Ma Fu watched his men scatter like leaves before a storm—if those leaves were also screaming and tripping over their own swords and one of them was still apologizing to a tree for some reason. Their footsteps faded into the dark forest, and deep in his gut he felt he had made a terrible mistake.
Possibly his worst. And this was a man who had once tried to fight a iron clawed bear while drunk.
The stranger stood among the bodies of his unconscious subordinates, sword dripping, face utterly unchanged. No sweat. No heavy breathing. No sign that he'd even exerted himself beyond the effort of someone swatting a fly that had been annoying for quarter incense worth of time
Ma Fu's mind raced.
I could take down my own men, sure, he thought. I'm Peak Body Tempering 8. Leader of this band for a reason. I once killed a man with a spoon. A SPOON.
But not like that. Not with that casual, almost bored efficiency. Not in three breaths worth of time without breaking a sweat. And now that he was paying attention—now that his bladder was fully engaged in the decision-making process—he felt it.
A pressure in the air. Subtle but undeniable. An aura that didn't belong to a mere Body Tempering 8.
"Fellow Daoist," Ma Fu said, his voice cracking so hard it sounded like a goose being stepped on. He tried to smile. His lips had apparently formed a union and voted unanimously against cooperation. "No—Ancestor. Great Ancestor. Most Ancestral Ancestor Who Has Ancested Very Much. It was just a misunderstanding. A simple misunderstanding. Why don't you... spare me?"
He added a little bow. His spine made a sound like old furniture.
Lu Chen tilted his head, that lazy, infuriating smile still plastered on his face. "Me? Your ancestor?" He let the words hang in the air for a moment—long enough for a family of birds to nest, raise children, and watch them leave home. Then his smile widened. "Shit face, aren't you ashamed of yourself? You're older than me. By like... decades. You have wrinkles, old man. I can see them from here."
---
Ma Fu almost coughed blood.
ASHAMED?! YOUR SISTER! If you had told me you were strong, I would've been the first to flee.
Outwardly, Ma Fu kept smiling, though it looked less like a smile and more like a man having a stroke while also trying to pass a hard dump into the toilet.
"This lowly one did not see Mount Tai earlier. Please, Ancestor, spare this worthless existence. Everything I have is yours—the women, the loot, the horses, my left kidney—it is very strong, very powerful, Ancestor. It is believed that a stronger kidney means more power to do bedroom exercises with a partner. This one's left kidney has been described as 'aggressively healthy' by at least two physicians who did not subsequently disappear under mysterious circumstances—"
Lu Chen's eye twitched.
He'd had enough.
Phantom Mirage Step.
The world blurred. One moment he was ten feet away, listening to a man auction off his own internal organs. The next moment he was right there, fist already extended, expression unchanged except for a single eyebrow raised in profound disappointment.
TWOK.
The sound was magnificent. Not a punch. Not a slap. A twok—that perfect, resonant note of fist meeting jaw with just enough force to send a message without killing the messenger. The kind of sound that makes witnesses go "oof" in sympathy. Even the insects paused their mating cries for one second, whether out of mockery or sympathy, no one could say.
Ma Fu's eyes rolled back so far they probably saw his own brain and had a little private party of their own.His body went limp dramatically and he crashed to the ground like a sack of rotten potatoes—as if those potatoes had also been hit by a truck and then left in the sun for a week.
Unconscious before he hit the dirt. His sword, still held backwards, clattered down beside him. The sword sounded relieved.
---
Lu Chen stood over him, flexing his hand, and glanced up at the dark sky. Oil lamps flickered from the wagon.
"It's night," he muttered, then looked down at Ma Fu's crumpled form. A slow smile spread across his face. "So I guess I knocked the nightlights out of him."
Silence.
Crickets.
Another silence.
At one point the silence was profoundly bored.
Shut up.
---
[Battle Summary]
[Defeated: 1 cultivator — at BT8 (Peak, allegedly. This supreme system has questions.)]
[EXP Gained: +22]
[Breakthrough Progress: 526 / 2560 → 548 / 2560 towards Body Forging]
[Basic Sword Lvl. 1: 50.5% → 51%]
---
Lu Chen turned away from Ma Fu's crumpled form and walked toward the bound guards, his sword cut through spirit ropes. The ropes snapped like over-cooked noodles. The moment they were free, the guards didn't waste time with thanks or dramatic speeches—they immediately set to work, grabbing the unconscious bandits and binding them with the very same ropes that had held them moments ago.
Efficient. Professional. No nonsense.
Lu Chen nodded to himself. These are good men. I should get some for myself. Maybe a subscription service. "Monthly Bandit-Beaters."
---
Some distance away, the fleeing bandits felt an ominous chill run down their spines. One of them left a shoe behind. He did not go back for it.
"Shoe!" he cried. "You were my only true friend!"
"SHUT UP AND RUN!"
Another bandit tripped over nothing—absolutely nothing—and hit the dirt like a sack of regret. He raised a trembling fist to the sky.
"Tell my family... I died bravely!"
"You tripped on AIR!"
"The air is a worthy opponent!"
His comrade hauled him up by the collar. "MOVE YOUR FAT—"
---
Old Guard Wei rose slowly, one hand pressed to his wounded side, his weathered face pale but his eyes sharp. Those eyes never left Lu Chen, and as the old man studied him, his expression shifted—the suspicion, the wariness, the fear—all of it had melted away like butter on a hot stove, replaced by something warm and almost reverent. The kind of look a man gives when he has just watched a god descend from heaven and punch a demon in the face.
He bowed as deeply as his injuries would allow, which was approximately the depth of a man who desperately wanted to show respect but also desperately wanted his spine to remain intact. His white beard brushed the dirt.
"Young Daoist," he said, his voice thick with enough gratitude, "thank you for saving us. This old man owes you his life, and the lives of the young mistresses. If there is anything—anything at all—that this old man can do to repay you, you need only ask."
Lu Chen waved a hand. "It was nothing."
Wei straightened, his eyes probing, curious, and now slightly watery. "It was not nothing, Young Daoist. If this old man may be so bold... which family produced such a young genius? Which sect trained such skill? Your technique, your movement, your calm under pressure, this old man has seen few equals."
Lu Chen saw the question for what it was—a probe, disguised as polite curiosity, an attempt to measure his value and his connections. He smiled anyway, because it didn't cost him anything and because Old Guard Wei had very sincere eyebrows.
"This young Lu Chen is flattered, but I'm merely average at most." A pause, just long enough to let the words settle. "I'm affiliated with the Sky-Reaching Sect."
---
Old Guard Wei's brain exploded.
His brain, inside his skull, detonated with the force of a thousand suns. Fortunately, his skull was very thick, so nobody noticed except for a small, confused bird that flew into a tree sensing a life threatening explosion but seeing nothing.
Sky-Reaching Sect?! One of the few supreme sects in the world?! THE Sky-Reaching Sect?! The sect that produces monsters and legends and cultivators who shake the heavens and probably have very impressive kidneys?! THIS young man is from THERE?!
If there had been 180 degrees of attitude shift before, Wei's attitude had now turned a full 180 squared—except that wasn't possible, so his respect had simply... ascended to a new plane of existence. It was currently having tea with the gods and discussing real estate.
---
In Wei's eyes, Lu Chen was no longer just a strong cultivator. He was honest—he'd called himself average, after all, the very picture of humility. He was wise beyond his years—those foul words he'd used earlier, calling Ma Fu "shit face" and mocking his intelligence? Clearly, Wei decided, that was strategic genius of the highest order. Deliberate provocation to make the bandit leader angry and off-balance, to exploit his mistakes and end the fight faster. A masterful psychological tactic.
Yes, Wei thought, nodding to himself. That was definitely it. Definitely.
Lu Chen, who had simply called Ma Fu "shit face" because it was funny and the man had a very punchable face and also because he'd been slightly angry, accepted the assumption without correction.
It was easier that way. And also funnier.
---
Wei straightened his robes—or tried to, given the blood and dirt and the fact that one sleeve was now mostly theoretical—and hurried toward the wagon where the two young mistresses waited. He practically dragged them forward, presenting them like offerings at an altar, his hands trembling with a reverence usually reserved for ancestral shrines and really good discounts on spirit rice.
"Young Daoist Lu," he said, his voice now dripping with so much respect it was almost liquid—you could have bottled it and sold it as a sauce, "may this old man present First Young Mistress Lin Xue and Second Young Mistress Lin Mei."
[TO BE CONTINUED...]