Chapter 3: So, You’ve Come

“Golden Bell Shield and Iron Cloth Armor!?” The masked man cried out in shock—external martial arts like this take decades of grueling training to achieve such results. Yet this youth, who looked so young, had already mastered this body-tempering art to such a level! It was simply unbelievable!

He tried to pull his blade back, only to find that Jihuo had caught the blade between his fingers; it was stuck as if wedged into stone, utterly immovable.

“Even the Golden Bell Shield and Iron Cloth Armor aren’t without flaws!” The masked man pulled out a silver needle from his robe and shot it out suddenly! A cold glint flashed, but Jihuo’s figure vanished at that instant. The needle pierced only his afterimage.

A soft slap landed gently atop the masked man’s head. Without even a grunt, the masked man collapsed stiffly to the floor. He appeared unscathed, but his brain had been shattered within.

[You have slain Qu Yushan, gaining 51 points.]

“I thought you’d at least capture him for questioning,” Little Red Candy said, not sparing the corpse a glance, still nibbling quietly at her meal.

“No need.” Jihuo brushed his hands and walked toward the door, speaking calmly, “The ones coming to escort me to the capital are Imperial Guards. The ones trying to kill me are here to keep me from going to the capital. Neither act on the Ji family’s orders.”

“And the only effect of my heading to the capital, I suspect, is to influence Ji Xiaoxiong.”

Little Red Candy clapped her hands. Despite eating so much greasy food, her little hands remained pure and jade-like, unstained by a trace of oil.

She took up her red parasol, hovering above the ground, obediently following at Jihuo’s side.

When Jihuo opened the door, the sounds in the inn, previously sealed off by Little Red Candy’s inner force, had already faded. Now, the shouts and clashes were much quieter, and in a blink, silence reigned.

At the same time, the thick stench of blood wafted up from below.

“All the Imperial Guards are dead. They’re so weak,” Little Red Candy peered down the stairs, her voice childlike and sweet.

“They’re just the capital’s garrison, after all. Word is most got in through connections; it’s a lifetime meal ticket. All they know is to eat sea cucumber—what fighting skills could they have?”

Below, the men in black gripped their long blades, eyes glinting with menace as they fixed their murderous gazes on Jihuo, silently gathering at the foot of the stairs.

Jihuo descended slowly, a smile on his face. At his side floated Little Red Candy, clad in a red cloak, barefoot, hovering in midair.

“Want me to handle them?” Little Red Candy asked.

“No need. You’re not suited for this,” Jihuo’s smile widened.

These were all points to be earned!

After years of drawing prizes, unless the stakes were especially high, he’d grown lazy about killing; as a result, his points had dwindled.

Now, with so many delivered right to his door, this would be several rounds of ten consecutive draws!

A shout broke out—no one could say who started it—and the crowd surged toward Jihuo, gleaming blades slashing at him.

“All your escorts are dead. Are you still going to the capital?” Little Red Candy floated in the air, seated on her red parasol, cheek in hand, suddenly asking.

Jihuo moved through the crowd, each slap felling a man with effortless grace. His speed was ghostly—none of the blades even brushed the hem of his robe.

He employed no martial techniques, relying solely on his superior physical attributes. After years of accumulating basic stats, his strength, agility, and constitution far exceeded those of ordinary people—by how much, he’d long since lost count.

Besides, mastery of martial arts inevitably increased one’s base attributes. External arts, for instance, boosted both constitution and strength. That’s why those skilled in such arts were always much stronger and faster than others.

With all his martial skills combined, the sheer passive boost to Jihuo’s attributes was incalculable.

“That’s right!” Distracted for a moment, Jihuo’s hand came down with a crack, smashing a skull to pulp—white and red matter splattered everywhere.

He shook the blood from his hand as three more black-clad men rushed in. His body blurred; with a single slap, he replied, “Of course, since I’m already here.”

In just a few seconds, over a dozen were dead—the speed utterly beyond the black-clad men’s comprehension, defying all logic.

“Ghost!” Such supernatural power, such casual killing, finally shattered the black-clad men’s resolve. They fled toward the doors in panic.

“You go back and let them know. I’ll wait here; it won’t be long before someone else comes for me,” Jihuo said as his speed suddenly increased, his afterimages filling the room and trapping all those trying to escape. Instantly, the inn resounded with the screams of the dying.

...

“Hurry! If anything happens to the Second Young Master, the Eldest Young Master will have our heads!” Along the mountain road, a group of men rode at breakneck speed. Though none wore armor, they were all imposing and powerfully built.

Most striking was the banner they bore—a giant roaring bear emblazoned with gold trim.

At the head rode a tall, burly youth, a murderous aura about him as he glanced disdainfully at the middle-aged scholar in literati robes riding beside him.

“Sir Wen, how are you holding up? Can you go any faster?”

Actually, I feel like vomiting right now... Sir Wen forced a bitter smile. He’d suggested taking a carriage, but these rough men insisted it was too slow and made him ride a horse.

Poor man, so advanced in age, still forced to endure such hardship.

“There’s truly no need to hurry so much. I read the omens last night—nothing major will happen,” Sir Wen said with a pained smile.

“Sir, I’m a scholar too, adviser to the Flying Bear Army. We both know what ‘reading the omens’ really means. Best to speed up,” Lu Shui rumbled, then shouted back, “Faster! Haven’t you eaten? If anyone lags again, I’ll kick his backside!”

You’ve not mastered it yourself... Sir Wen silently complained, gritting his teeth as he spurred his horse on despite his aching rear.

He’d met Lu Shui years ago, then a frail, pale scholar, easily blown over by the wind, speaking in gentle, scholarly phrases. He’d even considered arranging a marriage for him, but seeing his delicate frame, feared he’d pass away before long.

Who’d have thought a few years with the Flying Bear Army would turn him into a man whose arms were thicker than Sir Wen’s thighs, his belly several times larger, and a beard sprouting on his face.

Now, seeking to arrange a marriage, Lu Shui had simply waved it off, declaring, “Not interested in that sort of thing.” Then, with a laugh, he’d smacked a passing guard on the behind and joked, “Haven’t seen you for days; your backside’s gotten perkier.”

They say the Flying Bear Army is bewitched—perhaps it’s true, Sir Wen mused.

Before long, the group reached the inn. Sir Wen looked up, his expression darkening.

“A baleful aura ahead, red clouds shroud the sun—there has been a massacre!”

“Be on guard!” Lu Shui commanded. At once, the Flying Bear soldiers dismounted, weapons at the ready, forming a protective circle around the advisers and Sir Wen.

The inn’s doors were tightly closed; within, all was silent, but the reek of blood was unmistakable, even from afar.

Two soldiers gripped their sharp swords, inching toward the battered doors. One kicked it open, and a wave of blood stench poured out.

The scene was ghastly—dozens of corpses strewn chaotically across the floor, some dismembered and mutilated, others twisted in agony, faces contorted by suffering, still others staring wide-eyed, unable to rest in death.

Death hung thick in the air; the inn seemed the aftermath of a horrific slaughter. Severed limbs and flesh littered the room, blood pooling everywhere, painting a hellish tableau. The once tidy floor was now foul and wrecked—a vision of earthly damnation.

At the very center of the inn stood a solitary table and chair, miraculously unscathed.

There, a youth in tattered hemp clothes and delicate features lounged lazily in the chair. One hand rested idly on the tabletop, the other holding a fine wine cup, slowly savoring porcelain-clear spirits.

Without so much as raising his head, the youth spoke in a calm, even voice.

“So, you’re here.”

His tone was tranquil as still water, utterly devoid of emotion.