High Martial Arts: From Mechanic to Sword Immortal

Chapter 87 Removing the Auxiliary Fuel Tank! I'm Going to Heaven!

Zhang Hao whirled around, staring intently at Han Feng: "Are you crazy? One hundred and twenty meters! That's less than half the theoretical limit!"

He pointed to the broken section of the runway, his voice trembling with excitement: "The 'Grey Donkey' is a support aircraft, with a starting weight of at least twenty-five tons!"

Even if you remove all the auxiliary fuel tanks and armor now, you still need at least 260 meters of running distance to generate enough lift.

"If you force a pull on the stick at this distance, the only outcome will be a stall and a crash, with you and the aircraft slamming into that crater!"

Wang Meng scratched his bald head, his face full of worry: "Brother, this is terrible."

Han Feng didn't explain aerodynamics, nor did he mention sword control. He simply turned around, grabbed the anti-G suit next to him, and put it on: "I have my own way. As long as I reduce the weight to the minimum, this distance is enough for me to fly."

"This doesn't make sense!"

Gu Yun scratched her hair in frustration.

"Do as he says!" Zhang Hao interrupted Gu Yun loudly.

Zhang Hao's mind raced through Han Feng's various actions over the past two days.

Those extreme twists and turns that defied the laws of physics in the mine ruins, and that steel-core bullet that pierced through the second-order alloy plate in the abandoned firing range.

And last night, there was that fatal blow from 700 meters away on the water tower that precisely pierced the chest of a second-tier evil disciple.

This kid's abilities can no longer be measured by common sense.

Zhang Hao turned to the members of the Sharp Sword Society: "Didn't you hear me? Get to work! Remove all unnecessary attachments, and hurry up!"

Without saying a word, Wang Meng rushed over and started tearing off the fighter jet's auxiliary fuel tanks.

Gu Yun gritted his teeth, grabbed a special wrench, and followed to help dismantle the heavy armor plates under the wings.

With everyone working together, it took less than three minutes to strip the "Grey Donkey" down to just the main frame and the necessary flight components.

The 30mm cannon under the fuselage is fully loaded with a box of armor-piercing incendiary rounds, which is the purest firepower for dealing with high-altitude targets.

At the same time, in a deep mountain valley more than ten kilometers away from Jinsui Farm.

The old man in black robes stood on a boulder, holding a high-powered monocular telescope in his hand.

The telescope lens clearly reflected the purplish-red flames soaring into the sky from the heart of the farm.

The old man let out a grating, sinister laugh.

"That reckless Lei Zhen has taken the bait."

He put down his binoculars and turned to look at the dozen or so believers behind him. "The fire has started."

Purple Crystal Wheat is the lifeblood of Donghai City, and Lei Zhen absolutely dares not stand idly by and watch the grain be burned to ashes.

His armored battalion was held back at the west gate by tens of thousands of cannon fodder, and the runway was rendered useless.

They have no other choice but to use human lives to fill the fire pit.

A fellow believer bowed his head and asked, "Sir, when will our people who are hiding underground make their move?"

"Wait a little longer."

The old man's face was full of gloom. "Wait until the fire gets bigger, until all the guards' attention is drawn to the firefighting, and the internal defenses are at their weakest."

This is the time for the fetus to break free of the earth. Anyone who messes up again this time will be sacrificed to the Blood God!

Jinshui Farm, Helipad No. 7.

Han Feng stepped onto the boarding stairs and into the cabin, then pulled down the canopy and locked it.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then suddenly opened them.

The [Spiritual Vision] talent is instantly activated.

The physical appearance of the entire world is stripped away layer by layer.

In his eyes, the various instrument panels in the cockpit transformed into interwoven energy nodes.

The fuselage frame, weighing over ten tons, is no longer lifeless metal, but rather a network of flowing spiritual energy.

The master-level [Sword Control Technique] is fully activated.

The immense blood energy of the late-stage eighth level of Body Tempering surged into the fighter jet's control interface through the palms of his hands.

The sword bone, which had just undergone a 45% transformation, emitted a deep metallic resonance within his body. That domineering and pure energy completely connected his nerve endings with every drive shaft and every psionic pipeline of the fighter jet.

Engine starts.

The old psionic reactor roared deafeningly.

Instead of performing the usual warm-up and coasting, Han Feng suppressed his qi and blood to the point that the engine's output valve was forced to the point where the reactor's speed was pushed close to the redline.

Then, he pushed the throttle valve all the way down.

"boom--!"

A deep blue tail flame burst forth from the tailpipe, shooting out a distance of over ten meters.

The "Grey Donkey" unleashed a terrifying thrust far exceeding the limitations of its size.

At the moment of takeoff, the nose of the aircraft even jerked upwards due to the excessive acceleration.

This starting posture was far more ferocious than Gu Yun's "Crimson Witch," which was known for its lightness and extreme speed.

Gu Yun stood beside the track, her mind blank.

This thrust-to-weight ratio is completely wrong!

Old-fashioned reactors could not possibly produce an initial velocity of this magnitude!

Sixty meters!

Eighty meters!

One hundred meters!

The "Grey Donkey" raced wildly on the dilapidated track, with a huge chasm five meters wide ahead.

At the current speed, the fighter jet has not accumulated enough lift to support its fuselage.

"It won't lift! Launch it now!"

Wang Meng became so anxious that he started cursing.

Only ten meters remained to the edge of the crack.

Han Feng gripped the control stick tightly with both hands.

Instead of slowing down, he poured all the remaining blood and energy in his body into the fighter jet's central nervous system.

The instant the nose of the plane veered off the edge of the runway and the front landing gear was completely suspended in the air, Han Feng yanked the control stick to the dead end.

Mastery Level [Sword Control Technique] - Forced Lift!

The vital energy transformed into an invisible giant hand, forcefully supporting the tens of tons of metal belly from below.

The fighter jet adopted a bizarre posture that completely disregarded aerodynamics, with its nose almost vertically raised.

Without the sufficient lift provided by a running start, this massive steel monster was lifted off the ground entirely by the violent thrust of the engine and the unreasonable surge of energy.

The heavy fuselage scraped against the rubble at the edge of the crack, streaking towards the night sky with a trail of blinding sparks!

It was like a heavy sword hurled by a peerless swordsman, piercing the night with extreme ferocity.

The tarmac was deathly quiet.

All that remained was the roar of the fighter jet engines fading into the distance overhead.

Gu Yun's mouth was agape, and her face was flushed red.

His proud knowledge of flight and the aerodynamic formulas he knew by heart were shattered at that moment by the vertically rising "gray donkey".

At a distance of 120 meters, a heavy support aircraft takes off vertically.

"How the hell did it even get up there?!"

Gu Yun muttered to himself, his worldview completely shattered.

Zhang Hao clenched his fists and exhaled a long breath.

He was right; this kid's methods couldn't be measured by common sense.

One thousand meters in the air.

Han Feng adjusted his attitude and leveled the fighter jet.

In the field of vision, above the blinding purplish-red flames in the direction of the No. 3 core wheat field, more than a dozen extremely active high-heat energy clusters are hovering.

Those Blood Feeding Cult heretics riding mutated black-winged bats were completely unaware that death was approaching.

Taking advantage of the blind spots of the anti-aircraft artillery, they leisurely pulled out a new batch of Molotov cocktails from their specially made leather bags, preparing to add more firewood to the most intense part of the fire.

Han Feng pushed the throttle valve, and the 30mm six-barreled rotary cannon under the fuselage began to preheat and rotate under the stimulation of blood and qi, emitting a deep, bloodthirsty hum.