It was practically bullying an elderly person.
Left hand, right hand, a slow-motion move—then one big slap after another, followed by an elbow to the chest. Catching his breath, he launched into a set of Federation electric cannons followed by an Empire great swing! The Wing Chun he had learned from Ye Xian, the military boxing he had learned from Lu Feng... all the moves he had learned and seen in his life came effortlessly to Ji Jue's hands, seamlessly combined and executed with flowing like clouds and water, honed to perfection.
Such a thoroughly satisfying contest of low-quality violence was just too much fun.
Especially when the other side had no way to fight back...
It couldn't be helped. Tragic Work couldn't be blamed. If Tragic Work itself had been fighting Ji Jue, it could have crushed him like trash and burned him to ashes in minutes, without the slightest suspense. But Tragic Work had been dead for who knew how long.
And a Proof of Tragic Work like this, a testament of apocalypse meant to be written into reality, was never meant for this!
It was like jamming a stun baton into a supercomputer, smashing a crown with a hammer, or scratching a car's paint with nail clippers... What Ji Jue was doing was precisely this sort of desecration and waste. Without the slightest regret!
By all rights, none of this should have been possible. Forget probability—there was not even a chance buried a thousand, ten thousand decimal places deep! The gap between Celestials and primal stones was absolute. The gap between Transcendence and sages was separated by who knew how many barriers and abysses. But Tragic Work had brought this upon itself!
Ji Jue was now immersed in the evolution of the apocalypse, within cycle after cycle,