Storm-black clouds packed the sky, and a scarlet eye opened in a spinning vortex like a wound in the heavens.

A man in his thirties stood on a stone altar like a lone pine on a cliff, both palms raised to that eye, whispering with fanatical fire.

Black lightning struck the altar like a falling guillotine, and when it kissed the man’s body, his hair bristled like needles; gold turned to ink, and bone-blades bloomed along the backs of his hands like crescent knives.

His fingertips grew long, straight, black nails like obsidian thorns, and tiny black spheres of lightning flickered like fireflies in a graveyard.

Bone-knives jutted at his thigh joints like hidden scythes, and a pair of black bat wings unfurled from his back like night spilling over water.

“Hahaha… I’m already invincible!” His laugh rolled like thunder across an empty plain.

He pointed a finger at a distant mountain like an archer sighting prey, black light flashed, and a jet beam lanced out like a spear of shadow.

Seconds later, a black mushroom cloud rose like a withered tree in a storm, the shock wave hit like an apocalypse, and earth bucked like a raging sea.

When the dust settled like snow on a ruined field, the mountain was gone; in its place yawned a vast crater like a bowl scooped from the earth.

“I, Qihe, will spread Your faith to every corner of the world!” Qihe bowed to the eye like a penitent under moonlight, and the sky cleared like a torn curtain.

He took in his half-man, half-monster form with a cold heart like winter stone, and he felt no disappointment, because face meant nothing before a blade of absolute power.

With power like a flood, beauty would come like swarming moths to a flame; even if they found him monstrous, their resistance would be straw before a wildfire.

“In this world, I’m invincible! Hahaha… first, a small goal: take Anyao in one month; in a year, become lord of the world,” he vowed like a general drawing a map in sand.

Anyao was the strongest nation, an ancient realm a thousand years old like a mountain chain, with ten million soldiers like a forest of spears.

Even if dozens of nearby countries joined like tributaries into a river, Anyao crushed them like a boulder against reeds, yet what were numbers before a storm-slashed sky?

He would not grind against ten million like an ox against millstones; he would strike the capital like lightning, seize the royals like hawks seize rabbits, and seat a puppet king like a painted statue.

“Turns out, I not only got stronger—I got smarter,” he said, pride rising like steam from hot iron.

Among mortals Qihe’s strength was a blade above all blades, and in less than a month he seized mighty Anyao like a net thrown over a lake, gathering followers like fish.

Yet the march wasn’t smooth as silk; in Anyao’s capital, Whiteglow City, Qihe met a foe like a hidden reef beneath calm water.

From royal tongues he learned the man was an Envoy of the Realms, a messenger between worlds like a bridge across mist, and though not Qihe’s match, the man fled like a fox.

From the Envoy’s words throbbed a warning like a drum in fog: he was sent by a higher world like a peak above peaks, so know your place and retreat.

Sure, I can’t beat you, but I’ve got a mountain at my back like granite; kill me, and giants will come like thunderheads, so don’t brag of invincibility.

So Qihe cast his power over the world like a dark net over sea and sky, to keep the Envoy from flying home like a bird.

He wasn’t stupid; he’d already earned the Envoy’s hatred like a thorn under nail, and if that man escaped, a beating by many would fall like hail.

The Envoy flared in anger like sparks in dry grass, rallied the small nations around him like a herd of deer, and the two sides locked horns like stags.

Because of that resistance, Qihe’s one-year goal cracked like thin ice; he held half the world like a crescent moon, while the other half fought on like a stubborn wave.

One day, Qihe climbed the altar again like a pilgrim on cold steps; he wouldn’t wait anymore, and he’d borrow power to erase the Envoy like wind snuffing a candle.

“Lord, today isn’t a good day…” an astrologer trembled like a reed, but Qihe’s glare fell like a blade, and displeasure burned like hot iron.

Who was he? He was the strongest man like a lone mountain; what were auspicious days or unlucky hours before a fist like thunder?

The old astrologer shrank back like a tortoise into its shell, muttering, “Day of great ill, today is a day of great ill,” his voice thin as smoke.

The past nights he’d read the stars like ripples on a pond, and a comet had cut the sky like a knife; the disaster star made his courage scatter like leaves.

Great ill, absolute ill, like thunder over a dry forest.

Qihe brushed off the worry like dust from a sleeve; what fear could an invincible man hold for clouds and omens like shadows?

As he readied his prayer like a bowstring drawn, a meteor fell from the heavens like a burning hammer; nearer, nearer, like a hawk stooping.

Everyone froze like statues, but Qihe did not; his fists clenched like iron, fighting intent surged like a rising tide, and he stared at the falling star like prey.

He would forge a myth like a sword in flame—an unbeaten myth, and that meteor was the perfect anvil like cold stone under fire.

“I… am invincible!” he declared like a gong struck at dawn.

Bang—the altar exploded into a crater like a wound in the earth, and Qihe lay bleeding like a cut river.

“Hahaha… I, the Great Demon King of the Void, have returned at last!” A voice laughed like a god above nine skies, a scorn that fell like sleet.

People around the altar gaped like fish out of water; the monster Qihe had been half-crushed by a star like a nail under a hammer, yet something worse had walked in like nightfall.

Bleeding on the ground, Qihe writhed with stubborn heat like embers. “I… I, Qihe, am the invincible one!”

He sprang up like a spring uncoiled, black lightning crawling over him like snakes, and he locked his gaze on the crater like a wolf on a den.

Dust thinned like mist at dawn, and two figures sharpened into view like stars rising.

One was a woman with silver hair streaming like moonlight, a silver robe veiling her form like winter fog, bare feet treading the air like lotus on water.

Her cold, starry eyes made Qihe step back like a man facing deep sea, and the man beside her felt like a dim lantern by comparison.

“Kid… why’re you pointing at me?” the man said, voice lazy as drifting smoke. “You got a problem with me?”

Ouyang looked at Qihe with open disdain like a cat eyeing a noisy bird; he’d just escaped that damned place like a cave, and the first sight in this world was a finger in his face like a twig.

That disdain cut Qihe like frost; anger popped like sparks, black lightning crackled over him like storm vines. “I’m the invincible one!”

“What? You’re invincible? Don’t kid me, man—I’m invincible,” Ouyang said, lifting his right index finger like a wand. “Special Beam Cannon!”

Dazzling light gathered at his fingertip like dew, and then… it fizzled like a wet match.

“Ahem, something’s off; different move then. Witness true thunderfall!” His finger spat black lightning like Qihe’s, crackling like dry branches, and then died like a firefly.

“Great Fireball!” he cried like a stage magician.

“Dust Gust!”

“Flash!”

…

Ouyang stared at his hand with an awkward face like rain at a picnic. “This makes no sense—this isn’t magic. I’m clearly invincible, okay? As a being who parses truth, I can’t even cast the weakest Dust Gust!”

Dust Gust, also called Skirt-Lifter, raised a breeze like a teasing wind; at best, it flipped a girl’s skirt like a leaf.

Qihe didn’t get Ouyang’s strange words like riddles in mist, but he knew the man was trying to steal the word “invincible” like a banner.

No more talk: Qihe fired five black bolts from his fingertips like arrows, each one spearing Ouyang’s limbs and heart like nails.

Seconds passed like slow rain, and Ouyang still stood there like a tree; he eyed Qihe, puzzled as a child. “Kid, you tickling me?”

Tickling? The word stabbed Qihe like ice; rage surged, because that move was his finisher like a guillotine, and it had half-killed the Envoy of the Realms like a broken wing.

“This isn’t magic!” Qihe finally understood Ouyang’s earlier shout like an echo.

He didn’t quit; he flashed in close like a shadow, and the bone-blade on his hand chopped for Ouyang’s head like a falling moon.

No severed head came like a melon; instead, a brutal rebound slammed Qihe’s arm like a hammer, and Ouyang flew off like a skimming stone, gouging a trench and smashing palaces like sandcastles.

“Hmph, I, Qihe, am invincible!” he crowed like a rooster.

As the dust rose like brown rain, a figure stood up like a pillar.

“Kid, I told you I’m invincible—why won’t you believe me? With hits like that, you’re giving me a back massage,” Ouyang said, stepping from the rubble like a man from a bath.

He patted dust from his clothes like flour, his chest stained with old blood like rust; Qihe hadn’t scratched him like a breeze on rock.

Qihe’s face changed like frost in spring; he knew his own strength like a hunter knows his bow, and even a god standing still would die under his hand like a candle in wind.

He lunged again like a falcon, bone-knife stabbing for Ouyang’s heart like a spike, at that blood-stained spot like a bruised apple.

Reality bit like iron; the blade didn’t pierce, it snapped like dry bamboo.

“I don’t believe it!” he howled like a wolf.

Qihe attacked like rain on a tin roof, right-hand blade broke so he used the left like a switch, then his knee blades like hidden fangs.

No one knew how long it lasted like a storm in a valley; the ground collapsed like a sinkhole, and the grand palaces lay in ruins like fallen cliffs.

Qihe lay on his back, staring at the sky like a dead fish, despair pouring through him like cold water, every drop of power spent like a drained cup.

Someone still bounced around like a sparrow—alive, lively, and laughing like a brook.

“Idiot, with my karma-woven body, I’m already invincible—you think you can hurt me? That’s hilarious,” Ouyang said, picking up a brick from the rubble like a farmer choosing a stone.

“Taste the might of the Ten Sacred Artifacts,” he added, and he brought the brick down like a thunderclap.

Qihe didn’t dodge; he lacked the strength like a burnt wick, and the brick shattered on his skull like brittle ice.

Ouyang frowned like a craftsman with a dull chisel, grabbed another brick like a crab picking up a shell. “There’s nothing a single brick can’t solve; if there is, use another brick.”

“Still nothing? Another brick!” His voice fell like a metronome.

“Another!”

“Another!”

…

“Stop… I… I was wrong…” His surrender came out like a torn banner in the wind.