Late night in Ironthorn Castle—the West Tower was shrouded in a thick, oppressive layer of lead-gray mist.

  The alchemical cauldron in the laboratory had long gone cold; faint glows emanated from the residual dregs at the bottom. Del sat cross-legged on the hard stone floor, hands cradling the yellowed parchment scroll. His fingertips trembled slightly from prolonged computational overclocking. This was the heaviest mental and physical seclusion he had endured since entering the castle.

  “Chip, utilize all remaining circuits of the ‘Eye of Silence’ to forcibly activate ‘Origin Trace.’ I don’t want text—I want the original logic from which this power system was born.”

  Del issued the most rational command in his mind. As the order took effect, the sapphire ring on his finger suddenly emitted a faint cracking sound. A vast, unprocessed primal magical force surged backward through his fingertip, crashing forcefully into his sea of consciousness.

  Deep analysis initiated… Detected non-native-plane, non-magical logical will remnant. Establishing logic resonance bridge. Visual synchronization, tactile synchronization, emotional simulation… loading.

  Del’s consciousness was instantly swept away by a dark torrent.

  In a land called “Shenzhou” in the East, Del witnessed an apocalyptic scene beyond imagination.

  Those were the final years of the collapse of royal rule. The sky was a sickly dark red; the earth cracked, blackened land bore no crops. Famine swept thousands of miles like plague—people exchanged children for food, displaced and wandering. Amid mountains of corpses, only carrion crows cawed harshly in mockery.

  A man rose from the south.

  Dressed in a pitch-black cloth robe, his eyes had turned blood-red from prolonged hunger and slaughter. In a coma during a desperate encirclement by soldiers, in half-dream half-wake, he beheld a sinister idol seated upon countless bleached bones. The idol was neither gold nor stone—its entire body composed of flowing black sand, its face neither crying nor laughing. It was called the “Black Sand Evil Buddha.”

  From that day, the man comprehended a brutal martial art called “Black Buddha Sect.”

  He needed no weapon. When his fists moved, air vibrated at extreme speed to produce black fine sand—those grains were actually fractured spatial cracks and maximally compressed force. With this power, he swept the south, claiming to forge a peaceful world for the common people.

  Yet ambition and betrayal are always deadlier than enemies.

  The Black Buddha Sect had existed only a few years when the deputy sect leader and several high-ranking members, tempted by the court’s “pardon edict” and duke titles, secretly poisoned the secret medicine and lured three thousand elite court crossbowmen plus five hidden grandmasters of the martial world into an ambush in “Soul-Severing Valley.”

  Del witnessed that battle in a near out-of-body state.

  It was pure aesthetics of power. Even poisoned, the man’s fists turned a hundred-meter radius into a black sand hell. Court elites touching that black force turned to dust—armor and all—in an instant. Yet the five grandmasters besieging him were no pushovers; they embodied the pinnacle of that world’s “Heaven-Man Unity” realm.

  Qi clashed; mountains crumbled, earth split.

  In the end, with death-defying ferocity, the man forcibly killed three grandmasters, tearing open a gap in the encirclement. Covered in grievous wounds, he vanished into a forest that never saw sunlight.

  Deep in the dense forest, the man leaned against an ancient locust tree. His lungs were shattered; each breath expelled dark-red blood clots. He stared at his bloodstained, knuckle-exposed fists, his eyes filled with unprecedented bitterness.

  “Fist techniques… ultimately too conspicuous, killing intent too thick. They cannot enter the world, cannot be tolerated.” The man muttered to himself, voice rasping like iron scraping.

  He knew the Black Buddha Sect’s reputation was irreparably ruined. The court would label it a demonic cult; every fist path would be recorded by official experts. Any successor practicing this art would be recognized the moment they acted, drawing endless pursuit.

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  To let this power—earned through a lifetime of blood and sweat—survive, he had to change it.

  With his last breath, the man broke off a dry branch and wrote his final resolve on the blank scroll:

  “The Buddha is shattered, yet the sand remains. From this day, convert fist to sword. Conceal killing intent in the wind, transform tyranny into agility. Henceforth, the world shall know no ‘Black Buddha Fist’—only ‘Black Wind Sword.’ If future descendants practice it, remember: release full power only in desperation; reveal the black sand essence only for certain kills.”

  Through the chip’s simulated optimal trajectories, he simplified those originally heavy, ferocious fist moves into lighter, more insidious sword techniques, move by move.

  First form, “Fills the Sky.” Derived from the “Sandstorm Burial” shattering feel of the fist art—transformed into sword style, it became wide-area cutting. Second form, “Annihilation.” Derived from “Buddha Heart Collapse” single-point penetration—transformed into sword style, it became ultimate implosion.

  After the final stroke, the man looked up and laughed bitterly, then breathed his last.

  His body soon decayed. Eventually, a child fleeing war found the bloodstained sword manual beneath the locust tree. The child knew nothing of the blood feud—only that this sword art could kill and let one live. Thus, in that fractured chaotic age, he founded the “Black Sand Sect,” wandering the martial world as a swordsman.

  Because the sword moves deliberately concealed the fist art’s force-generation logic, and the black sand effect was intentionally restrained, even when court experts later clashed with Black Sand Sect members, they merely saw it as a slightly eerie agile sword style—never connecting it to the terrifying “Black Buddha Sect” of old.

  “Huff—hah!”

  Del abruptly withdrew from the vision, collapsing onto the stone floor, gasping heavily. His sweat dripped onto the parchment and instantly evaporated into wisps of green smoke.

  Core logic completed. Full background of “Black Wind Sword” recorded: Eastern apocalyptic forbidden art, fist-to-sword conversion. Detected strong resonance with host’s mental will—second form forcibly unlocked: [Black Wind Sword · Annihilation Storm].

  Del felt the originally heavy “Bedrock battle-qi” in his dantian contracting wildly. Under the chip’s precise guidance, the once-gaseous qi was compressed into solid micro-particles—each carrying the destructive intent of shattering everything, brought back from the vision.

  “This is the essence of ‘Annihilation.’”

  Del staggered to his feet, slowly drawing the worn cross-shaped sword with his right hand.

  With his current physique (Constitution 2.5) unable to withstand such high-density energy clash, fine blood beads seeped from his right arm’s skin. Yet he did not stop—he was seeking the special balance after “fist-to-sword” conversion.

  He thrust suddenly.

  The sword tip made no wind sound in the air, yet when it struck the bronze cauldron used for strength testing ahead, something bizarre occurred.

  No metallic clash rang out.

  A hole three centimeters in diameter appeared at the cauldron’s center. Its edges were mirror-smooth—not pierced, but as if that patch of bronze had been ground into invisible dust by a micro-storm in an instant.

  “Chip, calculate effect coverage.” Del stared coldly at the hole.

  Effect camouflage logic: Current state—while releasing ‘Annihilation,’ forcibly overflow 15% mutated Bedrock battle-qi. Visual presentation: air distortion and dark-red particles due to high temperature. Deception depth: even against high-tier professionals, it would only be seen as ‘melting-point penetration’ from extreme Bedrock qi concentration.

  “Good.” Del sheathed the sword, noting cracks already forming on the blade. Ordinary weapons could no longer keep pace with his growth.

  Through this deep background analysis, he not only mastered the killing move but understood a crucial truth: in this logically rigorous otherworld, **“camouflage”** is not merely a survival tool—it is part of power itself.

  He needed no one’s recognition of his strength. He only needed, at critical moments, to physically erase obstacles in his path using this forbidden art concealed for millennia.

  “Not done yet.” Del walked to the window, watching the pale dawn light on the horizon.

  Torry’s threat had reached critical eruption. That lion, blinded by power and greed, was eager to tear out his throat.

  “Chip, summarize all currently available resources.”

  Status update: 1. Black Wind Sword second form ‘Annihilation’ implemented (due to body limits, recommend single use per battle). 2. Mutated Bedrock Strength at peak beginner—ready to break through to mid-tier anytime. 3. Remaining high-concentration corrosive agent in lab: 3.5 liters (usable for battlefield camouflage). 4. Target Torry: peak mid-tier knight, battle-qi attribute: wind.

  Del’s lips curved in a cruel arc. In the chip’s virtual battlefield model, he had rehearsed over a hundred times how to end Torry’s life using “luck” and “accident.”

  “Since you think I’m just a lucky mutant, then in that secret chamber, I’ll prepare a grand gift for you.”

  Del turned and walked to the deepest shelf in the laboratory. He took several vials of precious stock originally intended for meridian repair research and mixed them without hesitation.

  He didn’t need meridian repair. What he needed was a “stimulant” to forcibly erupt 0.4 seconds of full-power Black Wind Sword.

  “Once Torry is dealt with, we leave this narrow territory—to seek real energy sources capable of fully parsing Black Wind Sword.”

  Del’s voice was low and resolute.

  In this moment, his gaze belonged neither to Graystone Village’s second young master nor to Ironthorn Castle’s apprentice.