Chapter Sixteen: Hatred as Deep as the Sea

Thunder on flat ground! A sword flashed like lightning!

While the Daoist of Yangshan was still lost in the radiance of that lotus-bright face, his heart dazed, Xu Zhi’s sword was already within thirty feet of him!

“An assassin? Where did such a martial grandmaster come from?”

The Daoist’s soul shrank in terror. “What a swift sword—it’s an assassin from the Chen clan!”

Third stance of the Little Red Dragon Sword Scripture—

Return Wind Summons Fire!

The sword pierced the Daoist’s chest with an almost inconceivable speed. In his eyes, wild with fear and despair, the blade probed forward.

Clang!

The feeling was not the dull resistance of flesh being torn, but as if the sword had struck iron or stone.

No—

Even iron and stone would have been cleaved by a sword infused with fetal breath, yet only a few drops of blood seeped from the Daoist’s chest; the blade had barely penetrated two inches before a great force clamped down, trapping it fast.

“Could this be a Daoist art for externally refining the body?”

Xu Zhi froze for an instant—an instant enough for the Daoist to regain his wits. With a single fist, he sent Xu Zhi flying, crashing through countless tables and chairs along the way.

“I have mastered the techniques of the Golden Book! I am destined to become an immortal, to enjoy unending longevity! You? You dare think to kill me?”

Terror turned to fury on the Daoist’s face.

He tore off his tattered robe with both hands, baring his chest, and charged at the struggling Xu Zhi like a raging bear.

Boom!

A pillar, thick as two men’s embrace, was smashed to pieces by a single punch. Amid screams and falling dust, the Daoist grew more ferocious still, every step cracking the floor in a spiderweb of fractures.

“Damn it! If only my right hand could still wield my sword, or if I had even a low-grade talismanic weapon…”

Such strength was monstrous, as if some giant beast had descended into the world.

Xu Zhi dodged left and right beneath the Daoist’s pursuit, relying solely on his Land Dragon Step to just barely evade and defend.

Swish!

Another sword thrust, elusive as a mischievous child stabbing at a cicada—not flawless, but leaving the Daoist feeling there was nowhere to hide.

Unable to dodge, the Daoist watched the sword slash at his neck; it nearly severed half his throat before stopping.

A hush fell over the hall.

Even Xu Zhi was surprised at his success, and suddenly laughed. “So your body’s strength is just for show after all. It’s nothing remarkable!”

“To kill you is more than enough!”

Humiliated and enraged, the Daoist’s eyes bulged. Spreading his five fingers wide like a fan, he swept up a violent gale and struck down.

Xu Zhi’s form flickered, narrowly dodging the blow.

“I see now. You’re a wandering cultivator, not from any proper sect. Your external body refining technique is wondrous, but it’s still only flesh. As for escape arts or other spellcraft, you’re completely ignorant.”

He steadied himself, sword in hand, and flicked a Killing Calamity Talisman from his fingers toward the Daoist’s crown.

“Go!”

The Daoist’s escape arts were crude; he had no way to dodge the talisman, which flashed like lightning.

A surge of murderous energy burst forth like a raging sea, leaving the Daoist dazed and stupefied, standing there unmoving, oblivious to everything.

“What a monstrous shell…”

Xu Zhi slashed at his left arm, but only sparks flew, steel clashing on steel.

He shook his head, abandoning all pretense, and prepared to behead the Daoist with a single stroke—when suddenly, alarm flashed through his mind.

The Daoist, mesmerized by the talisman, slowly opened his eyes. He stared blankly, then screamed in pain and sent Xu Zhi flying again with a punch, nearly making him cough blood.

“Talismanic weapons! Bring me my talismanic weapons!”

The Daoist roared in fury.

“Junior brother, stop just watching and get over here…”

Xu Zhi coughed, using his broken sword to prop himself up.

If he hadn’t blocked that last punch with his sword across his chest, his injuries would have been far more severe than mere coughing.

“What?”

Hearing Xu Zhi’s cry, the Daoist was struck by a sudden sense of dread.

“It seems senior brother’s swordsmanship is excellent, but you truly are unskilled in spell battles—far too careless.”

As the Daoist stared, stunned,

The figure that had so haunted his thoughts slowly stood, his voice low and resonant—a man’s voice.

“What—what?”

Clutching the bleeding wound on his neck, the Daoist nearly collapsed. “Beauty, you… you’re a man?”

“I once watched Yan Zhen duel with spells—radiant and untouchable, truly the art of an immortal,” said Chen Heng, tearing the beaded hair ornaments from his head and tossing them carelessly to the ground, stepping on them. “But today, this is more like a fight between mortal masters than spellcraft.”

“If you’d give me a talismanic weapon, I could show you the swordplay of the immortals myself,” Xu Zhi rolled his eyes. “His body-refining technique is so formidable—if I tried to boast in front of you, I doubt I could even scratch his skin!”

“Damn it, where are my talismanic weapons? I can’t sense a single one!” The Daoist clenched his fists uneasily.

“I knew your weapons were formidable. As soon as I got them, I had a swift guard carry them all away. By now, he’s likely ridden far from this mountain with your treasures,” Chen Heng replied dispassionately. “I thought I’d have to go through more trouble, but you handed over the Thunderfire Pearl so easily—it’s quite unexpected.”

“You… no, besides the pearl, I still have the Five-Colored Pendant and the Six Yin Ghost Banner!”

At death’s door, the Daoist’s mind was clearer than ever.

Then,

He saw his own son, head bowed, silently hand a lacquered greatbow to Chen Heng.

“Damn it—”

No longer hesitating, the Daoist condensed his vital breath into a black cloud and tried to flee in panic.

“Trying to escape?”

Twang, twang, twang—

With a sharp cry, Chen Heng drew the bow to full and loosed six arrows in succession, each aimed for the Daoist’s brow, heart, and limbs. In a flash, the air exploded with murderous force.

“Go!”

Soaring on a cloud, the Daoist was a living target; struck by six arrows, he tumbled from the sky and crashed to the ground, dazed and battered.

Before he could regain his senses,

Chen Heng seized an iron arrowhead, grabbed the Daoist’s crown, and drove the arrow mercilessly through his throat.

With a sickening squelch,

Blood spurted like a fountain, splattering Chen Heng’s face and hair. Yet his striking, almost unearthly features remained cold and expressionless.

“Damn it, I didn’t lose to another, I lost to myself…”

Struggling for his last breath, the Daoist uttered a bitter, baffled curse:

“Damn heavens, how can there be such a beautiful man as you—I—”

Chen Heng, still impassive, twisted the arrow deeper.

The Daoist’s eyes froze wide; his body slumped, never to move again.

At that moment, silence reigned in the great hall.

A few disciples in yellow robes huddled together in fear. Yangshan’s elite had already been massacred by the Chen clan; those remaining, whether newly initiated or long resentful of their master, not one stepped forward to help.

“He’s… he’s dead? Hahahaha!”

After a long pause,

Wang Duanbao, who had been curled up in terror, finally looked up. Seeing the Daoist’s corpse on the floor, he froze, then burst into tears, rushing forward to embrace the pale, thin woman, spinning her around.

“Xiao Yu, Xiao Yu…”

Choked with sobs, Wang Duanbao cried, “He’s dead! We can finally have a good life now!”

He wept and laughed, clutching her tightly. Only after a long time did color return to the woman’s face, an unnatural flush rising.

“Duanbao.”

Xiao Yu spoke softly, “Come closer.”

Unaware, Wang Duanbao obeyed, beaming with joy.

“No—” Xu Zhi’s expression changed.

Chen Heng frowned slightly, silent.

In the next instant,

The woman called Xiao Yu opened her mouth and bit down viciously on Wang Duanbao’s eye. With a savage twist, she tore it out.

“Aaah!”

Half an eyeball and its lid were ripped away.

Howling in pain, Wang Duanbao reflexively tried to strangle her, but stopped, shuddering uncontrollably.

“Xiao Yu, Xiao Yu, what are you doing? Why are you hurting me…”

He whimpered like a wounded puppy. “I never hurt you, what’s wrong? What’s wrong?”

“You watched your father defile me!”

“I couldn’t beat him—I was afraid…” Wang Duanbao covered his face, sobbing.

“I’d rather have died with you back then than live to see today!” Xiao Yu wept and laughed. “You should die! Your father should die! I… I should die too!”

She pounded his head with her fists, drawing blood with the recoil.

Suddenly, Wang Duanbao stopped resisting, only shaking with quiet sobs.

Stools, fingers, stones, hairpins…

Even Xu Zhi, stunned and slow to react, was stripped of his broken sword by her.

After nearly half an hour, all that remained on the floor was a mutilated corpse awash in blood.

Xiao Yu slowly raised her head. The Yangshan disciples averted their eyes as if she were a plague, not a woman but a vengeful spirit.

She drew her lips into a faint smile and started toward the distant youth holding the bow.

Thud!

Stone and brick scattered—an arrow buried itself two inches from her toes, a step from piercing her foot.

“Stay back. One more step and I’ll shoot you dead,” Chen Heng said coolly.

“I know where that old pig’s treasures are hidden.”

Unfazed, Xiao Yu laughed.

“Master, let me take you to find them.”