Rumble...
Thunder roared across the stormy night, as if the heavens themselves were furious, their wrath crashing over the Taikun Mountain Range and drowning everything in oppressive silence.
Within the dark forest, Yang Jueding and Li Qingqiu trudged through the downpour. When they finally reached a stretch of level ground, Yang Jueding turned to glance at Li Qingqiu through the rain.
"This storm will wear us down fast," he said. "The Seven Peaks Alliance is far from here. It'll take several days at least to reach them. Why don't we rest for the night? Tomorrow we can find a town, borrow two horses, and continue from there."
Yang Jueding thought Li Qingqiu had lost his composure, and perhaps walking in the rain for a while would cool his head.
But Li Qingqiu's voice was calm. "No need to rush. We only need to catch up to the retreating Seven Peaks group. They're carrying a lot of wounded. They shouldn't have gone far."
"Ah, I see. For a moment, I thought you were planning to storm the entire Seven Peaks Alliance."
Yang Jueding exhaled in relief—he almost said I thought you'd gone mad.
Marching directly into the Seven Peaks Alliance would have been suicide.
But hunting down a group of injured stragglers? That was an entirely different matter.
"In that case," he grinned, "let's pick up the pace!"
Reinvigorated, Yang Jueding surged forward, and Li Qingqiu didn't stop him—it was exactly what he wanted.
The two figures moved like ghosts through the shadowed woods—Yang Jueding with his lightness technique, Li Qingqiu using the Gale Technique. Their feet barely seemed to touch the ground as they streaked through the rain-slicked darkness.
The night deepened. The merciless rain began to slow, as though the heavens had nearly spent their fury.
Far ahead, along a winding mountain path between the ridges, a column of horses trudged forward. There were several hundred of them, many carrying wounded warriors slumped limply on their backs. Over a hundred others led the mounts on foot, faces grim and silent.
At the front rode Yue Zhenchuan. Rain streamed down his scarred face, but his eyes were colder than steel. Inside, though, he felt a deep, gnawing fear.
A fresh scar ran along his neck—so close to the throat it still stung with every breath.
The image of Jiang Zhaoxia's crazed figure, his sword flashing like lightning, refused to leave Yue Zhenchuan's mind. Nor could he forget the girl who'd nearly run him through with a single strike.
Who could have imagined Qingxiao Sect hiding such terrifying prodigies? Two children, barely grown, fighting with monstrous talent. Add that boy Li Sifeng to the mix, and Yue Zhenchuan could make no sense of it.
Not even among the great hegemonies he'd visited had he seen such monstrous talent.
This grudge was already sealed in blood—there would be no reconciliation. The Seven Peaks Alliance had to return and destroy Qingxiao Sect completely.
If they didn't, ten years from now… no, even five years might be enough for those three to bring ruin upon the entire Alliance.
The more Yue Zhenchuan thought about it, the colder his heart grew. He even began to wonder whether Qingxiao Sect harbored demons or spirits.
The stories of Lin Xunfeng seeking immortality had long become a joke in the martial world. Many, including Yue Zhenchuan himself, had mocked the old sect master for losing his mind. But now, a dreadful thought arose—what if Lin Xunfeng really did encounter something that drove him to seek the immortal path?
The rain had stopped, but Yue Zhenchuan's mood was far from clear skies.
"Heroes ahead, please wait!"
A deep, booming voice echoed through the still air. Startled, the Seven Peaks disciples turned at once, faces pale.
Their nerves were still raw from the day's brutal battle. The thought that Qingxiao Sect's people had come again made every hand grip its weapon tighter.
Even Yue Zhenchuan's heart clenched in alarm. He turned sharply and saw two figures in straw raincoats moving swiftly toward them through the misty night.
The darkness made it impossible to see their faces clearly, but the shapes were human.
Only two—but after the slaughter they'd just endured, even two shadows were enough to make the wounded Seven Peaks disciples tremble. No one dared take them lightly. Weapons were drawn in unison.
They couldn't run—not with the injured weighing them down. Fleeing would only scatter them, making it easier for the enemy to pick them off one by one.
The voice called out again, steady and confident. "I am Yang Jueding. Have you heard my name, friends?"
Recognition rippled through the ranks. The Seven Peaks warriors exchanged glances, shoulders easing in relief.
The Dragon-Subduing Hero—Yang Jueding. In all of Guzhou, his name was famous. No one in the martial world hadn't heard it.
Even Yue Zhenchuan exhaled slowly. He knew the man well—Yang Jueding had once visited the Seven Peaks Alliance as a guest. He'd seen his martial skill firsthand. Though perhaps not superior to his own, Yang Jueding's palm technique had certainly earned its place among the top ten on the Celestial Ranking.
"So it's Brother Yang!" Yue Zhenchuan called out, waving him closer. "Come, let's talk!"
If Yang Jueding was traveling with them, their safety would be much more assured.
Yang Jueding seemed to recognize him too. He quickened his pace, moving forward with Li Qingqiu at his side. The Seven Peaks warriors stepped aside to let them through.
"Why do you look so battered?" Yang Jueding asked with a teasing smile as he lifted his straw hat. "Got into a brawl with the Qing Sect?"
Yue Zhenchuan gave a wry smile. "Just some business gone wrong. Took a few losses, that's all."
Yang Jueding stepped closer, studying the wound on Yue Zhenchuan's neck. He let out a low whistle. "That's some blade work. The strikes were fast—each one aimed to kill."
Yue Zhenchuan's expression darkened slightly. "Indeed. I underestimated them."
"You're all from the Seven Peaks Alliance?"
Li Qingqiu's voice came from behind Yang Jueding. He stepped forward, his tone calm but edged with cold steel.
Yue Zhenchuan didn't look closely at his face, assuming he was one of Yang Jueding's juniors. "Yes," he replied casually. "Our Seven Peaks Alliance and your companion, the Dragon-Subduing Hero, are old acquaintances—"
He never finished the sentence.
A flash of silver burst through the rain-drenched air.
Sword light.
Yang Jueding barely had time to blink before blood splashed across his face. His eyes went wide with shock.
Yue Zhenchuan also froze. His hands instinctively clutched at his throat—but blood gushed through his fingers, unstoppable, spilling down his chest in a scarlet stream.
"You…"
Yue Zhenchuan's eyes widened in disbelief as he stared at Li Qingqiu. His body trembled, staggering backward before collapsing onto the ground.
The surrounding Seven Peaks Alliance disciples froze in shock. One instinctively tried to shout, but before a sound could escape his throat, Li Qingqiu spun around and slashed again—his sword cutting cleanly across the man's neck.
Not far away, a young man—Yue Zhenchuan's disciple—had just sat down on a rock to rest. He was about to pull up his trousers to check the wound on his thigh when he caught sight of his master stumbling backward and falling to the ground. For a moment, his mind went blank.
He opened his mouth to call out, but before the word formed, the man beside Yang Jueding—the one in the straw raincoat—turned and threw his sword directly at him.
Thwack!
The blade pierced straight through the young man's forehead. His body was dragged several zhang away, scraping across the mud before coming to a halt. His eyes were wide open, lifeless and unblinking.
Li Qingqiu strode forward, yanking the sword free from the corpse's skull. With a movement as fluid as shadow, he darted toward the other Seven Peaks disciples.
The remaining warriors finally reacted, spinning around and drawing their weapons to face him.
After breaking through to the third layer of the Nurturing Essence Realm, Li Qingqiu's body had transformed. His senses sharpened to unnatural clarity, his movements became lightning-fast, and his reactions almost instantaneous.
Every time he passed a man, one would fall. One stroke, one death—each cut efficient, cold, and merciless. The hiss of the blade slicing through flesh filled the night.
Yang Jueding, having recovered from his shock, turned and saw the carnage—bodies strewn across the muddy ground. His eyes widened in horror.
So fast!
So ruthless!
He had long suspected Li Qingqiu's strength, but never imagined it could reach such terrifying heights. Even Jiang Zhaoxia could not compare.
"Kill him!"
An older Seven Peaks warrior roared, face twisted with fury. He lifted his saber and charged forward.
Dozens followed, but their charge only threw the ranks into chaos. The panicked horses neighed and reared, some bolting in terror, others throwing off their wounded riders. Screams filled the night as hooves crushed skulls and bones beneath them.
The mountainside descended into complete madness.
These Seven Peaks disciples were already injured—weak and exhausted after hours of retreat. Even if they had been at full strength, they would never have been a match for Li Qingqiu.
And so, the battle turned into a one-sided slaughter.
Yang Jueding felt the chill of fear crawl down his spine.
The killing intent pouring off Li Qingqiu was suffocating—thick, heavy, monstrous.
Yang Jueding was a man of the martial world, but unlike mercenaries or killers, he'd always valued honor and reputation above bloodshed. That was what made him a hero. Yet watching Li Qingqiu carve through the enemy like a god of death, even he felt a pang of dread.
He tried to convince himself that this was justified—that the Seven Peaks Alliance had brought this upon themselves. They weren't righteous men; their crimes in the martial world were many.
Years ago, when Yang Jueding had visited them under the pretense of exchanging techniques, he had really intended to suppress their influence—but failed. In the end, he had to pretend it was merely a friendly visit.
Still, no amount of reasoning could quiet the unease in his heart. Watching Li Qingqiu move like a predator among prey, he couldn't help wondering—if I had to face him in anger, how many moves could I survive?
As the number of Seven Peaks disciples dwindled, their courage broke. Those still alive turned and ran.
But Li Qingqiu had no intention of letting them go.
He gave chase.
Wounded, weary, and burdened by fatigue, the fleeing men didn't make it far. One by one, they fell beneath his sword.
By the time the scent of blood fully soaked into the rain-drenched earth, an incense stick's worth of time had passed.
Li Qingqiu walked back toward Yang Jueding, his sword dripping crimson. Beneath the brim of his straw hat, his blood-streaked face emerged from the shadows.
"Only one left," he said evenly. "He won't get far. Once I finish him, I'll head straight to the Seven Peaks Alliance."
He paused, then added, "Stay here. Without survivors to spread the news, they won't regroup. At dawn, have the disciples clear the mountain and burn the corpses—don't let disease take hold."
With that, he turned to leave, heading toward the direction of the last fugitive.
After two steps, he stopped and looked back.
"One more thing," he said. "Go through the bodies. Take anything valuable back to the sect. And tonight—you tell no one what happened here. Not the disciples, not my juniors. If anyone asks, tell them I went to patrol the mountain."
Then, without waiting for a response, Li Qingqiu turned away, sword in hand, vanishing into the night.
Yang Jueding stood frozen, watching his silhouette fade into the mist at the ridge. The night was vast and cold. Words rose to his throat, but none came out.
After witnessing that display of power, he was certain—even if Li Qingqiu failed to destroy the Seven Peaks Alliance, he would survive.
He stayed there for a long while, staring at the carnage below. The corpses, the blood, the stench—it made his lips twitch bitterly.
The task Li Qingqiu had left him with, he realized, might be no lighter than the killing itself.
…
Meanwhile, three li (≈1.5 kilometers) away—
The last surviving Seven Peaks disciple was fleeing down a rocky slope, stumbling blindly in terror. His foot caught on a stone, and he tumbled violently downhill, rolling and crashing until his body slammed against the ground below.
Groaning in pain, he tried to get up, every limb aching as if shattered.
As he lifted his head, his eyes went wide.
Despair froze his breath.
Standing on the ridge above, illuminated by the moon that had just broken through the clouds, was Li Qingqiu—raincoat dripping, sword in hand, eyes cold as the blade's edge.
The night wind howled softly.
Under the silver light of the moon, Li Qingqiu's figure looked less like a man—
and more like judgment itself.