Volume One: All Things Revive, Four Seasons Eternal Spring Chapter Fourteen: A Fist Subdues the Murong Clan’s Divine Core, Po Wang Takes Action

“Good evening, Headmaster. I’m Mo Wen, a student from Class 16, Year 20. I couldn’t sleep and went out for some exercise—never expected to disturb you, sir!”

In an instant, Mo Wen transformed into the picture of obedience. Anyone who could approach without making a sound was certainly no ordinary person. He hadn’t anticipated such hidden talents within the academy.

Zhao Changsheng gazed at the gaping hole on the sports ground. He walked over, scooped up a handful of scattered earth, sniffed it, and with a stern face asked in a deep voice, “A disciple of the Buddhist sect?”

Mo Wen hurriedly explained that he’d only acquired some Buddhist internal techniques by chance, but wasn’t a disciple. Zhao Changsheng’s expression softened a little, and he admonished Mo Wen, “You’re not allowed to practice your martial arts inside the academy anymore. If I catch you again, I’ll break your legs!”

Mo Wen nodded fervently. Perhaps satisfied with his attitude, Zhao Changsheng refrained from further reprimand, turned, and left. Mo Wen breathed a sigh of relief.

Though Zhao Changsheng’s aura was unassuming, Mo Wen sensed the truth: this headmaster was likely at the “Piercing Illusion” stage. Facing those of the Divine Pivot stage, Mo Wen could now handle himself with composure, though not without pressure.

Since the public revelation of the evolution, Mo Wen had already encountered three individuals at the Piercing Illusion stage: King Fengdu, the mysterious elder, and Headmaster Zhao Changsheng himself.

Each had a different stance toward him. King Fengdu needed no elaboration—their enmity was a matter of life and death. The mysterious elder hovered between friend and foe. As for Headmaster Zhao Changsheng, it seemed he, too, had a history with the Buddhist sect.

Casting these thoughts aside, Mo Wen quietly left the campus. It was late, so he had no choice but to take a taxi back to the Metropolitan Police Bureau. Conveniently, a cab was waiting at the school gate. Mo Wen climbed into the back seat.

“To the Metropolitan Police Bureau,” he said casually, pulling out his phone and absentmindedly scrolling through social media, thinking that it had been a long time since he’d visited Mother Zhao. Perhaps he should go soon.

“Or, how about coming with me to the Murong family instead?”

The driver’s voice was low and raspy, sending a chill down Mo Wen’s spine.

The Murong family had finally made their move.

The doors locked. Mo Wen summoned his internal energy and struck out with his fist. The back door was blown clean off, and he leapt out.

It seemed the Murong family had prepared for this. Three men blocked his escape, the leader none other than Major General Murong Bo.

“Don’t waste your energy struggling. Come with me,” Murong Bo said, toying with him like a cat with a mouse. He’d had misgivings about confronting Lin Xi inside the bureau, but here, he was confident Mo Wen was at his mercy.

Including the cab driver, all four men’s cultivation was beyond Mo Wen’s ability to gauge—at least at the Divine Pivot stage. Mo Wen was cornered, with no way out but to fight.

“Murong Bo, your brother colluded with fiends and butchered hundreds of our people. Do you really have the gall to seek justice here? Are you worthy of the stars on your shoulder?” Mo Wen’s tone was righteous and indignant as he secretly sought contact with his little black sphere, ready to use his old trick to ensnare Murong Bo again if necessary.

Murong Bo scoffed, watching Mo Wen with amusement. “The Murong family needs no advice from a brat like you. Take him!”

With his command, the three advanced, attacking Mo Wen as one.

Mo Wen had already roused his internal energy. At the right moment, he unleashed his starlit fist technique.

“Fist That Quells Mountains and Rivers!”

He hurled a punch at the elder charging toward him, holding nothing back. His internal energy surged outward like a torrent, catching the elder off guard and slamming into his chest.

A deafening explosion rang out. The elder’s chest blew open a fist-sized hole, flesh and blood obliterated, and through the wound, one could see clear through to the other side. Mo Wen’s punch had pierced the body of a Divine Pivot master!

The elder collapsed on the spot, clutching his wound in disbelief, bloodied spittle spraying from his lips as he gasped, “What kind of fist is this? So domineering…”

His eyes dulled, hands fell away, and he died on the spot.

A Divine Pivot master, dead.

The remaining three froze, shaken and wary. Murong Bo’s heart bled—each Divine Pivot cultivator was a pillar of the family, and losing one was a bitter blow. He moved to attack himself, descending with the force of an avalanche.

“Young Master, be careful! His fist technique is bizarre—don’t underestimate him!”

Mo Wen struck again, meeting Murong Bo head-on, but Murong Bo’s footwork was as light as the wind, dodging the surging energy with ease. The other two joined in, and Mo Wen was quickly beset on all sides, in peril.

With no other choice, Mo Wen braced himself, taking Murong Bo’s palm strike head-on in order to counterattack one of the others. The cab driver, caught off guard, was struck by Mo Wen’s fist—his head shattered, brain and bone scattering across the ground. The second Divine Pivot, dead.

Murong Bo’s eyes widened with rage. “Kill him!”

The last man stopped holding back, his attacks fierce and cold, a suffocating chill rolling off his strikes. In barely a minute, Mo Wen took several blows. The cold energy invaded his body, but his inner energy vaporized it instantly.

But Mo Wen’s internal organs were now severely damaged, his body on the verge of collapse.

Without hesitation, he brought out the black sphere. Brown mist poured forth, enveloping all three men.

The sudden turn made Murong Bo and his ally hesitate in alarm.

“What the hell is this thing?!”

Mo Wen coughed up blood, grinning bitterly. “Murong Bo, let’s die together tonight!”

The black mist contracted violently. One of the Murong men was instantly consumed, reduced to ash. Murong Bo, however, seemed to have some protective artifact and was able to resist, though the mist could not penetrate for now. Mo Wen shielded himself with what little energy he had left as the mist attacked him, hissing like water on hot iron.

Now, it was a contest of endurance between Mo Wen and Murong Bo. Mo Wen’s skin flushed red, his clothes burned away, while Murong Bo fared little better—veins bulging on his forehead, hair and beard gone.

Five minutes passed. Gritting his teeth, Murong Bo pulled out a palm-sized wooden token and shattered it with his energy.

“Grandfather, save me!”

As the token broke, a terrifying presence surged outside the mist. A giant hand descended from the sky, grasping at the mist. The haze was swept away by the wind, the sphere darting back into Mo Wen’s body.

“How dare you! You have the audacity to harm members of the Murong family!”

The furious voice thundered like a great bell. As the mist cleared, the hand reached for both Murong Bo and Mo Wen. Murong Bo, overjoyed, shouted, “Grandfather, Hong was also killed by this man!”

The hand pressed down like Mount Tai. Mo Wen found himself utterly immobilized, the black sphere nowhere to be found. With a tragic smile, he closed his eyes.

Piercing Illusion!

The owner of the hand was surely at that stage—any resistance was futile.

Just as the hand was about to seize Mo Wen, a sword soared from the academy, slicing through the sky and pinning the hand in place.

“Murong Xiuwo, even at your age, your temper remains unchecked. Bullying the young—do you take my academy for a house of cowards?”

The voice was deep and resonant, carrying immense authority. Hope flickered. Mo Wen recognized it: Headmaster Zhao Changsheng!

The hand, pierced by the sword, recoiled and snatched up Murong Bo, vanishing into the sky.

“Zhao Changsheng! You dare interfere in my affairs?” Murong Xiuwo’s voice exploded across the heavens, livid with rage.

“Get lost! This boy is my student—if I don’t intervene, who will? If you won’t leave, I’ll call the principal!”

The voice echoed from the academy. The sword hovered in the air, lifting Mo Wen by his armpit and carrying him through the sky, back toward the academy.

By then, Mo Wen had lost consciousness.

Inside the academy, in a secluded dormitory, Zhao Changsheng adjusted his glasses and felt Mo Wen’s pulse, his brow creased with worry.

The injuries were catastrophic—internal organs displaced, all energy exhausted. He was as close to death as a flickering lamp in the wind.