Chaotic Battle
The pirates laughed wildly—arrogant, unrestrained, and loud enough to shake the sand.
Yang Ning laughed too, but there was no joy in his voice—only a cold, biting indifference.
"Done laughing?" His tone dropped several degrees. "Good. Then let's finish this."
"You little rats really dared to anger the Blood King," the burly leader snarled as he stepped forward, each footstep thudding like a hammer. "In your next life, try using your eyes!"
The man towered over Yang Ning. At over two meters tall and built like an ox, he cast a shadow that swallowed Yang Ning's figure whole.
Yang Ning exhaled lightly. This bullfrog is awfully confident for someone who's about to be tonight's test subject.
"Die!"
The huge man's fist erupted forward with a roar. The sound of the punch alone cut through the air like a cannonball—this was not the crude swing of a drunk pirate. This was a trained brute, the kind of East Blue fighter capable of crushing stone with a blow.
Yang Ning didn't dodge. He couldn't. He had no speed skills.
So he tested what he did have.
"Soul Furnace."
A translucent barrier snapped into existence. The giant fist slammed into it with a thunderous bang—a shockwave rippled outward, sand lifting off the ground.
Yang Ning's shield, with durability rivaling his entire base HP, was nearly reduced to nothing with a single strike.
A punch like that would've taken most of my life bar… good thing I didn't skip defense, he thought, expression steady.
The brute didn't stop. Grinning through his teeth, he pulled his fist back for a second, heavier blow.
Unfortunately for him, Yang Ning had no intention of being used as a training dummy.
He struck while the man was still recovering from his first swing.
Sword raised—slash horizontal.
Soul-Drain Strike.
Starfire Blade.
And the lingering force of Soul Furnace's explosive energy.
Steel cut into flesh. The huge man barely had time to sneer—
"Your attacks are like my heali—urk!?"
His voice cut off as a thick line of blood sprayed across the sand. His chest split open, ribs exposed beneath torn muscle. He staggered backward, staring down in trembling disbelief.
"H… how…?"
Yang Ning stepped back smoothly, denying him any chance to counterattack.
The brute collapsed face-first, kicking up a cloud of dust. His blood pooled beneath him, staining the sand dark red.
For several long seconds, the pirates behind him could only gape.
Then the scream:
"F-Fist General… is DEAD!?"
The thirty-odd henchmen recoiled in terror. Their leader—one of the Blood King's personal elite—had been slain in seconds.
Yang Ning shook the blood off his blade with a crisp flick.
Not bad. A little rough, but efficient.
He turned to the horrified pirates and grinned lightly.
"Next."
Their faces went pale.
Yang Ning surged forward, sword raised, shield reforming around him. The Soul Furnace barrier shimmering around him meant he could charge straight through the pirate formation like a walking tank.
Normally, a mob fight would be dangerous.
But fear shattered their coordination.
Instead of forming a defense, the pirates screamed and ran.
Bad decision.
Turning their backs on Yang Ning was suicide.
He hunted them down, sword cutting through the rear ranks. Each death fed his passive. Each soul increased his stats. Each kill pushed him to a new power threshold.
The fleeing pirates thought the worst fighting was happening behind them—because all they heard were screams.
They were wrong.
Yang Ning was simply having fun.
By the time the dust settled, their numbers had been cut in half. Only then did the survivors stop running—because they had reached reinforcements.
Dozens more pirates gathered. And from within them stepped a tall figure in full silver plate armor—the Sword General.
His gaze behind the visor was sharp, calculating.
Yang Ning frowned. This opponent looked much harder than the brute.
But instead of fighting… the man stepped back into the formation.
And pointed.
Dozens of pirates charged.
Yang Ning stared. "A group fight? Really? Has East Blue stopped believing in honorable duels?"
Still, he wasn't afraid. If anything, he welcomed it.
"Soul Furnace."
Soul-Drain Strike."
Starfire Blade."
Soul Furnace."
Shield shattering, shield reforming, slash after slash, explosion after explosion—Yang Ning carved through the pirate mob like a reaper in a wheat field.
To the pirates, he was a demon wrapped in an invisible armor. Every blow they landed was absorbed. Every blow he returned crippled or killed.
Eventually, fear crushed what little courage they had left.
They surrounded him, but no one dared attack.
A dozen bodies lay scattered between them.
Yang Ning inhaled deeply, flicked blood from his blade, and looked at them with the focused hunger of a predator.
"If you won't come to me… then it's my turn."
He felt power rising.
He had leveled again.
And his final skill—Feast—was ready.
He checked the panel.
A new keyword blinked beneath the skill.
Digestibility.
Yang Ning tilted his head.
"…What is that supposed to mean?"