Chapter Seventy-Eight: Shadows of Childhood!

As soon as the words left his mouth, Yang Fan felt an irresistible force envelop him from all directions. Sitting atop the giant python, he was suddenly lifted into the air, then plunged deep into the earth, leaving only his head exposed above the ground.

Xie Guotao strode over to Yang Fan and sneered coldly. “Boy, you want to kill me? I’ll kill you first!” Yang Fan looked up at Xie Guotao, his face full of indignation.

“Well, well, still not convinced? If you’re not, that’s fine—just get stronger and come after me. I’ll tell you this: from now on, as long as you can’t beat me, you’ll be waiting to be dealt with!” With that, Xie Guotao sat down under a nearby tree, watching Yang Fan struggle from the ground with amusement.

When dawn broke, Xie Guotao stood up, stomped on the earth, and Yang Fan—who had given up struggling—was instantly shot out of the ground, landing heavily on the surface.

“Grandmaster Xie, just say it. What exactly do you want from me?” Yang Fan spat each word through clenched teeth. At this moment, he was resigned. This old man was nothing but trouble. At first, he seemed normal, but now, who knew what madness had seized him—only indulging in these ridiculous antics. Yang Fan was nearly out of patience. He couldn’t win a fight, couldn’t run—where could he run in these ruins?

Xie Guotao grinned. “Toy with you? Why would I? You’re not a girl. Keep heading deeper into the forest!” With those words, he disappeared into the dense woods without so much as a backward glance.

Yang Fan stood, stretching his limbs. First chased by a python through half the night, then buried in the earth for the other half—after such torment, he was utterly exhausted. He cast a fierce glance in the direction Xie Guotao had vanished, then got down to business. The night’s ordeal had drained not only his strength but also stirred his hunger into open revolt. He sliced a chunk of meat from the python’s body, lit a fire, and began roasting it.

...

Five days later, Yang Fan finally crossed the forest. As he stepped out into the sunlight, it washed over him, and only then did he feel truly alive. For days in the jungle, every day was a struggle between life and death—either hunted by strange beasts or hunting them himself. The law of the jungle was laid bare: everyone fought to survive. He killed beasts to live; they tried to kill him for the same reason. Reason had no place here.

At that very moment, Yang Fan’s relaxed body suddenly tensed.

A sharp pain shot through his shoulder, and he staggered backward. A jet of blood arced through the air. Before he could regain his footing or composure, a tremendous sense of danger bore down on him. Instinctively, his long blade flashed from its sheath and swung forward, his entire focus pouring into his eyes and hands. Power like stone, sinews like steel, the blade cold as autumn frost—cutting gold and jade, like a fierce tiger breaking through the heavens.

His blade, wrapped in orange light, met the attack head-on. Now, Yang Fan could finally see the culprit who had wounded him—a familiar black robe.

“Someone from the Dark Realm!” He had no time to dwell—the weapons clashed.

The Dark Realm figure wielded a long spear. Its tip met Yang Fan’s blade with a crack. Both men retreated three steps. Yang Fan readied himself; the black-robed figure charged once more.

Wind as sound, energy as still water, breath transforming all things—swift as lightning, like a dragon in flight, shattering layer upon layer. This time, Yang Fan’s power surged higher, his energy bursting forth even stronger. Yet the result was the same: both retreated three steps.

Now the black-robed figure began to gather his energy. A dark aura, strange and volatile, appeared around his spear. Yang Fan held his breath, raising his blade for a vertical strike, taking the initiative. With a single stride, he crossed six meters.

Bones like jade, unmoving as a mountain, body like diamond, power shaking heaven and earth—like a giant ape shaking the heavens, breaking through layers upon layers. An unshakable aura radiated from Yang Fan. He brought his blade down, and the black-robed figure looked at it with disdain.

The spear spun in his palm, then shot out like a dragon, meeting the descending blade with a precise point.

A metallic clang rang out. Yang Fan felt a massive force threatening to hurl him away. But the third strike of his Berserker’s Ninefold Heaven—Immovable as a Mountain—was all about standing firm. Instantly, his feet sank into the earth, his stance solid as stone. The effects of his advanced horse stance showed themselves.

He weathered the first wave of impact, but before he could celebrate, he saw a mocking glint in the black-robed man’s eyes.

Then, wave after wave of force surged from the spear through his blade—unending.

One fold, two, three...

Yang Fan could no longer withstand it. His feet pressed hard against the earth, carving two ten-meter-long trenches as he was pushed back. Ten meters away, he finally halted the momentum, only to feel a surge of blood rising within him. Unconsciously, he spat out a thick mouthful of blood.

“Not a third-tier! Absolutely not!” The black-robed man from the Dark Realm was definitely not a third-tier opponent. Yang Fan had fought both third-tier reconnaissance captains from the Dark Realm and third-tier mutated beasts, but none were this strong. A third-tier peak wouldn’t be so overwhelming. Yet when the black robe first appeared, his strength seemed no greater than Yang Fan’s own, then he exploded with power—so cunning!

Yang Fan wrenched his feet from the earth, leaned on his blade, and stared fiercely at the black-robed figure ten meters away. The man’s lips curled into a sly smile, half-hidden beneath his hood.

Yang Fan sensed danger. Suddenly, the black-robed man, who’d been ten meters away, appeared right before him. Instinctively, Yang Fan swung his blade. In his haste, the blade carried no energy. The black-robed man shook his head, didn’t even use his spear—he simply reached out and gripped Yang Fan’s blade.

As soon as he seized the weapon, he saw Yang Fan drop it, his hands crackling with electricity as he lunged for his attacker.

The black-robed man muttered under his breath. In a flash, he withdrew, his palm sliced open by the blade’s edge. Yang Fan’s electrically charged fist struck only empty air.

The black-robed figure leaped back, vanishing into the jungle behind him. Lightning flickered around Yang Fan as he watched the forest warily.

He waited, confirming the black robe was gone, before slowly picking up his fallen blade.

Not far away, atop a large tree, a man wrapped in a spacious black robe gazed at the wound on his hand with helplessness. Looking toward Yang Fan, he shook his head. Unexpected—he’d failed. What seemed an easy capture was undone by the boy’s hidden powers.

He recalled the electricity crackling on Yang Fan’s fists. The black-robed man felt a twinge of resignation. He could sense the force of that lightning—not enough to do him serious harm. Yet who hasn’t had childhood fears of electricity? He’d always been afraid of it, and in that moment, he truly panicked.

Instinctively, he retreated. Afterward, feeling embarrassed, he hurried away.