A Waste of Time

Chapter 94: Ruptured Dream

Just as Yan Ru was about to step forward to fulfill his young master’s command, a voice rang sharp and clear from beyond the barrier of coiled roots.

“No need!” Nie Xiaodan’s shout carried a mixture of pride and practicality. “We figured you’d want them sooner or later, so… we brought everything over before you even finished with Immortal Yu Tianwu!”

Gasps and whispers rippled through the onlookers. All eyes shifted as Elder Ping’s fan flicked open with a soft snap, her will pressing into the roots. The wall of living wood stirred, then parted smoothly, creating a passage wide enough for several men.

Six figures entered in a line—bronze-skinned, broad-shouldered, every inch of them carved by years of iron and fire. Their clothes were rugged, stained with soot and oil, each step heavy with the weight of lives spent inside the Smithy. Sunburned arms flexed beneath coarse sleeves, and even the youngest among them bore the solid strength of men who labored under a Forge’s merciless flame.

Xiaodan led, carrying a Great-Sword and Great-Axe, both absurdly massive, their proportions so monstrous that even Nie Leixu himself might have thought twice before testing them. Beside him, Xiaosheng hefted a small Hammer in one hand and balanced a Quiver of Arrows in the other—yet these were no ordinary arrows. Each was nearly twice the length and thickness of a normal shaft, their shafts and tips entirely forged of gleaming metal.

Behind them strode Xiaotong, who bore a large Hammer slung casually over one shoulder while the other hand clutched a second Quiver, this one filled with normal-sized arrows.

Then came Xiaosi, staggering under the load of what looked less like a shield and more like a fortress gate ripped from its hinges—a colossal Tower-Shield. His free arm strained to steady the weight of an enormous Bow, its length greater than the height of most men. His younger brother Xiaowen struggled at his side, cheeks flushed crimson as he gripped the other end of the Tower-Shield, his smaller frame trembling under its weight. In his free hand he clutched yet another Great-Axe, his determination written across his reddened face.

Last was Xiaoli, whose burden seemed modest only by comparison. A small Bow rested on his shoulder, while one hand balanced a Tower-Shield of more reasonable proportions. In his other hand gleamed a Sword, sized perfectly for Daemon’s build.

The crowd could scarcely believe their eyes. Murmurs broke into laughter, shock, disbelief. What sort of Blacksmith family armed their young master this way? Whenever the boy asked for one Weapon, they delivered two, each more absurd than the last!

Daemon accepted the Sword from Xiaoli without ceremony, while Yan Jia and Yan Ru carried the larger Weapons to place beside the Spear and Blade already planted in front of Kirin.

All the while, the beauty in black restrained her curiosity, though her fingers twitched slightly against her fan. Dozens of questions pressed on her tongue—Why so many? Why so oversized? Why him?

—but she silenced them, keeping her gaze fixed on the boy.And what a sight he was.

Daemon stood at the circle’s center, dwarfed by the sheer excess of armaments. A Tower-Shield and Spear leaned against one shoulder, while a Quiver of Arrows jutted from his back alongside a Bow slung casually by his side. At his hips rested the handles of both Hammer and Great-Axe, while his small hands gripped the Sword and Blade as though it were perfectly natural to juggle enough steel for an army.

For the first time, even the cold-faced girl—the one who hadn’t flinched, frowned, or smiled through the entire ordeal—showed a crack in her expression. A fleeting softness touched her eyes, as though this ridiculous boy, standing there like a child lost in a candy store, was far too amusing, far too human, for her to remain entirely unmoved.

But that fragile image shattered the moment her Junior Sect Disciple stepped forward, flashing a brilliant smile.

“And how exactly,” she asked, her tone warm yet mocking, “are you planning to fight me like that? Little brother… this time, I think you’re biting off far more than you can chew!”

Daemon’s lips curled into a teasing grin, his eyes lighting up with mischief. “If it’s you, pretty big sister…” he winked, voice dropping into playful boldness, “…then I’d chew until there’s not even bones left!”

The crowd erupted—some laughed outright, others groaned, while a few stared in utter disbelief at the boy’s audacity. Even Elder Ping’s fan paused mid-stroke, her eyes narrowing as if unsure whether to scold him or laugh herself.

“Humph.” The girl’s scowl deepened, though in truth the faint pout of her lips only heightened her natural charm. A trace of cuteness lingered in the shadow of her superior air as she snapped, “Naughty boy, this big sister is going to spank you.”

Daemon arched a brow, head cocking to the side with an infuriatingly sly grin. “Oh? Won’t you at least give my poor soul a moment to mentally prepare first?”

“None,” she shot back without hesitation, folding her arms across her chest in the confident, commanding manner of an older sister chastising an unruly child. “You’ve been bad, and bad children get disciplined.”

Feigning wounded pride, Daemon let his expression crumple into pitiful sorrow. His dirty, tattered face made him look every bit the beggar, yet the playful spark in his eyes betrayed him. “At least tell me your name before you get it over with! I’d like to know the hand that dooms me.”

“No!” she huffed, shaking her head with conviction, crescent brows knitting together in perfect seriousness. “Only when you learn to straighten that crooked attitude of yours.”

Daemon sighed dramatically, lips curving back into a wolfish smile. “Well… since you’re so adamant about forgoing all foreplay altogether…” his neck cracked as he tilted it side to side, “…you leave me, this bad wolf, with no choice but to eat you up.”

The girl’s breath caught, her practiced composure faltering. Her cheeks colored faintly as realization struck—that his words twisted the roles entirely, turning her scolding into something that sounded like she was forcing herself upon him.

But before she could collect her thoughts, the boy’s small body shifted in a spectacle that stole every gasp from the crowd.

Daemon’s shoulders broadened unnaturally, bones and sinew snapping and reforming with the sound of cracking thunder. Two heads burst forth from either side of his neck, grotesque yet regal, their fierce expressions mirroring his own. From beneath his armpits, four additional arms tore free, each one flexing with raw vitality.

Where moments ago stood a mischievous adolescent, now loomed a figure out of nightmare and legend—an Asura reborn.

Each of the six arms reached with terrifying coordination. One slid securely into the strap of the Tower-Shield, its massive bulk resting as if weightless upon him. Another hefted the Hammer, its head gleaming with the soot of the Forge. A third swung the Great-Axe, its blade wide enough to fell trees in a single strike. The fourth raised the Spear, long and steady, while the last two hands continued to hold the Sword and Blade, their dull edges now looking more menacing than any polished steel.

The circle was silent for a heartbeat—then erupted into chaos.

Spectators shrieked and scrambled backward despite the protective barrier of roots. The pressure rolling off the boy’s monstrous figure was suffocating, his presence a grotesque fusion of childish mischief and divine wrath. What had once seemed an amusing, cheeky brat now loomed as a fiend with six arms and three heads, a war-god plucked straight out of the old myths.

Even seasoned Cultivators paled. Their expressions warped into open horror as the boy’s aura surged. The ground itself quivered beneath him, and arcs of faint silver Lightning crawled across his weapons as though unwilling to stay contained.

The playful exchange just seconds ago felt impossibly distant, replaced by the bone-deep dread of a simple truth—

This was no child. This was a monster.

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