Chapter Forty-Six: Arrows Like Wind and Rain
In the darkness, twenty-three men were positioned with precise coordination, turning a hundred-pace-long alley into a deathtrap.
A sixth-rank martial artist stood some distance away, his black cloak wrapped tightly around him, revealing only a pair of puzzled eyes: How could a mere beginner in the martial path instantly slay twelve eighth-rank warriors? And with a sword, no less…
He had personally examined the corpses of those twelve assassins. Except for a barely visible wound at the throat, their bodies were unmarked. Sword energy had pierced through, killing them instantly.
There were few true swordmasters in Chang’an, and all of them belonged to the Daoist sects. Could it be that the Daoists had intervened in this matter?
A sixth-rank martial artist possessed skin as tough as copper and bones as strong as iron, so he had little fear of being slain with a single strike to the throat. Still, that fierce sword energy could inflict heavy wounds regardless.
Thus, he kept his aura as restrained as possible, blending into the shadows like a venomous serpent, ready at any moment to unleash a thunderous strike.
...
He Chang’an walked slowly, almost carelessly. He didn’t focus on anyone in particular. With so many sixth- and seventh-rank martial artists present, any one of them could easily crush him, so there was no point in locking onto anyone.
As someone who had only just entered the ranks by mastering the twenty-third layer of the Essence Absorbing Technique, his basic judgment was clear: if those fellows from the Demon Slayers Division slacked off or went easy, he’d be dead for sure.
But as a former special forces soldier, bodyguard, and assassin, He Chang’an believed in one thing: The only one who can save you is always yourself.
He walked on, the spiritual energy and righteous qi within him circulating simultaneously, protecting his meridians, flesh, bones, and internal organs.
Since the enemies were remnants of the Night God Cult, he expected all manner of sinister tricks. A martial artist’s body was formidable, but their spiritual strength was laughably weak, like having a steel-clad body and a glass heart…
Within his dantian’s spirit sea, a small black rod was ready at a moment’s notice.
His left hand gripped the knife’s hilt with steady strength, while his right hand pulled out a waist token—neither gold nor iron—the very one presented to him by Magistrate Yang.
Only after joining the Demon Slayers Division did He Chang’an learn that this token was a defensive tool for demon slayers, able to transform into a small three-foot shield.
Not much, but better than nothing.
...
Two hundred paces. One hundred fifty paces.
One hundred thirty paces.
One hundred and one.
One more step, and he would enter the killing formation set by the black-clad men. The alley appeared unchanged at first glance, but through his spirit vision, He Chang’an detected lurking danger…
He advanced half a step, and a gust of wind met him head-on.
He casually tossed the waist token forward, his figure flickering as he slipped into the darkness beneath the low eaves to his left.
---
With a thunderous boom, the moment the waist token was hurled into the formation, He Chang’an triggered its self-destruction through a special technique.
A burst of violent, scorching energy surged outward, only to be forcibly suppressed and contained by the killing formation, gradually dispersing…
Seizing the moment of the token’s explosion, He Chang’an’s figure flickered again, shattering a window and slipping into a dilapidated hut.
Then… he vanished without a trace.
...
Over a hundred paces away, the sixth-rank martial artist’s eyelid twitched, a sense of foreboding rising within him.
He gripped his sword’s hilt.
This inconspicuous little fish had such acute instincts—perhaps he wasn’t so ordinary after all.
Still, just a freshly admitted martial artist…
“Be careful—” someone in the darkness called out in terror, but their voice was abruptly silenced, as if their throat had been crushed mid-sentence.
By the corners of the alley, in the mud-brick houses, beneath the eaves, a faint commotion stirred. Some couldn’t help but draw their weapons halfway, eyes wide and alert in the dark…
A ripple shuddered through the killing formation.
The sixth-rank martial artist’s pupils contracted. He sent a mental message to his men: “Hold your positions. Do not act rashly.”
The disturbance quickly subsided, and the depths of the alley fell silent once more.
“Eunuch Liu, are you certain the Demon Slayers Division has been led away?” he sent quietly toward a shadowy spot.
“Lord Gao made the move himself. What do you think?” came Eunuch Liu’s cold, arrogant reply.
...
Hidden in darkness, He Chang’an gently released the throat of a black-clad man, laying the body softly on the ground. He released his spiritual sense, probing for the nearest assassin.
Using the explosion as a diversion, He Chang’an had crept close to one of the black-clad men and, with a single “Soul Hooking Finger,” shattered the man’s throat. In the same instant, the small black rod pierced his brow…
Sure enough, a surge of sinister yin energy!
No need for the rod to transform into its millstone form—it instantly refined the man’s yin energy, converting it into pure spiritual energy that replenished He Chang’an’s dantian.
The spiritual strength of a martial artist truly was pitifully weak…
He Chang’an lay in wait, forcefully activating his spirit vision again to observe the nearest black-clad man, already drafting his next plan.
The target crouched on a rooftop, faint black mist emanating from his body, nearly blending into the night.
Clearly, these men were seasoned assassins, veterans of countless dirty jobs.
Damn this so-called Great Tang—darker than the era of the Five Barbarian Invasions…
---
In those dark years, the human race was ravaged by the barbarian ghost tribes—old and young slaughtered, men cut down, women and children reduced to livestock, crimes beyond comprehension…
And here, in this so-called Great Tang, demons and ghosts “kept” humans as pets. Even in the heart of Chang’an, under the emperor’s nose, in the chief city of humankind, they dared to brazenly assassinate a demon slayer!
He Chang’an’s chest burned with rage, but his aura grew even more restrained.
Using the cover of night, he glided through low huts and broken walls like a shadow, inching ever closer.
...
“Something’s wrong with the formation—has someone been killed?” The sixth-rank martial artist frowned, sensing a ripple. “Eunuch Liu, can you cast a spell to find that rat?”
“Heh, he can’t escape,” Liu replied from the darkness, his voice filled with malice. “Get ready. I’ll mark him for you.”
A streak of blue light shot out from the shadows.
The sixth-rank martial artist drew his sword in a flash.
A surge of peerless sword light swept forth, slicing toward He Chang’an dozens of paces away.
With a faint sound, a large head tumbled silently to the ground; “He Chang’an” was struck down without a word.
“All this just for a little rat—Lord Gao is truly cautious…” The sixth-rank martial artist sent a message to Eunuch Liu, sheathing his sword and stepping forward.
“Watch out!” Eunuch Liu’s warning came too late.
A chill seized the warrior’s heart. Something felt wrong. He struggled to lower his head and saw a small hole in his chest.
No blood.
The attack had been too fierce and domineering. The arrow that pierced him was infused with a mysterious power, instantly cauterizing the wound.
Staring in disbelief at the hole in his chest, he tried to touch it, only to poke one of his own fingers inside…
...
He Chang’an had not died.
He had crept up behind another black-clad man, snapped his throat with a single finger, and sent a burst of righteous qi into the limp body before slipping into another patch of darkness.
The sixth-rank warrior’s sword had struck down that very assassin.
He saw with his own eyes: at the entrance to the alley, someone loosed an arrow.
Then, calmly, they nocked another and sent it flying without hurry.
The arrows fell like rain, yet utterly silent, vanishing into the night in a flash.