Chapter Eighty-Five: A Lone Wanderer’s World, Part Three

From the instant the three had appeared, He Chang'an had been waiting for that arrow.

The warrior's instinct, together with a thread of sword intent that had suddenly erupted across the surface of the black staff in his dantian and sea of spirit, led him to conclude at once that one of them had already locked onto his life force.

This had nothing to do with the strength of one's cultivation. It was pure instinct, a sixth sense.

Beside him, the burly old man changed color and barked, "Monkey Kuang, what are you doing!"

The little girl named Xiaohui, after all, was far weaker in cultivation. It was only after He Chang'an had evaded the second arrow that she belatedly cried out, "Senior Brother, what are you doing!"

In the jagged chaos of rocks beyond a hundred paces, the young man called Monkey Kuang paid them no mind. He drew an arrow from his quiver, nocked it, and with steady, unyielding resolve, drew the bow and loosed.

An arrow pierced the clouds, soundless and unseen.

In a flash it had already reached three zhang before He Chang'an's chest and abdomen.

This arrow was viciously calculated: after dodging the first two, He Chang'an would have no strength left to evade, leaving Monkey Kuang free to calmly shoot through his dantian and sea of spirit.

This kind of method was all too familiar to He Chang'an.

Top assassins loved this sort of trick: striking without warning, launching a sudden attack that seemed like a single killing blow, when in fact it had already gone through at least two preceding lethal feints.

Only then would the final, inevitable killing strike descend.

Monkey Kuang's third arrow was exactly that, leaving He Chang'an with no way to escape.

So he threw his first punch.

Ever since obtaining the Ancient Fist Technique, he had practiced it whenever he had a spare moment; even in dreams, he likely had been throwing punches.

Thus, this was a purely instinctive punch, meant only for self-preservation.

Or, even if it meant taking the blow and suffering injury, it might still buy him a single breath of time.

When he had trained before, He Chang'an had sought slowness, emphasizing steadiness, depth, and weight in his strikes, making light seem heavy.

But this punch, by instinct, sought speed.

Swift as thunder, like an arrow, like the rage and unwillingness bursting amid lightning and storm.

What nonsense of a Great Tang was this? The human race was forcibly enslaved and penned in by demons and ghostly creatures; so be it, for the two sides had always been irreconcilable. Yet within the human race itself there were still all manner of intrigue and slaughter. What sense did that make?

What reason was there to speak of?

Then smash it with one fist.

The young man named Monkey Kuang had a red mole on his left cheek, giving him an eerie appearance.

In his eyes, a green gleam drifted faintly as he stared fixedly at the arrow he had sent toward He Chang'an. He reached into his quiver, indifferently drew out another arrow, and steadily nocked it to the string.

The third arrow was blasted apart by a punch, which was somewhat beyond expectation.

He knew better than anyone how powerful that arrow was. Even a seventh-rank warrior, after those first two life-or-death exchanges, would reveal an opening of one breath.

This yellow-tier demon slayer before him was only a mere tenth-rank warrior; no matter how violently he erupted, he was, in theory, surely doomed.

Monkey Kuang actually had no confidence in his fourth arrow.

In a warrior's fight, the key was to press forward in one breath; the first three arrows were his masterpiece at its peak.

As for this fourth arrow, its power was likely not even half that of any of the previous ones...

Silently, Monkey Kuang drew the bow to full draw. Blue veins bulged on his forehead. Fine beads of sweat oozed across the surface of his left hand, which held the bow, while his right thumb, forefinger, and middle finger began to tremble slightly.

With a hum, the arrow flew.

Monkey Kuang fell to the ground, spitting out a mouthful of blood. His face turned the color of gold paper, and his spirit slumped.

After loosing four arrows in succession, even this expert seventh-rank warrior was badly depleted; without three or five months of rest and recuperation, he would likely not recover.

...

He Chang'an was, in truth, already at the end of his strength as well.

He had risked grievous injury to his internal organs and the extraordinary meridians throughout his body in order to unleash a swift punch and shatter the third arrow. His vision darkened, and he nearly collapsed.

He dropped to one knee, forcibly swallowed the blood surging up in his throat, and gripped the bamboo sword at his waist with his other hand.

Silently, He Chang'an circulated the Breath-Eating Art, guiding the small and great heavenly circuits to sustain the last thread of clarity in his mind. He had no time to wipe the blood from the corners of his eyes or the stains around his mouth and nose.

For a moment he felt dazed, as if he had returned to those days amid rain of bullets and a hail of gunfire...

Once, he had been gravely wounded; a military dagger had pierced his right lung, and blood had seeped from all seven orifices.

In that sea of blood and mud, he had been just like this: forcing himself onward with one breath, crawling and scrambling for more than nine hundred meters, until his comrades arrived and treated him.

This time, he felt a touch of despair.

After leaving Chang'an City, before reaching the Northern Frontier and Great San Pass, he had in truth always been alone.

A world of wandering one man's life, one man's loneliness.

One man's peril of life and death.

Forcing the small and great heavenly circuits to continue circulating, He Chang'an let his fist intent course through his whole body, ready at any moment to meet the opponent's fourth arrow.

Or the burly old man's fatal strike beside him.

The one who had launched the arrow and ambush against him should have been badly depleted. Even if he could shoot one more arrow, its killing power would not exceed the previous three.

But for the present He Chang'an, even a ruined fighter of the ninth or tenth rank would probably pose a tremendous threat.

As for the burly old man, his allegiance remained unclear, and he was deeply hidden. He Chang'an initially judged him to be at least a seventh-rank warrior, perhaps even higher.

...

Just as the fourth arrow came streaking from afar, He Chang'an's pupils contracted and he was about to force out a second punch.

If this punch landed, the consequences would be impossible to predict.

But he knew in his heart that his dantian and sea of spirit, as well as the meridians throughout his body, would certainly be torn to shreds; his life might even be in danger.

Then he saw the burly old man move.

Without a word, he met that arrow head-on and brought down his blade with savage force.

The arrow was cleaved in two. The burly old man had just taken one step forward, preparing to rush toward Monkey Kuang hidden beyond a hundred paces, when a streak of black light flashed between his brows and his whole body went suddenly dazed.

The old man stood leaning on his blade, his whole body trembling faintly. His snow-white hair, like withered grass in the autumn wind, shivered all over.

Xiaohui cried out in alarm and rushed forward to support him, shouting again and again, "Grandpa, Grandpa, what's wrong with you?"

He Chang'an looked closely and saw that between the old man's brows a grinning ghostly face seemed to flicker in and out of sight. Clearly, he had been branded by some demon or ghostly being and placed under control.

"Monkey Kuang... you vile beast!" The old man reached out as though to lift his blade again, but he truly had no strength left and collapsed miserably to the ground.

He Chang'an sighed inwardly. He did not ask questions, but merely gathered his spirit, continued circulating the small and great heavenly circuits, and secretly drew a breath, preparing to unleash his third punch.

"Old thing, you're ruining my great matter!" Monkey Kuang walked over at a measured pace, his steps somewhat unsteady, clearly badly injured.

As he drew near, Xiaohui grew anxious and shielded the old man behind her, repeatedly demanding, "Senior Brother, why do you keep killing people at random?"

"Why? Go ask your father and mother, ha ha ha." Monkey Kuang laughed heartily, though there was not the slightest trace of mirth on his face; it was exceedingly eerie.

"Your father was killed by my own hand. Your mother became a little morsel for Lady Black Jade. Don't worry, Junior Sister Xiaohui, since you're so delicate and fair, I couldn't bear to let the Lady gnaw you down into a wrinkled strip of human skin..."

Grinding his teeth as he spoke, Monkey Kuang's eyes filled with two strange pools of blood-red light. He walked toward the three in a peculiar, swaying gait.

"I'll kill you, you beast!"

Xiaohui drew her sword in a flash and was about to throw herself forward in a desperate fight.

The burly old man seized Xiaohui's arm and smiled miserably. "Child, run!"

Xiaohui struggled, tears streaming down her face, cursing loudly, but her abuse went round and round and amounted to little more than, "You beast, how ruthless you are..."

It seemed the girl had received proper upbringing after all; she had not even learned a few coarse words. Suddenly confronted by such a calamity, she could only lose her composure in helpless fury.

Monkey Kuang gave a burst of manic laughter without any expression at all and walked to within three zhang of Xiaohui, slowly lifting one arm.

From the wide sleeve emerged a pale bone hand, half a forearm of bare bone, as he said in a chill voice, "What a pity. So delicate and fair. It really should have been stewed into a pot of meat soup..."

...

"You beast, come at me if you have anything to say."

He Chang'an endured the searing pain, used his bamboo sword to prop himself up, and slowly rose.

Then he threw his second punch.