Chapter Eleven: Confronting the Martial Guards, Entering the Grand Hall

Seeing Wang Fan’s expression remain unchanged, Captain Xie Yue of the Special Police—dressed in riot gear, holding a baton in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other—muttered to himself. Could the pass be genuine? Still, he had to confirm.

“Wait a moment. I need to call my superior. The instructions from above were that only one person would be carrying a pass into the Hall of Trials today.” Xie Yue’s face was stern as he addressed Wang Fan.

With that, Xie Yue pulled out his phone, preparing to call Director Zhao Dong for confirmation regarding the pass. As he retrieved his phone from his uniform, he failed to notice that Wang Fan’s gaze had grown chillingly cold, as cold as the dead of winter in the depths of hell.

With the change in his eyes, the Emperor’s Wheel Sea technique and the Devouring Demon Art began to circulate within Wang Fan. The bitter sea in his dantian trembled, its deep blue energy roaring to life, surging waves of essence coursing through his meridians, strengthening his body until he seemed more god or demon than man. An overwhelming aura emanated from him.

The surrounding special police officers, clad in riot gear and clutching shields, suddenly felt a chill seep into their bones. Instinctively, the hair on their bodies bristled, and they shivered involuntarily, uncertain as to the cause of this sudden sense of imminent danger.

It wasn’t just the special police who felt it; even the Zhao family’s bodyguards, each towering over six feet, sensed the threat.

As Xie Yue dialed the director, Wang Fan made his move. He knew that if the captain managed to contact his superior, his forged pass would surely be exposed. He had resolved to act.

His strike was swift and brutal—far faster and heavier than the fastest blows of the world’s greatest heavyweight, Tyson. His fist, clenched tight, shot out in a straight punch, smashing into a riot shield. The shield didn’t shatter, but the shockwave it absorbed surged through to the officer behind it, sending him crashing heavily to the ground.

He had acted!

Many of the special police had been watching Wang Fan closely, wary of any danger he might pose. The moment he struck down their comrade, their gazes shifted, regarding him now as a criminal. Within two seconds, a dozen officers had surrounded Wang Fan, each gripping their shields and batons tightly.

At that moment, Xie Yue hung up the call he had just made. His face darkened as he looked at Wang Fan. “So you are a problem after all. Your pass must be a forgery. You’ve forged a pass and assaulted my men; you’ll have to come with me to the station and explain yourself.” He advanced with his baton gripped tightly.

“I had hoped to avoid trouble and not clash with the authorities, but you’ve forced my hand.” Wang Fan shook his head slightly.

At these words, Xie Yue’s pupils contracted; he realized this young man was also a cultivator.

“Don’t hold back—take him down! He’s a cultivator!” Xie Yue shouted. He felt little pressure in giving this order—after all, their squad had subdued three cultivators at noon today. Cultivators were indeed formidable; in single combat, even elite soldiers were not their match, especially without firearms. But special forces worked as a coordinated unit, and through their precise teamwork, they had managed to suppress all three cultivators earlier and bring them to the station.

Xie Yue was confident that his team would bring Wang Fan down as well. After all, cultivation had only been spreading for three days, and most cultivators’ abilities were similar. He had faith in his unit.

A dozen special police surged forward, wielding batons and shields, intent on subduing Wang Fan. Yet, faced with this assault, Wang Fan did not panic.

Perhaps he could not yet withstand firearms or take on a hundred foes at once, but against a dozen men, he was confident.

With the energy from his bitter sea circulating through him, Wang Fan’s fists were deadlier than any baton, and his body tougher than ever. The rain of baton strikes left him unfazed; he simply focused on attack, neglecting defense altogether.

As a flurry of batons landed on him, Wang Fan’s fists lashed out at two of the officers. His punches landed like sledgehammers, sending both men reeling and crashing to the ground, dazed.

He continued, his fists a blur.

In just seven seconds, he unleashed a barrage of blows, felling every officer around him. Each one was left clutching his stomach and howling in pain on the ground. Wang Fan’s clothes were now tattered from the beating, but beneath the shredded fabric, there were no serious wounds—just minor injuries and scrapes, nothing significant.

“How can you be this strong?” Captain Xie Yue stared wide-eyed in disbelief. He could scarcely comprehend Wang Fan’s overwhelming power. Compared to the three cultivators they had subdued earlier, Wang Fan was in another league entirely—in both strength and physical resilience.

Those three had been taken down with ease, but Wang Fan had dispatched a dozen of his riot police in just seven seconds.

“How could they compare to me?” Wang Fan shook his head. With a single stride, he appeared in front of Xie Yue. As the captain desperately reached for his sidearm, Wang Fan struck him with a knife-hand blow, rendering him unconscious. Then, picking up a discarded riot shield, he positioned himself defensively against the downed officers, anticipating they might try to shoot him.

With the shield in hand, Wang Fan swiftly made his way toward the grand, ancient doors of the Hall of Trials.

His caution was justified. As he took up the shield, several of the wounded officers grimaced, drawing their sidearms to try and stop him. However, seeing that Wang Fan was completely covered by the riot shield, they could only lie there in pain, forced to watch helplessly as he strode into the Hall of Trials.