0012. The Majestic Sorrow of Mo Xi in the Rain

Zheng Fanren still did not move, nor did he need to. The umbrella refrained from entangling with the paper fan, spinning swiftly around the Han man, as the rain continued to strike down the rising red blood.

No one could get close. The Han man still wore a gentle expression, his voice clear: “I simply like his calligraphy!”

Zheng Fanren cursed inwardly: “Damn it, you really know how to play it up.”

He lifted his head slightly to the sky, as if to make sure he wouldn’t be struck by lightning in his misery.

As the Han man’s words faded, his sword descended upon the crowd. The blade darted like a swimming dragon into the throng, making life and rainwater equal in value this night!

Zheng Fanren followed closely, still without drawing his blade, though his anxiety grew. He knew that once he drew his blade, it would mark the difference between heaven and earth. At this moment, the Han man had entrusted his safety entirely to him, throwing himself wholly into the slaughter among the swordsmen.

A dozen corpses fell at the Han man’s feet, finally causing his steps to slow by half a beat. That was the act of death warriors, using their own momentum to control the placement of their bodies after death. Zheng Fanren loathed such tactics—loathed them intensely.

He believed he could be heroic, but when his enemies were equally heroic, he found himself somewhat depressed. So, his first move tonight was not a swing of his blade, but a sweeping step, clearing away the corpses at his feet.

In that half-beat’s time, the human wall had already formed. The death warriors surged forward in endless waves. In the rear, Wan Lixing coughed up blood, finally wresting control of the umbrella, and with some difficulty, asked, “Han man’s sword?”

The Han man neither confirmed nor denied, smiling as he asked, “Master Fengxuan?”

“Younger generation Wan Lixing, I favor the fan. That Nine Palace trap just now—how was it?”

“It was adequate, but the speed was a bit slow.”

Zheng Fanren shouted, “Why waste words when killing?”

Just then, the sword that had been slashing horizontally ceased cutting throats. Zheng Fanren saw it shift from horizontal to vertical, forming a wall of blades rushing forward. The rain instantly erupted in a cloud of white steam, likely from the heat of the mystical energy.

A heavy, dull thunderclap sounded, as if a sword tip had pierced a giant drum!

Only a single sound, yet a dozen figures lunged straight toward Wan Lixing.

A dozen men were stabbed simultaneously, then leapt over the human wall, producing only one sound, a testament to the Han man’s terrifying prowess. Zheng Fanren licked the rain again, forcing himself to accept that a master stood beside him.

Suddenly, a hundred enemies fell silent. Under their gaze, their consciousness followed those dozen companions, drawing a graceful arc through the rain, and terror began to grip their bodies as their hands grew cold around their blades.

Wan Lixing, who had just subdued the umbrella, narrowed his eyes and abandoned his intent to destroy it. Crossing his hands, he snapped them open, and the mystical force from the paper fan sliced through those dozen figures like a cleaver!

Flesh drifted amid the rain, and the hundred enemies felt another wave of icy dread.

“Ha! The Wan family’s method of burial is truly spectacular,” the Han man said as he pointed his sword tip at the umbrella suspended in the air. It spun again, shrouding one swordsman after another in a terrifying white mist.

Wan Lixing gritted his teeth and shouted, “Fall back—shoot!”

The commands “fall back” and “shoot” were issued almost simultaneously! From a certain perspective, it was a sound order—the swordsmen in the field successfully drew the attention of the Han man’s sword and the umbrella.

Yet the archers fired indiscriminately, their targets including their own comrades!

The Empire of Rest glorified sacrifice. No matter how shameful or tragic, such tactics were both rational and necessary.

…

Sword and umbrella finally merged as one, now emitting mournful cries, lamenting that they could only serve as a shield for the moment. Zheng Fanren knew that if this continued, the sound would soon fade; mystical energy in the human body was finite, and could not sustain endless attack or defense.

As the battle raged on in the rain, the calm on the Han man’s face finally gave way to change. He looked at the archers taking turns in the distance, their arrows falling like rain. There was no fear in his eyes, only a slight frown, as if he found it troublesome, then solemnly declared, “You know what to do.”

Zheng Fanren recalled his promise: “Perhaps, when you need it, I can swing a few blades for you.”

But now, it was not a few blades, nor could it be counted in ordinary numbers—it was countless blades!

The more he struck, the more gold it meant, so much that it could only be tallied in hell. Because there were so many, it seemed only in hell could the count be made.

“When all their death warriors have been shot dead!”

That phrase marked a decision—a choice between being pierced by a thousand arrows or victory.

Zheng Fanren licked the rain again, apologetically, “I had no idea the Wan family played so big.”

“How do you control the terror—your heartbeat and breath so rapid, yet your movements so steady?”

“Practice makes perfect in everything. If I move steadily, perhaps even dying will look dignified.”

“You are braver than those who fear nothing!”

Zheng Fanren was pleased by such praise, especially coming from a master. He replied earnestly, “If my usual training can still serve me now, I should be able to buy you half a quarter-hour. Try to kill as many as you can, so we can go to hell and not heaven.”

“Heaven and hell? What places are those?”

“They are two wondrous realms. When people die, they may go there. It’s more satisfying to kill a few more before descending into hell!”

The Han man declared, “Then let us go to hell!”

“Ha! Amitabha, your karma is not cleared—you may not die yet!”

Just then, the Han man suddenly shouted, “Begin the slaughter!”

“Can you not be so abrupt at the moment of life and death?”

…

The umbrella cleared the way, but the sword hidden behind was the true killing strike. As night fell, the red was not the sunset’s glow, but the crimson of fresh blood.

Zheng Fanren had little awareness left; all his focus was on the arrows flying toward him. He didn’t know how many blades he had swung, the clangs and chimes creating a continuous symphony.

He remembered the swordsmen aboard the ship. Perhaps he was no different from them, merely another bloody fragment in this battle.

In only twenty breaths, he had no idea how many more blades he must parry—his arm had gone numb.

He recalled Nangong Mo’s words: “No matter how skillfully you dance, you can’t withstand a mystic’s strike!”

Much less now, when even the mystics struggled against the rain of arrows.

His lips tasted the salty tang of blood—not the enemy’s, but his own.

The Han man’s assault thinned the archers, and the arrow rain gradually lessened, but it could not make up for Zheng Fanren’s weakening strength.

Rain and sweat clung his clothes tightly to his body. In this world, under the arrow storm, the two men seemed so small. The mystical light on the Han man’s body faded.

Though no arrows struck beneath Zheng Fanren’s blade, its color resembled a sunset dissolving in water. He shouted with all his strength, “Fall back!”

A term from some previous life’s sport, easy to understand, but it also signified a certain resignation. The Han man, now in his forties, clearly understood such helpless decisions.

Wan Lixing’s lascivious behavior in front of Zheng Fanren days earlier had seemed to hint at underestimation, but now it was clear he was a player—a player who used his companions’ lives as chips, the kind who would stop at nothing to win.