Chapter Forty-Eight: Slaughter

Most of these bandits had never practiced martial arts; they had simply turned to a life of crime out of desperation. Over time, any traces of kindness they once possessed had vanished entirely.

Among them, most were ordinary men—untrained, yet physically stronger than average. They relied on their brute strength and savage demeanor to commit their misdeeds. Only a handful—a mere seven or eight—had actually trained in martial arts. These few exhibited solid muscles, sharp eyes, and even their posture betrayed the discipline of someone who had undergone rigorous training.

Yet, of those, only three could truly manipulate their internal energy.

One of them—a bandit chief—had reached the peak of his physical cultivation.

Gu Cang was equivalent to this peak, but as a spirit beast, his power was further amplified by the flow of true qi within him. Wielding a long blade and military saber techniques, his every strike radiated a murderous intent so fierce that it subdued his foes even before the blade fell.

Once cowed by such a presence, the bandits’ movements slowed, and Gu Cang felled them effortlessly, blade rising and falling, blood spraying through the air like a tiger tearing into a pack of wolves. No one could withstand even a casual strike from him.

With his supernatural strength, every swing cleaved through flesh and bone as if slicing melons—men were split clean in two. The carnage was horrifying beyond words.

Even these hardened bandits, no strangers to blood and death, were shaken to the core by such butchery—the dead left in pieces was simply too terrifying.

In that instant, the mob all but scattered, fleeing for their lives.

Only a handful—the martial artists among them—rushed forward to surround Gu Cang.

“Damn it... is that even human? They say grandmasters can tear oxen apart with their bare hands... Have we run into such a legend?”

The bandit chief broke out in a cold sweat. He took a deep breath, knowing he’d hit an iron wall and that escape would be no easy feat. His eyes flicked to Qingyuan.

The young noble appeared delicate and frail—an easy target. The man in black beside him looked more like an attendant.

If he could seize the youth, he might force the black-robed man to yield.

A desperado hesitates at nothing; the thought crossed his mind and was put into action. He shouted, “Brothers, hold him off! I’ll take the boy!”

He swung his steel blade, a glint of coldness flashing, and leapt toward Qingyuan.

He gathered his internal energy—blood surging, strength swelling, muscles bulging with power. Spinning his blade, he brought the flat down toward Qingyuan’s shoulder.

He didn’t intend to kill, only to wound and take the youth hostage.

“You think I’m an easy mark, but my bones are harder than yours,” Qingyuan sneered, stepping forward empty-handed.

The bandit chief cursed him for a fool. “It may not be the edge, but this strike would shatter even stone. Your flesh and bone don’t stand a chance—I’ll snap your arm in two.”

The blade whistled down, fierce and swift.

Qingyuan’s expression was unchanged; he reached out and gripped the flat of the blade.

It stopped, unmoving in his grasp.

The bandit chief froze, then gasped, his face draining of color.

The other bandits had expected their leader’s blow to shatter the youth’s hand at the very least.

Instead, the blade was caught and held fast.

Qingyuan’s face remained calm, his eyes steady.

The bandit chief tried to wrench his blade free, his face reddening with effort.

“Brother...” he stammered, clinging to the hilt, not daring to let go. “I—no, sir—I admit defeat, it was my recklessness...”

Qingyuan did not reply. With a sudden jerk, he tore the blade from the chief’s grip.

The bandit leader’s calloused hands, hardened by years of handling weapons, were ripped raw. Blood dripped from his palms.

Qingyuan’s foot swept out.

There was a crunch—twice—the bandit chief’s legs snapped, and he collapsed to the ground.

“You’ve committed countless crimes,” Qingyuan said, looking down at him. “Today, I’ll see you on your way.”

The chief’s pupils contracted as he opened his mouth to cry out.

Qingyuan’s face was cold. He reversed the blade and let it fall.

The heavy steel blade drove down, hilt up, piercing the chief’s chest, pinning him to the earth as the tip sank into the ground beneath.

“Chief!”

A bandit cried out in horror.

Gu Cang showed no mercy. Seizing an opening, he plunged his blade through another man, twisting the weapon free through his side, blood spraying wide.

Qingyuan stood by, neither intervening nor stopping him.

Of the forty or fifty bandits, Gu Cang slaughtered nearly eighteen, and the rest scattered like frightened birds.

Seeing Gu Cang sheath his blade and cease the killing, Qingyuan nodded, then picked up three stones. With a flick of the wrist, he hurled them like arrows, two of which pierced the skulls of fleeing men.

As for the rest, their malice was lesser and their crimes not as grave. But the two he slew bristled with murderous energy and had claimed many lives; leaving them alive would only perpetuate evil.

Qingyuan juggled the last stone in his hand, glancing to the side. “You’ve watched long enough, friend. Isn’t it time you showed yourself?”

“An impressive display...” a voice came from the side. A man emerged, applauding with a broad smile. “Ruthless enough, though a bit bloody, but you let the lesser sinners go. Clearly, you’re not a bloodthirsty man.”

Qingyuan’s gaze sharpened, his heart sinking. “Third Heaven,” he thought to himself.

He tossed the stone up and crushed it to powder in his hand.

A stone could kill mortals, but not a cultivator of the Third Heaven.

He let the dust fall, seemingly by chance resting his hand on his iron staff. “And you are?” he asked calmly.

“My surname is Yue,” the man replied.

He appeared about thirty, tall and broad-shouldered, clad in loose white robes with yellow trim. Stubble shadowed his chin, but it lent him a certain rugged, hearty air. “And your name, friend?”

“Qingyuan.”

“A fine name indeed.” Yue clapped his hands. “With your talents—breaking blades with your bare hands—why not put them to use for the country?”

Qingyuan glanced at him. “A cultivator seeks the Dao of immortality, to avoid the calamities of the world and withdraw from the mortal realm.”

“But these days, with the world in the midst of the Investiture of the Gods, things are different,” Yue smiled. “You remain in the world, have not withdrawn. In truth, the path to immortality is harder than ascending to Heaven itself. Yet, with the Investiture underway, if your deeds are sufficient, you may be granted godhood. Is that not also a path to eternal life, to live as long as Heaven itself?”

“An immortal is free and unfettered. A god is bound after death, recorded and subject to the heavens, no longer their own master,” Qingyuan replied.

“Immortality is nigh impossible. Godhood, however, holds greater hope,” said Yue.

“Our paths differ; we cannot walk together,” Qingyuan said evenly.

“Our paths differ; we cannot walk together?” Yue echoed, then laughed. “You’re right.”

His expression turned cold. “I intend to join the army. Yet, seeing the blood you’ve spilled today, regardless of the cause, so many dead—if not beheaded, you should at least be imprisoned... Are you going to make me act?”

Qingyuan gripped his staff, drawing it forth, and slipped his hand into his pouch, holding the tiger-wolf wood carving.

Gu Cang, blade still stained with blood, came to stand at his side.