The job change is a bizarre and calamity; the nation begs me to tone it down.

as predicted.

Before Wang Cang could finish speaking, three extremely sharp auras, like three unsheathed blades, tore through layers of darkness in the distant night sky and rapidly approached this direction.

high speed.

As it approached the sea surface, the air currents stirred up three white trails, like three zippers stretching from afar to close up.

Wang Cang squinted for two seconds, then his lips twitched.

Because he recognized him.

That scent was so familiar.

He knew them so well that he didn't even need to look at them; he could recognize them just by their scent.

The next second, three figures suddenly stopped and hovered in mid-air about two hundred meters in front of them.

three people.

The one in the lead, of course, needs no further explanation.

Yamamoto Furukawa.

The leader of the eight major groups in the Sakura Country.

The most veteran demigod among veteran demigods.

In terms of seniority, he and Wang Cang belong to the same generation.

They've faced off so many times they can't even count them on two hands.

In the words of modern young people—old rivals, old adversaries, old enemies.

To the left of Yamamoto Furukawa stood a man.

To be precise, there was a very pale-skinned man standing there.

That kind of whiteness wasn't the whiteness of a normal person; it was closer to the whiteness of a corpse that had been soaked in formaldehyde for three days.

It was lifeless, devoid of any color.

His black Western-style suit made him look like a funeral home worker's uniform.

Judging by his appearance alone, he is renowned even in the demigod community.

Because this person's name is Yuta Hima.

The event that made him famous was when he snatched a mythical item from a high-dimensional secret realm—the Kyoto Great Barrier.

And to the right of Yamamoto Furukawa—is a woman.

Her long hair was loose, and the graceful arc of it swaying in the sea breeze looked as if it had been carefully designed.

She was dressed in a dark red kimono, wearing wooden clogs, and carrying a red katana.

But what's most striking isn't her outfit, but the mask she's wearing.

Ghost face.

It was an extremely exquisite white ghost mask, with a strange beauty between its eyebrows and eyes that was somewhere between ferocious and alluring.

Behind the mask, only a pair of dark eyes could be seen.

Quietly gazing ahead.

Asaya Sakura.

In the global demigod community, these three names carry weight no less than Yamamoto Furukawa's, and in some aspects, they are even more feared than Yamamoto Furukawa.

The reason is simple—she's too young.

She and another demigod from Yamamoto Furukawa, Miyamoto Kenichi, were known as the two great geniuses of the Sakura Kingdom.

It's only been a few decades since I changed jobs.

He has already reached the position of a demigod.

This growth rate is the highest on a global scale.

It's important to understand that most demigods spend their entire lives just getting to this level.

Some have even endured for hundreds of years.

For her and Miyamoto Kenichi, a few decades would be enough.

The word "genius" seems somewhat inadequate when applied to them.

Of course, all of the above information is publicly available.

What Wang Cang didn't know was that Miyamoto Kenichi was no longer a demigod.

That guy has already crossed that door.

Become a Source-level being!

However, very few people know about this at present.

In fact, it could be said that there was only one person, and that was Yamamoto Furukawa.

Wang Cang didn't know, Ge Lao didn't know, and Tang Yi didn't know.

Not to mention the intelligence system of the General Staff.

So, Wang Cang, standing above the sea, looked at the three demigods from the Sakura Kingdom opposite him and his assessment was—it's a bit troublesome, but not enough to make him back down.

The only thing that truly caught his eye was Asakura.

As for the other two?

Yamamoto and Furukawa are old acquaintances; the truth or falsehood is just that—truth.

Yuta Hima is a rising star; he has some talent but is still a bit green.

What Wang Cang found truly interesting was this woman wearing a ghost mask.

Seeing this, Wang Cang pulled the pipe out of his mouth and gestured with his chin toward the person opposite him.

"Whoa!"

"Oh my gosh—isn't that Yamamoto?!"

Wang Cang's tone was as friendly as if he'd bumped into his neighbor at the market: "Goodness, all sorts of people have come!"

As he spoke, he tilted his head and looked Yamamoto Furukawa up and down: "What wind blew up today? Did it bring you out here, you old bastard?"

Yamamoto Furukawa's expression changed upon hearing the words "old bastard."

It twitched very clearly.

But he's a seasoned veteran after all.

He took a deep breath, suppressed his anger, and was about to say a few polite words.

As a result, Wang Cang didn't give him a chance to speak at all.

The old man's attention had shifted from Yamamoto Furukawa's overall appearance to the details of his face.

Then, Wang Cang's expression became exceptionally interesting.

"Wait a minute—Yamamoto?"

The old man squinted, leaned forward, and his half-closed eyes, shrouded in smoke, scanned Yamamoto Furukawa's face several times: "What happened to your face?"

"Why is it so swollen, like a pig's head?"

That's a very skillful question.

Because Yamamoto Furukawa's face did look a bit off.

At first glance, it doesn't seem like anything special.

But upon closer inspection—the cheeks are slightly swollen.

It wasn't the kind of swelling you get from a cold or fever; it was more like the swelling from being punched in the gut. Even though advanced healing techniques had repaired most of it, the subtle misalignment deep within the bones hadn't fully returned to its original position.

For ordinary people, this level of injury is completely invisible.

But Wang Cang is a half-step Origin level cultivator.

To someone with his level of perception, the remaining injuries on Yamamoto Furukawa's face were no different from a note stuck to his forehead that said "I got beaten up."

Wang Cang found it increasingly amusing, his lips curling into a wider smile: "Who beat you up? Did you do something wrong at home and your wife discipline you?"

The moment those words were spoken, the atmosphere over the sea became subtly tense.

Yamamoto Furukawa's expression became incredibly interesting in an instant.

That brilliance didn't come from anger.

It was because of humiliation.

If Wang Cang knew who had slapped him in the face, he probably wouldn't just be gloating—he'd probably laugh himself to death.

Because the person who beat him up was the "little guy" Wang Cang was talking about.

Gu Xu.

Yamamoto Furukawa clenched his back teeth tightly.

That feeling of humiliation was like a red-hot iron, burning from my stomach all the way to my throat.

But he didn't utter a single word.

It wasn't that he was being stubborn; he was just too ashamed to say it.

Just as Yamamoto Furukawa was mentally cursing Gu Xu's ancestors for eighteen generations—

A voice came from beside him.

It was very light and gentle, with a kind of polite tone unique to Japan, but what was hidden beneath this polite tone was anything but polite.

"This has nothing to do with you."

It was Asaba Sakura who spoke.

She stood to the right of Yamamoto Furukawa, the red katana in her hand gleaming coldly in the moonlight. The pair of dark eyes behind the demon mask swept over Wang Cang, then over Ge Lao and Tang Yi, before returning to Wang Cang's face.

"Rather than caring about other people's faces, you Sherlock Holmes—"

"Let's think carefully about how to survive this high-dimensional secret realm."