Chapter 13

As a man raised in a modern city, Wang Yu had never faced such a dangerous scene; his heart pounded with fear and dread, his right hand gripping the iron sword tightly, his eyes locked on the small iron crossbow in the leader’s hand—still holding one unshot bolt.

The other three masked men each held a long knife, except one who carried a spear.

What gave him slight relief was that though his left shoulder was badly wounded and bleeding profusely, the pain was not as excruciating as he’d feared—no bones or tendons were broken, a stroke of luck amid misfortune.

The question now was: how could a boy who had only practiced swordplay for a few days survive against these killers?

Fortunately, this body wasn’t his own—even if he suffered fatal injuries, his original body on Blue Star wouldn’t truly die.

With that thought, Wang Yu’s courage surged; he frantically recalled every movement of the Wind-Splitting Sword Art in his mind.

“Watch out—he runs like this, he’s no ordinary acolyte,” said the masked man with the crossbow, staring at Wang Yu, whose height far exceeded his peers. He spoke coldly, then raised the crossbow and fired the last bolt straight at Wang Yu’s face.

Simultaneously, the two masked men with knives charged forward, while the one with the spear took several steps back, firmly blocking the path down the mountain.

“Clang.”

Wang Yu swung his iron sword horizontally across his face, deflecting the incoming bolt, then bent low and ignored the two charging knife-wielders—he lunged straight at the leader.

“Die!”

The leader froze, then roared in fury—but he had no time to reload. He hurled the crossbow aside and drew a short blade from each hip, charging toward the rushing boy.

“First Form!”

Wang Yu roared, steeling his courage, kicked off the ground, and thrust his sword forward—his body instantly accelerated several-fold, surging toward his opponent like a gale.

He knew his life hinged on catching this man off-guard—he poured every ounce of strength into this strike.

The leader felt a gust of wind, then saw the blade before him—he panicked, barely crossing his two short blades in front of his chest.

“Crash.”

Both of the leader’s hands burned with heat; his short blades flew off as if struck by a sledgehammer. His chest warmed instantly—the iron sword pierced through without resistance, driving him backward five or six steps, pinning him to the trunk of a large tree behind him.

“You…”

The leader still couldn’t believe what had happened—he managed only one word before Wang Yu yanked the sword free and swiftly slashed across his throat.

Blood gushed from the leader’s neck and chest; his body slumped lifelessly against the tree.

Wang Yu took a deep breath, held the sword in one hand, and turned to face the two charging knife-wielders.

After killing for the first time, his heart pounded, his face pale—but a strange thrill surged within him, banishing fear entirely.

“Brat, what did you do?”

“Brother Li, are you alright? You can’t really be dead like this.”

The two knife-wielders, stunned and furious, cursed loudly but didn’t stop—they attacked from both sides: one swung both blades down at the boy’s head, the other whipped his knife horizontally toward Wang Yu’s waist—their coordination was flawless.

“Fourth Form!”

Seeing this deadly assault, Wang Yu’s mind sharpened further. He muttered under his breath, stepped sideways sharply, dodged the downward strike aimed at his head, and swung his sword horizontally to block the waist-cut.

“Clang.”

Both the long knife and half of Wang Yu’s iron sword flew into the air. One masked man stood empty-handed, staggering back two steps; Wang Yu’s sword was now only half its length.

Wang Yu froze, still processing the loss, when the other masked man seized the opening—“Swish! Swish! Swish!”—three rapid slashes came in quick succession, blinding white blades merging into one radiant arc, descending from above, nearly blinding him.

Wang Yu couldn’t discern the true path of the three strikes—he gritted his teeth, bent low, and swung the broken sword wildly upward, lunging forward with his whole body and weapon toward the attacker.

“Thud.”

The three blades merged into one, suddenly shifting direction—avoiding the broken sword entirely—and slashed hard into Wang Yu’s sword arm.

Wang Yu winced but didn’t look at his wound—he tilted his body and slammed his uninjured shoulder into the attacker’s chest like a stormwind.

A crack of shattering bone echoed.

The masked man screamed, his body flung away like a sack of grain, crashing heavily to the ground—silent.

“Brother Qian, help!”

The empty-handed masked man, barely regaining his footing, stared in horror. He abandoned his fallen weapon and sprinted toward the spearman, shouting desperately.

Wang Yu, turning around, didn’t hesitate—he swung his remaining half-sword with all his strength. It flew like a dark shadow and buried itself in the empty-handed man’s back.

The running man shuddered, collapsed onto the spearman’s chest, his back now a gaping, bloody wound—blood gushed like a spring.

Only then did Wang Yu feel the searing pain in his arm. He glanced down—his forearm bore a long gash, deep and bleeding, the blood soaking half his sleeve.

But he ignored the wound. Ignoring the agony in his arm and shoulder, he snatched up a fallen long knife and turned to face the last masked man—the one with the spear.

The spearman was stunned, as if trapped in a nightmare.

Four trained killers hunting a mere acolyte—and now only one remained? Not even time to intervene.

Now, seeing Wang Yu staring at him with murderous intent, his throat dried, his legs trembled.

This acolyte was no ordinary child—he was a demon.

The spearman’s mind raced—he said nothing, turned, and fled down the mountain, dragging his spear behind him.

Wang Yu blinked, then exhaled deeply in relief.

But then—a silver disc whistled from the nearby forest, spinning around the fleeing spearman once, then whirled back into the trees.

The masked man screamed—his body split cleanly at the waist, collapsing into a pool of blood.

“Who?”

Wang Yu tensed, eyes locked on the forest.

“Hmph. Fleeing in battle? Did you think I raised you all for nothing?” A cold voice came from the trees. A young man in white stepped out, holding a silver folding fan—its surface splattered with blood. The flying disc had been its transformation.

“Are you really going to kill me too?” Wang Yu tightened his grip on the long knife, his heart sinking.

“Hand over the treasure of Chongyun the Old Daoist, and I’ll spare your life. I’ve searched his dwelling—found nothing. You’re young, yet you fight like this—you’re likely his new disciple. You must know something. Tell me honestly, and I might let you live.”

“I know nothing,” Wang Yu replied without hesitation—he didn’t believe a word the white-clad youth said.

“Heh. Not afraid of death? Qingfeng said the same before he died. I wonder if your head will still be as stubborn after I cut it off.” The youth laughed bitterly, enraged.

“You killed Brother Qingfeng!”

Hearing this, Wang Yu’s face darkened. He raised his long knife before him, bracing himself for a final fight.

After killing three men, he now had growing confidence in his awakened bloodline’s Wind-Splitting Sword Art.

But the next moment, his vision went black—his head spun violently—he collapsed to his knees, sword planted in the ground, blood dripping steadily from his arm onto the earth.

No—too much blood loss!

Wang Yu cursed inwardly, but his body felt limp, powerless to rise—his heart sank.

The white-clad youth paused, then burst into laughter. He lifted his hand, and the silver fan spun rapidly in his palm. With a flick of his wrist, it transformed into a spinning silver disc and shot toward Wang Yu.

Wang Yu couldn’t rise—he felt his soul turn to ash, despair swallowing him whole. But in this final moment, a mechanical, emotionless voice echoed in his mind.

“Drip… drip… Host’s mental activity shows extreme fluctuation… signs of life detachment detected… critical threat identified… Taiyuan Auxiliary System activated passively…”

The next instant, Wang Yu—who had been motionless—rolled sideways effortlessly, dodging the descending silver disc, which arced through the air and returned to the youth’s hand.

The white-clad youth blinked, gripping the returning fan, his eyes narrowing.

“…System incomplete… Unknown energy detected… System repairing using unknown energy… System undergoing anomaly… Repair complete… Scanning host body… Blood loss exceeds safety threshold… Secondary body injuries present… Host has lost bodily control… Auxiliary System assuming control… Automatic protection protocol activated… Entering hyper-synchronization mode… Neural pain perception blocked—99.8% reduction… Muscle tissue at wound sites contracting automatically… Hemostasis at 84%… Adrenaline stimulation initiated… Heart rate doubling… Estimated maximum extreme activity duration: three minutes thirty-six seconds…”

Wang Yu stood motionless, feeling as if he were dreaming.