Chapter 210: Freedom

An uproarious laugh echoed from the swirling dust. “Well, well. The Heavenly Serpent King truly lives up to his name. After hearing that the Dharma King of Destruction arrived at Southern Bay, I intended to settle things with him—face to face, life or death, to advance my Martial Arts. When word spread that you’d murdered him together, I felt nothing but disappointment. Later, when they named you foremost among the Four Kings, I grew even more dismissive. But today, our clash taught me your Martial Arts indeed surpass my own.”

The wind abruptly sharpened as he spoke, instantly clearing the dust from the yard. There, amid the wreckage, two figures stood revealed. The one speaking was the white-robed man who’d attacked Zuo Zhicheng, kicked apart the artificial hill, and moved with terrifying speed. His long hair was streaked with silver strands. His skin held an impossibly smooth sheen, eyes bright but hardened by unmistakable, unyielding confidence.

“Zuo Zhicheng,” the man stated calmly, his gaze steady on the silent figure. “This time I lost. But soon, I will return to challenge you again. Then, I will win.” His voice carried the assurance of some inevitable truth.

Expressionlessly, Zuo Zhicheng studied him. Through his Infrared Vision, the man’s Physique Strength was laid bare.

‘Orange. Seventy-eight percent.’

It was the second-highest level he had ever seen, exceeded only by his own self. Even Zuo Zhicheng’s ever-calm composure flickered with surprise.

He truly didn’t need the Infrared Vision to sense this foe’s power. Their clash, mere moments ago, had felt it radiating outwards.

‘This strength… It isn’t merely the result of relentless training.’ Zuo Zhicheng was a Martial Artist himself. He had battled the Crimson Sun Monk, the Dharma King Zhuan Lun, the Dharma King of Daoyu, the Dharma King of Destruction… Yet this was the first opponent who had traded blows with him blow-for-blow physically. He knew intimately the grinding, brutal commitment required to forge a body to such extremes.

‘Training reaching self-torturing levels. Coupled with consuming vast amounts of Spiritual Energy Food. He must sacrifice even sleep, forever chained to fear that—without such relentless intensity—his Physique Strength would crumble.’

‘To reach this peak without extraordinary fortune… his discipline must have been far stricter than mine.’

Stricter than even his own. Zuo Zhicheng struggled to picture such a hellish existence. The meaning beneath the man’s earlier confident declaration now became clear. Their encounter hadn’t been a death duel. Neither had employed their Power of Mind and Spirit. Neither had unleashed Dao Arts. Neither side had operated at full strength. Avoiding lethal force was part of it, as this place belonged to Zuo Zhicheng, and neither had the desire to ravage it. Yet, even within these constraints, the other man knew—in the fundamental measures of power, speed, explosive force—he had fallen short. Hence, the open acknowledgement of defeat. And the promise of return.

“You are He Zizai?” Zuo Zhicheng asked. Amongst the Shadow Corps’ Four Kings, he had met all bar one—the master of Zizai Hall.

“Indeed,” He Zizai confirmed. “Zhu Yuwen sends a message. Travel to Haijing tomorrow. Matters demand your discussion.” Confidence surged through every syllable. Without another word or pause for farewell, he spun around and walked out. “Currently, my Martial Arts stand inferior to yours. This courtyard can’t contain our potential clash. I hope our next meeting grants us a truly satisfying battle.”

Before today, Zuo Zhicheng had heard countless tales about He Zizai. Meeting the man revealed the core truth: He Zizai was utterly obsessed with Martial Arts, raw strength, and the physical limits. Everything else seemed transient, inconsequential—drifting clouds across an empty sky. Even victory or defeat in combat appeared irrelevant to him, mere stepping stones towards an unshakable pursuit of Martial Arts mastery. How such a fiercely independent, untamed spirit ended up bound within the Shadow Corps truly puzzled him.

Watching He Zizai vanish, Zuo Zhicheng shook his head almost imperceptibly. He turned his gaze towards the courtyard wall. There, spying from its top, frozen in lingering shock, were Liu Manwen and Lin Yuexi.

“Find someone,” Zuo Zhicheng commanded coldly, “to repair this wall and that hill.”

“Y-yes, Milord!” Lin Yuexi stammered, awkwardly scrambling down from the wall.

Beside her, Liu Manwen managed a strained smile, eyes wide with a dizzying mix of awe and fright. “Brother Zuo,” she called out. “It’s been a long while.”

“What is it?”

A hopeful note entered Liu Manwen’s tone. “Actually… my father learned of your deeds. He longs to speak with you. I hoped… perhaps you’d honor him with your presence? Visit our home in a few days for a humble meal?”

“No.” Zuo Zhicheng didn’t turn, already moving towards the darkened room beyond the courtyard. “My time’s at a premium. Trivial things have no place within it.”

“T-trivial?” Liu Manwen’s teeth clenched, her face hardening.

“Waiting serves no purpose,” Zuo Zhicheng’s voice drifted back, sharp as steel. “Repair the wall and the hill immediately.”

Surrounded by command and awkwardness, Lin Yuexi offered Liu Manwen another embarrassed smile. “Miss Liu… perhaps… perhaps we should just head out for now?”

Glaring back stony-faced, Liu Manwen offered no reply. Her heels slammed heavily against the ground—thud! thud! thud!—as she marched away.

From the black depths of the room, Zuo Zhicheng’s voice sliced abruptly through the gloom once more: “Also—tell Qingyue Yang. Tomorrow’s meeting claims my time no longer. Inform him to simply pass along the necessary details: when to arrive, where to go, and whom to end.”

As one of the Shadow Corps’ Four Kings, Zuo Zhicheng refused dedicating excessive attention to their agendas. But tasks? Those he honored. They provided him immense resources. He would not merely draw riches while neglecting the debt owed.

…

Days later, deep within an Underground Laboratory, a powerfully-built, bald man strained against a metal examination table. Thick leather straps laced around his limbs, torso, and neck pinioned him down. Yet still, maddeningly, his muscles writhed against the bindings, the entire frame shuddering with violent, futile exertion.

Besides the heavily-thickened joints giving each limb the muscular silhouette of an armored mass, one other detail stood out starkly—the man’s joints were absurdly large, knobbly knobs of bone resembling blocks of forged iron beneath his flesh.

Beside the table stood Xu Hongfei. Uncertain, hesitant, a small surgical knife dangled loosely from his fingers. Standing behind him, Zuo Zhicheng’s gaze bored icy holes into his back. The command sliced the air: “Twenty whole minutes have passed. How much longer will you postpone?”