Chapter 39

Qian Zheng stared at the broad black blade, and his suspended heart finally sank.

Yuan Cheng fired arrows in rapid succession; his body movement was no weakling’s, and in close combat he did not use a sword but a heavy blade with a thick spine, a razor-sharp edge, and a straight spine, coupled with the lethal aura forged through countless Shengsi —this stirred memories of battlefield veterans who, after exhausting their arrows, picked up long-handled blades.

They discarded their war bows, formed ranks, gripped their blades, and re-entered the fray like unsheathed blades, slicing through their foes.

Had this not been within the nation’s borders, the heavy blade’s hilt might have been extended with an iron rod.

Qian Zheng’s internal Qi circled, stimulating several major acupoints, briefly sealing the bleeding from his severed arm; the intense focus of battle momentarily dulled the pain. He turned his body sideways, his right blade pointing at the enemy ahead, stepping forward in a curved arc.

Under the starlight, his opponent’s brow was youthful, yet calm and composed.

Like a swordsman who had endured hundreds of brutal battles, he did not rush to strike.

He held the blade, yet did not grip it fully.

Relaxed, like an unbent bowstring, hinting at the terrifying power it could unleash in an instant.

I’m done for…

Qian Zheng cursed inwardly.

If not for that bearded stranger lately hunting down wanted fugitives, he would never have risked coming near here—he would have terrorized villages where news traveled slow. He regretted it.

He should have been more careful today.

Then he wouldn’t have been discovered.

In that moment, the boy’s aura flickered, as if briefly interrupted.

A flash of malice lit Qian Zheng’s eyes—he seized the opening, lunged forward with a heavy step.

His war blade, guided by the forward momentum, carved a sweeping arc downward.

Simultaneously, his body shifted, aligning with the blade’s edge, shielding himself behind its Fengren —this was battlefield swordsmanship. But in that instant, the boy across from him also struck—spinning, his blade a black ribbon.

The two blades crashed together with full force.

One wielded it with both hands; the other, with one.

One charged sideways with a forward lunge, riding the momentum of a diving strike; the other spun in place, drawing power from the twist of his waist.

Two hundred-forged blades collided, sparks exploding in the night.

Both blades veered off to the sides.

But their realms were unequal.

Li Guanyi’s palm went numb.

He gripped the heavy blade with both hands, barely holding his ground against the severed-arm intruder.

Qian Zheng roared again and charged forward, launching his second strike—but Li Guanyi had already unleashed his second cut, his speed and judgment no less sharp than that of a border veteran. Their blades clashed repeatedly, each recognizing the other’s style.

Break Army Eight Cuts!

One version was a modified variant from the borderlands—more treacherous, more vicious.

The other was directly taught by Yue Qianfeng—strict, disciplined, equal to any great martial sect.

Qian Zheng grew more alarmed with every clash.

Masterful blade technique, razor-sharp battlefield instincts, and that killing aura.

If he closed his eyes, he might have sworn he was fighting his old squad leader.

How could a boy of ten-odd years possess such skill, such lethal aura—as if he had danced on the edge of death a dozen times?

Clang!

Another collision—the boy’s blade suddenly shifted. Though a heavy blade, it danced like a butterfly across Qian Zheng’s edge. Li Guanyi’s footwork shifted, sliding sideways, his rising blade grazing the stump of Qian Zheng’s severed arm—a slicing cut, shearing off a chunk of flesh and bone.

Qian Zheng bellowed in rage, veins bulging on his forehead, sweat pouring down.

He swung his blade wildly, guarding his defenses, stumbling backward.

He had severed his own arm to prevent it from becoming a gaping vulnerability—its uncontrolled flailing would ruin his footwork, expose him during sidestepping charges, making it a prime target. The arm was useless, but the pain remained.

He suddenly missed the borderlands.

When his arm was wounded, his comrades would rush to shield him.

Wicker shields would block every arrow.

But now—he was no longer one of them…

Qian Zheng snapped back to awareness.

He remembered his squad leader’s words: the moment you begin longing for something, death is near—so you must look forward.

Now the boy’s blade danced lightly, still striking his wound.

Though an intruder, he could project Qi outward, knocking down a tree—but he was still flesh and blood, far from the realm of true masters.

The agony in his body crippled his combat ability.

Li Guanyi exhaled.

He seemed to understand.

He recalled his duel with the Tielei prince—he lightly jumped, relaxed his wrist, letting the blade feel loose in his grip, his body bobbing slightly, the blade’s edge subtly locking onto Qian Zheng’s vital points. Qian Zheng, eyes bloodshot, lunged forward to kill.

Border veterans knew what to do.

A faint, hazy Qi seeped from his blade.

As Qian Zheng charged, Li Guanyi leapt lightly, stepping sideways—faster by a breath than a stationary start, as if his body had accelerated, evading Qian Zheng’s final desperate slash. Simultaneously, he raised his blade.

His relaxed wrist snapped like a whip, hurling the blade forward.

Like a cun fist strike—loose then tight—this cut exploded with sudden force.

From Qian Zheng’s side, he slashed horizontally against his forward momentum. The three-hundred-forged black blade, fueled by the colossal force of their collision, ripped open Qian Zheng’s flank. The intruder’s body was strong—this swift cut could not sever him—but it was worse than if it had.

Organs spilled out. Qian Zheng collapsed, writhing in agony.

He screamed in pain, discarded his blade, shoved his intestines back inside, foam-tinted pink blood bubbling from his mouth, eyes wide yet streaming tears.

Finally, his movements halted. He gasped: “Mother…”

His hand fell heavily to the ground. He was dead.

Li Guanyi’s taut mind relaxed. He circled around Qian Zheng’s body to retrieve the Suni Bow, gathered usable arrows, drew the bow, and fired several shots into Qian Zheng’s corpse to ensure he was truly dead. Only then did he exhale, collapse onto the ground, his tension dissolving, pores opening, sweat drenching his body.

The strength had vanished as if in an instant; his wrist trembled.

“First time fighting alone—did I unconsciously overexert myself?”

Li Guanyi knew this condition.

After resting awhile, he retrieved the arrows. Arrows were single-use—their center of gravity and the 【sinew】 suffered violent impact upon striking flesh, especially bone and tendon, rendering them crooked, unbalanced, and warped.

Under such conditions, they could not be aimed accurately.

Useless in combat.

Arrows were expensive precisely because this was hard to avoid—it required specialized craftsmen.

An arrow that had struck an enemy was scrap metal—needed realignment.

But scrap metal could still fetch a few coins.

The boy stared at the arrows Qian Zheng had cut through—his heart ached. One tael of silver was what he earned in a month of labor. Could the Xue family reimburse him? Li Guanyi searched Qian Zheng’s corpse as Yue Qianfeng had taught him—found over ten taels of silver, a rank badge, several yellowed letters, and a small notebook—all tucked away.

He sat beneath a tree, surrounded by the stench of blood. The youth raised his head, gazing through the leaf gaps at the moonlight, silent.

He felt the stillness, the vastness of heaven and earth.

The moonlight poured like a spring.

A short while passed.

He heard rustling. He turned—saw the old man who had fled returning.

He was gathering vegetables.

Noticing the boy’s gaze, his face paled—he dropped to his knees to kowtow. Li Guanyi barely stopped him.

The old man hesitated, then said: “Your humble servant and his family thank you, Great Sir, for saving us.”

“These things are worthless—please take them.”

Li Guanyi looked at the vegetables in the mud.

Worthless, perhaps—but surely vital. Why else would he risk his life at night, return after nearly dying, to retrieve them? Were they tomorrow’s meal? Or taxes owed to the court? Li Guanyi said: “Don’t come out at this hour again—it’s too dangerous.”

Worthless, perhaps; but certainly important—why else would someone venture out under starlight, face mortal danger, and still return to retrieve it? Is it tomorrow’s food, or a tax from court? Li Guanyi urged, “Don’t come out at this hour anymore—it’s too dangerous.”

“But come spring, there’s the tax—we must work harder. After spring tax, things will ease.”

“It’s just that spring taxes are coming, so we’ll have to work harder for a while—once spring taxes are done, it’ll be fine.”

The old man bowed lower: “Yes, it’s only been hard these past two years. Five years ago, there was war—they collected ten years’ taxes upfront. Three years ago, they collected five more years’ tax. This year, no annual tax—instead, they’ve switched to seasonal taxes, even higher than before.”

“We used to sell vegetables to the village stalls—but since three years ago, the Xue family stopped charging stall fees, took no cut, provided canopies, and sold noon buns for one copper coin with free soup—so everyone went there.”

“We could’ve sold the vegetables to the village stall, but since the Xue family stopped charging stall fees and taking cuts three years ago, and even provided canopies, and gave out a steamed bun for one copper and soup at noon, everyone went there instead.”

Then he said: “Keep the vegetables.”

“Huh? Oh, yes, thank you—these are all mine, good vegetables, truly, very good.”

The old man nervously set down his vegetables, rubbing his rough, wrinkled hands. The boy reached into Qian Zheng’s money pouch, pulled out a handful of coins, flicked his wrist—and the coins landed in the old man’s arms. He tapped the fallen corpse with his blade: “I’m buying these.”

The old man nervously set down his vegetables and rubbed his thick, wrinkled hands; the boy reached out, pulled a handful of coins from Qian Zheng’s purse, flicked his wrist, and let them fall into the old man’s arms, then tapped his blade against the fallen corpse: “I’ll buy it.”

The old man stared, dumbfounded.

A youth holding a blade, slaying a man beneath the moon.

Such unbridled action carried its own grandeur.

The old man clutched the coins, thanked him, then, disbelieving, tucked them into his chest, slowly backing away. Suddenly, he knelt in the mud, bowing his head hard to the ground several times, then turned and staggered forward, fell, rose, and ran.

The old man clutched the coins, thanked him, then stared in disbelief, tucked them into his chest, and slowly stepped backward—he suddenly knelt in the mud and bowed his head hard against the ground several times, then turned and staggered forward, broke into a run, fell, got up, and ran again.

“We won’t sell Nier anymore. No more.”

"Don't sell Nier, don't anymore."

「…………」

Li Guanyi threw back his head, banged it against the tree trunk, killed the villain, yet felt no satisfaction.

He cursed.

"Fuck this damned world."

"Fuck this chaotic age."

(End of Chapter)