Qian Zheng stared at the broad black blade—and his heart, already hanging by a thread, finally collapsed into despair.
Long-range, this youth unleashed a storm of arrows. His footwork was deft. In close combat, he didn't use a sword, but instead wielded a heavy-backed saber with a straight spine and a sharp edge. Combined with the killing aura of someone who had clearly survived life-and-death battles, it all reminded Qian Zheng of the battlefield—
Of those elite archers who, once their arrows ran out, would pick up long-handled sabers and return to the melee, cutting down foes like blades drawn from their sheaths.
Had this been outside the inner realm of the kingdom, this heavy saber's hilt might even be fitted with an iron shaft.
Qian Zheng activated his internal energy, pressing several key acupoints to temporarily seal off the bleeding from his severed arm. In the heat of battle, with his mind hyper-focused, the pain dulled. He turned slightly, his right hand holding his saber, stepping in a curved pattern to slowly close the distance.
Under the starlight, his opponent looked young, but radiated calm composure.
Like a battle-hardened swordsman who had survived hundreds of duels—he made no move to strike.
The way he held the saber—loose, unstrained—was like a slackened bowstring, ready to explode at any instant.
I'm doomed…
Qian Zheng cursed himself silently.
If not for that damn bearded man who'd recently arrived in the area and kept capturing wanted criminals, he would never have taken the risk of coming here. He would've continued to prey on those remote villages where news traveled slowly. Now, he bitterly regretted it.
He should have been more cautious tonight.
Then none of this would've happened.
Just then, he sensed a faint fluctuation in the boy's aura.
A glint of viciousness flashed in Qian Zheng's eyes—he seized the opening and lunged forward.
His right-hand saber followed the momentum of his charge, slashing down in a deadly arc.
At the same time, he shifted his body to align with his blade, using the saber itself as a shield. It was a textbook combat maneuver.
But in that same instant—the youth also struck.
He spun as he moved, and his saber sliced through the air like a black ribbon.
The two blades clashed with brutal force.
One gripped with both hands, the other with one.
One attacked from a lunging arc, using the forward momentum; the other spun in place, using the torque of his waist.
Two finely tempered blades collided, sparks bursting in the night.
The weapons were knocked aside in opposite directions.
But the difference in cultivation level was clear.
A jolt of numbness shot through Li Guanyi's palms.
Gripping his heavy saber with both hands, he could barely match the strength of this one-armed martial cultivator.
Qian Zheng roared again, charging with a second strike. But Li Guanyi's next slash came just as swiftly, his speed and reaction no less than that of the old border soldier.
Their sabers clashed again and again—each recognized the other's technique.
The Eight Sabers of Po Jun!
But one had adapted it from battlefield experience, making the moves more vicious and deadly.
The other had learned it directly from Yue Qianfeng—refined, methodical, on par with the top martial sects.
The more they fought, the more shaken Qian Zheng became.
Such practiced technique, keen combat instincts, and a palpable killing aura…
If he closed his eyes, he would've sworn he was dueling Old Sergeant Wu again.
How could a boy barely in his teens have such skill?
How could he carry such killing intent?
He fought like a veteran who had danced on the edge of death countless times.
A metallic shriek rang out.
Another clash—and suddenly, the youth's saber changed rhythm. Though it was a heavy blade, it danced atop Qian Zheng's edge like a butterfly.
Li Guanyi shifted his footwork, sliding to the side. The rising saber scraped across Qian Zheng's severed shoulder—a slicing motion that sheared away a chunk of flesh and bone.
Qian Zheng let out a furious howl, veins bulging on his forehead, cold sweat pouring.
He flailed his blade wildly, trying to shield himself as he staggered back.
He had severed his own arm earlier to prevent it from becoming a weakness—without control, it would be a glaring target during sideways movements. Though the arm was gone, the pain still remained.
Suddenly, he missed the battlefield.
Back then, if he were injured, comrades would come to his aid.
The rattan shields would block all incoming arrows.
But now—he was no longer one of them.
Qian Zheng suddenly snapped back to alertness.
He remembered what Old Sergeant Wu once said:
"The moment you start feeling nostalgic... that's when death comes for you."
"Keep looking forward."
And now—Li Guanyi's saber danced, striking again at the same wound.
Even though Qian Zheng had reached the Martial Realm and could release external energy—he was still made of flesh. Not yet at the realm of invincibility.
The searing pain clouded his ability to fight.
Li Guanyi exhaled slowly.
He seemed to understand something now.
Memories of his duel with the Tiele prince flashed in his mind. He flexed his wrists, relaxing his grip on the saber. His movements became springy—his blade aligned with Qian Zheng's vital points.
Qian Zheng, bloodshot eyes burning, charged forward.
A seasoned veteran knew his duty.
The blade in his hand shimmered with faint internal energy.
As he closed the gap—
Li Guanyi leapt up, stepping sideways mid-air. Compared to starting from a standstill, it was a whole breath faster. His footwork was like a speed burst, dodging Qian Zheng's final desperate slash.
At the same moment—his saber rose.
His relaxed wrist flicked the blade like a whip.
Like a short-range punch powered from a relaxed coil—it exploded with terrifying force.
From Qian Zheng's exposed side, Li Guanyi slashed across his charge's momentum.
The triple-forged, one-hundred-coin black saber—powered by both of their momentum—ripped open Qian Zheng's side.
Though his Martial Realm body was tough, this blade still didn't sever him clean.
Which made it worse.
His viscera spilled out. Qian Zheng collapsed, writhing in agony.
He screamed, tossed aside his saber, and tried to shove his intestines back in with bloodied hands. Pink, foamy blood bubbled from his mouth. His eyes widened, and tears began to fall.
At last, his body froze. He cried out:
"Ma…"
His hand hit the ground, breath gone.
Li Guanyi's tension finally eased. He circled Qian Zheng's body and retrieved his Su Ni bow and any usable arrows.
He drew the bow and shot several arrows into Qian Zheng's corpse—making absolutely sure he was dead—then slumped to the ground, sweating from every pore.
The strength he had just moments ago now vanished. Even his wrists trembled.
"First time fighting alone… guess I overexerted without realizing it."
Li Guanyi understood this feeling well.
After resting a bit, he picked up the arrows. Arrows were technically single-use—once they struck flesh or bone, their balance and "tendons" (i.e. spine/flex) were often damaged. They rarely stayed straight, rendering them useless for precision.
They couldn't be reused in combat.
That's why arrows were expensive—they needed specialized craftsmen.
Arrows that had struck enemies became scrap metal—requiring full recalibration.
Still, even scrap could fetch a bit of coin.
Looking at the arrow Qian Zheng had broken, Li Guanyi winced. One tael of silver—his entire month's wage. He wondered if the Xue family might reimburse him.
From Qian Zheng's body, he retrieved—using the method taught by Yue Qianfeng—a pouch with over ten taels of silver, a waist token, several yellowed letters, and a booklet. He kept them all.
Sitting beneath a tree, surrounded by the stench of blood, the boy looked up through the branches at the moonlight in silence.
The world felt vast and still.
Moonlight poured down like a spring.
After a while—
He heard rustling nearby. Turning his head, he saw the old man who had fled earlier return—gathering scattered vegetables.
When he noticed Li Guanyi watching, his face went pale. He started to kneel and kowtow, but Li Guanyi quickly stopped him.
The old man hesitated, then said:
"My humble family thanks you for saving our lives."
"These vegetables aren't worth much—but please, take them."
Li Guanyi looked at the vegetables on the muddy ground.
Not worth much—maybe. But they must be important. Why else would someone venture out at night, nearly die, then come back to retrieve them?
For tomorrow's meals? For market tax?
Li Guanyi said:
"Don't come out this late again. It's too dangerous."
The old man nodded repeatedly:
"Yes, yes."
"It's just… spring taxes are coming, so we have to work harder. Things will ease up afterward."
"Spring taxes…"
The old man said carefully:
"Yes… it's really just these past two years. Five years ago, the war broke out—they pre-collected ten years of taxes. Then three years ago, they took another five years' worth. This year, they're skipping annual taxes, but replaced them with seasonal taxes. It's even more than before."
"Before, we could sell to the village stalls. But three years ago, the Xue family stopped charging stall fees, didn't take commissions, even put up canopies. A pancake at noon only costs one wen, and they provide soup too. So now everyone goes there."
Li Guanyi was silent.
Then suddenly said:
"Leave the vegetables."
"Huh? Oh… okay. These are mine—I grew them myself. They're good vegetables, really."
The old man nervously set down the vegetables. Li Guanyi reached into Qian Zheng's money pouch, pulled out a handful of coins, and tossed them into the man's arms.
He tapped Qian Zheng's corpse with his saber and said:
"I'm buying them."
"He's paying."
The old man froze.
A youth with blade in hand, cutting down evil under the moonlight—acting with such unrestrained spirit, it stirred a kind of righteous awe.
Clutching the money, the old man thanked him, barely believing it, and backed away. Then he suddenly dropped to his knees in the mud, kowtowed several times to Li Guanyi, got up, stumbled, and ran off.
As he fled, the wind carried a sobbing voice:
"Wife—we've got money!"
"We don't have to sell our daughter… we don't!"
"…"
Li Guanyi leaned his head against the tree trunk.
He had slain a wicked man—yet felt no joy.
He cursed aloud:
"Damn this world."
"Damn this chaotic age."
(End of Chapter)