Chapter Seventy-Seven: A Dispute Without Warning

“Before we came, it was agreed that once you join the team, all actions must follow orders. No one may act independently.” Though Han Zhang wore a smile, his voice was icy and his gaze dangerous.

The blade-wielding man, Ge Feipeng, snorted coldly, looking at Xiao Nan as if he were a fool. Was this a joke? Out in the wild, beyond the city walls, to voice opinions without strength was merely asking for trouble.

Meanwhile, the silent middle-aged man, his bow strung across his back, spoke not a word. His longbow slid quietly to his left hand, while his right shifted, resting perfectly where he could swiftly draw an arrow.

Xiao Nan seemed oblivious to their hostility. “How laughable. ‘Follow orders’—is this an expedition or coercion? When we were in the city you spoke only of taking the main road to Ten-Mile Meadow. Now, suddenly, you insist on this narrow path, for reasons unknown. If you insist on going your own way, then we cannot walk together. I will leave the team.”

He had never truly agreed to join them. Han Zhang and his companions acted as if he were their subordinate, expecting him to obey commands—perhaps assuming he needed their protection. They were mistaken. If nothing changed ahead, the path would surely lead to death.

Xiao Nan possessed a bronze mirror with peculiar abilities, though he hadn't fully understood or mastered it. Yet its passive power had benefited him greatly: the warning of the soul. He did not know how this ability arose or its exact mechanism, only that whenever danger approached, he felt strange, inexplicable premonitions—especially since his spiritual strength had broken through to the state of ‘sitting in forgetfulness’. The sensation was clearer now: sometimes a sudden intuition, sometimes a restless mood, not unlike an animal’s instinct.

Others might ignore such subtle feelings, but Xiao Nan would not. Having faced death, he revered life and would never risk it recklessly.

Finishing his words, he paid no heed to their darkening expressions and turned to Zhang Shu. “That over there is Fragrant Lake, correct? What fierce beasts dwell there?”

“There are a pair of white pythons, male and female. They're formidable, but they mostly remain hidden in the lake, rarely venturing out. When they do, it's usually the smaller snakes hunting.”

“I see. Summer approaches, doesn't it...” Xiao Nan glanced around at the verdant trees and fragrant grass, pondering quietly. Animals have their habits, but exceptions abound—affected by weather, mood. As humans, it’s foolish to speculate on the mood of those pythons.

“I’m leaving the team, Zhang Shu. Will you stay with them?”

“Of course not! I promised my cousin, and I keep my word. I’ll guide you to Ten-Mile Meadow,” Zhang Shu replied, as if someone had stepped on his tail, though regret lingered in his eyes.

He had high hopes for this three-man team, wishing to join them for future expeditions or training, which would have made things easier. He’d accompanied them on several missions recently, forging ties. Now, with his refusal, the chance to join was lost. As for Zhang Yi, he was out of reach—far too powerful for Zhang Shu to even assist, and in dangerous lands, he would only be a burden.

Besides, Zhang Shu prided himself on his strength, seeking accomplishment. The people of Zhangjia Hollow all strove on their own, none wishing to rely on family for life.

“Captain Han, apologies. I promised another, so I won’t accompany you this time. I’m leaving the team.”

“To come and go as you please—do you think a team expedition is child's play?” Han Zhang, moments before relaxed and calm, suddenly lunged forward, crossing more than three meters to stand before Zhang Shu. His right hand, fingers sharp as wind, struck for the chest.

“You—” Zhang Shu's face changed dramatically, but before he could finish a word, the force of Han Zhang’s attack pressed him into silence.

Among martial artists, especially those of society, disputes are rarely settled by reason or right and wrong—conflict often erupts into violence. Han Zhang’s sudden assault was clearly meant to coerce submission, a show of dominance.

Zhang Shu, experienced and possessing a blood vitality of 5.0, realized things were amiss. Xiao Nan’s decision to leave was evidently wise. Han Zhang’s intent at Fragrant Lake was suspicious, and his fury at their departure confirmed it.

Though caught off guard, Zhang Shu reacted quickly. He dropped his stance, exhaled loudly, and launched his fist from the waist, channeling all his strength—his face flushed, his arm dark red, exerting every ounce of power.

“Rock Fist? Too weak, too slow...” Han Zhang’s ordinary Tiger Claw struck with explosive force, about to meet Zhang Shu’s punch. But his wrist twisted, turning claw to palm, angling past Zhang Shu’s wrist.

A flash of blood.

Zhang Shu cried out in pain; his stance shattered. His punching hand went numb, as if the tendons had been plucked, agony and weakness spreading through his body. He could only watch as Han Zhang’s palm, edge upright, pressed forward and struck his chest.

The palm whistled through the air, sounding like an axe cleaving wood—a sign of tremendous force. As a peak first-grade martial artist, with skin and flesh hardened and closed, Han Zhang’s blood vitality could reach 7.5, his strength about fifteen hundred pounds. With skin tempered by energy, his body grew tougher, his power greater, and speed and reflexes improved correspondingly.

Ordinarily, Han Zhang could have felled Zhang Shu with a fraction of his strength. Yet for some reason, this time he held nothing back. If the blow landed, bones would surely break.

Zhang Shu, his wrist injured and force rippling through his arm, was now half-paralyzed. Rage and despair filled his eyes, a deep regret in his heart. He had misjudged Han Zhang—beneath the calm exterior lay ruthless intent. Just because a temporary teammate refused orders, Han Zhang struck viciously, showing no mercy.

As despair set in, a sudden breeze arose at his side, a great force struck his shoulder. His body lost its balance, tumbling away.

To his amazement, Zhang Shu found himself unharmed. The force on his shoulder was strong yet gentle as spring wind, spreading through his body like a push.

Before he hit the ground, he saw a figure in black, suddenly appearing before him, launching a punch.

The stance was similar to his Rock Fist, yet subtly different. He sensed that while the punch was ordinary, its elegance and harmony possessed a breathtaking beauty. The person seemed to grow from the earth itself—the deep, grounded posture as if sinking to the very depths below.