The Strongest War God - Chapter 1287

Chapter 1287: Mastery of Physique, Fist Crushing the Black Door

Please continue reading on ΒOXΝʘVEL.ϹΟM .

Editor: EndlessFantasy Translation

Now that Braydon Neal had made a breakthrough, he wanted to escape.

Regardless of whether he could succeed or not, he had to give it a try!

He looked at the exit of the fifteenth floor.

A tightly shut black door.

No one was watching!

However, the materials required to forge it were exceedingly rare within the ruins.

With a swift motion, Braydon summoned forth a black spear—an emperor-level weapon known as the Black Feather Spear.

Gripping the emperor-level weapon firmly with both hands, Braydon unleashed the spear’s might, propelling it forward like a ferocious dragon.

The spearhead sliced through the air with unstoppable force, casting a cold light upon the door as it made contact.

A resounding bang echoed as the emperor-level weapon relentlessly attacked the gate, causing the sturdy black iron door to tremble.

Despite the formidable power of the emperor-level weapon, it failed to make a dent, leaving only a faint white mark in its wake.

“It’s futile to expend your energy. Unless a divine-level weapon is employed, even an emperor-level weapon like this is of no use,” remarked the barefoot old man, unable to contain his insight.

Indeed, if escaping the Frost Prison were as simple as wielding an emperor-level weapon, the prisoners confined to the lower levels would not remain trapped within its confines.

Braydon, standing before the door with spear in hand, furrowed his brow in frustration.

The realization dawned upon him—emperor-level weapons proved ineffective in this scenario.

With a determined resolve, he drove the spear into the ground, using it as support as he propelled himself forward with a forceful punch from his left hand.

The blow carried the power to rend the heavens apart, yet Braydon, despite his formidable prowess, found himself hindered by the limitations of his quasi-emperor realm physique.

Nonetheless, undeterred by this setback, he unleashed his punch with unwavering determination.

With a resounding bang, the black door suddenly quaked, causing a cascade of ice to tumble down.

The ground shook with a deep, muffled thud, akin to a massive rock crashing to the earth, sending shivers down the spines of the barefooted old man and the others, igniting a fiery surge within their veins.

“Such immense strength!” exclaimed a voice from the distant shadows, tinged with fear and awe, as they witnessed Braydon’s astonishing physical prowess.

Braydon’s formidable physique was indeed a sight to behold.

Without pause, he continued to assail the iron door with an onslaught of punches, each strike packing a devastating force capable of flattening mountains with ease.

His relentless barrage, delivering hundreds of punches per second, reverberated throughout the Frost Prison, filling the air with the thunderous impact of colossal objects colliding with the ground.

An oppressive silence descended upon the chamber, casting a heavy weight upon the hearts of all who bore witness to Braydon’s relentless assault.

Undeterred by the daunting task before him, Braydon continued his relentless barrage, day and night, his relentless onslaught resonating through the prison, causing even the occupants of the seventh and eighth floors to feel the tremors.

However, as time wore on, the speed of Braydon’s punches gradually waned, diminishing from hundreds per second to a mere single strike.

Beads of cold sweat trickled down his temples, his pale face betraying the strain of his exertions as his body grew increasingly fatigued.

With each punch, his arms grew heavier, his shoulders sore from the relentless strain.

Yet, despite the physical toll exacted upon him, Braydon’s eyes remained resolute, his demeanor that of a ferocious tiger poised to strike.

For Braydon, breaking through this door was not just a means of escape—it was a test of his fortitude, a crucible in which he honed his body and spirit, forging himself through endless trials and tribulations.

With each strike, he familiarized himself with the limits of his strength, mastering every nuance of his power, and embracing the relentless rebound of each blow as he pushed himself to the brink.

As Braydon relentlessly pounded the iron door, the force of his strikes rebounded onto his fists, though the impact was not immediately apparent.

Yet, he knew that if he persisted too long, he risked injuring himself—a consequence he couldn’t afford.

Day and night blurred together as Braydon tirelessly punched the door countless times.

Was it ten thousand punches?

A hundred thousand?

He lost count, but he understood that there were no shortcuts to refining the body—talent alone was insufficient; only unwavering perseverance would prevail in the end.

With a grimace, Braydon spat out a mouthful of blood before the iron gate, prompting the barefoot old man from the fifteenth floor to approach and offer words of caution.

“Don’t be stubborn,” he urged. “This door is impenetrable. Others before you have tried and failed. Each strike you land only invites more harm upon yourself.”

Ignoring the old man’s advice, Braydon rested briefly, activating the Great Void of Kylo Art overnight to replenish his strength.

As the purple Qi coursed through his body, invigorating his spirit, he rose to his feet with renewed determination.

With a resolute fist, he struck out once more, causing the iron door to shudder with a resounding thud.

The echoes of his efforts reverberated throughout the prison, drawing the ire of those below.

“Hey, can you keep it down?” protested a gruff voice from the lower levels.

“Let him try to escape. Your interference is unnecessary,” chimed in another voice, with a hint of laziness.

Undeterred by the skepticism below, one voice dared to wager on Braydon’s resolve.

“I bet he won’t last more than seven days. After that, he’ll give up.”

“Didn’t someone last 93 days attacking the black door nonstop?” another added, recalling similar futile attempts in the past.

In the end, the black door remained unyielding, just as they all had predicted.

But Braydon paid no heed to the naysayers; he had his own path to follow.

If he had listened to outsiders before, he wouldn’t have become the Northern King he was today.

No one could sway the will of the Northern King!

With fists like dragons, Braydon relentlessly hammered the black door, each strike resonating with a thunderous crack as it struck the thick surface.

Yet, amidst his assault, a soft voice drifted from the sixteenth level—a woman’s voice belonging to Xetsa Yeza, imprisoned alongside him.

“Give up,” she urged gently. “The materials used to forge this Frost Prison are from the Spirit Sea Black Mountain. Only divine-level weapons can breach it.”

Unmoved by her words, Braydon continued his rhythmic onslaught, his punches becoming a familiar sound to those imprisoned within the Frost Prison.

Day after day, he persisted, his body absorbing the reverberating impact of each strike, undergoing a relentless purification.

The force coursing through his fists surged through his arms, then throughout his entire being, enveloping him in an energizing aura that cleansed and refined his body with each strike.

Yet, with each reflection of force, his body endured injury—a testament to the rigors of body refinement.

This was the path of a physique cultivator, where extreme methods such as cutting, chiseling, and burning were not uncommon.

Only those with unwavering willpower dared to tread this perilous path, for every breakthrough was a battle for survival—a testament to the indomitable spirit of those who sought mastery over their physical form.

Meanwhile, 99% of physique cultivators harbored no fear of combat with martial artists of equal standing.

Over 80% of them had fallen due to their own relentless pursuits.

In the relentless pursuit of body refinement, many had died in their own hands.

Unyielding, Braydon continued his assault on the black door, his relentless strikes a constant rhythm amidst the discussions of those on the third floor.

Speculations arose regarding how long Braydon could endure, sparking wagers among the observers.