Chapter 344: Face Justice, Lin Ji’an!
"Prepare to face justice, Lin Ji’an," Jianheng gasped, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with chaotic misery.
Ji’an braced herself, raising her cast-iron spatula, preparing to execute a desperate block that would likely shatter both of her arms.
But the blow never fell.
Before Jianheng could swing the blade down, a figure appeared between them.
Shen Zechuan did not run. He utilized a spatial fold, effortlessly bypassing the physical distance of the labyrinth, materializing directly in front of Ji’an, completely shielding her with his body.
He was still casually holding the four-hundred-pound iron wok under his left arm.
Jianheng’s eyes widened, completely unable to arrest the momentum of his ultimate strike. The legendary blade Autumn Frost, carrying the force to cleave a mountain in twain, hurtled mercilessly down toward the Senior Apprentice’s unprotected head.
"Shen Zechuan, move your ass off the ground!" Ji’an screamed, reaching out to grab his robes.
Zechuan didn’t move or draw a weapon. He didn’t even drop the wok.
He calmly, casually raised his right hand, then extended his index and middle fingers.
CLANG!!!!
The deafening, metallic ring of impact echoed through the cul-de-sac. The shockwave of the collision blasted outward, instantly vaporizing the mist and completely shattering the surrounding glass walls into millions of harmless, glittering fragments.
When the dust settled, Ji’an blinked, peering around Zechuan’s broad shoulder.
Lu Jianheng was frozen in place. He was suspended in mid-swing, his teeth gritted, his arms straining with terrifying exertion, trying to force his blade downward.
But the blade was not moving.
Shen Zechuan had caught the razor-sharp edge of the legendary Autumn Frost directly between his two pale, ungloved fingers.
The Void-Devouring Mantra had created an invisible, hyper-dense kinetic singularity around his fingertips. The sword was locked in a vacuum of pressure. Zechuan wasn’t even straining. His posture was completely relaxed.
"Young Sword Lord, Lu Jianheng," Zechuan murmured. His voice was soft, incredibly polite, and utterly devoid of malice.
He looked at Jianheng’s furious, straining face.
"I must ask you to cease this aggressive pursuit," Zechuan requested gently, holding the ultimate technique of the Sword Peak immobile with two fingers. "Uncle Ji’an has been walking all day, and his feet are tired. He requires time to prepare the spicy stir-fry. If you continue to swing your sword and shout, you will delay our dinner."
Jianheng stared at the two fingers holding his blade. He stared at the serene, melancholic, impossibly powerful face of the Senior Apprentice.
The Sword Lord’s brain rebooted.
’He stopped the Autumn Moon with two fingers,’ Jianheng’s internal monologue whispered in awe and horror. ’He is a monster. He is an abyssal god. And he is... he is using his godlike power purely to ensure the cook has time to make dinner?!’
The realization that the terrifying Senior Apprentice was completely, hopelessly, happily subjugated by the chaotic chef shattered the last remaining fragments of Jianheng’s righteous fury, replacing it with a dizzying sense of absurdity.
"You..." Jianheng choked out, releasing the hilt of his sword, staggering backward, leaving the legendary blade hovering in Zechuan’s grip. "You are both completely insane. This entire sect is insane."
He covered his face with his hands, letting out a long, shuddering, broken sigh of a man whose worldview, romantic aspirations, and martial pride had all been systematically pulverized in the span of ten minutes.
"I am going to find a quiet corner," Jianheng whispered brokenly, turning around and trudging slowly, defeatedly down the corridor, abandoning his sword. "I will find a quiet corner, and I will meditate until the tournament is over. Do not dare to perceive me."
Ji’an peeked out from behind Zechuan, watching the dejected, slumped figure of the Sword Lord disappear into the mist.
She let out a long, heavy exhale, slumping against the glass wall.
"Well," Ji’an muttered, wiping the sweat from her brow. "That was arguably the most embarrassing, high-stakes romantic misunderstanding I have ever been a part of. And I didn’t even do anything."
Zechuan lowered his hand. The legendary sword Autumn Frost clattered harmlessly to the obsidian floor.
He turned around, his dark eyes wide and blinking with genuine, innocent confusion.
"Ji’an," Zechuan asked softly, tilting his head. "Why was he so angry about the stir-fry?"
Ji’an stared at the most powerful, lethal, and terrifying entity in the entire realm. She looked at his genuine confusion. She looked at the heavy iron wok he was still dutifully carrying for her.
She couldn’t help it as she burst into a fit of hysterical laughter, sliding down the wall until she was sitting on the floor.
"He wasn’t angry about the stir-fry, stupid guy," Ji’an laughed, shaking her head. "He was angry because you are an airhead, and my life is a walking, breathing soap opera. Now, pick up his sword. We can probably trade it for some high-tier soy sauce when we hit the center ring."
"Understood, Uncle Ji’an!" Zechuan beamed, happily scooping the legendary blade off the floor and stuffing it into the wok alongside the monster cores.
As they walked away from the shattered cul-de-sac, leaving the broken heart of the Sword Lord behind them, the sky above the Illusory Labyrinth began to darken. The second day was drawing to a close, and the final, brutal convergence in the Heart of the Realm was rapidly approaching.
.
.
.
The Illusory Shattered Realm was, by design, a hostile environment meant to test the breaking point of a cultivator’s physical and mental endurance. It was a place where friendships were forged in blood, alliances were shattered by betrayal, and the weak were mercilessly culled by the strong.
It was not, under any standard orthodox metric, a place where one was supposed to set up a fully functioning, organized prep station to make a vegetable stir-fry.
But Lin Ji’an operated on an entirely different existential frequency.
Beneath the sweeping, iridescent canopy of a giant petrified lotus leaf, Ji’an had established a secure perimeter.
The Szechuan Red silk of her combat robes was slightly dusted with ash as she stood over a spirit-fire, expertly tossing the four-hundred-pound Black Iron Wok with the effortless grace of a master chef.
Comments