Chapter Sixty-Eight: Nothing More Than This

In his previous life, this move of Xiao Nan’s would have been called Su Qin Carrying the Sword on His Back—a counterattack that conceals defense within offense. In this world, it was simply the upward slash from the thirteen basic sword forms, executed with the force of crushing strength, power rising from the earth, the sword’s momentum heavy and commanding.

A metallic crash rang out as sword and saber collided, a burst of sparks flying. Xiao Nan’s arms dropped, his toes pushing outward, transforming his stance from a diagonal lunge into a full split. He was forced down by more than half a foot by the force of the blow. Meanwhile, Wu Gang glared fiercely, his blade trembling as he grunted and flipped backward, landing in his original spot.

“What a strange power—rigid at first, then turning soft, shaking my organs within. This is a true expert,” Wu Gang thought, wariness flashing in his eyes as he pressed a hand to his chest, feeling his heart pounding wildly and the taste of blood rising in his throat. When their weapons met, he’d sensed a deadly, treacherous energy hidden within Xiao Nan’s fierce sword, a venomous force that traveled up his arm straight for his heart, making his blood boil and nearly robbing him of all his strength.

Xiao Nan let out a hearty laugh, drew in his body, and leapt up. The sword’s gleam unfurled like a silken ribbon, thrusting from the side—one stroke at first, then splitting into a dozen, whistling and stabbing like a hail of arrows.

Silently, White Hawk, who had crept up beside Xiao Nan with hands poised to seize him, felt a searing pain in both hands before he could even touch his target. Blood sprayed forth.

Sensing disaster, he shouted and tried to retreat, but he was a beat too slow. The sword’s light surged like a flood tide in spring, flashing past his throat.

“White Hawk…” Wu Gang, just regaining his footing from the clash, saw another trusted subordinate fall. Black Snake and White Hawk had fought alongside him since their earliest days, forging deep bonds through hardship and bloodshed. When they were young and weak, they would fight others over a single blood vitality pill or a lone medicinal herb. Back then, they had eight sworn brothers in arms; now only these two remained.

In terms of skill, Black Snake was formidable, but White Hawk’s martial talent was no less than Wu Gang’s. He had already reached the blood vitality limit of 5.0, just shy of breaking through to the rank of First-Class Warrior. Yet most of the resources had gone to Wu Gang himself, delaying White Hawk’s progress.

For independent martial artists, every bit of advancement was hard-won. Before becoming true warriors, they had to stick together for survival, willing to do anything.

Over the years, Wu Gang had ambushed countless beast hunters venturing beyond the city, had done untold dirty work for others, and his hands were long stained with blood. He had moved from anxious hesitation and fear to brazen disregard and open violence. As his power grew, so did his ambition, almost without his noticing. He believed he could lead his brothers to a better life—his own good-for-nothing younger brother included, who had suffered much in his youth and now could finally enjoy comfort.

Wu Tie, his brother, liked to snatch girls from the academy—an indulgence Wu Gang neither approved of nor opposed, considering it no big deal at heart. As long as they didn’t provoke students from the martial high schools or those from wealthy and powerful backgrounds, he figured it didn’t matter. Ordinary people, no matter how much resentment they harbored, had no choice but to swallow their grievances. Who would dare oppose a martial artist? In the desolate outskirts, sparsely populated, burying a few bodies was a simple matter.

White Hawk, a martial artist at the brink of his blood vitality limit, possessed a strength of nearly a thousand pounds and extraordinary speed. His eagle’s claw technique could skin and dismember with ease, making him a key member of Wu Gang’s tiger-hunting team. Yet such an expert had died without a sound.

“What sword technique is that?” Wu Gang wondered. He knew the Four Seasons Sword Art, but the opponent’s moves differed subtly. There was an unspeakable, chilling murderous intent hidden beneath the misty, rain-like swordplay, as if a bloody rain poured down, each stroke merciless—unlike the style taught at the Four Seasons Sword Hall.

Alarmed, Wu Gang held his saber defensively, not daring to attack rashly. Even as the sword, after felling White Hawk in a single stroke, swept like a night breeze across the throats of four wounded, gun-wielding subordinates lying on the ground, he did not charge forward. He was uneasy—if the enemy had not met him head-on but instead used this insidious, all-pervading swordplay, what would have happened?

“Who are you?” Wu Gang asked in a low voice.

Xiao Nan smiled. “You can guess.”

He clearly had no intention of conversation—what was there to discuss with the soon-to-be dead? Flicking his wrist, sword light blossomed like white flowers. The spacious room suddenly felt damp, as if a chill wind had swept in.

In battle and killing, technique always advanced most rapidly. When one’s blood and spirit were pressed to the limit, with danger at hand, every ounce of potential was unleashed. Xiao Nan felt a surge of joy as his strikes grew swifter; with nearly a thousand pounds of strength, combined with his lethal experience and sword affinity, his power had multiplied many times over.

“A First-Class Warrior is nothing much, after all,” he mused. After one direct clash, his muscles merely tingled and, with a turn of blood and breath, were as good as new. Wu Gang, however, had been slightly injured by the hidden force in Xiao Nan’s attack. This revealed that First-Class Warriors, even with toughened skin and muscle, only gained external defense—perhaps a bit more strength.

Wu Gang’s sole advantage was his extra two or three hundred pounds of force, hardly an insurmountable gap. A warrior with twelve hundred pounds of strength could dominate ordinary opponents, even facing firearms without fear. But against someone like Xiao Nan, who targeted vital points and used soft force to bypass the flesh and strike the organs, that advantage turned clumsy.

In the end, it came down to skill and spirit—anticipating the enemy, responding to each move. Thus, a true martial artist could not neglect any aspect: spirit, physique, or technique. Fail in any one, and you could not be called a master.

As for Wu Gang, with his considerable reputation, he was still only a street fighter. That saber technique he’d just used was interesting, but only just. Having exchanged blows and gauged his own strength, Xiao Nan saw no reason to delay further, nor any need to show mercy. He was here to kill, to eliminate future threats—and Wu Gang was far from a good man, his hands slick with blood. Killing such a man required no moral justification; it was simply removing a cancer from society. That, Xiao Nan figured, made him a good citizen—one whom even the police would award a silk banner in thanks.

He lunged forward, sword stabbing straight. Seeing that Wu Gang made no move to advance, Xiao Nan shot forward like an arrow loosed from the bow, his blade tracing a thin, bright line, whistling as it aimed for Wu Gang’s throat. It was a basic thrust, devoid of any flourish—pure focus, pure speed.

“You underestimate me?” Wu Gang’s heart burned with rage, but he did not lose his composure. He was wary of the enemy’s elusive swordplay, not of his strength. Twisting his wrist, crossing his palms, he advanced instead of retreating, his saber sweeping in a howling arc like crashing waves.

Tiger’s Roar Saber Technique.

Wu Gang had immersed himself in this technique for thirteen years, treading a path of pure ferocity. With it, he’d survived countless life-and-death battles, each time snatching a slim chance at victory and forging his own way forward.

“I am a First-Class Warrior—my hide and muscle are tough enough to resist blades. Even if you strike me, it’ll be a minor wound. But if you take a blow from me, you’ll be split in two.” He did not believe the opponent would dare risk such an exchange. Nor did he believe the young man standing quietly by, who had not intervened, would truly stand aside. That one, whom even he could not read, certainly had some formidable means at his disposal.