Watching from behind the window, Wuming felt her heart leap into her throat at the sudden, colossal crash. Even though Zhou Wuji had warned her, seeing the horde of rogue soldiers storming in with murderous momentum still filled her with panic.
In the living room, Wuzheng was quite calm instead. Various factions and organizations might dread the Arctic Sect, but rogue soldiers would have no reservations whatsoever.
A desperate band at the end of their rope was like a pack of starving wolves: they would devour whatever was in front of them without any thought for the future.
When push came to shove, fighting for their lives was their only way to survive.
A slight pang of regret welled up inside Wuzheng; had he listened to Zhou Wuji, they would not be in such grave danger or at such a disadvantage.
Now, though, it was too late for regrets. He could only hope they could truly carve out a path to survival.
The wooden entrance door was kicked apart into splinters, and a squad of soldiers rushed inside.
Four soldiers brandishing long sabers charged straight forward, followed closely by four rogue spearmen.
Carrying his five-foot saber, Wang Jing followed behind them, with two more saber-wielders and two archers bringing up his rear.
Two soldiers held torches aloft and hurled them through the half-open window.
The torches tumbled through the air, their light illuminating Wuzheng standing just inside the doorway.
From the rear, Wang Jing spotted Wuzheng at a glance. He was slightly surprised; neatly dressed and holding a sword, the man was clearly somewhat prepared.
Yet he did not care in the slightest. With a squad of fully armored soldiers, the intense blood-fiend aura they carried alone was enough to ward off low-level spells.
A mere registered seventh-rank Daoist—what could he possibly achieve, prepared or not!
Wang Jing spat out a single word: "Kill!"
The soldiers in front charged with raised sabers without hesitation, the spearmen closely following in their wake.
In standard battle formation, spears led while sabers served as sidearms.
Inside the cramped house, however, there was no room to wield long spears effectively; it was far better to follow behind the saber-wielders and strike when an opening appeared.
This squad of soldiers was made up of elites, and the two leading the charge were even eighth-rank saber-wielders.
Clad in full armor, the group surged forward with overwhelming ferocity.
Peeking from inside the room, Wuming had originally intended to help, but seeing them completely clad in full armor, she did not dare throw the White Brow Needles clutched in her hand.
Though composed by nature, Wuye now had palms drenched in cold sweat as she gripped her sword.
A squad of soldiers charging in formation—though few in number—exuded a ferocious, savage bloodlust that felt almost tangible, suffocating her until she could barely breathe.
Even as a registered seventh-rank Daoist, Wuzheng was under immense pressure right now.
The fiend aura concentrated by the soldiers had already disrupted the flow of his qi.
Without an altar to summon Daoist soldiers for protection, and unable in such haste even to erect banners and arrays, a Daoist's spells would lose two-thirds or three-quarters of their power.
Wuzheng knew casting spells would be futile. Pointing his Seven Stars Sword forward, he gathered his focus through the talismans and incantations inscribed on the blade, then activated and hurled the Yin Thunder Bead held in his left hand.
The Yin Thunder Bead transformed into a swath of watery light spanning dozens of feet. Rippling and swirling, it split into an enormous net of thousands of glowing arcs, blanketing most of the rogue soldiers ahead.
Seventh-rank Yin Thunder Beads were made of costly materials and took tremendous time and effort to craft. The exact power of a Yin Thunder Bead depended on its maker's ability.
The two Yin Thunder Beads in Wuzheng's possession were protective magical artifacts left to him by his master, Yizhen.
As a sixth-rank Master of Refinement who had unblocked nine apertures and could channel the power of eight stars, Yizhen had crafted Yin Thunder Beads of extraordinary refinement, far more powerful than the Yin Thunder Wuzheng could cast from an altar.
The scattering light of thousands of watery arcs of lightning pierced straight through armor, penetrating deep into the bodies of the rogue soldiers.
The true might of Yin Thunder lay in burning essence-blood and souls, charring living beings to cinders from the inside out—it was an exceptionally formidable lethal divine ability in Daoism.
Most rogue soldiers cultivated the Blood Fiend Art. The power of qi and blood they enhanced through slaughter was impure and rabid, and the Yin Thunder that penetrated their bodies instantly ignited that tainted qi and blood.
The soldiers with the weakest cultivation felt their internal organs burning and their blood boiling. Some saw their skin charring, and they collapsed to the ground, screaming in agony.
Although the two eighth-rank martial artists at the front barely suppressed the power of the Yin Thunder, they too felt scorched inside and out, shrieking in sheer pain.
Among the crowd, only Wang Jing stood steadfast. The moment he saw the Yin Thunder erupt, he immediately tightened his muscles and contracted his internal organs, pulling his entire body into a tight knot.
Seventh-rank Transforming Jin: though he had yet to condense true qi, he had already integrated his internal and external physical power.
When releasing force, his entire body, inside and out, twisted tight like a single cord, causing his frame to noticeably shrink.
The watery thunderbolts penetrated his black, all-steel lamellar armor, pierced his contracted muscles, and sank directly into his internal organs.
Yet relying on the pure, unified power uniting his interior and exterior, Wang Jing forcefully withstood the invasion of the Yin Thunder.
Though his body trembled and swayed slightly, he was not felled by the Yin Thunder.
Seeing how formidable Wang Jing's cultivation was, Wuzheng was both shocked and enraged.
Shocked that his opponent possessed such strength, and enraged that the blood-fiend aura around him was so dense—plainly boosted by slaughter.
Without hesitation, Wuzheng unleashed his second Yin Thunder Bead. A long stream of watery light struck straight toward Wang Jing like a serpent.
Wang Jing knew that a Daoist's spells were locked on by spiritual awareness and could not be dodged.
With a fierce roar, he raised his saber to meet it. His blood-stained goose-quill saber slashed straight into the Yin Thunder.
With a tremendous boom, the dozens-of-feet-long Yin Thunder shattered, and Wang Jing staggered two steps backward from the recoil of his strike.
Seeing the opening, Wuzheng was about to pursue with his sword when the two archers standing behind Wang Jing drew their bows and loosed their arrows.
In haste, Wuzheng could only turn aside and parry with his sword. One arrow was deflected by the crossguard, but the other grazed past his left arm, carving a long, bloody gash across his upper arm.
Wuzheng possessed fine martial arts, yet lacked real combat experience. The searing pain left him weak all over, throwing his gathered true qi into disarray.
The two seasoned archers nocked arrows to loose another volley. Just as they were about to shoot, Zhou Wuji flashed out from behind. His Seven Stars Sword slid soundlessly from its scabbard, which he tossed aside with a flick of his hand.
The Flowing Cloud Sword was already swift and agile, and with Zhou Wuji's physical prowess greatly enhanced, a single slide of his foot brought him alongside the two archers.
Before the two archers could even register the silhouette in the corner of their vision, Zhou Wuji's Seven Stars Sword parted left and right, its snow-bright edge severing most of their throats.
Devastated by the strikes, both archers shuddered violently, losing all strength. Instinctively clutching their necks, they staggered backward to either side.
Zhou Wuji paid them no mind. Accelerating his footwork, he thrust his sword straight at the back of Wang Jing's neck.
In the tenth month, the weather was still somewhat warm; Wang Jing wore a full set of steel lamellar armor, but no helmet.
This single thrust would be enough to end him.
Wang Jing had barely regained his footing by now. Having advanced to the seventh rank, his perception was extraordinarily sharp; the moment Zhou Wuji moved, he sensed something was amiss.
Relying on his six senses, Wang Jing could practically "see" the trajectory of Zhou Wuji's thrust.
Turning around, he brought his saber across to parry, imbuing the blade with the bursting power of the Blood Fiend Art.
As long as the blades clashed, he could knock the opponent's sword aside, then follow through with a saber strike to finish him off.
Yet Zhou Wuji's swift, fierce thrust was merely a feint. He halted abruptly in his tracks, simultaneously flicking his left hand and sending his wide sleeve billowing.
A streak of fiery light shot from his sleeve, blasting straight toward Wang Jing's face.
The sudden flare of fire in the deep darkness of the night was blinding.
Wang Jing was caught slightly off guard, but he gave no heed to such petty spells. Squinting his eyes, he flicked his long saber.
As the blade vibrated, explosive force burst forth, shattering the fireball into a shower of scattering sparks.
Seeing the spell fail, Zhou Wuji knew such petty tricks posed no threat to a seventh-rank martial artist.
Flipping his long sleeve again, he released two more streaks of fiery light toward the saber-wielders on his left and right.
Those two lacked Wang Jing's prowess. The flames came upon them so abruptly and bizarrely that they could only shut their eyes and turn their heads away as they retreated, yet the fire still slammed squarely into their faces.
Blinded and disoriented, the two saber-wielders had no idea where they were and could only retreat in panic...
Wang Jing ignored his useless subordinates. Just as he was about to swing his saber at Zhou Wuji, he suddenly sensed danger—taking advantage of this opening, his opponent had thrown another hidden weapon!
The weapon was hurled with immense ferocity, tearing through the air with a dull, heavy whoosh.
In the rush of the moment, Wang Jing could not clearly make out what it was and could only pivot his blade to block again.
With a loud clang and a spray of sparks, his five-foot goose-quill saber deflected the hurtling steel ball away.
After such rapid shifts, even someone who had mastered Transforming Jin—coordinating skin, muscle, sinew, bone, and internal organs in explosive bursts—felt the strain.
Just as he was about to catch his breath, he sensed another impending threat and was forced to summon his power once more to slash back.
Wang Jing's saber technique was exceptionally refined; even with a hurried back-slash, he precisely struck the Yin Thunder Bead hurtling toward him.
A burst of watery lightning exploded with a roar. The force of the Yin Thunder penetrated straight through his limbs, bones, and internal organs. Letting out another fierce roar, Wang Jing's body suddenly swelled in size as he relied on his battle-hardened, formidable physique to endure the Yin Thunder once again.
In this critical juncture, Wang Jing burned his essence-blood recklessly to unleash his strength, finally withstanding this Yin Thunder Bead.
Taking advantage of the moment, Zhou Wuji thrust his sword forward once more, using the fastest technique: the Descending Goose Sword.
A flash of snow-bright sword-light arrived directly before Wang Jing's throat. Wang Jing roared again, his strength surging all the way to the roots of his hair.
His messy topknot burst apart under the surge, strands of hair flying upward toward the sky.
Entering a berserk state, Wang Jing swung his saber toward Zhou Wuji with savage fury.
The strike was overwhelmingly vicious, aimed not only to knock Zhou Wuji's sword aside, but to cleave him in two in the process.
Wang Jing knew Zhou Wuji was merely an eighth-rank; no matter how brilliant his swordsmanship was, he could never withstand a full-power slash.
The long saber collided with the Seven Stars Sword, instantly knocking it aside, yet Zhou Wuji's sword carried no weight or resistance, making Wang Jing feel as though he had slashed into thin air.
His strength misspent, Wang Jing had to rein in his force to control his blade. In that split second, Zhou Wuji's left hand moved, slamming yet another Yin Thunder Bead straight into Wang Jing's chest.
Exhausted by the rapid sequence of moves, Wang Jing was powerless to dodge and could only force his muscles to contract in resistance once more.
After multiple explosive bursts, Wang Jing's blood was depleted and his strength spent. Scorch marks scarred his entire skin under the bombardment of thousands of lightning arcs.
He was, after all, a seventh-rank martial artist, still capable of using his physical force to contract his internal organs against the Yin Thunder's onslaught.
Yet his strength had ebbed completely; his body could no longer withstand the fury of the Yin Thunder, and he convulsed, stiffening amid the crackling arcs.
In that fleeting instant, the Seven Stars Sword that had been knocked aside suddenly darted back in a reverse thrust.
The strike seemed real yet illusory, solid yet phantom-like, like the moon rippling in shimmering water—the Water Moon Sword, the most fluid and elusive technique of the Xiaoxiang Sword.
Wang Jing watched helplessly as the bright, sharp blade thrust straight toward him. He struggled to summon force to retreat, but his body remained stubbornly sluggish.
With a soft squelch, the sharp blade pierced Wang Jing's throat.
Wang Jing's leathery skin tightened instinctively, causing the advancing Seven Stars Sword to hitch for a fraction of an instant.
Zhou Wuji moved his qi with the sword. Spurred by his true qi, the snow-bright blade hummed and vibrated, instantly piercing through flesh and spine, its tip protruding three-tenths of an inch from the back of Wang Jing's neck.
With a twist and flick of Zhou Wuji's wrist, Wang Jing's head was sent flying from his shoulders...
Hiding behind the window, Wuming could not help but cry out in shock.
The clash had lasted only moments, yet both sides had unleashed numerous shifting moves and lethal techniques. It had left Wuming dizzy with tension, her anxiety for Zhou Wuji growing with every beat.
Seeing Wang Jing's head go flying, she jumped in fright even as a wave of relief washed over her.
Looking at Zhou Wuji holding his sword, she could not see him clearly in the dim light; she could only make out his sleeves fluttering as he stood with his blade, his eyes shining with vibrant brilliance, like a wind-riding sword immortal.
Wuming stared dazedly, her heart stirred and her thoughts adrift, completely losing track of where she was...
The mature Wuye also widened her eyes in disbelief.
Had she not witnessed it with her own eyes, she would never have believed Zhou Wuji could slay a seventh-rank martial artist in direct, frontal combat!
Outside, Wuzheng forgot all about his pain, standing rooted in place. That seventh-rank martial artist had endured four Yin Thunder Beads head-on, only to be slain by Zhou Wuji with a single sword strike. What transcendent swordsmanship was this...
Chapter 28