CHAPTER 9
Rain poured down in sheets,
heavy and colder than before.
But the sound of the rain…
could no longer drown out the pounding of Yang Feng’s heart.
Yang Feng charged straight forward.
Not fast.
Not powerful.
But he did not stop.
The demonic cultivator tilted his head slightly.
As if observing a small beast daring to bite back.
“Taking the initiative?”
He spoke softly.
“Good.”
Black-gray Spiritual Power coiled around him.
Not erupting.
Not flaunted.
Just thicker.
Heavier.
Like a shadow swelling larger.
Yang Feng felt it clearly.
Not with his eyes.
But with his flesh.
The air turned freezing.
Breathing became difficult.
Each step felt dragged backward.
But he did not stop.
The demonic cultivator did not dodge.
Did not retreat.
Did not defend.
He merely extended a hand.
A simple motion.
Like an adult receiving the punch of a child.
The blade came down.
Clack.
Blocked too easily.
Like stopping a branch.
Yang Feng poured in strength.
His entire body leaning forward.
His arm trembling to hold the line of the cut.
The demonic cultivator looked at him.
Gray, murky eyes devoid of emotion.
But there was something else…
thin as a strand of hair.
Interest.
“Your limit…”
He said slowly.
“…where is it?”
Yang Feng did not answer.
Could not answer.
He did only one thing:
grip the hilt tighter.
Not let it be knocked away.
Not let it be disarmed.
Not let his throat be seized like before.
The demonic cultivator pressed down.
A weight like stone crushed against the blade.
The ground beneath Yang Feng sank.
His knees trembled.
His left shoulder flared with pain.
His right wrist was nearly numb.
But he held.
His knee touched the ground.
Not because he wanted to kneel.
But because he no longer had strength to stand.
The demonic cultivator bent down to look at him.
“Enough?”
The black-gray Spiritual Power pressed harder.
The blade shrieked.
Metal bent slightly.
Yang Feng’s wrist went so numb he could no longer feel pain.
Only… emptiness.
Rain struck the back of his neck.
Cold.
Blood from his left shoulder mixed with rainwater and streamed down his arm.
He knew.
If he let go, the sword would fly.
If the sword flew… he would die.
There was no room for thought.
Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.
No room for fear.
Only one thing left his body could still do.
Hold.
And exchange.
The demonic cultivator pressed further.
The crushing force threatened to grind his arm apart.
Yang Feng tightened his grip.
Breath broken.
Body shaking violently.
Hold longer and he would die.
Only one way.
Change position.
Trade life for space.
Yang Feng loosened his wrist.
Just slightly.
The blade slid downward.
The demonic cultivator thought he had broken.
The pressure eased half a beat.
Only half.
Enough.
Yang Feng twisted his hips.
Clenched the hilt.
Back muscles coiled.
Lower abdomen locked tight.
Tendons along his waist stretched taut.
Calves dug into mud for footing.
All the strength left in his body,
from legs, through hips, along spine, into his right shoulder,
unleashed in a single beat.
A straight cut from below upward.
Clean.
Decisive.
Unswerving.
Shhk…!
The demonic cultivator’s right arm separated from his body.
Black blood burst out into the rain.
For a moment, he stood frozen.
Not from pain.
But from disbelief.
Instantly, he spun.
A sweeping kick.
Boom!
Yang Feng was flung away, rolling through mud.
But his right hand gripped the sword tight…
He did not want to drop it again.
The demonic cultivator looked down at the severed shoulder.
His expression changed completely.
No more interest.
No more teasing.
Only cold.
And fury.
He had been careless.
And he knew it.
He looked at the arm lying in the mud.
Rain poured over raw flesh; black blood thinned, then thickened.
His eyes narrowed.
Not from pain.
But because…
He had never been wounded by someone this weak.
The Spiritual Power around him suddenly destabilized.
Not erupting.
But twisting inward.
Like something strangled from within.
The air before him warped.
Freezing pressure spread across the forest.
His gray face contorted.
Black veins rose along his neck.
He did not smile.
Did not speak.
Only one word forced through clenched teeth:
“Die.”
Spiritual Power around him detonated.
No restraint.
No testing.
No control.
All Spiritual Qi within his Dantian was forced into motion in a single beat.
A dry crack echoed from his own body…
as bones and meridians were forced beyond their limits.
The ground beneath him shattered.
Air was sucked inward then blasted outward in a dull shockwave.
The curtain of rain before him split apart.
Whoom—!
He lunged.
No longer human in shape.
Only a black surge tearing through the rain.
This was the finishing blow.
A strike with everything.
Either Yang Feng died.
Or him.
Yang Feng saw it.
Clearly.
No more fear.
No more thought.
No more rain.
No more bamboo forest.
Only distance collapsing.
One line.
One beat.
The world slowed.
Breath stabilized.
Heartbeat lowered.
The sword in his hand no longer trembled.
The last remaining Spiritual Power in his body was compressed until it burned.
Not scattered.
Not diffused.
But driven into tendons.
Into muscle.
Into every fiber tightening around the hilt.
He raised the sword.
No flourish.
No technique.
Only one strike…
the only strike he might ever deliver in this life.
The demonic cultivator roared.
His left hand gathered all remaining Spiritual Power.
A palm seal black as ink.
Air before it crushed inward.
He did not dodge.
Neither did Yang Feng.
Distance vanished.
Ssshhk—!
Boom—!
Palm and blade met.
Not metal clashing.
But two forces piercing through the rain.
The ground split open.
Mud exploded upward like waves.
In that instant…
Qi around the blade flared.
Thin.
Sharp.
Like a strand of light compressed into a thread.
Not vast.
But enough.
Ssshhk—!
Four remaining fingers of the demonic cultivator’s left hand spun into the air.
Black blood scattered.
The palm seal shattered.
The unstable Spiritual Power recoiled back into him.
The demonic cultivator froze.
His entire body jerked as if struck by lightning.
Spiritual Power inside him twisted backward, slamming into meridians like hundreds of tiny blades.
His eyes widened.
Not rage.
Not madness.
But… panic.
Spiritual Power scattered.
The flow of Qi severed.
Breath choked in his throat.
A stream of black blood spilled from his lips.
He was crippled.
Not because he was weaker.
But because his own force had turned against him.
Yang Feng could no longer stand.
The sword in his hand trembled once more.
Then stabbed into the earth to keep him from falling.
His breathing fractured.
Spiritual Power emptied.
His body hollow.
He dropped to his knees.
The demonic cultivator stepped back half a pace.
Then another.
He looked at his blood-soaked hand.
He understood.
He had lost.
Not because he was weaker.
But because he had poured everything out.
And it fell short.
His face twisted.
Killing intent flared one final time.
He lunged toward Yang Feng.
No techniques left.
Only killing instinct.
At that very instant,
a figure tore through the rain.
Slender.
Compact.
Light as if gliding across the ground.
No footsteps.
No breath.
Only a streak of crimson motion crossing the field of vision.
A red arc sliced across the air.
Thud.
The demonic cultivator’s head fell into the mud.
His body stood rigid for one beat.
Then collapsed.
Rain continued to fall.
Yang Feng’s vision blurred upward.
A woman stood before him, shielding him from the gray rain.
Short hair, blazing red.
Wet strands clinging to cold cheeks.
Lightning flashed behind her, casting her silhouette upon the mud.
Her stance straight.
Compact.
Unwavering…
as if wind and rain avoided her.
She lowered her gaze.
Her eyes deep, bright, and so calm that even the sound of rain seemed to retreat.
Her voice soft, yet clearer than any sound in the night:
“We will meet again… junior brother.”
The world dimmed.
Yang Feng lost consciousness.
And the rain kept falling.
---
