Among the twenty-eight divine arts Fang Han inherited, one was called Blessing Invocation. It held no offensive power, nor any real defense. Its purpose was simple: to calm the spirit, anchor the soul, and attune one's fate to the unseen tides of fortune. It expelled ill omens, steadied the mind, and strengthened one's connection to heaven and earth.
In ordinary cultivation, this art didn't produce dramatic effects. At best, it cleared the heart, sharpened wisdom, and guarded the practitioner from intrusive, corrupting thoughts—an auxiliary ability that kept one's Dao-heart calm, decisive, and unshakable.
Blessing Invocation was exactly what its name implied: a sincere, inward prayer to the hidden currents of destiny, inviting luck, affinity, and divine favor. At its highest mastery, the practitioner could sense danger before it arrived—steering naturally toward fortune and away from harm.
A master at the Longevity Secret Realm, after cultivating this art, might feel a sudden jolt of intuition—a warning—whenever someone plotted against him in secret.
Fang Han's version came from Fairy Huoyun's years of dedicated practice. Though he hadn't reached the height where he could sense ambushes before they occurred, its stabilizing effect was real. It could suppress inner demons and restore absolute clarity.
At the critical instant, Fang Han activated it.
A faint, ethereal chant—like distant temple bells at dawn—spread through the battlefield. The sound was soft, nearly inaudible, yet it struck straight into the soul, sweeping away agitation, fear, and emotional distortion.
In a breath, all the negative emotions inflicted by the Seven Emotions Handprint evaporated. Clarity returned. Fang Han's mind became still and translucent, thoughts agile, insights blooming like sparks. In that instant, it felt as if a hundred different ways to counter Wan Luo flashed through his mind.
Suddenly his body moved—sleek as a serpent slipping through grass, nimble as a sparrow weaving between branches. His figure shrank, compact and precise, leaping upward like a spring-loaded bolt. When the massive Seven Emotions Handprint crashed down, he shot through a tiny gap between its fingers.
The colossal handprint—large enough to flatten a house—was meant to be flawless, unstoppable. Yet Fang Han found the single sliver of space within it and escaped.
This was another divine art—Serpent-Sparrow Spirit Motion.
Its essence lay in the belief that the world always held one thread of life. The practitioner's qi became like a serpent and sparrow combined—mysterious, lively, unpredictable. No matter what devastating attack the enemy unleashed, there would always be a way out.
The moment Fang Han slipped free, the Blood-Night King hovering above him erupted in an eerie owl-like cackle. A maelstrom of crimson blades burst from its body—fusing into a rotating net of blades that descended like a kill-zone. A blood-red dome formed overhead, spinning and slashing, a cage made of pure execution.
Wan Luo had not expected Fang Han to escape his handprint. Before he could react, the blade-net collapsed downward. His Seven Emotions Handprint was still extended—unable to retract in time.
The blade-net spun like a celestial meat-grinder. If it enclosed him fully, even an iron mountain would be shredded. Fang Han went for the kill—no hesitation, no mercy. He knew Wan Luo must still have hidden trump cards; giving him time would be fatal.
What was the Blood-Sky Demon Blade?
It was a Dao-artifact.
Its power eclipsed ordinary magic treasures—a true calamity in the shape of a blade. Even a Longevity-realm cultivator would hesitate to face it head-on.
If Wan Luo were cut down by it, no number of defensive arts would save him.
All the core disciples watching felt a chill creep up their spines. They had assumed Fang Han would be crushed under the seven emotions. None expected him to slip through effortlessly—then counterattack with such lethal decisiveness.
This was a stroke of genius—bold, unpredictable, and terrifying.
Ling Xiao, a Golden Core master, felt his heartbeat spike.
I underestimated him. If I faced that movement art, even I might stumble. Ten years ago, I should've spent more time studying Fairy Huoyun's legacy…
Fang Qingxue narrowed her eyes.
He grows faster than expected. Still… I've already reached the peak of Unity Realm. My Golden Core isn't far.
Everyone's minds raced.
Wan Luo, however, was already acting.
"You can't kill me so easily!"
Surrounded by blood-blades, he suddenly pulled out a treasure and flung it upward—a shimmering veil of five-colored gauze opened like a floating curtain.
Thin layers of pink, green, yellow, black, and purple mist drifted like clouds.
Sizzling sounds burst forth as the blood-blades descended—but the soft cloud-veil blocked them.
The gauze looked fragile—almost laughably delicate. Yet it stopped the Blood-Sky Demon Blade's killing light cold.
"Break!"
The Blood-Night King screamed with murderous fury.
A surge of power exploded—the blade-light intensified, ripping the five-colored veil apart. The gauzy clouds shattered, mist scattering like torn sky.
The Five-Color Cloud Veil was a mid-grade magic treasure, formed from refined sky-glow and winds of heaven. But now it was destroyed instantly.
Wan Luo didn't even flinch. Sacrificing a treasure meant nothing if it bought him a heartbeat of time.
The instant the veil broke, the external Seven Emotions Handprint snapped back—clawing toward the Blood-Night King. Wan Luo's hands traced rapid arcs, forming complicated patterns. His celestial gate opened above his skull, releasing a fist-sized Golden Core into the air.
Around it floated powerful divine arts: Heavenfree Gold-Qi Sword, Profound Frost Hell-Force, Purple-Lightning Shadow Blade, Mountain-Forging True-Gang—the Eight Great Arts of Yuhuamen.
And at the center—a strange humanoid sigil radiated unstoppable power.
Panwu Divine Might.
The supreme martial art.
Seven… eight… ten… seventeen divine abilities. Wan Luo's Golden Core contained seventeen in total—two more than Jiālán ever managed.
A Golden Core cultivator's true power came from their core. If he detonated it, even Longevity experts backing away would be wise.
Given no Dao-artifact of his own, Wan Luo's only real option against the Blood-Sky Demon Blade… was his Golden Core.
BOOM. BOOM BOOM BOOM.
The Golden Core surged forward—a single blow shattering the blade-light and ripping back waves of blood aura. Wan Luo leapt from the storm like a flying dragon, roaring toward Fang Han with a world-shaking punch.
The moment his fist moved, the entire sky cracked. Fissures split open above them, and the breath of the land itself surged into the punch.
Fang Han felt it instantly—the heavens and the earth sided with Wan Luo. He became an intruder, a mistake, something the world rejected.
Unacceptable to gods and ghosts.
This was Heaven-Rending Fist—one of Panwu's ultimate techniques.
Fang Han inhaled sharply. The World Tree between his brows pulsed, sending streams of immortal essence through his body. His mind brushed faintly against the Immortal Realm, dissolving the oppression of heaven and earth.
"Blood-Night King—return!"
The Blood-Night King withdrew instantly—then slammed a punch toward Wan Luo's Heaven-Rending Fist.
The collision shook the entire Heavenly Execution Platform.
"Now!
Wind feeds fire—Linglong Lock, bind!"
With Wan Luo fully engaged, Fang Han seized the opening. Linglong Daluo Heaven surged out, weaving around Wan Luo like a shimmering net, trapping him in a shifting labyrinth. Immediately afterward, waves of fire and storm burst forth—Great Sun Fire Disaster, Black Sun Wind Disaster, Vermilion Bird Cry, Phoenix Dance, Emperor Flame Surge—layer upon layer converging.
The black winds lashed the flames—doubling their fury.
Fang Han had crafted the perfect trap: the Blood-Night King for brute force, Linglong Daluo Heaven for confinement, and two apocalyptic divine arts to wear down Wan Luo's energy and burn him inside a storm of annihilation.
Linglong Daluo Heaven was terrifying—like being forced onto a cosmic chessboard where every step led deeper into confusion. Without the Blood-Night King restraining him, Wan Luo could break free with raw Golden Core force.
But now—he was trapped, restrained, and smothered by fire and wind on all sides.
He charged left—blocked.
Charged right—lost in shifting space.
Every move dragged him deeper into the labyrinth.
A desperate chess piece, spinning on a board with no escape.
And Fang Han pressed in, relentless.