The final syllable of Frank’s countdown had barely left his lips when reality decided to enforce the basic laws of spark building.
Murong Seven’s roar echoed across the castle parade grounds like the screech of a dying dragon. His eyes burned with blinding violet fury as he swept his six-foot old family thunder blade downward in a majestic, two-handed execution arc.
“Ninefold Sovereign Lightning Slash!” Murong Seven bellowed, channeling every drop of his peak Tier 3 Purple Thunder Sword Bone.
A fifty-foot blade of jagged purple star-fire erupted from the steel, shrieking through the frosty mountain air with the bone-shaking force of an artillery barrage. The flat stone slabs beneath the flight path were instantly scorched black, stone dust turning blazing bright as the blade of lightning hurtled straight toward Frank’s chest. The four sword attendants laughed in savage triumph, already anticipating the sight of the grease-stained tradesman being reduced to smoking charcoal. General Zhao shouted in warning. He drew his ritual broadsword to intercept. He knew that no mortal armor could withstand such packed lightning.
Frank didn’t move. He didn’t raise his claw hammer. He didn’t summon an array barrier. He simply stood behind the heavy iron low roof wall pillar, his hands resting in the deep front pockets of his denim overalls. He watched the approaching star-fire wave with the mild calm distance of a man watching a windshield wiper on a rainy Tuesday.
A sharp neon-amber test window flared in his vision, counting down the split second micro-pulses of the circuit.
The physics were fully merciless. At four hundred and eighty volts and two hundred current units of reactive power, spark current doesn’t care about ancient clan lineages, royal pedigree, or sacred sword techniques. It only cares about one thing: completing the circuit to earth.
Murong Seven reached the total apex of his downward stroke. Then, the massive buildup of spark charge surged through his arms, down his spine, and into his legs, seeking the damp earth beneath the courtyard. It struck his feet. There, the current met the exquisite, thousand-year spider-silk of his stitched slippers—a textile with an insulating pushback rating exceeding fifty billion ohms.
The earth ground was fully blocked. The circuit was wide open. With nowhere else to go, two hundred current units of raw, trapped lightning experienced an instant, total back-EMF flashover!
The current reversed direction in less than a heartbeat, surging backward up his main thigh blood vessels and pooling at the lowest physical point of lowest air flow pushback: his coccyx.
KABOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
It wasn’t a sword strike. It was a nearby bone-shaking blast that sounded like a brass cannon firing inside a small closet. A blinding sphere of purple star-fire exploded directly outward from the seat of Murong Seven’s five-thousand-gold royal silk breeches!
The entire rear half of his lavish clothes—the royal silk, the gold-leaf embroidery, the silk undergarments, and the braided sword cords—was fully and in a heartbeat atomized into a fragrant cloud of purple ozone and charred thread! The sheer physical recoil of the spark blast was amazing. Under the violent kickback of five thousand foot-pounds of expanding star-fire, Murong Seven was launched backward through the air like an unguided rocket.
“GYAAAAAAAAAAAH!”
His shriek climbed three octaves into a high-pitched soprano wail as he cartwheeled upside down fifty feet across the courtyard muster grounds! His six-foot thunder blade slipped from his numbed fingers, spinning through the air and burying itself handle-deep in a heavy oak weapons rack.
At the far end of the courtyard, Niu Mang was standing beside a large, two-wheeled wooden wheelbarrow. Having spent the early morning clearing the guard post stables for extra scrap credit, Niu Mang had loaded the barrow to the brim with three hundred pounds of dark, ripe, heavily fermented mountain cow manure.
Murong Seven’s flight path was exactly spotless.
SPLAT-CHUUUUNK!
The Seventh Young Master of the Sovereign Sword Pavilion plunged head-first, shoulders-first, and chest-first straight into the center of the steaming manure pile, his legs kicking wildly in the air like an overturned beetle.
A silence so deep that it seemed to freeze time settled over the castle. The fifty-foot lightning slash that was meant to turn to steam Frank simply vanished, its power source unplugged the moment the young master’s feet left the ground.
The four sword attendants stood frozen in mid-cheer, their swords half-raised, their eyes bulging as if their skulls had been struck by iron wedges. General Zhao stared at the steaming wheelbarrow, his ritual blade wavering in his hand, his mouth open wide enough to catch a sparrow.
On the high watching deck, Frank leaned over the low roof wall railing, took out his pocket watch, checked the second hand. Then he clicked the case shut with a satisfying snap.
“Two point eight seconds,” Frank said to Shen Shitou. “Told you. Never operate an ungrounded three-phase rig in silk slippers. It’ll blow the seat of your pants off every single time.”
“Yes, Master,” Shitou rumbled, nodding with solemn appreciation. “Insulating heat padding creates rear flashover. Basic job safety.”
Jiang Ling’er leaned against the stone coping, crossing her arms with a dry chuckle. “Master, his royal silk cost at least five thousand gold pieces. It seems such expensive robes have rather poor arc-flash ratings.”
“Zero arc-flash rating,” Frank agreed. “Pure flammable plant fiber. It’s a miracle his eyebrows didn’t catch fire too.”
Down in the courtyard, the sword attendants finally snapped out of their catatonic total numbness.
“Young Master!” “The Young Master has been struck by an invisible curse!” “Quickly! Extract him before the foul soil suffocates his dantian!”
The four attendants rushed across the flat stone slabs. Their stitched boots skidded in the mud as they grabbed Murong Seven by his kicking legs and hauled him backward out of the wheelbarrow.
SCHLUCK.
Murong Seven emerged from the manure with a wet, suctioning gasp. His clean violet thunder crown was knocked sideways, dripping with dark, stringy sludge that coated his hair, his forehead, and his high-born cheekbones. A piece of fermented straw was wedged firmly beneath his upper lip. Even more total was his rear profile.
The attendants lifted him to his feet. Then, the crisp northern mountain gale swept across the courtyard, blowing directly against Murong Seven’s fully bare, soot-blackened behind. Two pale, shivering crescents of flesh peeked through the charred leftovers of his purple silk robes. It smoked gently in the frosty air.
The guard post soldiers along the castle walls stared down. One young spearman bit his lip, trying desperately to hold in a snort. Another soldier muffled a cough behind his iron gauntlet. Captain Meng, standing beside the wall stairs, turned his face toward the stone stonework. His broad shoulders shook wildly in silent convulsions. Within five seconds, a wave of choked-back wheezing rolled across the castle walls as five hundred hardened frontier veterans fought for their lives against frantic laughter.
Murong Seven wiped a glob of manure from his left eye. His vision cleared just in time to feel the cold, unforgiving mountain wind whistling past his naked skin. He reached behind him with a trembling, manure-stained hand. His fingers touched bare, soot-covered flesh.
Murong Seven froze. The color drained from his face until he was whiter than the snow on the distant mountain peaks.
“My... My breeches...” Murong Seven stammered, his voice trembling with a level of psychological devastation that ten thousand battlefield defeats could never inflict. “Where... Where are my royal trousers?!”
“Young Master!” the lead attendant screamed, wildly trying to strip off his own silk cloak to wrap around his master’s exposed rear. “It was an ancient hex! The Heavens themselves struck your breeches for daring to raise a sword against the Dao!”
“Silence, fool!” Murong Seven shrieked, swatting the cloak away in wild horror. He spun around, the cold air biting his bare skin, his attendants scrambling in a clumsy circle to keep his backside shielded from the snickering soldiers.
He looked up at the high watching deck, his eyes bloodshot, his teeth chattering from a mixture of sub-zero wind and blinding, humiliating fury. Frank was leaning against the stone low roof wall, blowing gently on his chipped mug of barley tea, looking down at him with the mild disappointment of a driving teacher watching a teenager back into a mailbox.
“What demonic art was that?!” Murong Seven shrieked, his voice cracking wildly. “What evil, shameless curse did you cast upon my clan’s divine armor?!”
Frank took a sip of tea, lowered the mug, and tapped his fingers on his tool belt. “No curse, kid,” Frank called down, his voice carrying clearly through the crisp air. “Code Rule-break 402: Running an ungrounded high-voltage signal system without proper personal protective equipment. You’ve got four hundred and eighty volts running through silk slippers with zero return path.”
Frank pointed down at the young master’s soot-blackened legs. “You tried to push two hundred amps through an open circuit. Your spine acted as the power bar, and your tailbone acted as the fuse. If you keep swinging that sword in those slippers, your pants won’t be the only thing that gets boiled away. Next time, it’ll be your kidneys.”
Murong Seven’s chest heaved with choking rage. “Lies! Deceit! Defamation of the Sovereign Sword Clan!” Murong Seven screamed, his high-born pride burning into madness. He staggered toward the wooden weapons rack. It ripped his old family thunder blade from the oak beams. “I’ll kill you! I’ll cleave your terrible cart in two! I’ll slaughter every mortal in this castle to wash away this stain!”
He channeled his training once more. Violent purple lightning sparked along his spirit veins, coiling around his chest and arms like poisonous serpents. He raised the blade above his head, preparing to strike regardless of the consequences.
But the spark current reached his lower dantian. Then, a horrifying, white-hot burst tore through his lower-back spine.
GAAAH!
Murong Seven’s knees buckled. He collapsed onto the muddy flat stone slabs. His hands grabbed his lower back as his spirit veins seized in painful, violent convulsions. A mouthful of dark, spark blood spilled over his lips, sizzling against the freezing mud. The lightning on his blade flickered, buzzed erratically, and died in a wisp of gray smoke.
“Young Master!” the attendants screamed, rushing around him in panic. “His core! His spirit veins are rupturing!”
Frank let out a slow, tired breath and reached for his yellow clipboard. “Told you,” Frank muttered, turning toward the stone stairs. “The human nervous system wasn’t rated for four hundred and eighty volts without a chassis bond. Shitou, grab the safety boots and the copper rod. Time for a field intervention.”