Chapter 108: The Decisive Strike [Now Available – Seeking First Orders]

He Chang’an was hiding out in a mill, able to grasp most of the small town’s movements through subtle changes.

The items the old scholar had given him finally came in handy.

Among them were over two hundred Daoist talismans of decent grade—some to conceal one’s aura, others combining offense and defense. There were also two golden talismans whose purpose He Chang’an did not understand at all.

He took out all the offensive talismans and kept them on his person for easy access.

There was also a large assortment of magical artifacts: a small bell, several flying swords, and a set of magical robes, which He Chang’an stored away. The rest of the items were kept close at hand.

He had a plan. This time, he intended to overwhelm Hei Da with a relentless barrage of talismans and treasures until he was buried alive beneath them.

If he lost his belongings, he could find a way to recover them. But if he lost his life, everything would be for nothing.

Of course, he harbored another thought: before all that, he needed to have a proper fight with that damned Hei Da.

Such a perfect opportunity, it would be a shame to miss it.

...

A Jiu was like an old fox, moving stealthily through the town’s alleys. Using a talisman that concealed her aura, she left three faint trails behind.

One trail led to the well; another to the great sorrow tree; the last to the mill.

Then, she slipped toward the edge of town.

Before taking action, He Chang’an gave her a subtle signal, and A Jiu knew exactly what to do.

In a way, both He Chang’an and A Jiu were of the same kind—born hunters. Even if caught in someone else’s trap, their first thought was never to flee but to counterattack.

Hunters abhor surprises above all else.

The squad of iron cavalry from Black Flag Mountain were average fighters individually, but in direct confrontation, they could teach those so-called martial arts masters what a military charge truly was in moments.

...

Following a faint, elusive breath of aura, Hei Da came to a well and stood silently for a long while, his ears twitching gently as he searched for any clue.

With a casual grab, a millstone from the roadside flew into the air, caught by a large, furry hand.

Hei Da took three slow steps forward, quietly exerted his strength, and hurled a stone the size of the millstone directly into the well, causing a loud splash.

He turned and walked away, soon arriving beneath a towering locust tree at the town’s eastern end.

He returned empty-handed.

Yet, this failure brought him a strange calm.

Having missed his punches twice before, the Black Flag Mountain leader’s resolve had developed a thin crack, causing him to doubt his own judgment. That boy named He Chang’an might not be just a mere cultivator of the ninth-grade martial rank.

...

“Is that all?”

Hei Da began to walk slowly toward the mill. Each step left a shallow footprint on the bluestone street.

A pinnacle sixth-grade martial cultivator, one more step, and he would be considered a top-tier master. Across the entire Tang Dynasty, perhaps only a hundred or so had reached that level.

Suddenly, Hei Da’s heartstrings twitched slightly.

The direction was south, on the outskirts of town. It seemed a black cavalryman had been killed, struggling for a breath or two before dying.

That squad of black cavalry had been with him for seventeen or eighteen years of pillaging and siege warfare, becoming part of his very spirit, hence the subtle disturbance.

Hei Da paused briefly but did not stop.

His target was clear: He Chang’an.

The unexpected deaths on the outskirts could have been caused by the girl wielding a bamboo sword at her waist or perhaps the “handsome young man” from Dragon Tiger Mountain.

Moments later, within less than ten breaths, his spirit stirred again.

Hei Da grew suspicious.

Yet, it was only suspicion and did not cause him to halt.

He trusted that even if those black cavalrymen were not second-tier masters, they could still protect themselves. At worst, if they sensed danger, they could quickly regroup.

A cavalry charge, even against true second-tier masters, could hold its own.

When still two or three hundred feet from the mill, another black cavalryman was struck down on the town’s eastern outskirts.

Unlike the previous quiet deaths, this one let out a piercing, agonized scream, as if confronted by something utterly terrifying.

Hei Da’s heart suddenly contracted.

Without reason, he felt as if a pair of eyes were watching him.

He did not turn around or speak but took a deep breath, gripping his blade firmly in his right hand. His tall figure paused slightly.

His spirit was as still as a deep abyss, his essence gathered within.

He Chang’an stepped out of a low grass hut, glanced at the sky, and muttered, “It’s been a whole hour.”

Then, he suddenly threw a punch.

Though they were still over a hundred feet apart, and the punch seemed meaningless, he threw it nonetheless, defying all reason.

If there was any logic, it was that, in his eyes, Hei Da’s identity as Black Flag Mountain’s leader was meaningless. He would throw his punch from afar, regardless of its effect—he would strike first and speak later.

Under Hei Da’s vigilant and grim gaze, He Chang’an’s feet never stopped. Charging forward, he threw a second, then a third punch.

...

Within less than two or three breaths, across a hundred feet, He Chang’an had launched six punches in midair.

His punches condensed into a great seal, as large as a wolf’s head, wrapped in a faint sword aura, surging forward.

Hei Da casually swung out a fist, shattering He Chang’an’s flashy strikes, stepped forward half a pace, and suddenly drew his blade.

The sword wind sliced across He Chang’an’s face as Hei Da swung the blade waist-high to intercept his charging form.

He Chang’an seemed to have anticipated the strike. He kicked off the ground, leaping more than ten feet high like a great blue-winged bird, pouncing down on Hei Da.

At the same time, drawing his sword, he thrust directly at Hei Da’s head.

Hei Da spun around and swung his blade toward the sky once more.

He Chang’an’s sword flashed like lightning. With a light tap of his bamboo sword against the blade, his entire body rebounded and rolled seven or eight yards across the bluestone street, dissipating the force of the blow.

Just as he was about to rise, another blade came down from above.

In barely three breaths, He Chang’an was completely overwhelmed by Hei Da, cornered with nowhere to evade, trapped in a desperate situation.

A cruel, cold smile twisted Hei Da’s lips. He swung his blade down fiercely with his right hand, while his left hand pinched lightly.

From a hidden mechanism on his chest, a burst of shimmering blue poisonous needles shot out.

Within ten yards, the area was covered by the deadly needles.

This was one of Hei Da’s trump cards.

On the surface, he appeared bold and straightforward, with a hint of rustic honesty that inspired trust and made people believe in the strength of his blade and fists. When he revealed his true nature through poison, it was his ace in the hole.

But, in truth, these were merely appearances.

Hei Da’s notorious survival to this day relied on his continuously evolving, unfathomable methods of killing.

Of course, these were commonplace underworld truths.

When faced with true masters who could see through one’s heart at a glance, such tricks became child’s play—used recklessly, they only hastened one’s death.

...

With no way to evade, He Chang’an was about to be cut down on the spot.

Without a sound, Hei Da’s left hand flipped, and a green banner swelled violently in the wind, quickly growing to five feet in size.

A howling, ghostly wind roared—the banner was a Soul-Calling Banner!