0003. Those Detestable Mystics

In the cabin, the Swastika Mystic Weapon struck through the air—something only a Mystic Weaponist could achieve. Zheng Fanren, who had worn down thirty-seven volumes of "Sensing the Mystical World," still did not comprehend what worldly mystical power truly was.

The Swastika Mystic Weapon was all blade. It was said to strike from nowhere because Mystic Weaponists excelled at hiding; they would first place their weapon in midair, then conceal themselves, launching unfathomable attacks by sensing the mystical forces of the world.

Now, the attack was especially strange; the attacker must be hidden somewhere in the water.

Swish! Swish! Swish! Swish!

The continuous sound of blades being drawn echoed, a dozen sharp steel knives wielded with resolute determination, accompanied by the fierce shouts of the guards as they slashed tirelessly toward the front!

Yet none of them knew where the Swastika Mystic Weapon would strike next. Relying solely on their swift blades, they formed a powerful wall of steel.

From time to time, a comrade would fall dead before their eyes; the sound of bodies hitting the floor filled the air. They did not blink, faces cold and impassive, gazing straight ahead, hearts and bodies as unyielding as iron.

The guards stood with expressionless resolve, as if blind to the deaths around them. As one fell, another stepped forward, even the act of kicking aside a corpse was fluid and practiced.

Behind them, Zhou Ziwen sat cross-legged like a mountain, hands moving rapidly through a series of intricate gestures. As his hands danced, pale yellow light wove through the air, gradually forming an unknown pattern.

...

From the moment the warning of pirates attacking the vessel had sounded, less than half an hour had passed. The ship’s wall, where the window had been opened, now lay shattered like a spider's web.

Outside was the rushing river, still unclear even under the mystical stone lanterns atop the ship. Zheng Fanren did not know how many bodies had rolled out through the breach, nor whether the flesh-eating fish in the river were feasting.

At this moment, he and another, along with the unconscious girl, had been moved to the rear, accompanied by two maids.

Everyone stared motionless ahead, as if drawn by some irresistible force. Zheng Fanren understood that ahead lay hope—hope that might let them survive.

In every heart was a deathly silence; no matter how fierce the battle, it was drowned by an inner quiet.

Zheng Fanren had long understood the rules of this world: a mortal life was as insignificant as an ant before a Mystic.

He refocused, carefully watching the faint swastika-shaped shadow that could end a guard’s life in an instant. He could not entrust all hope to Zhou Ziwen’s gestures, though he knew they were his greatest chance.

The pale swastika shadow traced a harmonious arc in the air, flashing forward again before the blades, killing two more guards in the blink of an eye.

Blood beads drifted slowly through the air, streams spreading across the floor, staining everything in moments. The room seemed awash in red—no chronicler to record, no poet to lament, no artist to capture in ink. Death meant nothingness, not even a name, such was the fate of the blade-wielding guards, for they could not cultivate.

Zheng Fanren was a servant of the Nangong family; had this battle occurred at their estate, he would not even have the right to watch, though he never needed such a right. Yet a strange emotion blossomed within him.

This flower bore no fruit; for one unable to cultivate, no matter how glorious the bloom, it was a fruitless end.

...

Suddenly, Zhou Ziwen spoke softly: “Strike!”

At his command, the guards before him wielded their steel blades with dizzying speed.

At last, they forced the pale light into a narrow space, from which cries of anguish immediately arose.

Those cries were a blessing to all; Zhou Ziwen, whose eyes had been tightly closed, finally opened them, emitting a faint glow. The swastika shadow moved with incredible speed, poised to break free from the tiny space the blades had formed.

At that moment, the cage-like pattern Zhou Ziwen had woven with his hands enveloped the shadow.

Another cry rang out; the lively swastika shadow, like a trapped bird, let out mournful wails as it slammed into the walls of its cage, the buzzing impact echoing a dozen times before it fell into the water like a leaf.

The pirates who had boarded knew the meaning of those cries and retreated swiftly.

Little waves danced across the river, occasionally tinged with faint red, soon disappearing. The battle here was over. The flowing water had no sentiment; the fallen guards needed none.

...

Zheng Fanren had been watching the pale shadow all along, his heart growing ever more wary. He did not know the cause of his unease, yet he sensed a great terror still lingered.

A vague foreboding seized him, tightening his nerves to the utmost, his scalp tingling, hands trembling involuntarily, breath coming heavy and broken.

Beside him, a maid muttered in disgust, “Coward!”

At her words, his breathing slowed in a curious way, his face growing even calmer than before. Then, solemnly, he nodded to the girl.

Seeing his nod, the girl suddenly understood something. She slowly moved behind Zheng Fanren and instinctively took his hand.

...

There was little time to rest; it had been less than two hours since they boarded. The girl's limited mystical power continued to flow into Zheng Fanren as swiftly as possible.

She could draw worldly mystical power into herself, but could not use any mystical arts. She was the most gifted half-Mystic alive. From a young age, mystical power would naturally flow into her, without cultivation.

It was only when the young man who rescued her from her suffering appeared, that she learned she was no longer a useless half-Mystic. Her power could be transferred to him, enhancing his speed and strength!

...

Just then, a drifting voice sounded: “There are few Sealing Mystics left; how unfortunate, how unfortunate…”

The voice rose and fell, near and far, loud and soft—utterly terrifying. Its source was unknown.

“Sealing Mystic” referred to Zhou Ziwen. As the words faded, pale yellow light enveloped Zhou Ziwen, covering him in a mountain-like aura of resolve.

The words were for him, but the attack was not. The room filled with creaking sounds, as if it would burst apart.

Suddenly, the pale swastika-shaped shadow appeared silently before Zheng Fanren.

He had long suspected the enemy's target was the girl he protected, but the confirmation chilled his heart nonetheless.

The fear of death is what allows humans and all creatures to survive. Zheng Fanren was especially afraid—more than most. In this world where Mystics are gods and mortals are ants, he spent every spare moment practicing basic physical techniques, leafing through the universally owned "Sensing the Mystical World."

To be unafraid of death was the mark of fools, used by others to sneer.

Yet in this moment, he was a fool.

A fool who did not dodge.

A fool who flung the slim volume of "Sensing the Mystical World" at the terrifying pale shadow.