Mystic Cultivator Rise of the Superworld

hunt down

Substitution technique.

The moment Celestian saw the empty corpse, that term flashed across his mind like lightning. In this world, besides Western mutants, enhanced humans, and superheroes, there were also the Vatican’s secret orders, Japan’s shinobi arts, the martial systems of Greater China… it was a crowded ecosystem.

To the public, Yashida Jiro had always been the stereotype of a useless playboy—constantly in and out of bars and nightclubs, always draped with two or three American women. No one would’ve guessed he could hide this deeply.

Then again, it might have everything to do with the power struggle inside the Nichisei-kai. Their publicly recognized successor was Yashida Gen’s eldest son, Yashida Ichiro. If Jiro didn’t pretend to be useless, his older brother—who’d always had a grudge against him—would never have tolerated his existence.

Regardless, dead men told no tales. And no one on the Chinese side would ever say, “We killed your second son, but weirdly, he didn’t die.” That sort of embarrassment simply didn’t happen.

Just as Celestian let out a quiet breath and prepared to withdraw, two figures suddenly dove into a car and sped toward the exit of the docks. From atop the stacked containers, Celestian saw them clearly: the ones giving chase were two people he knew better than anyone—Sihai Society’s boss Zhang Xiaotian, and the man driving was Qin Ming, the brother who’d grown up with Celestian in the orphanage.

Celestian’s brow tightened. He glanced at the gang members still cleaning up the scene, then slipped down the containers without a sound, pursuing the direction their car had taken.

The black sedan ahead was fast, and Qin Ming pushed their engine even harder. This stretch along the coast was already on the outskirts of L.A.—nothing like the nightlife up north. Sparse houses, empty streets, cold ocean wind.

After about fifteen minutes of reckless acceleration, they finally caught up. Without hesitation, Qin Ming rammed their car straight into the sedan, metal slamming against metal with a deafening crash. Both vehicles veered off-course and smashed into two large roadside trees.

No one inside those cars was ordinary; all were out in the next heartbeat. Three figures burst from Jiro’s vehicle: Yashida Jiro in a white shinobi suit, blade and kunai in hand; Elektra in her red outfit, her twin sais gleaming under the rising flames; and Bullseye in his black coat, half-hidden in the shadows, silent as stone.

They spread out subtly. Jiro positioned to the left of his car, guarded not only against Zhang Xiaotian and Qin Ming but also—warily—against Bullseye and Elektra. No one trusted anyone here.

Elektra’s sais twirled once in her hands. The fiery glow from the burning wreckage cast her and Jiro in harsh, shifting light. Behind them, Bullseye simply watched, expression unreadable, like none of this involved him.

This wasn’t a movie. No one wasted breath on warnings or speeches. Zhang Xiaotian and Qin Ming exchanged a single look, then charged. Their job was to stall. The real heavy hitters of the Sihai would arrive soon.

The fight ignited instantly.

Zhang Xiaotian took on Elektra head-on. His hardened-palm technique carried a gritty stone-like force, letting him clash directly against her sais without flinching. Metal rang sharply again and again. Her weapons tapped along his torso and arms, precise and rapid—but all she managed were shallow marks. Beneath that toughened body was also a high-tech defensive suit, absorbing most of her precision strikes. Her movements were a blur, but breaking through his defenses was easier said than done. And every time she mistimed a dodge, his sweeping palm strikes cut the air with a sound that promised broken bones.

They fought fiercely, but neither had unleashed their true killing skills. Both knew: once they committed fully, the result would be catastrophic.

On the other side, Qin Ming wielded a long, extendable steel staff—sometimes a rod, sometimes a spear. The tip glinted with firelight: a half-moon spike forged from dense alloy. One thrust would open a hole straight through flesh and bone.

Jiro’s white-clad form flickered unpredictably, blade slicing through air with deadly arcs.

A crisp clang rang out as Qin Ming intercepted Jiro’s s***h. He counter-thrust immediately, staff-spear shooting toward Jiro’s chest—fast, accurate, lethal.

The weapon hit.

Or rather—it hit something.

Because Jiro dissolved into smoke, vanishing before the strike landed.

“Not good.” The hairs rose at the back of Qin Ming’s neck. A deathly chill swept behind him. He instinctively whipped the staff backward.

Another clang. Jiro’s blade smashed against the staff behind Qin Ming’s skull. Before Jiro could follow up, Qin Ming rolled forward, barely dodging a decapitating horizontal s***h.

Heart pounding, he turned. Jiro now stood in the flames’ reflection, white robes appearing ghostlike—alive, whole, and terrifyingly calm.

The man had hidden far too well. No one had known his real level.

Qin Ming squared up, blocking Jiro’s path. Jiro’s lips curled into a thin smile, eerie in the flickering light. Then he lunged again.

If this were a straight fight, Jiro wasn’t necessarily stronger than Qin Ming. But with those uncanny ninjutsu techniques—appearing from impossible angles, turning feints into kill-shots—Qin Ming was quickly overwhelmed. In just two or three minutes, cuts were already forming across his arms and torso.

Zhang Xiaotian wasn’t faring better. After adjusting to his rhythm, Elektra finally found a pattern—her sais striking repeatedly at the vulnerable spot between his shoulder blades. Her footwork blurred. The constant needle-point strikes made Zhang Xiaotian feel burning pain with every impact. His hardened body art kept her from stabbing through him—but he was being forced down, slowly and steadily.

From the shadows, Celestian watched, eyes fixed not on the chaotic battle, but on Bullseye. If Bullseye moved, Zhang Xiaotian and Qin Ming wouldn’t stand a chance. Celestian hesitated, debating whether he should strike early.

He didn’t get the chance.

The problem erupted first on Qin Ming’s side.

Jiro’s blade flashed toward Qin Ming’s throat. Normally Qin Ming’s staff could parry it—but at the critical moment, something slowed him. The blade’s thin gleam sliced straight toward his neck.

Qin Ming didn’t hesitate. He dropped all defense, abandoning his own safety. His staff-spear shot downward and forward, straight toward Jiro’s heart—trading injury for injury, life for life, without blinking.

If that were all, Jiro could still have handled it.

But he felt it—the killing intent behind him, cold as a blade of ice. If he insisted on killing Qin Ming, he would not escape that strike behind him.

At the last instant, Jiro shifted. His blade tore a deep gash across Qin Ming’s shoulder—but Jiro himself blurred into white smoke again, disappearing.

In Qin Ming’s place, a new figure materialized—a man in all black, wearing a Sun Wukong mask over his face.