Chapter 94: Spirit

Wei Xun's arm had been twisted beyond repair—not only were the bones and flesh destroyed, but the tendons and nerves were torn apart one by one. Unless treated by a Legend Realm Healer, even if mended, his arm would be nothing but dead weight, incapable of lifting anything or defending himself.

Useless. Even Wei Xun knew he was a cripple now.

Losing his arm meant his strength would be drastically reduced, and in this apocalyptic world, survival without power was a death sentence. It was like a tiger losing its claws—without the tools to kill, it would inevitably be consumed by the merciless forces of nature.

Just when despair had set in, Chen Feng spoke, declaring that he would reforge Wei Xun's arm!

"What? Is that even possible?"

Wei Xun's eyes widened in disbelief, staring at Chen Feng as if witnessing something otherworldly. The very idea seemed impossible.

Chen Feng nodded, his face growing darker. "It's possible. But you need to understand the price. The process will involve unspeakable pain, pain that could tear your mind apart. If you can't endure it, your very mind might shatter, leaving you an empty husk. Worse, the agony could kill you."

Seeing the flicker of dread cross Wei Xun's face, Chen Feng's voice turned colder. "The choice is yours. Stay as you are—a crippled man with your life intact. Or risk everything, knowing the pain could break you."

Wei Xun stared back into Chen Feng's unyielding gaze, the silence between them thick with the weight of his decision. His jaw clenched, and after a long pause, he spat out the words:

"I'll take the gamble. I thought my strength made me invincible, but today showed me how wrong I was. I won't live like this—helpless, humiliated. I'll take the risk, no matter the cost!"

His voice carried a savage determination, the desperation of a man who had once been ruthless enough to betray his own to survive.

Chen Feng remained unmoved, his expression a cold mask.

The decision to heal Wei Xun wasn't one of mercy, but of necessity. Keeping him whole was useful. But more than that, Chen Feng wanted the warriors watching to see—he could grant them strength or take it away. He was not just a protector; he was a god of life and death in this bleak world.

Profit.

It drove everyone's desires.

With a deep, commanding voice, Chen Feng finally spoke, "Good! You reject mediocrity, so I'll give you the chance to defy your fate!"

As soon as the words left his mouth, Chen Feng reached down and seized Yang Zheng's corpse, hoisting it high above his head. He bellowed, "Sacrifice!"

At his command, a rift split the air beside him, a dark and violent vortex of energy swirling like a miniature hurricane, drawing in all surrounding light. The very air seemed to tremble with the sheer force of it.

Slowly, the rift advanced toward Yang Zheng's lifeless body. As it neared, the corpse began to quake violently. Then, in one horrifying instant, it was sucked inside, shredded apart piece by piece. Blood, bone, and sinew were obliterated, vanishing into the dark maw of the rift.

For a moment, the beastly shadow that had loomed over Yang Zheng in his final moments reappeared. But now, it was different—a twisted wail tore from its mouth, a sound like the anguished cries of the damned, echoing through the desolate space. The shadow thrashed violently, unwilling to go quietly into the void.

Unborn, Undying!

This creature of darkness, birthed from Yang Zheng's twisted soul, refused to perish alongside its master.

In mere moments, Yang Zheng's body was reduced to a steaming pool of blood and liquefied flesh. The creature he had summoned hung in the air, wailing its final lament. But it was not alone. As the rift consumed the last vestiges of Yang Zheng, a small, glowing figure emerged from within the bloodied remains.

The figure was strange—vaguely human-shaped, its skin luminescent like pale moonlight, with wings as thin and fragile as a cicada's. Though it appeared female, its features were obscured, blurred beyond recognition, as if it existed between reality and illusion.

Chen Feng's eyes narrowed, instantly recognizing its nature.

"Hmm? Yang Zheng, you fancied yourself untouchable, yet you failed to realize someone had marked you with a soul imprint. How pathetic," he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt.

The tiny figure trembled, emitting faint pulses of spiritual energy—a remnant of someone else's influence, a trace left by a far more cunning individual. Some Professional, perhaps, had used this spirit as a tool to keep tabs on Yang Zheng, monitoring his strength, watching his every move. Yang Zheng, in his arrogance, had never suspected he was being manipulated from the shadows.

A strange ability indeed!

The abilities of Professionals were as varied and unpredictable as the abyss itself. Some commanded shadows, some could control the flow of blood, and others could reshape their bodies into the most bizarre forms. In this chaotic world, no power was beyond belief.

Swoosh, swoosh...

The tiny figure, sensing Chen Feng's awareness, panicked. Its delicate wings fluttered frantically as it attempted to flee, the glow of its body fading in and out as it darted toward the dark recesses of the room.

"Where do you think you're going?" Chen Feng growled, his voice as cold as death. "I don't know who you are, but the soul energy within this body is powerful. Refining you will ensure Wei Xun's rebirth. You won't escape—you'll serve your purpose as well, whether you like it or not."

His gaze locked onto the fleeing spirit, a predatory gleam in his eyes. There would be no escape. This was a battlefield where even the remnants of the soul could not find refuge. The spirit had nowhere to hide, its fate sealed like all the others.

Originally, Chen Feng estimated a mere 70% chance of success in reforging Wei Xun's arm. The process was brutal, the agony unimaginable, and even the slightest falter in Wei Xun's resolve could leave him a soulless husk—a living corpse. But now, with the unexpected discovery of the spirit brimming with raw energy, the odds had shifted in Chen Feng's favor. Refining it would eliminate all risk, ensuring the procedure's success.

As Chen Feng let loose his roar, the rift behind him swelled, lashing out toward the elusive spirit. The moment it made contact, the spirit was sucked inside, its once-proud form shredded to nothingness.

Annihilation.

In a heartbeat, the spirit was torn apart, its very essence ripped into pure energy before vanishing from existence.

"Aaah…!!"

A shriek echoed—a sharp, agonized cry, unmistakably feminine. Guilt? That was irrelevant. In this world, the weak had no choices, no mercy. Only the strong dictated the rules.

Chen Feng's gaze hardened, turning toward Wei Xun as the rift shifted, its swirling vortex descending upon him like a monstrous maw.

The air grew thick with tension as the vortex enveloped Wei Xun's ruined arm. Flesh and bone were torn apart in an instant, flung into the vortex like shattered remnants of a broken doll.

"AHHH!"

Wei Xun's scream ripped through the air, a sound so agonizing it sent chills down the spine. It was more than just pain—it was the cry of a soul being torn apart, the very essence of suffering made manifest. His eyes bulged as he watched his own arm disintegrate into a crimson mist, the flesh peeling away layer by layer until nothing remained but a gory stump.

But the nightmare wasn't over.

Within the dark, swirling maw of the vortex, the remains of Wei Xun's arm began to merge with Yang Zheng's obliterated flesh and blood. Piece by piece, sinew by sinew, the two became one, fusing together in grotesque harmony.

Suddenly—without warning!

A cloud of blood erupted from the vortex, clinging to Wei Xun's shoulder like a parasite. The mist seeped into his body, pulsing with unnatural energy, sending waves of dark, twisted power rippling outward. His muscles began to regrow, sinews stretching and bones reforming as the new arm took shape—an arm far stronger, far more monstrous than before.

Fusion.

Wei Xun's body trembled violently, his skin rippling as if something unnatural writhed beneath it. The new arm, a creation of death and sacrifice, was not his—it belonged to the dead, to the fallen Yang Zheng. And now, it was becoming part of him.