NOVEL NEXT Chapter 150: Fire vs Wind!
The air cracked.
The two figures stood amidst the broken stalls — Mo Han, his cursed blade crimson and steady in hand, and the masked elder, his spear humming with sharp, unseen force.
Then, with a roar like a sudden cry, the elder moved. His spear spun through the air in a blur of black and silver. The ground split where the weapon struck, wind gushing upward like a dragon released from a seal.
"Wind Devourer Formation—!" the masked man's voice bellowed, a cold and measured shout that sent spiritual energy rippling outward.
The moment the words left his mouth, gales whipped into form — six coiling streams of pure air that spun around him, roaring, shredding fragments of stone and wood.
The pressure hit Mo Han like a wave. His robe flapped violently; sand stung his face. The cursed sword in his hand trembled faintly, as if growling back at the challenge.
But Mo Han did not retreat. His eyes narrowed. He stepped forward.
Every ounce of the market's warmth — every flame from the street lanterns, every breath of heat from the baked earth — seemed to lean toward him. The sword in his hand began to glow faintly, its dark hue shifting toward a dull red, as though the metal itself remembered the touch of the sun.
The masked elder thrust his spear again. "Heaven Wind Slash!"
The ground exploded. A blade of air, invisible yet screaming, sliced through the market square, tearing through the remaining stalls. Tiles and splinters flew through the air. The force alone could have ripped a lesser cultivator apart.
But as the wind blade reached Mo Han, it met something unexpected — a pulse of heat so fierce it warped the air.
Mo Han whispered under his breath, his voice a single incantation: "Sun Piercing Sword... First Layer — Fireborn Manifest."
The cursed sword flared.
A surge of fire burst from its edge — not a wild blaze, but a controlled fury, golden-red, pure as molten sunlight. It struck the incoming wind slash, and the two elements met with a thunderous impact. Fire and air collided, twisted, and devoured each other in a violent dance. The explosion lit the market square like a miniature sunrise.
The spectators — those few brave or foolish enough to remain hidden in corners or behind walls — shielded their eyes. The clash's brilliance left afterimages burned into their vision.
When the smoke cleared, Mo Han stood unmoved, his eyes calm, his blade humming softly.
The elder snarled behind his mask. "Fire? You dare to use fire against wind?"
His voice carried disbelief, even a flicker of something that might have been fear. He swung his spear again, summoning another torrent. This one was different — tighter, sharper, refined. The air condensed into blades, hundreds of them, all aimed directly at Mo Han.
In an instant, the sky darkened.
The storm of wind blades descended like judgment.
Jia Kai shouted from the edge of the ruins, "Mo Han!" but his voice was drowned out by the howl of spiritual energy.
Mo Han didn't move. He only took one deep breath — the kind that seemed to draw the whole world into his lungs. His fingers tightened around the hilt. The cursed sword pulsed once, faint veins of crimson light crawling along its edge.
"Sun Piercing Sword... Second Layer — Skyfire Descent."
He slashed.
The motion was so swift that most didn't even see it. They saw only the aftermath — dozens of small, burning spheres erupting into the air, each one like a miniature sun. Fireballs, glowing gold and orange, filled the sky above the market, orbiting him like spirits of flame awaiting command.
The elder hesitated — for the first time. His instincts screamed danger.
Mo Han thrust his sword forward. The fireballs responded instantly, hurtling through the air with a scream that sounded like both song and destruction.
Wind met fire.
The first collisions were like thunderclaps — each impact exploding into a storm of light and pressure. Fireballs smashed through layers of wind blades, evaporating them one after another. The sky itself seemed to tear open under the clash of elements.
"Impossible!" the elder shouted, his cloak whipping violently around him. "A ninth-class disciple—how can you control this much elemental force!"
Mo Han's voice was quiet, almost drowned in the roar of battle. "You shouldn't underestimate what pain can forge."
The final three fireballs struck. The elder raised his spear in desperation, forming a spinning vortex around him. For a heartbeat, the wind barrier held — then the fire pierced through.
A deafening explosion ripped through the market.
The shockwave flattened the nearby stalls and sent shards of stone flying across the plaza. Flames burst outward, licking the walls, curling toward the sky.
When the smoke thinned, the elder staggered backward. His mask was cracked, one lens shattered, revealing a sliver of burned flesh beneath. Half his cloak was gone — and with it, half of his body bore the mark of fire, scorched and blackened.
He looked at Mo Han, disbelief in his remaining eye. "You... Ninth-class disciple... shouldn't have this power..."
Mo Han didn't answer. He merely lowered his blade. Flames still danced faintly along its edge, whispering and fading like spirits returning to slumber.
The elder took one last look — at the crowd, at the ruins, at Mo Han's impassive face — and turned. He slammed the butt of his spear against the ground, and in a swirl of black wind, vanished into the sky.
Only ashes remained where he had stood.
Silence fell again, heavy and absolute.
The onlookers emerged slowly from hiding, their faces pale, their expressions torn between awe and disbelief. One man whispered, voice trembling, "He... he defeated an Elder Rank cultivator... with a ninth-class disciple's cultivation?"
Another shook his head in disbelief. "No one could fake that... He really did. The fire—those suns—"
Children peeked from behind their mothers, eyes wide as lanterns. Even Fatty Lambu, holding the trembling chick Dambu against his chest, stood frozen, mouth slightly open.
Jia Kai and Chi Kai approached cautiously, the heat still lingering in the air around Mo Han. His robes were singed in places, his hair clinging to his forehead, but his gaze remained distant — not triumphant, not relieved. Just thoughtful.
"Mo Han," Jia Kai said softly, "who was that man?"
Mo Han looked toward the horizon where the black wind had disappeared. "He didn't come to kill me," he said at last. "He came to measure me. Someone sent him... but I can't tell who yet."
He sheathed the cursed sword. The metal hissed softly as it cooled, the faint scent of smoke rising like incense.
"Let's go," he said simply, and began walking. The crowd parted like water before him, no one daring to speak, their eyes following the healer-turned-warrior as he left the ruins behind.
By nightfall, the story had already spread.
In taverns and inns, on rooftops and along riversides, people whispered of the battle in the Pleasure City — how a masked elder was burned and beaten by a wandering healer no older than twenty. They spoke of the cursed sword that drank sunlight, of the fireballs that turned the sky gold, of Mo Han's calm eyes that never flinched.
And far away, in a dark hall lit by flickering green torches, the patriarch of the Bai clan listened as a messenger finished the tale.
"So," the shadowed figure murmured, his tone unreadable. "The Sun Piercing Sword has resurfaced."
He rose slowly, cloak rustling like old parchment.
"Interesting. Very interesting indeed."
Outside, the night wind carried the faint echo of fire — and the name Mo Han began to spread once more, like sparks seeking kindling across the realms.