The three men stood frozen in disbelief, their eyes wide with shock.
John had remained within the deadly miasma of toxic fog far longer than any man should have. Yet there he stood—unscathed, unbothered.
"Are you… the Heaven Master?" one of them finally dared to ask, his voice laced with fear.
Only a Heaven Master could release internal energy powerful enough to form a barrier on the surface of their body, shielding their pores from the invasive poison mist. If John truly was a Heaven Master, then their junior fellow apprentice's death was, without question, justified.
But John only gave a cold, disdainful smirk and replied flatly, "To me, the Heaven Master is nothing but trash."
Hiss—
All three of them inhaled sharply.
To them, a Heaven Master was an untouchable existence—an apex being of martial cultivation. Yet this young man had dismissed such a legendary figure as garbage?
Was he arrogantly delusional? Or was he truly a monster of unimaginable power?
Their minds whirled in panic and confusion.
Suddenly, John barked, "Come here!"
Before they could react, John raised his palm, fingers spread, and then slowly clenched his hand as if grabbing something in the air. At that instant, an invisible force gripped one of the three men, lifting him helplessly off the ground and dragging him through the air toward John's awaiting grasp.
"Cultivator…!" the others gasped, horror overtaking them.
It finally dawned on them: the man before them wasn't just strong—he was something else entirely. No wonder he regarded Heaven Masters as insignificant.
"Run! I'll hold him off!" the man in John's grip roared, eyes blazing with desperation. He knew he was finished. There was no way out. His only hope was to buy the others a moment to escape.
Then, without hesitation, he bit off the root of his tongue. A gruesome bulge swelled from his chest before a grotesque toad burst from his ribcage, aiming directly at John's face. A vile stream of venom shot from its mouth.
Crack—
John snapped the man's neck effortlessly and leaped backward, but the venom still grazed his cheek. His skin sizzled with pain.
Yet, John—who had already withstood the specially crafted poisonous mist from Drake—barely flinched. He summoned his vital energy, and in the next moment, his entire body radiated with inner fire that incinerated the venom instantly.
With a swift gesture, a rune materialized in his palm and surged outward, imprisoning the toad in a glowing sigil of light.
From beginning to end, mere seconds had passed.
The two who had fled had only managed to reach about twenty meters away.
John extended a finger and flicked.
A spear of vital energy tore through the air—sharp, silent, and deadly. It pierced the back of one man effortlessly. He collapsed instantly.
Just like before, a poisonous creature emerged from his corpse. This time, a sinister scorpion, its pincers twitching with venomous threat. But John subdued it with ease, binding it in a rune.
One remained.
John dashed forward, moving with such speed that he seemed to disappear. When he reappeared, the final man's limbs were shattered, his body crumpled on the ground.
John crouched beside him, his voice low and threatening.
"Where is your master, Drake?"
The man clenched his teeth, refusing to speak.
Less than thirty seconds later, he was on his knees, screaming in agony and begging for a quick death. His body was pierced with dozens of thin, hair-sized needles—each one delivering pain designed to break even the strongest wills.
He broke. They always did.
John got the answer he needed.
Then, with clinical precision, he placed a hand atop the man's skull and shattered the top of his head with a pulse of internal force. The death was instant.
Now, all four of Drake's disciples were dead, and so were the four little poisonous beasts he had spent years cultivating. John not only killed them—he carefully neutralized their venom, desiccated their remains, and ground them into powder.
They were given a proper burial, their threat finally extinguished.
Meanwhile, deep within a cold, damp cave on the bank of the Hudson River...
Drake sat cross-legged in fury, coughing up three gory mouthfuls of blood in succession. His veins bulged with rage as he howled into the shadows:
"John, you bastard! I'll break every bone in your body, gouge out your eyes, boil them into soup, and drink them myself!"
His fury shook the walls.
Coiled around his body, a massive python hissed violently, its crimson tongue flicking in tandem with its master's wrath. Sensing his emotional volatility, the snake began to merge with Drake's flesh in an unnatural ritual, fusing their energies at a pace far faster than normal.
An hour passed.
Drake finally stood.
With a sweep of his sleeve, he summoned the horde of venomous creatures lurking around the cave. Snakes and scorpions rushed toward him, only to be shredded into mist the next moment—absorbed directly into Drake's body like fuel for a fire.
He was evolving into something far worse.
Outside the cave, a group of elite martial artists combed the forest. Their skills were exceptional, their senses sharp.
At their front was a woman who commanded both awe and fear.
She had star-like eyes and striking brows. Her oval face bore such perfection it seemed painted by a divine hand. She stood tall, her figure sculpted with the golden ratio that architects could only dream of.
Her mere presence was breathtaking.
But beauty was not her only weapon.
This woman radiated a warrior's spirit. She was no fragile flower—she was a battlefield goddess in human form.
Valiant. Fierce. Unyielding.
Master Bertha, they called her. She was the leader of the Martial Arts League of the Central U.S.
None among her team would ever dare court her. Not because they weren't captivated—but because they knew their strength was nowhere near enough to stand beside her.
She was the summit.
Today, she led her team to the Hudson River, seeking the elusive and dangerous Drake. The crimes he had committed—feeding his toxic creatures with the flesh and blood of innocents, even targeting members of the League—had finally earned him a death sentence.
"Master Bertha," one scout reported, "the air here reeks of blood. If I'm right, Drake has been here recently."
Bertha nodded solemnly. "Stay alert. Drake is a cunning predator. One misstep could mean your life."
"Understood!"
Whoosh!
A gust of wind ripped past them.
A sleek, black motorcycle surged into view, its tires skimming the earth like a phantom. Atop it rode a young man, approaching rapidly.
Everyone tensed, stepping into combat stance.
Bertha turned sharply and gave a crisp command to two nearby operatives:
"Stop that rider! Don't let him come any closer!"
"Yes, Ma'am!"
They obeyed instantly.
It was clear to all: a confrontation with Drake was imminent. If this unknown man blundered into the middle of it, he wouldn't just be a casualty—he might tip the balance of life and death.