Chapter Thirty-One: Bloodshed at the Great King’s Manor

Lin Feng and Wang Hu raced to the martial training ground at the heart of the village. Villagers rushed in from all sides, snatching swords, forks, and staves from the weapon racks before hurrying to the village entrance. Though fully aware that death was likely, they would fight to the last to defend their home.

Amongst the weapon racks, Lin Feng did not spot the heavy spear Wang Hu had mentioned until Wang Hu led him to the edge of the field. There, lying flat on the ground, was an enormous spear.

The sight of it astounded Lin Feng. The shaft was as thick as a bowl, black and lustrous without a trace of rust, stretching over thirty feet in length. The spearhead alone was six feet long, coiling like a dragon and shimmering with a bluish-gray hue.

Indeed, it was a giant spear—so massive that even if one could lift it, swinging it seemed impossible. Lin Feng sighed at the sight, grasping one end and finding it utterly immovable.

“Brother Wang Hu, where did this giant spear come from?” Lin Feng asked in wonder.

“I don’t know either,” Wang Hu replied. “The elders say this spear is older than the village itself. No one knows which legendary predecessor forged it. It’s lain here, untouched, for generations.”

Lin Feng nodded and waved it off. “Never mind, Brother Wang Hu. I can’t wield this spear. I’ll just pick a few ordinary ones.”

“Alright!” Wang Hu replied, gathering the remaining spears onto his back and heading straight for the village outskirts. These spears had iron tips affixed to wooden shafts, so fragile that a few strokes from Lin Feng would snap them. He decided to take them all.

Outside the village, dust billowed across the wild fields as the marauding bandits of Shabao Mountain thundered back into view. The village rang with the barking of dogs and crowing of chickens, livestock and people alike in turmoil. The pounding of hooves beat like war drums, stirring Lin Feng’s blood to a boil.

Nearly a hundred village men gathered behind Lin Feng and Wang Hu. Though it was early winter, sweat beaded cold upon every face.

A glint of light stabbed at their eyes—the sunlight flashing off the cruel, curved blades of the bandits. The hoofbeats drew near; the steam from the horses’ nostrils was now visible. Everyone brandished their weapons. In the eyes of both bandits and villagers, there was but one thought—kill! Kill the enemy!

“Slaughter them all! Avenge our brothers!” roared the bandit chief, a burly man with a shaved head and short beard, brandishing a massive battle axe.

The furious bandits raised their sabers as one, charging forward with a murderous shout.

“Kill!” Lin Feng bellowed, surging ahead. His spear flickered in his hands, a blur of light aimed straight at the bald bandit chief.

“Kill!” The villagers surged after him, their battle cries shaking the air.

The bald bandit chief raised his axe. With a flash of black steel, he blocked Lin Feng’s thrust mid-air. “Crack!” The inferior spearhead, unable to withstand such force, snapped off at the base.

Lin Feng was alarmed. This burly man was also a cultivator—his strength on par with Lin Feng’s own. An ordinary man could never block such a crushing blow. And this bandit chief showed no sign of exertion, his breath steady, his face unflushed—he had not yet fought in earnest.

“Heh heh! Boy, you killed my second brother—now you’ll be buried with him!” The bald brute leapt from his horse, his massive axe swelling to twice its size as it came crashing down like a storm cloud.

Lin Feng cursed his luck. This man was probably a late-stage Qi Refining expert. The Thunder-Crashing Axe, infused with spiritual power, slashed down with a deadly aura, the air hissing and crackling. Without a proper weapon, how could Lin Feng resist?

“Boom!” The giant axe struck earth, gouging a deep pit where Lin Feng had stood. He barely escaped being cleaved in two, his back drenched in cold sweat.

“Catch!” Wang Hu hurled a spear through the air. Lin Feng leapt up and caught it. “I can’t go head-to-head with him—I must think of another way!” His mind raced, but no brilliant plan emerged.

“Boy! Don’t run! Face me and settle this if you dare!” roared the bandit chief, swinging his axe and leaping three stories high. He crashed down like a demon god.

Lin Feng twirled his spear, jabbing the tip into the ground and vaulting away. “Whoosh!” In a flash, he landed fifteen yards off, narrowly avoiding the deadly assault.

“Face me, Lin Biao, in a fight to the death!” The bandit chief missed twice and flew into a rage, tossing his axe to the ground. With a swell of muscle, his fists gleamed with a milky white energy—one blow would shatter bone and tear muscle, if not kill outright.

Lin Feng watched him closely, all the while fending off lesser bandits with his spear, saving two villagers from certain death. The situation was mixed—he had stalled the chief, who could not slaughter the villagers, but Lin Feng himself could not aid them further. Most villagers lacked combat skills and could only rely on numbers, three or four surrounding a mounted bandit and fighting desperately. Even the household dogs joined the fray, biting and clawing at the horses with reckless abandon.

Blood flowed in torrents! Under the winter sun, the dry fields were soaked and blackened with gore, the ground churned to mud by trampling hooves. The stench of blood drew flocks of crows, circling above in anticipation of a feast.

The bald brute, Lin Biao, gathered all his energy into his hands, seized his giant axe, and spun in place, man and weapon whirling like a top, stirring waves of wind and dust as he charged at Lin Feng.

“Formidable!” This attack was overwhelming in both force and speed. In the blink of an eye, the dark blur was upon him. With no time to dodge, Lin Feng braced himself and stabbed into the swirling shadow—“Clang!” The spearhead shattered once more.

Taking advantage of the opening, he rolled aside, narrowly escaping Lin Biao’s “Whirlwind Axe.” When he stood, his arms were numb from the shock.

“Fool! You can’t even handle a mere Qi Refining novice—you disgrace me!” Above, a stately old man in a gray robe descended on the wind, his eyes as cold as arrows, his sleeves billowing in the breeze.

Lin Feng’s face went pale and cold sweat poured down his brow. At the man’s level of mastery, one twitch of a finger could end him. To soar on the wind or ride a sword through the sky was the domain of Foundation Establishment masters—Lin Feng was merely at the threshold of the Qi Refining mid-stage.

Lin Feng was not alone in his terror. Lin Biao, the bald bandit, was also aghast. He snapped to attention and bowed deeply. “Li Biao pays respects to Steward Tong! What brings you here, sir?”

“Hmph! If I hadn’t come, would you have delivered the grain and silver unscathed? I heard that dozens of you died in this backwater village,” the old man’s eyes flashed with cold light as he swept his gaze across the field. “Those who wish to live, cease fighting immediately!” he thundered.

At his roar, some villagers, already trembling with fear, collapsed on the spot, only to be cut down by the bandits. The rest, panic-stricken, huddled together as the bandits surrounded them.

Lin Feng felt a surge of despair.

“Listen well! If you wish to live, surrender your grain and livestock. Refuse, and you all die!” The old man glared at the villagers, then fixed his gaze on Lin Feng. “As for you, submit to me if you value your life. The position of chief at Clearwind Stronghold is vacant—I’ll recommend you for the post.”

Even bandits prized talent. Steward Tong cared nothing for how many bandits Lin Feng had slain; so long as he could bring Lin Feng under his control, it would be a great merit. After all, cultivators were not yet so common as to walk the streets in droves.

“And if I refuse?” Lin Feng sneered. That a disciple of the Hundred Flowers Sect should become a bandit chief—what a farce.

“Then you die!” The old man’s fury erupted, his aura bursting forth. Phantasmal shadows flickered behind him, his oppressive presence shaking the very air.

Villagers and bandits alike wilted under the pressure, faces ashen, shivering in terror. Even the horses and dogs whined and cowered, not daring to make a sound.

“Kill me if you must, but I’ll never be a bandit!” Lin Feng glared, his hand clutching the broken spear trembling.

“Good! You have spirit!” Steward Tong formed his fingers into a sword. With a dull thud, a ray of golden light pierced Lin Feng’s thigh, bursting out the other side in a spray of blood and torn flesh.

“My brother!” Wang Hu’s desperate cry rang out.

Lin Feng turned and managed a feeble smile, sweat streaming from his brow.

“Well done!” the old man snapped, waving his hand. Three more golden beams lanced out—Lin Feng’s wrist and leg were punctured, blood welling from the wounds.

“Do you submit?” the gray-robed elder demanded, his blows meant to cow rather than to kill.

“I do not!” Lin Feng threw back his head and roared, “Never! Never!”

“Very well.” Steward Tong spat out the words, murder blazing in his eyes. Another golden ray shot from his hand, aimed at Lin Feng’s heart.

In that instant between life and death, Lin Feng made a desperate bid for survival, forcing his spiritual power to its utmost along his broad meridians, focusing it to shield his heart. A white radiance flared around him, his body blurring at the edges.

“Hmph! Such feeble protective aura—do you think you can block my Golden Finger?” the gray-robed elder sneered.

Bang! The golden beam struck Lin Feng’s chest, hesitated for a heartbeat, then burst through, unstoppable.

A collective gasp of horror rose from the crowd, unable to watch further.

Lin Feng stood, blood pouring from his chest, legs shaking but refusing to fall.

“Die!” the elder snarled. He loathed stubborn, unyielding types above all, and Lin Feng’s defiance had driven him to fury.

But at that moment, his expression changed abruptly. His hands flew through a series of gestures. With a shout, dozens of golden rays shot out, exploding in mid-air with a blinding flash, scattering sparks across the sky. Many were killed instantly, blood streaming from every orifice. Lin Feng collapsed, coughing up blood.

“Who dares ambush me? Show yourself!” the gray-robed elder bellowed in rage; only his vigilance had saved him from death.

“Heh, brat, calling yourself elder before me?” An eerie, mocking voice echoed all around—Yin Chaozong’s laughter, his figure nowhere to be seen.

The surviving bandits scrambled behind Steward Tong, eyes darting in terror. The steward, sensing danger, slipped a golden shuttle knife into his palm, standing on guard.

The silence was absolute; even the laughter faded. Suddenly, the bandits shrieked in terror—a sound more chilling than a ghost’s wail. Steward Tong looked down in horror. The flesh and clothing of his men began to rot away from the feet up, as if devoured by some evil curse. In seconds, only viscera and bones remained, then nothing but puddles of foul-smelling blood.

“Save me! Steward Tong!” Li Biao, too, was caught by the sorcery. He hopped on one foot toward the steward, desperate.

“Get away!” Steward Tong snapped, his golden shuttle knife flashing like a meteor to pierce Li Biao’s throat.

Blood sprayed from Li Biao’s mouth, striking the steward’s face.

“Ah—what poison is this?” the gray-robed elder screamed. He frantically mobilized his spiritual power to resist, but the poisoned blood ate away half his face in an instant, leaving him more horrifying than a flayed corpse.

“It’s useless. With your power, you cannot resist the Corpse Emperor’s Poison!” Yin Chaozong strode from the village, his eyes blood-red. In a blur, he was at Lin Feng’s side, slipping a pill into his mouth.

“I’ll kill you! Who are you?” Steward Tong shrieked, hands curled into claws as he dove from the air, intent on mutual destruction.

“The Soul-Reaping Heavenly Master, Yin Chaozong!” The old fiend struck with a single palm, a roaring wave of energy blasting the steward away. After a few feeble struggles, Steward Tong dissolved into a pool of rancid blood.

Yin Chaozong retrieved the golden shuttle knife, scraping it clean on a corpse before tucking it away with a satisfied grin.

“Why are you still here? To save you, I used up all my Corpse Emperor’s Poison for nothing but a shabby knife—not worth the trouble!” The old demon shook his withered head, barking at the villagers peering from afar, “Scatter lime and sulfur around this place—no man or beast must set foot here for ten years!”

Lin Feng cast him a grateful look, propping himself up with a broken shaft and limping away. In this battle, the Shabao Mountain bandits were nearly wiped out, but the villagers of Great King Village suffered heavy losses as well. Many bodies were too mangled to bury. That day, every home donned mourning clothes, the air thick with wailing—misery beyond words.

The stench of blood soared skyward, drawing flocks of crows and vultures. After circling a few times, they reluctantly departed. At last, this unnatural scene was noticed by two experts of the Hundred Flowers Sect, tracking evil cultivators from hundreds of miles away.