Li Fan followed the sound. Near the very center of the great whirlpool, where wind and thunder raged in a frenzy, a cultivator stood roaring at the sky. His upper body was bare, his frame slender but packed with the stark, knotted muscles of a man who had tempered his flesh relentlessly.

Countless barely visible cyclones orbited his form. At the heart of each vortex sat a patch of absolute blackness, as if space itself had been torn open.

The brawny man floated within the storm, and miniature tornadoes were born and extinguished with every motion he made.

Even Li Fan, still some distance from the whirlpool's core, felt the biting gale scouring his skin. But the man at the epicenter wore no protection at all. He simply let the raging winds slam against his...