Chapter Seventy-Four: The Ancient Battle (VI)

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Moving the Seas.

This was a technique invented by the white-haired elder himself.

Once performed, it could draw the waters of rivers and lakes from afar, gathering them in midair to be used at his will.

The power of this technique was unfathomable, and its range could be adjusted at will. At its greatest, it could unleash floods and monstrous waves in an instant, submerging villages and cities beneath a rolling tide. At its smallest, it could form a watery prison to trap enemies, serving both as a means of defense and offense.

Most importantly,

Both the overwhelming and the subtle aspects of this technique could be displayed simultaneously.

Yet for this reason, only those with exceptional talent and tireless dedication could master it.

Hundreds of years ago, when Fang Zhuowei walked the world in the guise of an anonymous old sage, he preached that all things could pursue the path of enlightenment. Strictly speaking, however, what he imparted was merely a broad concept and scope, not specific methods of manifestation.

Therefore, the ancient ape clan had, in practice, only two ways to concretely wield the power of the Way:

The first was to adapt ordinary martial arts techniques—those passed down over dozens of generations—to be powered by the energy of the Way.

The second was to create techniques anew.

Compared to the first, the second path was fraught with uncertainty and the unknown, but also brimming with creativity and possibility.

If one were to rank them, Fang Zhuowei believed that this Sea-Moving technique created by the white-haired elder would certainly be among the top five self-invented arts of the ancient apes.

In terms of both power and sensory impression, it stood as a paragon among original techniques.

“To move all the seas of the world and overwhelm the nine continents—what a secret art this Sea-Moving truly is,” Fang Zhuowei praised sincerely outside the miniature world in the fish tank.

Leaving aside other aspects, the fact that the elder had created such a technique on his own was already something Fang Zhuowei had to admit he could not match.

Though he was a preacher of the Way, in terms of talent and aptitude, he fell far behind these seemingly insignificant lives he had created.

“I may not be able to invent a technique as astonishing as Moving the Seas, but I can learn it,” Fang Zhuowei thought, his eyes blazing as he studied the white-haired elder intently.

In his view, this Sea-Moving technique was akin to a combination of water-parting arts and the power of a master of magnetism—a textbook example both in visual spectacle and sheer might.

If he could master it, his own repertoire would ascend to a new level.

Most importantly, the technique involved water. If he learned it, he would possess both aquatic and terrestrial capabilities. It would be no trouble at all to catch a wild carp or grass carp from the river for a meal, which was a delightful prospect.

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At the very least, it would be both economical and nutritious. If necessary, he could even sell his catch; after all, in China, the price of truly wild-caught fish had always remained high.

Take, for instance, a wild carp weighing three jin at the supermarket—without several hundred yuan, it would be impossible to buy.

Yet,

Even as their creator, he was not omniscient—he could not simply glance at his creations and know all there was to know about them.

At this stage, he could only grasp the broad strokes, never the full detail.

This was the peculiarity of life.

From the moment life is born, its uniqueness is manifest—an individuality that cannot be replicated, inherent to each species.

“It seems that if I truly wish to learn the Sea-Moving secret art, I must protect this white-haired elder if need be,” Fang Zhuowei mused.

From the standpoint of the creator, he did not believe that the white-haired elder, the handsome youth, and their companions could truly hold off the spore creatures.

Perhaps they could fend off the ordinary pale spore monsters, but against those few sphinxes that had undergone dual evolution—especially the Sphinx King—they would be woefully outmatched.

In terms of cultivation or realm, he was far inferior to the white-haired elder; not only he, but even the handsome youth and the beautiful woman could not compare.

Yet, as creator, he held absolute authority over his world and its inhabitants. No matter how powerful the denizens of his small world became—even if they could contend with atomic bombs in the real world—if he willed them to die at midnight, they could not survive until dawn.

This was the exclusive privilege of the creator; it was his ultimate authority.

Reining in his thoughts, Fang Zhuowei continued to observe the Black Earth Continent.

Though he felt the white-haired elder’s group stood little chance of stopping the spore monsters’ onslaught, the battlefield was ever-changing, and only events themselves could reveal the outcome.

Before the ancient and magnificent capital city of Zhongli,

Streams of water surged in from all directions—from brooks, lakes, and rivers—like unbroken dragons flowing, drawn by a mysterious force, gathering in the sky above.

Amid them, a cluster of droplets separated, enveloping the monster attacking the handsome youth, a beast covered with sparse black hair, trapping it tightly to the side.

“Young Master Ya, if not now, when?” the white-haired elder called out at once.

The black-haired monster’s strength surpassed his expectations. Had his own cultivation not recently improved, he might not have been able to contain it.

“Die.”

The handsome youth pressed his lips together, grasped his black spear, and as the elder’s words fell, surged his energy forward, thrusting the weapon savagely into the monster’s chest.

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A wet, sickening sound echoed.

In an instant,

A fountain of pitch-black blood gushed from the monster’s chest.

Yet, even so, the creature did not perish immediately—it continued to snarl and howl furiously at the handsome youth.

“What tenacious vitality,” the youth remarked, somewhat surprised.

Drawing a deep breath, he summoned his strength and charged again, this time targeting the creature’s head.

A cracking sound rang out—

His wooden weapon, stained with the monster’s blood—

Just moments before—

Atop the city wall, the white-haired elder stood drenched in blood, his face ashen, his left arm gone.

By now, he had expended every ounce of strength. His energy was utterly depleted; he could not muster the slightest force. His body was on the verge of collapse, as if a single breeze would shatter him to pieces.

“You foul beasts—where do you come from? Why must you bring such calamity upon the ancient apes?” the elder cried out, his voice filled with anguish, his eyes bloodshot.

Not far away, the bodies of the handsome youth and the beautiful woman lay dismembered.

A guttural roar resounded—

All the pale spore creatures recoiled at once, moving in perfect unison to either side.

As the ordinary pale monsters blocking the city gate withdrew, several enormous figures with ancient wings slowly advanced before the elder. Most prominent among them was a being almost entirely covered in black fur, whose eyes were no longer deathly pale, but glowed with piercing crimson.

These were none other than the spore entities that had achieved their second evolution.

“You… You are the King!” the white-haired elder gasped, his eyes wide, his remaining arm trembling as he pointed at the foremost giant, his face a mask of shock and disbelief.