A river of panicked servants flowed past Jiang Dao, their faces pale masks of terror. One by one, they scrambled by, each man trembling. Finally, the last one was clear.
Jiang Dao was about to spur his horse to follow when it happened.
In a heartbeat, the grotesque evil spirit blurred into a streak of black, a shadow detaching itself from the gloom. It launched itself through the air and slammed into one of the lagging servants, bearing him to the ground in a spray of blood. The man's scream was a ragged, piercing thing that was cut short almost immediately.
The convoy froze, a collective gasp of horror hanging in the air.
"Hold your ground! Don't you dare scatter!" A roar tore from Jiang Dao's throat.
With a sound like tearing silk, his saber left its sheath in a silver blur. Fury ignited in his chest. He planted both hands on his horse's back and vaulted into the air, his body seeming to swell with raw power as he charged the reeking, putrid creature.
"Die!"
He brought the blade around in a devastating arc—the Mad Demon Cudgel Technique, channeled through his saber. A phantom of dark, malevolent light clung to the steel. The strike was impossibly fast, aimed to cleave the monster in two.
The spirit shrieked, its blood-smeared face a rictus of cruel glee. It raised a clawed hand, impossibly fast, to intercept the blade.
CLANG!
The impact was deafening. Jiang Dao's full-force blow crashed against the creature's arm, sending a visible shockwave ripping through the air. The spirit howled, not in glee but in pain, as foul-smelling green pus erupted from the wound. Before it could recover, Jiang Dao followed through with a vicious kick to its chest, sending it flying backward.
He didn't give it a moment to breathe. Eyes blazing, Jiang Dao became a whirlwind of steel, chasing the creature down, his saber a torrent of relentless, crushing blows.
The Blood Shadow Saber Technique.
Each slash was a thunderclap, each movement leaving a terrifying, crimson afterimage, as if the blade itself were weeping blood.
From a distance, Fang Biao—the very man who had taught him the technique—could only stare, his jaw slack with disbelief.
The Blood Shadow Saber Technique? Impossible.
How long had it been since he'd shown the boy the forms? Weeks? For Jiang Dao to have reached this level… to conjure a blood shadow with every strike… that was the stuff of legends. It was a mastery that should have taken decades of bitter practice to achieve. Not even the grandmasters in Fang Biao's own sect had ever reached this height. He began to wonder if what he was witnessing was even the same art he had taught.
In a matter of seconds, Jiang Dao had unleashed dozens of strikes, each one honed to a razor's edge of pure power. The evil spirit was completely overwhelmed, its shrieks growing weaker as it was battered again and again.
Suddenly, on a final, brutal impact, the steel of Jiang Dao's saber screamed and then shattered, exploding into a dozen metal shards that whizzed through the air like shrapnel. The force sent a numbing shock up his arm, but he ignored it.
Tossing the useless hilt aside, he let out a guttural roar and drove both hands forward. His palms glowed crimson, radiating a blistering, toxic heat. This was the Poisonous Sand Palm, and he slammed it directly into the spirit's chest.
BOOM! BOOM!
The double strike landed with sickening finality. The creature's final scream was choked off as it was blasted into the distance. Where it landed, a horrific sizzling sound filled the air as its body rapidly dissolved, melting away until nothing was left but a pile of fine white powder.
Jiang Dao stood panting, his chest heaving. The sheer force of his assault had shredded the clothes on his upper body. Steam rose from his skin, his body radiating heat like a furnace and carrying the potent, wild scent of a predator. His muscles were swollen, veins standing out like thick cords across his arms and chest. He was a vessel for a terrifying, untamed power.
The fight had been over in moments, but he had poured every ounce of his being into every single move, unleashing his full strength in one explosive burst. The devastation was absolute.
After a moment, he took a deep, steadying breath. His sharp gaze fell on the pile of white powder. He walked over, bent down, and scooped up a handful. As the dust touched his skin, a familiar interface bloomed in his mind's eye.
A flicker of triumph lit his eyes. Just as I thought.
The remains of the evil spirit could fuel his evolution. He saw it instantly: next to five of his martial arts techniques, a single, beautiful word had appeared.
[Modifiable]
Mad Demon Cudgel Technique [Modifiable]
Blood Shadow Saber Technique [Modifiable]
Eagle Claw Iron Shirt [Modifiable]
Wind-Chasing Saber [Modifiable]
Poisonous Sand Palm [Modifiable]
A thrill shot through him. This was the key. He could hunt these spirits, harvest their essence, and rewrite the limits of his own power.
He stared at the list, his mind racing. He'd already boosted the Mad Demon and Blood Shadow techniques once. Of the remaining skills, the Eagle Claw Iron Shirt was the most practical, offering a massive boost to his defense. But the Poisonous Sand Palm… that was tempting. A sixty-year mastery of a poison technique was enough to melt an evil spirit. What could a hundred and twenty years of mastery do?
He didn't hesitate. He focused his will on two of them: [Eagle Claw Iron Shirt] and [Poisonous Sand Palm].
Instantly, his mind was flooded with a torrent of new information, insights, and instincts, as if he had just lived through a century of grueling training in a single second. At the same time, he felt a subtle, powerful shift in his very flesh and blood. The Eagle Claw Iron Shirt, now at the 120-year level, infused his skin and muscles with an inhuman resilience. He could already crush steel with his bare hands; now, he felt as if a blade would shatter against his skin.
His core attributes shifted again.
Strength: 2.5
Speed: 2.1
Spirit: 1.2
Still, he mused, these are all external arts. And not even the most famous ones. Even if I pushed them to a thousand years, they probably couldn't compare to a true internal cultivation method.
If he could just find an internal art, the power boost would be on another level entirely. But that was a dream for another day. Such techniques were treasures, not something you could just find lying around in a place like Hengzhou City.
Jiang Dao let the white powder sift through his fingers. The bulging muscles across his body subsided, the thick veins receding as he regained his normal appearance. He walked back to his yellow steed and swung himself into the saddle.
My Spirit stat is still 1.2, he thought, a familiar question nagging at him. What does it even represent?
There was so much about this strange power of his that he still didn't understand.
"Dao'er! Are you hurt?" His father, Jiang Dalong, had climbed down from his carriage, his voice tight with fear as he rushed over.
"I'm fine, Dad," Jiang Dao said, his voice steady. "We have to keep moving. Now."
"Right. Good. As long as you're okay," his father stammered, scrambling back into the carriage.
The convoy pressed on, moving toward the distant city gates. But the further they rode, the deeper the darkness coiled around them. An unnatural wind moaned through the empty streets, a chilling, mournful sound.
Jiang Dao rode at the head of the column, a new steel saber already gripped tightly in his hand, his entire being on high alert.
Then he saw it.
Standing half-hidden in the mouth of an alleyway was another one. It had the shape of a scholar, an ethereal, unsettling figure cloaked in shadows. It turned its head, revealing half a face etched with a sinister, knowing smile. Its eyes were pits of blackness, and they were staring right at them.
A cold knot formed in Jiang Dao's stomach.
They're hunting us.
At this rate, even if they made it to the gates, his family would be torn apart. And if they drew the attention of the truly powerful ones… There wouldn't be enough of them left to bury.
"Young Master… another one," Pang Lin whispered, his voice trembling. "This is bad. We're still miles from the gate. If this keeps up, they'll swarm us long before we get there."
Jiang Dao's face was a grim mask, his knuckles white on the hilt of his saber. He knew Pang Lin was right.