"How was it, Fang Han? Still eager to try it again?" Yan asked with a teasing undertone. "How did that clash of foreign mana feel? You only survived because the Blackwater King Serpent had just evolved into a flood dragon—its new mana hadn't yet taken deep root."
Fang Han slowly regained his composure. "So I actually succeeded... For a moment, I thought I'd already exploded into dust." He felt his mana roaring within him, surging like a steel tide. With a single pulse, his body trembled with immense force. There was no doubt—he had successfully grafted the serpent's power into himself. During the final moments, his consciousness had shattered, as if his mind were detonating from within. He'd been certain death had come—yet somehow, he'd lived.
It had truly been half luck, half madness.
Only now did he understand just how perilous Transplanting Flowers, Grafting Trees truly was. He would never attempt it a second time. To gamble with fate once was courage; twice would be suicide.
The conflict of alien mana was too savage. A single mistake, and not only would the body be annihilated, even the soul would scatter—gone forever.
"With my current power," Fang Han murmured, "I should be able to take on the master of Dead Island. He's wounded anyway. Time to wipe him out—and plunder his hoard. As one of the Forty Sea Bandits, he's bound to have killed and robbed countless times. No one gets that title without treasure to show for it. Yan, you can sense his lair, can't you?"
"Of course I can," Yan replied coldly.
The man and the dragon spirit exchanged thoughts at lightning speed.
"The Blackwater Serpent's body still contains thick and potent essence," Yan continued. "Its skin, fangs, and horns are all perfect materials for refining artifacts—possibly even treasures. Its blood alone can yield at least three hundred Flood Dragon Blood Pills, each far superior to those made from the White-Haired Corpse Fiend. After all, this creature was a primordial variant that evolved into a dragon—its blood is peerless. One such pill equals dozens of ordinary blood elixirs."
"Excellent. My Asura troops will have more than enough sustenance for slaughter."
Fang Han let his true energy course through his body once more, bones creaking and muscles flexing. He floated into the air and let out a triumphant laugh.
Though the Dead Island Lord was still a realm higher, Fang Han no longer feared him. In fact, with the enemy wounded, the odds were in his favor. And the prospect of looting one of the Forty Sea Bandits' dens—too rich to resist.
"Let's move!"
He shot into the sky.
"Where are you going?" Long Xuan asked, relieved to see him not only alive but brimming with vigor. "And how in the world did your mana increase so drastically?"
"I've mastered a new divine ability," Fang Han said, eyes flashing. "We're going to raid the Dead Island Lord's lair."
"Perfect," Long Xuan said eagerly. "That man deserves death. You know, the Immortal Island of Ten Thousand Returns once placed a bounty on the Forty Sea Bandits. If we kill him, we might even claim the reward."
That island—Wangui Immortal Island—was one of the Ten Great Immortal Sects of the seas, its influence vast. Yet even such powers could not govern the endless ocean, teeming with rogue cultivators and mysterious domains.
After all, the sea held countless forbidden regions, places that connected to strange dimensions and alien worlds—realms where even demonic gods sometimes appeared. It was no wonder figures like the Dead Island Lord could thrive amid such chaos.
Still, not all oceanic cultivators were wicked. Many were reclusive and pure-hearted, seeking enlightenment in solitude.
The Blackwater Serpent, the ambush, the bandits—these were but a glimpse of the ocean's savage underbelly. Across the boundless waves, similar stories unfolded endlessly.
With that, Fang Han, Long Xuan, and the Witch ascended together. Now that Fang Han's power rivaled four True Essence Realm experts combined, he wasted no time. With a flick of his hand, two streams of Wood Emperor True Qi wrapped around his companions, propelling them forward with explosive speed.
As they flew, Fang Han pulled out several concealment talismans—Hidden Seals that masked sound, wind, and aura.
These talismans, though technically magic tools, required a Divine Ability cultivator to craft, using rare materials such as Scattered Light Stone. Fang Han had no time to mine such materials himself, but Long Xuan had plenty—gathered through the vast resource network of the Yuhua Sect, which encouraged disciples to trade rare finds for elixirs.
Though Fang Han still couldn't break the speed of sound—his lack of Gang Qi limited him—his enhanced mana allowed him to fly ten times farther without pause. No longer did he need to rest every few thousand miles; he could now soar tens of thousands effortlessly.
"West... now south... now north..." Yan's mental voice guided him through shifting directions.
After several thousand miles of flight and two hours of twisting paths, the sky darkened. Stars rose over the sea, their reflections rippling across the waves like living jewels.
"What a night," Long Xuan sighed softly. "Under different circumstances, this would be the perfect scene for sailing, drinking wine, and gazing at the heavens. Instead, we're out to kill and plunder—what a waste of beauty."
"Dark nights are for killing, and high winds for setting fires," Fang Han replied dryly. "Such brilliance doesn't suit murder—but this isn't murder. We're cleansing evil."
"Here," Yan's voice cut in sharply. "Ahead."
Fang Han's qi focused in his eyes, sharpening his vision. In the distance, he saw a long, twisting gorge cutting through the sea, shrouded in thick black mist. The cliffs around it were jagged, the tides treacherous—like a natural maze of death.
"This canyon reeks of killing intent," Long Xuan whispered, breath catching.
"The Dead Island Lord hides here," Fang Han said. "We must tread carefully." Without hesitation, he, Long Xuan, and the Witch descended into the gorge.
But just as they entered, a group of seven or eight cultivators appeared in the sky. They wore purple-gold robes embroidered with the Taiji Bagua, each shimmering faintly with spiritual energy.
Most of them flew not with their own power, but with magic tools—proof that they hadn't yet stepped into the Divine Ability Realm.
Had Long Xuan been closer, she would've recognized the robes instantly. They belonged to none other than the disciples of Taiyi Sect—the foremost sect of the entire Immortal Dao.
"Senior Brother Zhang!" one of them shouted excitedly. "Is this the Ghost Gorge? The lair of the Dead Island Lord—the thirty-eighth of the Forty Sea Bandits? If so, then we've struck gold! Imagine the merit—our names will shine on the sect's board of honor! We could exchange that for countless pills and treasures!"