Chapter 10: Vertical Pupils

When Chu Tianshu arrived, several militia members had also reached the scene.

The gong had been struck specifically to alert the militia.

These men were all able-bodied youths from town, wearing no uniform; only two carried rifles, the rest held steel blades and black iron spears.

Yet they seemed accustomed to such bloody scenes—merely pausing a step, they gathered around the corpse to examine the wounds.

“The body’s still warm—it’s Liao Ayong, the bamboo weaver. Looks like he was killed by wild wolves.”

The militia questioned the night watchman, who only said that when he turned onto this road, he saw blood everywhere and immediately rang the gong.

Chu Tianshu also saw tooth marks and tearing wounds on the corpse, with chunks of flesh missing from the thigh.

But if this were truly an animal, wouldn’t it have hidden before attacking? And after killing, why was there no howling, no signs of dragging or further feeding?

He scanned his surroundings, quietly entering a spirit-perceiving state—but found no trace of malevolent spirits lingering.

Nearby townsfolk had begun whispering among themselves.

“This must be another wolf attack. Ordinary hungry wolves or stray dogs wouldn’t just nibble so little—they’d go for the neck, drink the blood there.”

“That’s right—years ago, we killed a wolf that had devoured eight people; its tail-tip fur was stained red.”

“I’ve got to go home and board up my windows, prop the door shut from inside—this time, who knows how long it’ll take to catch the thing?”

Chu Tianshu frowned as he listened.

In his modern world, he’d had little contact with wild beasts; the supernatural incidents he’d encountered were mostly spirits transformed from human souls.

Could it really be an animal—still not evil, yet cruel and cunning enough?

Yizhou is mountainous, and in this era of war, it’s not surprising that some beasts grow unusually shrewd.

Too bad all these backroads are dirt paths.

Even if the beast bit someone, as long as its paws didn’t get too much blood on them, walking over dirt would leave no clear trail.

I wonder if I’ll ever get a chance to catch that beast and avenge this poor man.

“Stop gawking and get home before you’re next!”

The militia began shooing the crowd away; the two with rifles, bolder, decided to stay behind and report to their captain while others dispersed.

Chu Tianshu had no leads here, so he turned away from the road, planning to return to the tavern via the side alleys.

The few remaining militia noticed him walking alone and exchanged glances.

“Who’s that kid? He’s strolling like nothing happened—doesn’t he want to run home?”

“He’s a friend of Meng Dashao, studied abroad—probably has some skill.”

“If he’s not afraid and doesn’t need our help, we shouldn’t meddle.”

Chu Tianshu had already turned the corner and vanished from the militia’s sight.

He wasn’t moving fast—but compared to his earlier casual stroll home, he was now far more alert.

Twenty-plus days had passed too comfortably; the town had been peaceful, and his initial tension upon arriving in this world had long faded.

Just now, those events reminded him—he was truly living in a brutal age.

From a single spot, one can glimpse the whole leopard: even these minor-town militia were utterly unfazed by such a gruesome corpse.

This lively, seemingly peaceful little town had long been accustomed to blood.

As Chu Tianshu walked, he suddenly felt something odd—he turned to look behind him.

The road behind was empty, bathed only in moonlight and shadows of houses, clutter hidden in the dark.

He looked up—rooftops on both sides held nothing but a thin mist.

The faint glow in Chu Tianshu’s eyes didn’t fade; he lowered his eyelids slightly and continued walking.

The moment he took a step, the hairs on his nape bristled—he lurched forward in a sudden sprint.

The violent acceleration made his loose robe whistle sharply through the silent night air.

The thin mist and dust on the ground rose in disturbed swirls.

CRASH!!

The mist had barely lifted when it was crushed down and shattered.

A black figure, like a hunting leopard, slammed onto the street.

His feet landed, his claws grasping empty air—right where Chu Tianshu had just stood.

Black headwrap, black fitted attire, a gaunt black face—he was no townsman.

Missing his target, his narrowed eyes snapped wide—his pupils turned green, vertical as shuttles.

This lunge was his perfected technique: leaping from the rooftop, he still kicked his legs to accelerate the fall.

Had Chu Tianshu dodged anywhere else, he might not have escaped.

But human forward sprinting speed far exceeds lateral movement.

The black-clad man missed, his feet slamming the ground, his body sinking to absorb the impact—slowing him a fraction.

In that split second, Chu Tianshu lunged to the wall, seized a discarded table.

The unpainted wooden table had three of its four legs broken—weighed no more than thirty or forty catties.

But Chu Tianshu gripped the single intact leg, twisted his waist and hips, and hurled the thirty-to-forty-catty weight backward.

The momentum remained fierce.

As the tabletop spun toward the black-clad man, it suddenly froze midair—then shattered with a crack.

Two claws pierced the table, arms splitting apart, tearing the rotten wood to pieces.

Wood splintered in all directions; inside, hollowed-out sections revealed white insects flying into the air.

The assault was relentless—no pause—silver needles shot forth, piercing the insects, streaking toward the black-clad man’s forehead.

TING TING TING!!!

Three sharp metallic clinks.

Amid flying wood chips, the black-clad man snatched three times.

All three silver needles were caught.

Chu Tianshu surged back, arms fully extended, palms lunging to seize the black-clad man’s forearms.

A bamboo stalk as thick as a bowl, fresh and healthy, its skin tough—yet Chu Tianshu’s grip crushed it open.

On a normal man’s forearm, such a grip would rupture skin, crush flesh, snap bones.

But when he gripped the black-clad man, the man let out a piercing shriek—like a wildcat with its tail stepped on.

The black cloth wrapped around his forearms trembled and contracted—their diameter seemed to shrink, fingers curling into sharp cones.

The moment Chu Tianshu felt his grip take hold, his palms went suddenly empty—his tiger’s mouth scraped raw against the fabric.

He clenched his hands fast enough, fingers digging inward—but he only tore off a layer of cloth, stripping something from the man’s fingers.

Simultaneously, the black-clad man kicked—knee driving toward Chu Tianshu’s groin.

Chu Tianshu’s knee rose at the same instant—their flesh met with a heavy, wooden-thud impact.

Both staggered backward several steps, losing their footing.

The black-clad man crouched low, stance in a bow, hands clawed, pressing forward as if a tiger or leopard about to pounce.

Chu Tianshu’s heel struck the dirt road, steadying himself—he flung the object in his hand forward.

Two torn scraps of cloth—and ten finger sheaths, forged of steel, coated in black lacquer.

The black-clad man hadn’t caught the needles bare-handed—he’d used these sheaths to deflect them.

Chu Tianshu glanced at the sheaths—and remembered the wounds on the corpse.

Beyond wild beast fangs, these sheaths, combined with sufficient finger strength, could easily produce such carnage.

“You killed the bamboo weaver. Who are you? Why attack me?”

Chu Tianshu’s gaze was ruthless, his face angry—but his voice was low.

To shout loudly, one must draw breath from the chest and abdomen, raising pitch—this drains physical power and slows reaction.

Chu Tianshu dared not expose such a weakness before this black-clad man.

The black-clad man said nothing—his facial muscles tensed, teeth bared, throat vibrating with a low growl, lips and teeth trembling.

Utterly like a beast trying to intimidate—his teeth still stained with blood.

But wild beasts, facing an enemy they can’t overcome, usually flee.

This man’s eyes and breath radiated a hunger to devour Chu Tianshu alive—no retreat, only thick, smoky malice.

Chu Tianshu stared unblinking at the black-clad man, his side-hanging wrist slowly turning—prominent veins crept from forearm to back of hand, fists clenched.

Neither wanted to blink—but eye fatigue ignored willpower.

When blood vessels surfaced in Chu Tianshu’s sclera, his wide eyes couldn’t help but blink.

WHOOSH!!—the real attack came in that blink.

The black-clad man was already before him, claws slicing air, iron-blue nails—though not as hard as steel sheaths—still capable of gouging deep marks into brick walls, sweeping toward his most vulnerable face.

But the air exploded.

A fist suddenly swung up from below, striking the black-clad man’s forearm with precision.

POM POM POM POM POM!!!

Between the two figures, it sounded like a string of firecrackers detonating.

The black-clad man’s hands relentlessly attacked Chu Tianshu’s head, face, neck, groin, waist.

But each time, Chu Tianshu’s fist struck true, smashing aside his arms.

Tong Bei Quan—White Ape’s Sudden Exposure!

Tall trees dripped with dew; wind blew, and dewdrops rained down with a splash.

The white ape below, startled, lunged out—hands in rapid succession, striking the dewdrops in midair.

This punch unleashed a shocking, explosive force, the fastest of all strikes.

More crucially, this technique trains a combat method that does not rely entirely on vision.

The White Ape’s Surprise relies on sight, hearing, and a touch of instinct working together.

Chu Tianshu, who cultivates both Spirit Communication and fist arts, achieved the most refined result with this move of all his techniques.

The black-clad man realized his forearms kept getting struck—he knew something was wrong, but through the impact, he suddenly surged forward with even greater speed.

A strand of hair on Chu Tianshu’s left temple was sliced off, and the fabric on his right waist was torn apart.

The tear looked as if several blades had been sliced parallel across it.

He barely dodged, avoiding direct injury, yet his back hairs still stood on end, his teeth clenched tight, his left hand snapping out like a released spring.

His powerful fist, brimming with fury, struck again, hitting the arm sweeping in from his left.

The black-clad man’s burst failed to land; his arms began to ache and throb, his hands slowing slightly.

Chu Tianshu’s eyelids narrowed; in a flash, his fist—almost instinctive—shot toward the black-clad man’s face.

(End of Chapter)