Chapter 111: The Long Fist of the Founding Emperor and the Eighteen Dragon Subduing Palms

The water in the fish pond was clear and pure; clear water usually holds no fish, yet these fish thrived perfectly in such purity, even seeming especially lively and at ease.

The wheel in midair was continuously pushed backward by intense firepower; a single mech could never stand against a main cannon mounted on an aircraft carrier.

Wang Zheng planned to prepare for both possibilities, setting aside all distractions to devote himself entirely to cultivation—whether gathering cosmic fortune to open the Heavenly Court or seizing the primordial source to spark new growth, both required strength.

Only some data on the screen showed its descent speed and current altitude.

Hearing this, Gao Shun exhaled in relief; it wasn’t because he was about to become a father and had gotten carried away—good, as long as he still had reason.

It made me sad for him, and deeply reflective too, so I decided to adjust my original plan and start writing more emotionally focused content, as a way to comfort my best friend.

Their qi clashed, the snowfield exploded, and those around them flew like kites with severed strings; not a single snowflake remained within a ten-mile radius. Wang Zheng staggered back several steps, while Qi Yunyong stood utterly unmoved.

Security level is now raised to maximum. All combat personnel immediately enter their respective combat units. All fire control systems will be fully unlocked in two and a half minutes; units may engage freely.

Su Shitong told him it was because the sword had pierced his body, severing and damaging his meridians; even if his body fully recovered, his cultivation could never return to its former level, and future cultivation would be severely hindered.

A cold-faced cultivator said, “Kunpeng, just speak plainly—you know we don’t act unless we have absolute certainty.”

Following the officer to the steel wall, two black packages lay beside it, and two ropes hung from the wall.

In fact, even if Jiang Fan were placed on the world’s greatest stage, as long as he didn’t want to die, no one could harm him in the slightest.

Now that he mentioned it, she truly had forgotten—she had indeed said something about an exam before, but with so many recent events, it slipped her mind.

In Shuanghe Courtyard, Huo Xingya had come looking for Huo Mingshuang but couldn’t find her; puzzled, he ordered searches everywhere, yet found no trace of her. He began to suspect she had been kidnapped, and dispatched teams to scour the area in a Ditanshi search for her whereabouts.

The more Feng Qiu spoke, the more unstable his emotions became, until he sank into past memories—when the Canglan sword, planted in the ground, suddenly rose vertically, its blade overshadowing the heavens as it slashed toward the abyss.

To the young man, and even to that family, the phrase meant Jiang Fan had been identified as a waste at birth.

At the time, he had been her favorite disciple; her other students, though competent, paled in comparison to him.

Soon after, he arrived at Long Zi’s home; the servants there naturally knew Liang Feng—they had seen him just last night, and he had seemed intimately close to their mistress.

“Dad, I think you’ve spoiled this girl too much,” came a stern voice from the doorway.

The entire page was filled with names of fierce beasts: Xiao Hu, Xiao Bao, Xiao Xiong, Xiao Mang, and so on.

The combined lightning storm created by the two factions’ rune masters not only wiped out large numbers of players from three guilds but inevitably injured innocents—more lone players surrounding the battle lines perished than anyone else.

Ye Mo waited quietly; he hadn’t bought defensive armor because he felt it was useless—better to save up and directly forge a divine set.

Shao Zhaomo lowered his arms from his chest, watching Tang the Young Master emerge from the ward, then silently gave him a thumbs-up.

At the airport, they didn’t wait long in the terminal before preparing to board; walking one after the other in line, someone rushed past, and when Shu Huaye heard a soft cry behind him, he reached back and pulled the person into his arms.

Even weapons capable of binding primordial forces couldn’t hold back the God of Killing or the Lord of the Gale—they dared not pursue.

But when the dust and sand slowly cleared, Yin Yuling rested precisely against Nan Yang’s neck, not piercing through—only a faint trace of blood remained.

“Yes, I want to see him again! Wushuang is gentle and considerate, unlike some people—cold and volatile, such a stubborn personality.” I’m talking about you, Xiao Yu—what, you gonna eat me?

To Ximen Jinlian’s surprise, at this ordinary question, the old earl frowned and gave no answer. Fortunately, at that moment, the music abruptly ceased, and bright lights flared on.

Seeing Yun Xian’s stance, everyone’s faces brightened; nothing else mattered except the matter of Lian Yuan. Master Wu Tanlang wasn’t afraid of Lian Yuan and kept his gaze fixed on him—that was the most important thing.

Only by piecing together these disordered memory fragments could the audience suddenly understand—the story had begun this way all along.

For some reason, the enemy camp below the mountain, moments ago bristling with swords and halberds, now hung white banners everywhere, accompanied by mournful music, transformed into a solemn and somber scene.

Hong Zhan yuan, having lost one hand, did not pursue. After his new hand regrew flesh and blood, he slowly opened it—within his palm, a cluster of essence blood writhed, like living flesh.

Inside the tavern, countless cultivators murmured among themselves, each sighing in admiration—what was peerless talent? What was a prodigy emerging from nowhere? He was no weaker than the greatest geniuses of the Heavenly Realm.

“I’ll handle the ball!” He Jie shouted. His teammates passed the ball to him, while Chu Lang sprinted toward the front court.