Chapter Forty-Nine: The Great Tornado

After the harrowing escape, Zhou Yu suddenly relaxed, and aside from his two arms—whose meridians had already been opened—he felt pain searing through every inch of his body. As he gently set the old man down from his back, his legs gave way and he nearly collapsed, saved only by the instinctive body control honed by never having abandoned the most basic exercises even when uninjured; regaining his balance happened almost subconsciously.

But the shrill scream from Nan Fenglang behind him made Zhou Yu’s heart sink just as he was steadying his aching body. For some reason, Zhou Yu couldn’t shake the feeling that the Sacred Qilin had not been so easily defeated. Especially when the energy at the explosion’s center reached the A-rank, Zhou Yu was nearly certain of it.

What did A-rank mean? According to the encyclopedia, it was the power of a lower deity—and even a lower deity was still divine!

Could a being that wielded the power of a lower deity be killed so easily? Zhou Yu harbored his doubts, but everything had happened so fast that there was no time for thought. In those brief, heart-stopping moments, everyone had fled for their lives on pure instinct. Once they believed their survival was assured, relaxation was inevitable. The tension of before now gave way to a wave of exhaustion; Zhou Yu’s whole body ached and a stifling pressure filled his chest. Startled by Nan Fenglang’s sudden outcry, he instinctively turned to look.

He saw, at a glance, that the pure gold pipelines behind them were riddled with cracks that, in the next instant, spread with a sharp crackling sound and shattered into countless fragments.

The explosion itself had not lasted long, so by now it was over. But a tremendous tornado, its origin unknown, had formed behind them—a super cyclone, a hundred yards wide and a thousand yards tall, roaring as it smashed through the golden pipelines and barreled straight toward the cultivators.

The Nan Feng clan excelled at manipulating the wind, so none present understood the terrifying energy of such a tornado better than Nan Fenglang. Though she had screamed at first, she was now eerily calm, yet her eyes could not conceal a trace of despair.

“Damn it!” one cultivator shouted, preparing to attack the tornado, blue light flashing in his hands.

“Stop! No one is to attack!” Nan Fenglang barked coldly at him, then quickly explained, “Any attack against this tornado is useless—not only useless, but it will strengthen it! Your attacks won’t be absorbed; they’ll be swept up and fed to the wind!”

Such a tornado—Nan Fenglang thought—perhaps not even their sect master could summon one like this.

“What a cunning bastard! Damn it!” Jin Buhuan, already exhausted, clenched his fists and swung them furiously at the air, his eyes blazing as he glared at the tornado and cursed.

Zhou Yu watched everything unfold, and guessed that the Sacred Qilin was not dead after all, and that this tornado was its doing. Facing a power of this level, his first instinct was to turn and flee—a lesson hard learned tonight after his own recklessness and blind faith in the protagonist’s aura had led him into mortal peril and gotten the old man injured. If he still didn’t know when to retreat and only sought reckless glory, Zhou Yu would truly be unworthy of his identity as a transmigrator.

Yet his aching muscles now refused to obey. Zhou Yu tried to lift his leg, but it felt as heavy as if it were filled with lead; he managed only half a step before losing his balance again.

“Run!” If attacking was not an option, there was only one path—flight.

At the blood-curdling cry of a cultivator, everyone snapped to their senses and broke into a desperate run.

Watching those who could still sprint as though nothing had happened, Zhou Yu couldn’t help but mutter under his breath, “Damn it, where was all this energy when we were fighting? Now when it’s time to run, you’re all superhuman.”

His words, brimming with envy and resentment, reached Nan Fenglang’s ears. She curled her lip in disdain and said, “In my experience, with a tornado of this magnitude and at this distance, there’s no escaping. Look!” She pointed toward the rapidly approaching cyclone.

Following her gaze, Zhou Yu saw the ice and snow within dozens of yards being swept up into the storm. With its vast diameter and the short distance between it and their group, they would be caught in ten breaths at most.

“Our only option now is to charge straight in!” Nan Fenglang declared resolutely.

“Wait, I only know that typhoons have an eye—do tornadoes?” Zhou Yu asked, puzzled.

Nan Fenglang frowned and replied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but when it comes to wind, you’ll have to trust me.”

Zhou Yu could only acquiesce, his gaze drifting to Hua Queyue and Jin Buhuan, who were closest to the tornado.

Jin Buhuan had moved away from Hua Queyue and was sitting alone in the snow, apparently meditating to recover his strength.

Hua Queyue, meanwhile, was drawing complex patterns in the air with both hands, left arm glowing with green light. Sometimes his hands moved so swiftly they blurred, sometimes slowly and deliberately. Gradually, lines of green light appeared in the air, growing brighter and stronger, even as the green glow on his left arm dimmed.

Zhou Yu had seen that left arm before and knew it was extraordinary—a limb covered in scars but with every meridian open, Hua Queyue’s greatest trump card. He had once boasted that all who had seen the true power of this arm had died; now, with no reservations, he was unleashing its full might. What kind of power would that reveal?

Though everything seemed to stretch on endlessly in Zhou Yu’s perception, in truth, only a few dozen heartbeats had passed.

The tornado, roaring and unstoppable, devoured everything around it. Tons of ice and snow were swept inside, causing it to swell ever larger. It advanced like a conqueror, unstoppable.

The mass of wind and snow, now almost upon them, did not snap Zhou Yu out of his trance; he remained absorbed in the mysterious patterns.

Hua Queyue gently pushed the symbol he had traced in the air toward the looming tornado. Instantly, the symbol expanded, its lines thick and long, forming a green web that enveloped the storm.

Even so, the snow-laden white tornado seemed utterly unaffected. In the next moment, it swallowed Hua Queyue and Jin Buhuan whole.

Zhou Yu watched as their figures vanished, mouth agape, eyes wide with terror, and cursed, “Damn it! Is this how it ends? Are you kidding me?”