Within Fang Han's mind, eight celestial dragon phantoms emerged—each one vast and majestic, their golden scales shimmering, whiskers flowing like rivers of light, claws sharp as blades, and horns coiled with ancient power. Their presence was suffused with holiness, an aura that banished all corruption. The dragons circled him, chanting in eight distinct tones, each a weave of countless syllables—resonating like the primordial music of the Dao itself.
Then came the mantras.
"Expand the lungs, tighten the abdomen, lower the breath, fortify the dantian; move the spine, focus the spirit, merge the eight dragons, reshape the tones…"
The incantation was profound but clear—a complete system teaching how to circulate energy, channel breath, harmonize body and mind, and align spiritual intent with physical movement.
For Fang Han, whose martial foundation was already extraordinary, this was not beyond comprehension. But the technique's intricacies still shocked him.
He discovered that sound could arise not only from the throat, nose, or belly—but from every part of the body. Even the back, underarms, thighs, and pelvis could produce sound when one's muscles and membranes were sufficiently trained. The Heavenly Dragon's Eight Tones demanded not just power but incredible physical refinement and flexibility.
It took only moments for Fang Han to grasp the method's rhythm—how breath and will intertwined, how each tone carried intent. His mind was sharper than ever, his memory perfect. After running through the formula a few times, he was ready.
He inhaled deeply, centering his spirit. His body bent, spine flexing like a drawn bow; limbs rippled with movement; his abdomen pulsed, lungs thundered, breath roared through his throat and nose.
He looked—and felt—like a divine dragon soaring through the heavens.
Then the world trembled.
A storm of sound erupted from his being—violent, sacred, annihilating.
"Wu! Gu! Ba! Ma! Hong! Ya! Sou! Po!"
The Eight Tones of the Heavenly Dragon roared forth.
The air convulsed. Rings of visible sound waves burst from Fang Han's body in expanding circles. The sheer pressure dwarfed his earlier roars—each note infused with lethal precision and divine judgment. If his previous shouts were the cries of a chaotic mob, this was the unified charge of an elite army—disciplined, unstoppable.
The difference in power was staggering.
"My head—what is that sound!?"
"It's splitting my mind apart!"
"It feels like knives slicing through my skull—how can a human make such a sound?"
The melody of the Pine-Wave Zither and Cloud-Water Flute was instantly drowned out. The eight Jialan disciples paled, their faces drained of color as if their very souls were being flayed by the resonance. The sharpness of the tones pierced their minds like countless invisible blades.
"Cover your ears!" Xu Yue'er and Ye Yu shouted, hastily playing louder to buffer the devastating sound. Even so, the weaker disciples—those below the Divine Courage realm—were on the verge of mental collapse, eyes blank and trembling.
For those with bodies of flesh, the sound was painful but survivable. For the Sky Demons—creatures of pure spiritual essence—it was a massacre.
The dragons' roar tore through them like a tempest, shattering the massive spinning whirlwind they had formed. The demonic storm disintegrated, and the demons fell from the sky like rain, crashing into the ground as twisted, broken bodies.
The four or five Demon Leaders staggered in the air, their movements sluggish and erratic, as if drunk. Their forms flickered, severely wounded by the assault.
Fang Han gasped for breath, drenched in sweat. "This technique… it drains so much energy. I could roar for days without tiring, but now… I can barely stand."
"That's the price of the Heavenly Dragon's Eight Tones," Yan's voice echoed in his mind. "It releases hidden potential—your entire vitality surges at once. If not for the Nine-Aperture Golden Pill you took, you'd already be half-dead. Even Divine Transformation experts collapse after using it once. But don't worry—when you learn Yuhua Sect's Haoqi Long Song and merge the two arts, you'll master true sonic dominion. Then, your voice alone could turn every cultivator within a hundred steps into an empty shell."
"Now move!" Yan urged. "You've only a sliver of strength left—capture those demons before they recover! Especially the leaders!"
Fang Han's eyes flashed. The Wolf Armor dispersed into countless black threads, shooting outward like a vast web, binding the fallen demons before they could reform.
The Demon Leaders, still reeling in midair, were ensnared as well—drawn straight into the Seven Fiend Gourd.
Ordinarily, the dispersed Wolf Smoke lacked the strength to restrain a Sky Demon. But the Eight Tones had already crippled them; their essence was weak, their will shattered.
Fang Han cloaked himself completely in the Wolf Smoke—ensuring that the eight Jialan disciples could not glimpse the secret of the Netherworld Diagram. Hidden beneath the dark mist, he poured the captured demons into the Yellow Springs River.
One by one, they dissolved—washed clean, refined into new Biluo Spirit Pills.
Silent, unseen, Fang Han harvested his victory.