Chapter 456: Heavenly Thunder Falls!

Hongjun strikes!

Sun Wukong stared at Hongjun's haughty face, murderous intent surging through his whole body.

But his peripheral vision caught something elsewhere.

The edge of the fissure.

It was the crack through which Hongjun tore open space and emerged.

At the corner of the gap clung an ultra‑thin layer of gray membrane.

Barely visible to the naked eye.

But Sun Wukong's Monkey Heart skipped a beat.

It was a warning‑type thump.

His pupils suddenly locked onto that membrane.

Gray.

Rotting.

Carrying a nauseatingly familiar feeling.

"Original Mistake?"

Sun Wukong's voice was cold to the bone.

He wasn't completely dead.

At the instant he shattered the core, this thing split off a wisp of lingering thought, dead‑sticking to the crack Hongjun had torn.

Like a dying maggot searching for a new host.

Hongjun's mouth twitched slightly.

He didn't deny it.

Nor did he stop it.

He simply stood there, watching Sun Wukong with a spectator's gaze.

That expression made Sun Wukong understand completely.

"Fine then."

Sun Wukong smiled.

A grim, snarling smile.

"You did it on purpose."

"You stepped out of that fissure, giving it a way to live."

Hongjun said nothing.

That was his tacit approval.

Sun Wukong stopped the idle talk.

He kicked off the ground, turning himself into a streak of crimson‑gold light, charging straight at the fissure.

Not at Hongjun.

But at the fissure itself.

He intended to shatter both the membrane and the crack together.

"Where do you think you're going!"

The gray membrane at the fissure's edge swelled wildly the instant Sun Wukong drew near.

It knew it could no longer hide.

Since it can't hide, it will fight for its life.

All residual negative energy was compressed, condensed, and forged.

A three‑foot‑long black blade materialized out of thin air.

The blade's edge flowed with the wails and despair of billions of Living Beings, exuding an aura that made even the void rot.

The lingering consciousness of Original Mistake grasped the hilt, shaping into a humanoid silhouette.

No facial features.

No visage.

Only a body of black mist, and that black blade that had gathered its final trump cards.

"Monkey!"

The residue emitted a hoarse, distorted scream.

"I'll fight you to the end!"

The black blade slashed down.

Sun Wukong's Tiěbàng met it.

Gold and black collided.

A hole opened in the void at the point of impact.

The two figures tangled, exchanging blows at a speed the naked eye could not grasp.

Tiěbàng swept horizontally, the black blade rose upward.

The black blade struck straight down, Tiěbàng blocked.

Each clash sounded like a muffled thunder.

The surrounding void shattered in paper‑thin sheets, turning into gray debris that drifted outward.

Original Mistake's swordplay had no form; it was a life‑for‑life exchange.

Each slash rushed toward Sun Wukong's vital points.

Neck.

Chest.

Between the eyebrows.

Each slash is harsher than the last.

Each slash is faster than the previous.

Sun Wukong flicks his Tiěbàng, deflecting the blade, then with a reverse hand delivers a horizontal strike.

Bang!

A large chunk of the black mist figure's left shoulder is ripped away.

But it doesn't retreat at all.

Taking advantage of Sun Wukong's pause to sheath his staff, the black knife thrusts upward from below.

The knife tip scrapes Sun Wukong's battle armor, sparking a spray of sparks.

Sun Wukong leans back, evades, grabs the knife's back with his left hand, and swings his Tiěbàng with his right hand toward its face.

Boom!

The black mist figure's head is smashed into fragments.

Reforming.

Smash again.

Shatter again.

Recondense again.

But with each reassembly, its size shrinks by a layer.

A notch begins to appear on the black knife's blade.

One.

Two.

Five.

Sun Wukong fights more smoothly with each strike.

The Monkey Heart beats steadily and powerfully, each pulse pouring endless battle will into his limbs and bones.

He is not tired.

Not tired at all.

On the contrary, he becomes more excited as he fights.

The crimson‑gold radiance on the Tiěbàng intensifies, each strike heavier than the previous.

The remnants of the Original Mistake retreat step by step.

Its black knife is more than half shattered, the blade riddled with cracks, ready to split in two at any moment.

Its body has also shrunk to one third of its original size.

The black mist is so thin it is about to disperse.

"Almost done."

Sun Wukong lets out a cold laugh.

He raises the Tiěbàng high above his head, the crimson‑gold light surging to its peak.

With this swing, not even a fragment will remain.

He looks at the feeble, gasping heap of trash before him, without any mercy.

"Go die."

The Tiěbàng comes down.

Just as the staff tip is about to touch the black mist figure,

a golden thunderbolt descends from Heaven.

Wrong.

It's not Heaven.

It's from Hongjun's direction.

The heavenly thunderbolt, as thick as a water bucket, carries pure Heavenly Dao Law power, and strikes Sun Wukong's Tiěbàng with pinpoint precision.

Rumble!

The massive impact travels along the staff, reverberating through his entire body.

Sun Wukong's palm cracks, and the Tiěbàng nearly slips from his grip.

His offensive is abruptly broken.

His whole body is blasted backward by the lingering force of the heavenly thunderbolt.

One hundred meters.

Three hundred meters.

Five hundred meters.

One thousand meters.

His feet carve two crimson‑gold grooves in the void before he finally comes to a halt.

Sun Wukong's face turns pitch black.

He looks up at Hongjun.

The old thing still stands where it was, its right index finger extended, a faint golden arc of electricity lingering at the tip.

A gentle smile rests on its face.

It seemed like doing something insignificant.

"Young man, don't be impulsive."

Hongjun's tone was gentle and hesitant.

"Although this thing is a calamity, the law fragments it contains are of great use for the restoration of the Three Realms; they must not be destroyed rashly."

"Shut your mother's fart!"

Sun Wukong spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground.

He saw it.

At the instant he was repelled by Heavenly thunder, that cluster of already dying black mist residue shifted direction.

It was not headed toward Hongjun.

It was not headed toward the rift.

It was headed toward Bodhi.

It lunged toward the Bodhi Patriarch.

On that faceless face, there seemed to be a manic smile.

The only chance to survive.

Swallow that old man.

Its speed had reached the extreme, putting all its remaining strength into it.

The black mist residue turned into an arrow, shooting straight toward where Bodhi was.

Bodhi leaned against the broken wall, not moving his eyelids at all.

But he didn't need to move.

Sun Wukong was faster than the black mist.

Space twisted slightly.

A crimson-gold figure spanned a thousand meters of void, appearing out of thin air before Bodhi.

It wasn't by flying over.

It was by directly tearing space and appearing.

One kick.

Sun Wukong lifted his right foot, bringing with it enough force to shatter stars, and kicked squarely at the front of the black mist residue.

Bang!

A dull roar shook the void.

Original Mistake's residue was kicked away like a cannonball, only stopping after smashing through three layers of dimensional barriers.

It had mostly dissipated, barely maintaining its form, unable even to hold onto that broken blade.

Sun Wukong withdrew his foot and stood before his master.

The Tiěbàng lay horizontally at his side.

He didn't look at that pile of trash.

He turned his head to look at Hongjun.

The killing intent in his gaze was stronger than that toward the Original Mistake.

"Hongjun."

His voice was flat, without a hint of fluctuation.

"Try blocking me again."

Hongjun's smile did not change.

But he withdrew his index finger.

Behind him, Bodhi slowly opened one eye.

His cloudy old eyes swept across the battlefield.

Finally settling on Hongjun.

"Old thing."

Bodhi's voice was hoarse and low.

"What exactly do you want to do? Hurry up."

Hongjun looked at this master-disciple pair, silent for two seconds.

Then his smile changed.

No longer compassionate.

No longer gentle.

It was a genuine, heartfelt satisfaction.

Like a chess player watching all the pieces on the board move to their predetermined positions.

"Senior Brother Bodhi."

He spoke.

His voice was no longer disguised.

Ice-cold.

Calm.

Looking down from above.

"I, a poor Daoist, have waited for this day, waiting for three eras."

"You and your monkey have finally opened that door."