Chapter 17: Fire and Beasts, Will Triumphs Over the Blade

“Hehehehe!!”

The red, plump old man watched night fall, took out food from his chest, and crunched it loudly, his cheeks puffing in and out.

A black wild cat, drawn by the stench of blood, crept closer.

The old man picked up the cat, spat the residue from his mouth onto its fur, then grabbed a handful of insects, swished them in his mouth, and spat them out again.

Strangely, when these disgusting scraps touched the cat’s fur, they smoked lightly, making the entire cat grow hazy.

“Di, ji! Gan jie zhong di!”

The sorcerer muttered in Jiaozhi dialect.

Go! Bite them to death!!

The wild cat let out a piercing scream and sprinted toward the town.

The situation in the town had stabilized considerably.

Chu Tianshu had just killed several of the bandits’ fiercest fighters, broken through their ranks, and lured away the blade master.

Wang Fu rallied his strength, gritted his teeth, and fired steel darts in rapid succession; a group of guards coordinated with him, and more reinforcements kept arriving from the town.

The battlefield was slowly pushing toward the town’s edge.

Suddenly, piercing cat screams rose one after another.

Dozens, even hundreds of wild cats burst from the woods, shrieking as they darted past the bandits and charged straight for the militia and guards.

In an instant, shadows of leaping cats filled nearly every inch of the narrow road.

They leapt at faces, clung to bodies, tore and clawed, their screams unbearable.

The militiamen flailed helplessly, trying to shake off these beasts; though small, they were incredibly agile, scrambling over bodies, clawing ears, driving men to the brink.

Wang Fu saw a bandit seize the chance to swing a blade at a militiaman.

The blade clearly swept over the cat—yet the cat was unharmed, while the man fell.

“Fake!!”

Wang Fu roared, “They’re all illusions! Don’t panic!”

How could they be fake? The cats bit into flesh—it hurt! No one listened to him.

Ma the Shopkeeper finally reached the end of the street.

He did not rush onto the road; instead, he hid behind the corner and pulled the bottommost talisman from a stack.

The purple talisman paper bore golden incantations.

Suddenly, a sharp crack beside him startled him—he turned.

It was the homeowner, having smashed a window, frantically dragging his family away.

Ma the Shopkeeper lowered his gaze, his lips trembling, fingers tracing an incantation in midair before stabbing downward with one finger.

“Scatter the malevolent qi, obliterate the demonic forms! The Spirit Official in wrath, flames of Kunlun! By the command of the Three Mao Ancestors, haste!”

The talisman floated up on its own, curved midair, shot down the road like a crossbow bolt, passing over the heads of all combatants.

Behind the bandits, a maddening cat scream erupted.

Hundreds of wild cats vanished in an instant—only one black cat remained.

The purple talisman settled over the black cat; its eyes glowed blood-red, fangs bared, yet pinned as if beneath a boulder, unable to move.

In the woods, the sorcerer shrieked, three bloody scratches appearing on his face.

Like a dying, ferocious civet cat had pounced on him.

“Die! Die! Die!”

The sorcerer’s face twisted in pain, his expression monstrous—he kicked over the three large bamboo baskets beside him, one after another.

The two dwarves guarding him flinched in alarm and scrambled aside.

The sorcerer tore the white bone whistle from his chest and blew a chilling, mournful tone.

The buzzing inside the baskets surged more than double, as if three streams of black smoke burst forth.

They were venomous bees, each as long as an adult’s little finger, black and yellow striped, their stingers gleaming faintly with metallic sheen.

These bees carried lethal venom; their stingers could pierce leather armor—but once used, the bee died. The sorcerer treasured them dearly.

The town’s strength exceeded expectations, yet so much had already been lost—if he gained nothing, it would be unbearable.

Only now did the sorcerer release all three swarms of venomous bees.

On the road, fighting continued; after the civet cats vanished, the bandits were being pushed back.

Ma the Shopkeeper had long noticed the swarms of bees rising from the woods—he slammed his kerosene lamp onto the ground.

Glass shattered, kerosene spilled, igniting a pool of flame.

His fingers twisted, the talismans fanned open, swept through the fire, catching alight; his hands seemed immune to heat as he crumpled them into a ball.

Flames burned through and through, roaring into a floating fireball the size of a wine jar, flying across the road toward the bees.

“You devilish tricks—I’ll fight you to the death today!”

Ma the Shopkeeper formed a hand seal, then changed it twice more—invoking the Fire Spirit Official, the Fire Marshal, and the Fire True Lord—his index and middle fingers drew a slash from above his nose to his forehead.

Flames, gold within and red without, ignited spontaneously on his fingers—drawn from his own yang qi, fueled by his willpower, aimed skyward.

Far away, the fireball split into three, each heading toward one of the three black streams.

The fireball seemed to possess a deadly pull on the black smoke, drawing the bees to circle around it, reluctant to leave.

Yet as the bees buzzed and swirled, waves of poisonous yin energy pressed against the fireball, causing its glow to flicker dimly.

A bandit tried to hurl a cleaver at the floating fireball—he was tackled by a militiaman, and they rolled in brutal combat.

The wail of the bone whistle from the woods and the flame on Ma the Shopkeeper’s fingers rose and fell in counterpoint.

Elsewhere in the orchard.

Chu Tianshu suddenly halted, turned, exhaled a thick breath, inhaled sharply, and pointed his sword finger at the ground.

The green-skinned fruits on the surrounding trees emitted a sour, bitter odor under the moonlight, making one feel ill.

Worse still was what he heard in his ears.

With his current hearing, even from within the woods, he could hear the fighting in town—the gunfire, the screams.

The shouts of men, the cries of children, the shrieks of women—those were the households in the town’s south, desperately fleeing their homes, escaping the carnage.

This atmosphere felt like a nightmare.

Back home, Chu Tianshu always treated reality as his sanctuary.

No matter how terrifying the dream, waking meant seeing the small bridge and fields before his door, neighbors, villagers walking the path.

But here, someone was trying to turn reality itself into a nightmare—damn it!

When the blade master reached him, he saw the man’s calm face—his eyes filled with murderous intent.

Yet as for killing aura, the blade master was saturated with it.

In his hand, a long, narrow steel blade rested horizontally across his chest—its blade straight, only curving slightly near the tip.

The spine also bore a one-palm-length reverse edge near the tip.

This elite among the Jiaozhi marauders wielded an Yanling blade.

“A great general marches south, bold and bold, waist-hung with autumn-water Yanling blade.”

The Ming Dynasty once sent troops to help the Jiaozhi prince suppress rebellion; the rebels, defeated and fearful, surrendered and offered tribute, receiving rewards.

The Yanling blade techniques entered Jiaozhi then, passed down ever since, still practiced by many, never lost.

“Ruan Zhixiong, Yanling blade!”

The blade master spoke stiffly, narrow eyes narrowed, “You—who are you?”

This man actually understood some Han speech.

Chu Tianshu’s expression shifted—he noticed the man’s left ankle below was missing, replaced by a wooden stump.

So that’s it. The blade master’s strength clearly surpassed the leopard-cat warrior’s, and he understood Han speech—even if he couldn’t converse, he could eavesdrop. He wasn’t here to scout the town.

He must be here because his crippled left leg prevented him from moving as silently and nimbly as the leopard-cat warrior.

“Someone who’s come to cure your madness!”

Chu Tianshu loosened his sword scabbard with his left hand, flicked his fingers—the silver needle shot toward the blade master’s left leg.

The blade master’s eyes turned icy; his left leg stepped back, the long blade already anticipating the move, meeting it.

Indeed, Chu Tianshu had already charged forward, swinging his sword in a whip-like arc, the iron blade like the lash’s tip.

This thick-backed long sword, in his hands, was fiercer than a great dao.

Yet the Yanling blade moved with exquisite precision.

It avoided the sword’s strongest tip, instead sweeping along the rear half of the blade’s side, nearly brushing the guard.

CLANG!

Weapons clashed, sparks flew, each recoiling.

Chu Tianshu flicked his wrist downward—the Yanling blade shifted, using the guard and blade junction to directly block the strike.

As sparks scattered, the sword blade rebounded, leaping with a silver afterimage, thrusting outward.

But the Yanling blade rolled with the momentum, pressing down on the sword and swirling into a flurry of cuts.

CLASH-CLASH-CLASH-CLASH-CLASH!!!

Blade and sword became entangled, the deafening clang of steel grinding against steel merging into one continuous shriek.

The piercing tones rose and fell, never ceasing.

Though the blade master’s left leg was crippled, his prior movements proved he’d adapted—his speed was unaffected.

The only weakness was stability. Without a natural foot, his balance was always slightly off.

Chu Tianshu’s rapid, forceful strikes aimed to disrupt his balance—but the blade master’s technique was so refined, clearly designed for this exact scenario, instantly elevating the duel to another level.

The blades seemed entangled, twisting and turning, but in truth, both men were probing, trying to thrust forward.

Whenever the sword sought to advance, its guard would be grazed by the knife’s tip, forcing it to retract swiftly.

Whenever the knife sought to thrust, its guard would be struck by the sword’s point, momentarily locking their momentum.

Steel turned and advanced inch by inch, clashing with hard impacts.

Even though both handles had shock-absorbing properties, this close-range entanglement, with its high-frequency thrusts and probes, began to make their fingers and tiger mouths ache with unbearable strain.

Whoever slackened even slightly would find the other’s blade piercing their chest and lungs first.

Both sides were forced to concentrate entirely on their arms, their breathing unconsciously held.

But before either could hold their breath to its limit, both suddenly realized a truth.

The opponent was far more stubborn than anticipated; if they continued this way to the end, there would be no victor—only mutual destruction.

TING!!

Both blades snapped back at once, the vibrating steel sparking a brilliant burst of sparks.

The light flashed and vanished instantly.

Both men had already narrowed their eyes, guarding against being overwhelmed by the sudden shift in brightness.

In that exact instant, Chu Tianshu sharply curled his left finger joints and shot out a second silver needle.

Closing the eyes narrows the field of vision, but an open-sensory martial artist’s sensitivity remains unaffected.

If this needle struck any part of the opponent’s body, it would surely be detected.

If aimed at the false leg, the needle sinking into wood would be meaningless.

So this needle was aimed at the goose-wing knife.

A silver needle capable of piercing a one-inch-thick wooden board from five meters away.

Now at point-blank range, aimed at the steel blade, the needle’s tip could not penetrate the metal—so all its force slammed directly onto the blade’s surface.

DONG!!

The silver needle struck the steel blade, twisting violently and shattering into fragments.

In return, the steel blade rang like a steel marble had struck it.

The hand holding the knife had just withdrawn from the desperate exchange; its forward momentum was spent, the next surge not yet arrived—and this shock froze its motion.

The sword’s light seized the chance to flick back, sweeping across the wrist.

A hair’s breadth of delay—paid for in blood!

The knife master’s pupils shrank to pinpoints; his teeth seemed to crack as he kicked back violently.

His severed hand and knife remained suspended in midair; his body had already twisted mid-retreat, sprinting to flee, while his left sleeve flung backward five or six iron sea stars.

He too had hidden weapons.

But during the desperate blade clash, his focus had been entirely on his right arm holding the knife—he had not yet had time to prepare his hidden weapons.

Yet the opponent, seemingly within a fraction of a breath after the blades separated, shifted focus instantly and fired a silver needle at full speed.

To switch focus at such speed, to make the brain command the body’s motion—this burden defied human instinct; it was unimaginable what kind of mental training this man had endured to achieve it.

Chu Tianshu felt a sharp stab in his mind; his eyes flared open, his long sword flickered rapidly, deflecting the hidden weapons, then reversed its grip.

He stepped forward in a bow stance, raised his long arm high; it was neither like a dragon nor a serpent—but in this moment, his power flowed with perfect fluidity, from feet to waist to back to extended arm, as if one single massive tendon pulsed, fiery strength tautening and surging upward, crashing to its peak in an instant.

“Kill!”

Like a silver flask suddenly shattered, swift as starfire.

As the knife master sprinted, the forest shielded him; branches and leaves had already obscured most of his back.

Yet that streak of silver light flashed straight through, piercing three clusters of branches as if unimpeded, driving straight into his torso, burying to the hilt—and dragging his entire body forward half a step, slamming him into the tree.

CHI LA—

The sword tip pierced through the fruitwood, startling a shower of bitter fruits to the ground.

(End of Chapter)