Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Malevolent Phoenix

The punitive fleet formed by the united powers advancing southward outnumbered the Starhan fleet. A portion was engaged by Huo Yuanjia and Geng Liangchen. Several ironclads, attempting a surprise attack, happened to collide with Lan Yi’s northbound route. Now the situation was truly lively.

These ironclads were under the command of the French. As with most coalition battles, when ravaging the feeble sandbag of the Qing court, it was an easy, breezy affair—everyone got along, gleefully making fortunes on Starhan land, shelling cities to display their martial prowess. In times of success, they were brotherly and courteous; in adversity, they blamed each other, starting from the ancestors and expanding the familial radius, their greetings to one another’s female relatives filled with inventive lewdness, thoroughly exploring the reproductive isolation between humans and beasts.

The French also had a concession in Pu Hai. The privileged residents there had been brutalized by yellow-skinned rabble, and a message of plea emerged, sent by a freshly widowed journalist. Whether to protect their citizens’ lives and property, or simply to grab the spoils for themselves, the French opted to slip away after a round of shelling and extortion. They called it “a romantic gift from the iris.”

The party strategists had not anticipated that the French among the powers would be so uninhibited—indeed, the grand maneuvers lured out several ironclads, which barreled straight into the fray. They stealthily bypassed the battle zone, acting with lightning speed, so swift that Lan Yi, barely aboard and entering the Yellow Sea, encountered them immediately.

Ah? What a surprise!

This was the first thought in both command centers upon sighting each other. On Lan Yi’s side, there was no need for much discussion: with an immortal master aboard, a few ironclads—or even dozens—would be no match. The legendary feats of Immortal Master Lan Yi, who single-handedly annihilated warships on the Yangtze, were well known.

The French, unaware of what they were about to face, rejoiced at seeing a lone ironclad heading north; it was a gift-wrapped military achievement—intercepting or capturing it would sever the Starhan fleet’s retreat.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Whether their shots could hit or not, these French whites, fresh out of the infamous Eight Hutongs of Yanjing, fired their cannons with the glee of tormenting the weak. From their experience, the Starhan army, upon hearing cannon fire, would scatter by a third; a volley of rifles would break another third; those left, bayonets in hand, would charge bravely, but few could retaliate.

Naval battles were much the same. Starhan’s ironclads were outdated—once shelled, they lost all composure. A barrage of cannon fire sent columns of water erupting skyward; the French, like wolves hunting a lamb, surged forward at full speed, cutting through the waves and encircling their prey.

Onboard, the warriors and soldiers managed to remain calm. Yet the thunderous water columns and acrid, choking smoke carried by the shattered spray unnerved the observers, many of whom were affluent or noble, unaccustomed to such proximity to battle and death.

“Mother, what are they afraid of?” asked Skoty, her smile sweet and innocent.

“It’s natural for lambs to fear wolves,” Filia gently wiped her daughter’s face.

“But they’re so silly, there’s nothing to fear,” Skoty blushed, shy and adoring. “They may be wolves, but my dear is a dragon! Dragons are picky—they like the tastiest things!”

The dragon had come out to hunt.

At some point, the chaos on deck quietly subsided. The warriors, tall and upright, lined up like cypress trees amidst the rocking ship, single-handedly clearing a path through the panicked crowd.

Lan Yi strode calmly along this path.

Tall and robust, his white hair danced wildly, his colorless eyes shining even under the sunlight.

Liu Baiyuan, accompanying him, was oblivious to the scene behind. His face stung from the smoke and spray, eyes blazing, gripping his treasured bow as he glared at the distant French ships. He wished he could shoot them dead—the damned foreigners! Shelling from the north wiped out entire villages, leaving nothing behind!

He yearned to drink their blood, eat their flesh, sleep in their skins!

Just as Liu Baiyuan’s fury threatened to erupt, a hand, pure as jade, rested on his shoulder.

His rage extinguished instantly, every hair on his body standing on end. Though unable to see, as a master cultivator, he sensed a bloody maw exhaling hot breath beside his ear, its voice serene and tranquil:

“Draw your bow only when you’ve mastered the spirit. Now…”

“Watch me.”

“And watch the heavens!”

Roar!

A piercing, shrill cry drowned the sound of cannonballs scraping skulls and hulls—a ferocious human wail, thunderous and wild! Up soared a scaled beast, visible only to mortal eyes—a thunder-bathed, mythic figure!

He regarded the whale as mere bait and hunted dragons as serpents. He battled the giant roc by the ocean’s edge, stirring the sky, wind and thunder raging!

Rising to the heavens was a formidable phoenix.

The “Dragon Sparrow Devouring Whale Diagram” and “Magnetic Star Technique” intertwined, conjuring a heartscape as if myth had descended and legend revived!

Not only heartscape, but also Daoist arts and a torrent of spiritual energy unleashed.

A spirit-cultivating warrior whose heartscape was fire could summon oil and thunder powder, blending illusion and reality, blasting enemies away. Lan Yi mastered such means—his thunder feather mantle, radiating through the void, now summoned a hundred-meter heartscape to hunt, like a whale’s predator.

“Twenty thousand meters, spiritual energy covers nodes in twenty bursts, strong magnetic field launches directly.”

“Five seconds.”

“Physical damage should be within acceptable limits.”

His thoughts raced, martial arts techniques advancing with visible speed, easily traversing the stages of Qi cultivation, advanced Qi, self-realm, and human-realm.

Before his rebirth, Lan Yi’s martial path was not these two arts, but his talent had been honed to terrifying heights.

Next, the thunder-feathered phoenix soared, topped by the “Azure Glory” halo, beating its wings with all its might in full view.

One beat, one instant.

One breath, and it shot ten thousand meters!

The French command was in uproar—they never imagined a mythical monster would suddenly emerge, closing in overhead within seconds! Above their warships, even the sunlight was momentarily eclipsed by thunder!

“Fire! Fire!”

“Fire at the sky!”

“Stop it!!”

The French screamed, their orders tinged with despair, as the thunder pool crashed down.