From atop the high platform, Beimingzi saw clearly what the old shaman was doing and gave a cold sneer.
"All that righteous posturing before, yet he turned out to be nothing but a coward afraid of death."
His voice was soft, as though speaking to himself, yet also as though passing judgment upon the man in the sky.
"Now you know fear? Too late."
He raised his head to gaze at the churning thunderstorm, his eyes utterly still.
Thunder roared above his head, lightning flickered in his pupils, yet his hand was steady as he formed a seal, utterly motionless.
After several centuries of roaming the world, this was no more than a minor scene to him.
He saw through the old shaman's cultivation at a glance.
Sacrificing livestock, communing with heaven and earth, summoning thunder.
This was the crudest of methods.
Before the orthodox thunder arts of the Taoist School, it was not even fit to carry their shoes.
When Beimingzi was young, he had dealt with no one knew how many people like this.
Every one of them had been the same—thinking they had reached the Spirit Communion Realm, thinking themselves invincible, thinking no one under heaven could do anything to them.
Then they began their so-called mission of enforcing justice on Heaven's behalf.
And then?
Then a true bolt of heavenly lightning struck them awake, leaving them kneeling on the ground, weeping and begging for mercy.
Today's old shaman was no different beneath the pressure of heavenly lightning.
Beimingzi's gaze was indifferent.
The thunderstorm had accumulated almost enough power.
The old shaman had spent half a lifetime's sacrificial power to summon these dark clouds, summon this thunder, summon the blade that would destroy himself.
And now, Beimingzi only needed to give it the gentlest push.
"Little shaman,