tianwu’s failed parry left an opening, the boy seized it without hesitation. His dull-edged Steel slammed down, crashing into the protective barrier of Fire Qi.

The flames roared in defiance, stopping the Blade from biting into flesh, but the heat was so fierce that the Steel itself glowed red-hot in an instant. Yet the true threat wasn’t the heat—it was the bludgeoning force. The impact crashed through the shield, compressing it until Yu Tianwu’s Fire Qi thinned dangerously, like paper on the verge of tearing.

“Chain Lightning!”

A dazzling flash split the air, blinding the crowd before their eyes could catch the result of the collision. When their vision returned, they saw Yu Tianwu convulsing, his entire body caught in the merciless embrace of High-Voltage Lightning. His face twisted into a grotesque mask of pain, panic, and disbelief. He was absolutely certain his Fire Qi had blocked the boy’s Blade from ever reaching his body—so why did it feel like his insides were being ripped apart?

The answer was cruel in its simplicity: Lightning didn’t care for barriers. Its nature was to infiltrate, to overwhelm, to wreak havoc where it pleased. And Daemon’s Blade had delivered more than just electricity. The physical force itself had rattled Yu Tianwu’s organs, leaving him battered within. Had it not been for the paralysis induced by the Lightning, he would’ve already doubled over coughing blood like Zhan Lei before him.

But now? Now he was helpless. Locked in place, every limb unresponsive, his body immobile as if bound by unseen chains. His robes and Sect attire, woven from superior materials, remained immaculate—but beneath them, his flesh was screaming, riddled with hidden injuries that no fabric could conceal.

The contrast between them could not have been more jarring. Both had taken a direct hit, but Daemon stood tall, nearly unscathed save for a few singed clothes, while Yu Tianwu bore wounds that would take weeks—if not months—to fully recover from. The difference in durability tipped the scales entirely. Body-Refiner versus Qi Cultivator, and the boy had proven whose path reigned supreme in raw endurance.

Gasps spread across the crowd as they witnessed the boy casually disarm his opponent. In one smooth, almost playful motion, Daemon plucked the Blade from Yu Tianwu’s frozen hands, as if they were old friends sparring in jest rather than enemies locked in a deadly duel. He twirled the weapon once, admiring its craftsmanship, his eyes glinting with appreciation.

Four seconds later, the stun broke. Yu Tianwu’s muscles loosened, his Qi circulation stuttered back to life—and with it, the horrifying realization of just how close to death he had come. His defensive layer of Fire Qi was gone, extinguished during the paralysis. One strike. One whim. That was all it would’ve taken for this boy to end him a dozen different ways.

Even worse, the Lightning still lingered in his meridians, clogging the passageways of his Spirit-Roots and cutting him off from his Dantian. Until that current was expelled, he wasn’t even a proper Cultivator. At best, he was a man with residual strength borrowed from years of bathing in Spirit-Energy. Against someone like Daemon, it was laughable.

Daemon broke the silence with an almost wistful sigh. “It really is a fine Blade.” His tone was calm, his expression oddly gentle as he handed the weapon back. “Next time, let’s make it a true fight of skill. We’ll test our Bladesmanship properly. I’ll even try to upgrade mine before then.”

The words struck Yu Tianwu harder than the Lightning had. He gawked, dumbfounded, staring at the boy as though he had sprouted a second head. That clean, unassuming gaze carried no arrogance, no mockery, no condescension—only an earnest promise, mature and steady. It was disarming in the strangest way.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his hand tightening around his sheathed Blade. “O-of course!” he stammered, a shaky, ugly smile cracking across his face. “Let’s… do that.”

Let’s fucking never, he cursed inwardly, every instinct screaming at him to escape this circle before fate forced him to clash again. His feet carried him away faster than dignity should allow, urgency betraying him with every step.

Meanwhile, Daemon rolled his eyes at the state of his own clothing. His shirt was nothing but tatters, and his trousers had been eaten away until they barely reached below his knees. The melted remains of his leather shoes clung pitifully to his feet. He looked, by all accounts, like a beggar who had been struck by lightning twice in a row.

And yet—no one dared laugh. Not a snicker, not a whisper. The memory of his last strike was still burned into their retinas, and the sight of his bare, battle-forged physique was anything but amusing.

The boy turned, his expression brightening with a disarming grin as he gestured toward the two girls beside the beauty in black. “Ladies,” he said, the warmth in his tone contrasting sharply with the ruin he had just wrought. “Please.”

Elder Ping’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she extended her Spirit Sense over Yu Tianwu’s trembling form. What she discovered made even her cultivated heart waver—his meridians were scorched with remnants of Lightning, his organs rattled and bruised from blunt trauma, and his right shoulder bore fine fractures where Daemon’s dull Blade had smashed through his defenses. Dozens upon dozens of hidden injuries festered beneath the surface, and she wondered how the young man was still upright.

With a quiet sigh, she flicked her wrist, drawing a porcelain vial from her Space Ring. “Take this.” Her tone was calm, almost offhanded, but her eyes lingered on him with the barest trace of concern. Yu Tianwu received the Pill with both hands, grateful, though his pride stung at having to accept charity in front of so many witnesses. His Qi was so scrambled that he couldn’t even open his own Space-Pouch—an indignity that only deepened the humiliation.

He sank down cross-legged beside Zhao Wei and Zhan Lei, who were only just stirring. Their eyes fluttered open in sluggish confusion, faces paling as they took in the battlefield around them. The once muddy ring was now marred with trenches and scorch marks, scarred earth steaming where Lightning and Fire had clashed. Their gazes inevitably landed on Daemon, who stood in the middle like a devil child who had crawled out from a stormcloud.

What a freak, Chu Ren thought bitterly as he eyed his fellow victims. All of them—disciples of reputable backgrounds, well-trained and well-equipped—yet every one of them had been humiliated in turn by the same adolescent monster.

“Jia.”

The boy’s voice broke the tense silence. Daemon rubbed his throat and tilted his head toward his maid. “I’m kind of thirsty.”

Yan Jia jolted to attention, already halfway running before he finished the sentence. She produced a jade flask from her Space-Pouch with practiced hands. “Here, young master,” she said softly, bowing as she presented it.

Daemon tilted the flask back and drank deeply, silver arcs of faint residual Lightning still flickering along his skin, the contrast between his childish features and the terrifying aura he carried making the scene even more surreal. When he was finally satisfied, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his sharp eyes drifting toward Yan Ru.

“Ru,” he said, his tone casual but laced with unmistakable intent. His chin angled toward the two young women still standing behind Elder Ping. “Have them bring all my Weapons over. These two chicks look like they’re worth my extra attention.”

The boy’s words carried across the battlefield, brazen, arrogant, and utterly unbothered by decorum. Gasps rippled through the audience. Some were scandalized, others amused, but all were riveted.

Yan Ru’s snake-like eyes flickered in surprise before he nodded stiffly and moved to obey, while Yan Jia suppressed a sigh at her young master’s shamelessness. Elder Ping’s fan twitched in her hand, her expression hidden but her thoughts sharp.

This child… not only strength, not only wit—he has no fear of courting offense in broad daylight. Bold to the point of madness.

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