Ghost Face Asura 017

He never expected that these so-called martial arts school graduates would actually dominate the entire martial world! Back then, he had chosen more lucrative paths, never considering this martial arts school—to him, it was just a foolish pastime for a bunch of old men. Yet today, it turned out to be...

As the crowd grew larger, the members of the Demon Sect began to grow uneasy. They had previously taken advantage of the situation to crush the orthodox sects, leaving the Demon Sect as the dominant force. But today, the opposing side’s numbers seemed to surpass theirs!

The last woman to step forward raised a piece of paper high: "Do you still want this month’s bonuses or not?"

The moment these words were spoken, half of the aggressive Demon Sect members instantly lost their momentum, murmuring among themselves.

Jiang Rou’s clear voice rang out: "From now on, those who leave the Demon Sect will receive a fifty percent increase in base salary! Year-end double pay, an extra day off each week, and working hours reduced to four shichen! Extended leave for weddings and funerals!"

Chaos erupted among the Demon Sect. The sect leader realized the gravity of the situation, but it was too late. As the first person shouted that they were quitting, others followed—second, third, until a whole wave of them abandoned the sect.

The once-massive force dwindled to just over a dozen people. These were the ones who had profited over the years, exploiting and squeezing every drop from their followers. Most of the wealth earned through their schemes had lined their own pockets, while the rank-and-file members remained underpaid and overworked.

"Admit defeat yet? When it comes to strategy, you’re no match for me," Fang Zhiyi said softly, stepping fearlessly toward the sect leader. The old men from the martial arts school followed, each selecting an opponent.

In the blink of an eye, the two clashed, their movements lightning-fast. Yet the heart-stopping duel didn’t last long—within a few exchanges, the outcome was decided.

Fang Zhiyi took the sect leader’s full-force palm strike head-on, his body shuddering violently from the impact. But he didn’t fall. Instead, gritting his teeth, he mustered all his strength and drove his fist into the sect leader’s chest.

A dull thud echoed as the sect leader’s body flew backward like a kite with its string cut. Blood gushed from his nose and mouth.

Seeing the sect leader’s expression of sheer disbelief, his eyes wide with unwillingness, Fang Zhiyi felt a pang of sorrow.

The sect leader crashed to the ground, convulsing briefly before lying still. He clearly hadn’t anticipated Fang Zhiyi’s all-or-nothing fighting style—this reckless, life-risking assault left him defenseless.

Fang Zhiyi swayed unsteadily, his chest burning with unbearable pain, but he refused to collapse. His gaze swept over the remaining dozen or so still locked in fierce combat, and a cold smile curled his lips.

"From today onward, the Demon Sect ceases to exist," he declared, his voice quiet yet carrying unshakable authority. With a wave of his hand, he shouted at the stunned students, "What are you waiting for? For your teachers to die? Don’t you know how to gang up on them?"

The students snapped out of their daze, understanding his meaning at once. A unified battle cry erupted, shaking the heavens.

Clutching his chest, Fang Zhiyi staggered away. Jiang Rou rushed to support him, but he waved her off, refusing her help. Step by step, he walked as if the world around him no longer mattered.

He traversed the city, passing through bustling streets, until he finally returned to his martial arts school. The gates stood shut, the place eerily quiet. Fang Zhiyi paused before the familiar entrance, emotions swirling within him.

Little Hei remained silent the entire time.

This was the true martial world—no smooth sailing, only endless deceit and treachery. Fang Zhiyi didn’t even know if these students would one day become the next "Demon Sect" or ruthless warlords. But it didn’t matter anymore.

"When can I go home?" Fang Zhiyi murmured.

Little Hei trembled slightly. "Soon, Host."

Fang Zhiyi glanced at the irregular, alien-shaped figure beside him and chuckled. "Your evolution looks hideous."

"Beauty is subjective. A pig would never find humans attractive either."

"You really have a way with words."

"I merely state facts, Host." Perhaps sensing his own harshness, Little Hei added, "Shall I maintain a human form for you?"

Fang Zhiyi waved dismissively. "Don’t bother. It’s not like I’ll be looking at you." After a pause, he asked, "Does every world have a will of its own?"

Little Hei replied, "Yes, though most remain dormant. This one is different."

The two continued walking in silence.

In the years that followed, Fang Zhiyi retired completely. The martial arts school’s leadership passed to a sweet-smiling woman known only as Fang Ruoxue, who was as close as sisters with Jiang Rou, the CEO of Shunfeng Group.

The Martial World Daily flourished, and Shunfeng-branded restaurants and taverns sprouted across the land, boosting agriculture. The world seemed transformed.

Fang Zhiyi’s hair had turned gray. Two severe injuries had left him a shadow of his former self, yet his status in the martial world remained unshakable. Everyone knew that most of the influential figures now dominating the scene were his students, so no one dared trouble him.

He Wugui and others passed away one after another, replaced by younger instructors. No one addressed him casually anymore—everyone greeted him respectfully as "Old Headmaster," and Fang Zhiyi responded with a smile.

"Host, it’s time to go," Little Hei said, his body glowing strangely. Fang Zhiyi nodded, casting one last glance at Mei Ruoxue hurrying off to a meeting before closing his eyes with a contented smile.

In another world, the white walls of a room were smeared with chaotic scribbles. Someone peered through the observation window.

"How is he today?"

A nurse answered, "Still unresponsive. Sedatives might be necessary."

The doctor sighed and turned to the two weary middle-aged visitors. "Your son may not recover anytime soon."

The woman pressed against the window, her heart aching as she watched the young man inside muttering madly to himself.

"Let’s go. Tomorrow’s his birthday—we should get him a gift," the man said gently, resting a hand on his wife’s shoulder.

She couldn’t hold back her tears.

"Why? Why did he end up like this?"

Her sobs echoed down the hallway. Inside the room, the young man seemed to notice the sound, slowly turning his head toward the door.

His expressions shifted like a chameleon’s—one moment grief-stricken, the next blooming with joy. A crumpled bedsheet draped over his shoulders, the walls around him covered in bizarre, indecipherable symbols, like some arcane scripture.

Just as the few people outside the door departed, a low rumble of thunder suddenly echoed from beyond the window, like the pounding of war drums. The young man’s gaze was drawn once more, and he lunged at the iron-barred window like a starving tiger, staring intently at the storm-laden sky. After a long moment, he stretched out a finger, pointing at the dark clouds and murmuring to himself, "A miracle... a miracle!"

The clouds above seemed to split apart as if cleaved by a sharp blade, parting neatly to form a mysterious passage—as though preparing for the descent of a divine being.