Chapter 82: Chen Dazhu

One of the Qian family's disciples recognized Chen Dazhu and cursed, "Chen Dazhu, go swing your hammer where you belong and don't meddle in others' affairs!"

Chen Dazhu sneered, "What's it to you?"

Mo Hua's spiritual sense was extraordinary; when the Qian disciple swung his fist, he had already noticed Chen Dazhu standing behind him, so he didn't dodge.

Of course, it was also because he couldn't dodge even if he wanted to.

The punch of a Qi Condensation sixth-layer body cultivator was still fast, and Mo Hua's strong spiritual sense gave him ample reaction time, but his weak physique couldn't support any actual movement.

Fortunately, Chen Dazhu took the punch for him.

In Mo Hua's memory, Chen Dazhu had always been that simple-minded, kind-hearted apprentice who loved coming over to his house for noodles; now, Chen Dazhu's expression was cold, with a hint of ruthlessness.

"Chen Dazhu, get out of the way!" the Qian disciple threatened.

Chen Dazhu didn't move aside—he lifted Mo Hua and placed him behind himself, standing firmly in front, his face utterly unconcerned: "I won't."

Chen Dazhu was ten years older than Mo Hua and much taller and broader; standing before Mo Hua, he completely blocked him from view, so the Qian group couldn't even see Mo Hua's silhouette.

Seeing Chen Dazhu wouldn't back down, the Qian disciple tried reasoning: "Chen Dazhu, this kid isn't even related to you—why risk yourself for him?"

"I feel like it. What's it to you?"

Chen Dazhu wasn't good with words; he wanted to curse more but couldn't think of anything, felt his momentum weaken, and secretly glanced at Mo Hua.

Mo Hua understood and stuck his head out: "So what if we're not related? You're related to Qian Xing—yet he still treats you like dogs!"

Chen Dazhu immediately nodded in agreement: "That's right! He treats you like dogs!"

The group of Qian disciples turned bright red but had no retort.

Qian Xing's attitude toward them? Calling him a dog was already an exaggeration.

Qian Xing, sensing the tide turning, said coldly: "You want to oppose the Qian family?"

Chen Dazhu was about to say, "So what if I do?"—when he felt Mo Hua tug his sleeve; he knew Mo Hua didn't want him to speak, so he stayed silent.

Mo Hua stuck his head out again: "Qian Xing, if your father knew you were using the family name to bully others and dragging the Qian family's reputation through the mud, do you think he'd regret having you? Maybe you're not even his son—maybe you were picked up from some gutter? Maybe your father isn't your father, and your mother isn't your mother?"

Qian Xing understood: this was calling him a bastard—even not even a Qian family bastard.

Qian Xing, used to luxury and comfort, felt he'd endured more humiliation today than in his entire life; he waved his hand behind him and snarled:

"Beat him to death! Strip his skin! Tear out his tendons! I'll send word to Dao Ting Si—you don't need to hold back!"

Seeing Qian Xing's eyes turn red, Mo Hua whispered to Chen Dazhu: "Big Brother Dazhu, they're too many—we should run while we can."

Chen Dazhu showed no fear: "No problem—we're not few either."

No sooner had he spoken than a commotion erupted behind them—a group of youths arrived, carrying clubs and hammers, lining up behind Chen Dazhu.

"Brother Zhu, we brought all our tools!" one youth shouted.

Mo Hua looked over and saw most were apprentices of Master Chen; their natural weapons were hammers, some clubs, others still glowing red—as if just pulled from the smelting furnace, raw spirit-artifact blanks.

They stood behind Chen Dazhu, forming an invisible circle around Mo Hua.

A few Qian disciples grew nervous; they were at most Qi Condensation seventh-layer, most sixth-layer—though slightly stronger than the others, they were used to picking on the weak, and deep down, they had no confidence in a real fight.

The opposite side were all forging apprentices—tall, muscular, arms as thick as hammers, fists the size of mortar bowls; they didn't want to feel what it was like to take one hit.

Besides, these low-level cultivators were willing to die—they weren't.

"Young Master, things look bad—should we retreat for now and find another chance to trouble him?" someone whispered to Qian Xing.

"What did you say?"

Qian Xing's eyes burned red as he glared at him.

The Qian disciple's voice trembled: "We… we're just worried about your safety—if you're hurt in the fight, we won't be able to answer to the Master…"

"I'm the one who supports you, not my father—you should think about how to answer to me," Qian Xing slapped the disciple's face. "Make that brat dead—that's the only answer you need! Otherwise, think about how you'll answer to me."

Several Qian disciples broke into cold sweat.

Qian Xing continued: "Don't worry—I've already sent for reinforcements. Hold them off for a while; after it's done, each of you gets a hundred spirit stones. Whoever kills Mo Hua—I'll speak to my father and get him a direct-line Qian family position."

They exchanged glances—a direct-line position… he'd really offer that?

Whether true or false, it was worth fighting for.

One Qian disciple gritted his teeth: "I'll serve the Young Master!"

He turned to Chen Dazhu and called: "Dazhu, I have something to say to you," then walked toward him. When he reached Chen Dazhu's side, he suddenly drew a knife and slashed at him—the blade wrapped in green spiritual energy and a chilling aura.

Chen Dazhu raised an eyebrow, snorted, and his body's blood qi surged into his massive hammer as he raised it to meet the strike.

But the Qian disciple's knife suddenly veered—avoiding the hammer—and swung toward Mo Hua behind Chen Dazhu.

He'd planned it: taking Chen Dazhu's hammer blow wouldn't kill him, only injure him severely; but Mo Hua taking this slash? He'd be dead for sure. A little injury for a direct-line family position? A perfect trade!

Though sudden, Mo Hua had already foreseen the strike—his spiritual sense clearly traced the blade's spiritual path—but the attack and shift happened in an instant; he couldn't speak, and his body couldn't dodge.

Just as the blade was about to strike, one of the forging youths yanked Mo Hua's collar backward—the tip of the knife barely missed his face; Mo Hua even felt the faint pain of spiritual pressure against his forehead.

Chen Dazhu saw the blade draw, saw it shift toward Mo Hua—but his hammer was too heavy to change course in time; he could only fume helplessly—luckily, Mo Hua narrowly escaped.

Chen Dazhu breathed a sigh of relief, then exploded in rage—he no longer held back. His blood qi surged into the iron hammer, and he brought it down with all his might.

The Qian disciple was struck on the back, slammed to the ground, blood rushing to his throat, his ears crackling—the sound of his own bones snapping.

He'd expected to be injured, but not this severely; as his consciousness faded, he felt a foot kick him into the air, then a heavy crash—and he lost all awareness.

"Filthy bastard, playing dirty!"

"Even gutter rats aren't as filthy as him!"

"Beat them!"

The forging youths, enraged, raised clubs and hammers and charged at the Qian disciples; the Qian disciples could only grit their teeth and fight back.

In the open street, the two sides clashed in chaotic battle.