That night, the moon hung high over the Chaos Sect, a pale silver eye watching silently from the heavens. Its light spilled over the jagged peaks, casting long, jagged shadows across the mountaintops like claw marks in the dark.
Inside Xiao Fang's room, the world was chaos.
He sat in the lotus position, body hunched but unyielding, as volatile lightning surged through him like a storm barely contained in flesh. Arcs of blue and violet writhed across his skin—living serpents of destruction—crackling as they burrowed into his veins, lashing at his soul with merciless fury.
The torment wasn't just physical.
It was internal.
Every bolt pierced deeper than nerves or muscle—gnawing at his fractured soul, ripping open old wounds that had never truly healed. Each strike felt like a blade carved from divine wrath, and each moment dragged him closer to the brink of madness.
No sane cultivator would subject themselves to this.
But Xiao Fang wasn't sane.
And he wasn't ordinary.
