That slap had struck more than just Fan Ji’s face—it had crushed his pride.4

As a transcendent figure, a Son of Brahma, Fan Ji had never once known humiliation. Yet now, before countless witnesses, he had been slapped—not wounded, not injured, but slapped like a street cur.7

Compared to physical pain, the damage to his dignity was far more excruciating. For someone with an ego of his scale, this was worse than death.2

“LONG CHEN, DIE!”0

All pretenses were gone. Fan Ji no longer cared about their earlier agreement of ten exchanges. With a bellow of rage, his spear surged forward, tearing through the void.2

The power of the thrust was cataclysmic, shattering the space before Fan Ji for miles. The very...0