A Stunning Strike

Bright yellow headlights ringed the battlefield. In Iqbal's sight, the fight raged on. Far off, The King moved within the combat ring like a whirlwind sweeping across the surface of a lake, continuously churning and striking. At the same time, at least one of his battleblades wheeled and darted ceaselessly along the border between light and shadow, cutting off any delusional hopes of escape. Single-handedly, he blanketed the entire battlefield. By contrast, the roar of the sniper rifle's muzzle and the crisp snap of rounds chambering not far away were far clearer to Iqbal. Wen Jifei was the one responsible for coordinating and plugging any gaps. A cigarette, already burned more than halfway down, dangled from the corner of his mouth, white ash spilling onto his chest... Pivoting his muzzle without pause, calm and focused, he squeezed the trigger again and again. The clashing ring of dead iron blades and the piercing whistle of sniper bullets slicing through the air sounded incessantly. *So this is what battle can be like.* Surging blood made Iqbal's palms sweat continuously. His war blade was gripped tight in his fist, twitching and trembling slightly, as if it might slash out uncontrollably at any second. That impulse and longing suddenly reminded him of words he had once heard: "In this world, there is a kind of person you will instinctively want to follow into battle, heedless of life and death." The one who had said this was General Abe Bhutto of the Pakistan Front. Thirty years ago, during the Siberia Red Shoulder Campaign, the general had followed Corps Commander Chen Buer. Those words were his poignant reflection when looking back on that time. Now, Iqbal was personally experiencing the very feeling General Abe had spoken of—in the person of that newly risen star of the Huaxia Front not far away. Yet he knew he could not charge in. Gripping his blade, standing resolute guard in front of little Zhuoma and her parents, Iqbal stood on tiptoe, craning his neck, watching without blinking. As an ordinary Azure Grade D soldier, he wanted to remember this scene, preferably every vivid detail, so that in the future he could recall it and tell it to his soldiers, his wife, his children, and his grandchildren. "Charge through! It's our only hope!" At the edge of the battlefield, where darkness mingled with light, a sudden roar erupted. It was English; Iqbal couldn't understand it. Even so, that didn't stop him from guessing correctly: this was the enemy's final, desperate struggle. For in his sight, the only remaining concentrated cluster of foes on the battlefield suddenly surged toward them as one. A crisis? No. Iqbal watched with composure, because he saw the tempest on the battlefield sweeping toward them at breakneck speed. "He's coming!" "Stop him!" "Flamethrowers!" Amid frantic shouts, two men halted from the flustered enemy group. Strapped with flamethrowers, they stopped and spun around. These weapons had been specially modified to launch fireballs. Originally, they were meant to draw the attention of Great Spikes and mark the locations of Azure squads, or to torch the grasslands and threaten civilians to pin Azure squads down. Naturally, they didn't harbor any wild hopes that flames could harm that man now. All they prayed for was a temporary delay. *Boom! Boom!* The breath of roaring flame burst forth with thunderous fury. Huge jets of burning liquid shot out from left and right, crisscrossing diagonally in midair to weave an imposing, blazing wall of fire directly in front of him. And at that very moment, The King's form blurred into an afterimage, hurtling through the air toward them. "He?!" Iqbal's eyes widened. Reflected in his pupils, an Azure battleblade spinning rapidly along a vertical axis pierced through the wall of fire like a bolt of lightning, ahead of The King. The battleblade arrived in the blink of an eye. The foremost enemy sprinting in the group, closest to Iqbal's position... collapsed flat onto the ground. Then, *hummm*. A tremor rang through the air. The flames on the burning wall shuddered. Han Qingyu could have extinguished the blaze with a burst of source energy, but he didn't. With the source energy surge billowed casually before him, the flames peeled outward from the center like a sheet of paper catching fire from the middle. Then he passed through. It all happened too fast. To Iqbal's eyes, it looked as though The King had simply walked straight through the fire. And because the blade in his hand was smeared with flammable oil, it too seemed alight with fire. *Whoosh...* The burning blade whipped around. *Slash! Shing!* The two enemies beneath the wall of flame had no time to react before crashing to the ground amid sizzling burns. The flamethrowers clattered to the dirt pointing skyward, foot-high flames still flickering from their nozzles. Han Qingyu's boots touched down. At that exact moment—*whir! whir! whir!*—a rapid sequence of source energy apparatuses engaged in explosive bursts. Some loud, some soft, some real, some feints, echoing from Han Qingyu's flanks and rear across multiple angles and positions. A sneak attack. Someone had exploited the chaos of the battlefield and the one-sided situation to orchestrate this fatal strike. Using the brief auditory and visual confusion created by the wall of fire and multiple apparatuses firing simultaneously, the assassin finally struck. The moment the sounds erupted, a slender dead iron weapon resembling a rapier was already thrusting silently toward Han Qingyu's back. The attacker was fast—so fast that even with such a good angle and intense concentration, Iqbal never caught sight of him, leaving no time to shout a warning. *Clang!* The sharp ring of dead iron clashing violently split the battlefield. In that lethal instant, Han Qingyu backhanded his blade, pressing the flat of the weapon flush against his back to block the strike. The collision of source energy detonated at that single point, a torrential surge crashing into Han Qingyu's body. *Pfft.* A mouthful of blood sprayed out. Using the momentum of the impact behind him, Han Qingyu sprang forward to rapidly open up distance. *A top tier?!* Turning to stand on guard, Han Qingyu muttered to himself internally. He hadn't been willing to pop metal blocks to unlock four turbines for this fight. After fusing three pieces of bone source, he still couldn't fully mobilize them all; his usual combat state right now was around two and a half turbines. *Almost pinched pennies right into a disaster.* He had always looked down on Pure Purgatory... He hadn't expected a top combat power to be hiding here. And in all likelihood, the man had arrived with reinforcements right at the start of the battle, keeping his apparatus turned off to conceal himself and observe, biding his time for a single fatal strike. This person was blindingly fast. Following that brief, powerful thrust, Han Qingyu's sweeping gaze had already lost track of him. Apart from occasional groans in the dark, the surroundings were virtually silent. Evidently emboldened by the appearance of this top tier and Han Qingyu spitting blood, the few survivors of Pure Purgatory felt hope rekindle. It seemed they hadn't known their faction's top combat power was here; now they were thrilled, yet wavering on whether to seize the chance to flee. Amid the brief lull, Wen Jifei's rifle muzzle and the beam of his high-powered flashlight swept ceaselessly through the dark, hunting for a target. "Be careful, there's a top tier," Han Qingyu warned, blade held in one hand. He stood where he could watch all quadrants. With his speed and combat technique, holding this position was better than rushing directly to Iqbal and the family; standing beside them would restrict his movement and field of vision. Following up his warning, Han Qingyu added, "Plus roughly three others, none of them weak." As he spoke, two metal blocks dissolved silently against his body. Two were enough. Over the past few days he had consumed too many metal blocks, and his body was reaching its digestive limit; using just two this time, life source energy was already beginning to overflow. Truthfully, if Han Qingyu were here alone, he might have chosen to stay in his current state and use that top combatant to hone his practical combat skills. Yet now Wen Jifei, Iqbal, and that civilian family of three were present. Han Qingyu dared not slack off. "Got it," Wen Jifei nodded in a low voice. "Don't worry too much about me. Keep an eye on them." As he spoke, he swiftly slapped in a fresh magazine, spat out the cigarette butt, dipped his head to pluck another cigarette straight from the pack with his lips, flicked a lighter, and looked up. Wen Jifei remained standing where he was, neither shifting his position nor lowering his sniper rifle. Burying half his face back behind the scope, the war blade on his back—normally worn just for show—suddenly jumped with a *shhh-clack!* and settled back into place. To anyone who knew what to look for, that little hop of the blade required a source energy surge at least on par with a decent Grade A. Wen Jifei had probably practiced it many times. Perhaps he was testing to see if his sensory dice would flip? Though reading it now wouldn't do much good anyway. So it was equally possible he was deliberately drawing the enemy expert's attention. Han Qingyu glanced at him once more... then returned to his focus. His ears strained for the faintest rustle of blades of grass, distinguishing movement frequencies and source energy vibrations. "Since you're already here, don't bother leaving," Han Qingyu suddenly called out toward the direction he deemed most likely. Only after speaking did it occur to him that the other party probably couldn't understand. *Bang!* The sniper rifle fired; Wen Jifei snapped a shot toward that direction immediately. *Clink!* In the darkness, the bullet was effortlessly deflected by a blade. The flashlight beam failed to illuminate anyone. A voice drifted from that spot: "Not leaving." Surprisingly breezy. Not only had he understood, he had answered. This top combat power from Pure Purgatory spoke Chinese... though it had the distinct, strained cadence of a foreigner forcing the words out with an odd accent. Sounded like someone from Siam. "Qingzi?" Wen Jifei asked without turning his head. Han Qingyu shook his head slightly, remaining still. Just a moment ago, he had nearly lunged forward as well. But cooling down, he realized that although the speaker had responded, he might not necessarily be the top-tier combatant... It was fortunate he hadn't acted rashly. "The King? I've been watching for a while. You're far weaker than I imagined." The voice came from another direction, carrying the same awkward cadence and Siamese accent. *Bang!* Wen Jifei wheeled around swiftly, firing again. *Clink!* Just like before, the bullet was parried by a blade. The speaker continued, "That strike just now proved I was right. My name is Naiwichai. I am going to kill you." Still the same accent and tone, but this line came from a third direction. Wen Jifei fired a third shot; the round was deflected once more. He was trying to gather information for Qingzi to gauge the situation. "Is that so?" Han Qingyu spoke up, lifting his head with a faint smile. On the chest of his white combat uniform, a large crimson stain bloomed from where he had coughed up blood. "Yes. The Huaxia Front's new star, the legendary Major Qing, will fall by my hand." This time the voice sounded from a fourth position, a trace of smug anticipation lacing the words. At the same time, he deliberately omitted any mention of his skilled helpers. Presumably, after tonight, the glory of slaying Azure's The King in open combat would belong solely to him. Factoring in the subtle differences in deflection speed and clashing sounds, Han Qingyu thought, *That should be him.* He had formed a rough judgment, yet he still made no preemptive move. The battlefield fell abruptly quiet once more. Everything felt poised on the knife-edge of the moment right before a riverbank bursts. The cigarette in Wen Jifei's mouth continued to smolder. An invisible pressure crept through the air. Iqbal took a deep breath. Seeing the blood at the corner of The King's mouth and on his chest, he began to feel nervous. His eyes filled with worry as he braced himself for battle. Insects chirped, the wind blew softly, and grass blades rustled gently. "Amala... it's quiet. Did he finish hiding?" Beneath the coat, little Zhuoma whispered in her native tongue. The mother glanced back at Han Qingyu and the blood on his chest and lips, then turned back to look at her husband... Doing her utmost to suppress her worry and fear, she whispered gently, "Maybe a little longer. He's been hiding so long, he must be a bit tired." "Mm." Little Zhuoma curled up obediently beneath the coat. She was a child of her word. The mother began to murmur silently, praying to the deities of the plateau on Han Qingyu's behalf. The husband muttered something under his breath, tucked his daughter along with the stranger's coat into her arms, then turned and drew his own short knife from his waist. And so, amidst the taut stillness, the weathered, simple plateau herdsman gripped his knife, gritted his teeth in silence, and took a tense, halting step forward. He was the only person moving across the entire field. The man stopped, planted a foot upon a corpse on the ground, and pulled out an Azure battleblade lodged in its back. Looking up, he hurled it with all his might back to Han Qingyu. "Thank you," Han Qingyu said, catching the blade. The man nodded, offering an earnest, somewhat strained smile, before retreating swiftly to his wife and daughter's side. Knife angled outward, he flanked Iqbal to form a defensive corner. He was trembling—he had already witnessed the terrifying scale of such combat—but he had to protect his wife and daughter. ... *Tick, tick...* In truth, in the world of source energy, when such a battle truly erupted, it began in an instant and ended just as swiftly. Wen Jifei took a deep drag on his cigarette and exhaled, the smoke curling lazily upward through the bright yellow glare. *Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!* The air violently shuddered; combat erupted without warning. Within sight and just beyond it, four figures surged out simultaneously from the four locations where the voices had spoken. One lunged forward, thrusting straight toward the back of Han Qingyu's skull. Another charged diagonally ahead, cutting in between Han Qingyu and Iqbal's group of four. A third pounced directly at little Zhuoma's family. And another bounded high through the air, thrusting his rapier from the flank toward Wen Jifei atop the jeep. *Bang!* The sniper rifle fired first. Tracking the sound, Wen Jifei pivoted and let fly a shot. *Thwack!* The bullet struck squarely over the attacker's heart. Yet it only caused the man's frame to stumble for a fraction of a second. "Die!" With a shout in that Siamese accent, the rapier sliced through the air in a straight lunge. Then, the Pure Purgatory assassin's eyes widened in sudden bewilderment... *How is he so far away?!* Wen Jifei was already a substantial distance from him. At the precise moment he fired, he had used a technique learned from Han Qingyu to voluntarily sever his source energy surge. The enormous recoil produced by the Milla 9 sniper rifle—capable of jarring even a Great Spike's center of gravity—was not something an ordinary person could easily absorb... Thus, as he fired with his entire body completely relaxed, Wen Jifei had simply gone airborne. Just like when he first practiced shooting and his dice abruptly rolled an F, his entire body flew backward at high speed. Just as he had trained relentlessly to overcome tripping during a dead sprint, he had practiced this for ages, even learning to harness the inertial force following an abrupt surge interruption—spitting up who knew how much blood in the process... only to realize later that this could actually serve as an evasive maneuver in combat. *Shing!* Before the assassin could wrap his head around what had happened, an icy chill struck the nape of his neck. A spinning battleblade had just flashed past the back of his head. *Bang!* Still airborne, Wen Jifei fired a second shot. The battleblade ricocheted off the bullet, yet it didn't fly back toward Han Qingyu. Instead, it plummeted ahead of Han Qingyu, right in his path toward Iqbal and the others. Meanwhile, Wen Jifei tumbled into the darkness. By this time, the assassin behind Han Qingyu was already a corpse five meters away, an Azure battleblade planted firmly in his chest. So in that single instant, Han Qingyu had unleashed two Rusty Sister Dimple Slashes simultaneously: one behind him, and one toward Wen Jifei. Han Qingyu at four turbines, holding nothing back, was a half-step Super. With no pause after that opening move, Han Qingyu leaned forward and exploded into a charge, sweeping his blade horizontally to cleave the waist of the man barring his path. *Squelch!* The opponent leaped laterally, grievously wounded but not dead. Han Qingyu paid him no heed. Still charging, he snatched the falling battleblade out of midair and unleashed another Rusty Sister Dimple Slash. Because in his line of sight: The remaining Pure Purgatory assassin had just swatted Iqbal away with a sweep of his sword. Iqbal spat blood in midair. The injury wasn't fatal, but he cried out in agonizing remorse. Little Zhuoma's father couldn't possibly react at this combat speed; he didn't even have time to turn around. Little Zhuoma's mother, however, had bolted forward two steps ahead of time. Yet the mere shockwave of source energy sent the mother crashing flat to the dirt. "Zhuoma!" The plateau mother looked up, screaming in anguish. At that moment, little Zhuoma, along with the coat wrapped around her, was thrown into the air. The Pure Purgatory assassin leapt up, reaching a hand out to snatch her. *Slash.* The assassin's outstretched arm was gone. A figure streaked past him in a low leap, arms opening midair to gently scoop little Zhuoma and the slipping autumn jacket into the crook of his arm before landing steadily, standing with his back turned. Effortless. So this one wasn't the top tier either. None of the four were. Han Qingyu had known this all along. The underlying logic was simple: if a member of Pure Purgatory aimed to kill him, their focus would never be on little Zhuoma's family. At most, that could only serve as a diversion to create an opening, pin him down, or secure a hostage to save their own skins at the end. So, where was he? "Bye-bye, Major Qing." From right behind him, very close, a soft murmur carried a smug chuckle. A dead iron rapier was thrusting toward the center of Han Qingyu's back. At this exact second, Han Qingyu had only just landed, standing back-to-enemy. In his arms, he was cradling a little girl. His hands held no weapon. Naiwichai was certain of the kill. He was a top assassin, and an even more elite ambusher. His movements and strikes were invariably swift and practically noiseless. Tonight, he would slay a star. Across the dark grassland, the rapier plunged toward the center of Han Qingyu's back. The blade was long; it would impale Huaxia's Major Qing and the little Huaxia girl in his arms together... No one had time to cry out. *Vrrroooom!* A deafening hum tore the air. The roar exploded directly behind Naiwichai's ears, completely unmasked. *What is that?!* It was too close. Shocked as he was, Naiwichai had no time to turn his head, so he couldn't see. Behind him, a thick, dazzling beam of blue light had already streaked in like a bolt of lightning from dozens of meters away. The blue light moved at an impossible speed—so fast it defied common sense, so fast no one on the field could even register it, let alone shout. *Squirt!* Before the rapier could touch Han Qingyu, the massive blue starlight column sword struck straight through, plunging entirely into Naiwichai's back... bursting out through his chest, exposing half its length. It stopped there, its blade humming with vibration. Source energy collapsed, life ebbed away. Naiwichai stood frozen. He slowly lowered his head, staring at the blue starlight column sword jutting through his chest and his own blood coating its steel, then raised his head in dazed disbelief to look at the figure still facing away from him. Huaxia's newly risen star. In his fading vision... Major Qing turned his head and gave a gentle smile. "Bye-bye." He was returning the parting words from moments ago... before adding apologetically, "Sorry, I didn't remember your name." At that moment, dozens of meters behind Naiwichai, a massive, tattered curtain fluttered chaotically in midair, drifting and swaying as it gently descended toward the ground. It was rather beautiful, amidst the bright yellow headlights and the grassland breeze. Pity Naiwichai couldn't see it, just as he could no longer tell The King his name. Suddenly, Han Qingyu felt the little girl in his arms squirm upward, her cheek rubbing against his chest. Her name was Zhuoma, or had the syllables Zhuoma in it; Han Qingyu had just caught it from her mother's cry. Perhaps startled by the commotion, little Zhuoma was trying to burrow upward. Paying Naiwichai no more mind, Han Qingyu turned around, looked down, and pinched the collar of the autumn jacket, gently opening it a fraction outward. Like opening a small peephole in a cozy little blanket. A ruddy little face peered out. Little Zhuoma tilted her head back, blinking her big eyes, and looked up at Han Qingyu in confusion, asking in a sweet, childish voice: "Jianpu—brother... you didn't hide?" "That's right," Han Qingyu smiled, looking down at her. "Because I suddenly really wanted to give little Zhuoma a hug." She seemed slightly bashful for a second, then overcame it and nodded. "Mm." "Shall we keep going then?" "Okay." Han Qingyu pressed the collar of the autumn jacket back against his chest... The world inside the coat was better. When little Zhuoma's mother scrambled to her feet and rushed over, Han Qingyu gently handed the child back to her, saying warmly, "Little Zhuoma is very lovely." Then he turned, stepped forward a few paces, and picked up the Azure battleblade from the ground.