Chapter Forty-One: The Saber Cleaves Yan Jingming

The enemy troops rushed forward like crashing tidal waves, wave after wave without end.

With a crisp snap, Zhu Wen's short sword in his left hand broke in half, wedged firmly between an enemy's bones.

A short sword was not a divine weapon like the Great Xia Dragon Sparrow; it was entirely normal for it to snap. Therefore, many great generals in battle would carry multiple blades.

However, Zhu Wen had merely come out for a leisurely ride—or rather, a scouting patrol—today, and had brought no spare short sword.

He did wear a golden silk chain shirt between his inner and outer garments, but it was lightweight. While it could deflect arrows, its defensive effectiveness against stabs and slashes from swords was poor.

With his left hand weaponless, he was forced to fight one-handed, which immediately increased the pressure upon him.

Many among the enemies used close-combat weapons, and once they closed in, they were difficult to deal with.

The attacks were far too dense, leaving him no opportunity even to snatch a weapon from a foe.

"The brothers under my command are counted among the elite even on the battlefield! Zhu San, if you die today, not a single person will ever speak of this matter!"

Just as Yan Jingming had said, these men moved in a coordinated pincer maneuver, in perfect order, successfully cutting off Zhu Wen's attempt to use a large tree to shield his back. He still had to face attacks from all directions.

Yan Jingming gave a grim, cruel smile and cast his gaze toward the trembling caravan members nearby who dared not flee: "As for this internal bloodshed among our own peasant army, you lot won't speak of it either, right?"

The crowd nodded frantically like chicks pecking at rice.

Earlier, a thin man in blue had tried to escape, only for Yan Jingming to throw a flying knife that struck him squarely in the back, dropping him dead on the spot. Therefore, without Yan Jingming's permission, none of them dared to take a single step away.

"It hurts so much..." Zhu Wen murmured inwardly.

He had taken several more cuts to his body. Though non-fatal, they felt even more painful than that time he had nearly died at the hands of the "Heavenly Blade" Song Jue, when his shoulder blade had been nearly crushed.

Perhaps it was because Zhu Wen had originally set out simply to enjoy the scenery and relax, completely unprepared for battle from the outset.

Yet the pain had ignited the killing intent within his heart.

The precious Great Xia Dragon Sparrow saber radiated a blinding, bloody light, and the frosted white tiger inside Zhu Wen's mind began to roar, his eyes flushing heavily with red veins.

The desire for slaughter washed over him like a roaring waterfall pouring from the heavens, instantly enveloping him.

Taking a deep, satisfying breath of the thick, bloody stench in the air, Zhu Wen licked the corner of his mouth and surrendered the battle entirely to his instincts.

In martial underworld brawls, rather than calculation, what mattered most was speed, precision, ruthlessness, and an unstoppable, ferocious aura.

Fortunately, Zhu Wen was by no means lacking in such experience.

His movements grew increasingly swift, and his fighting style increasingly fierce. He practically abandoned all self-defense, focusing entirely on the offense, with every single move aimed at taking a life.

The pain in his body had transformed into a thrilling ecstasy. A delight so intense it felt as though his soul were being torn apart rushed straight to the crown of his head, driving him to annihilate every single enemy before his eyes.

If a pack of wolves could bring down a lion, it could only be because the lion had first surrendered to fear within its own heart.

Thus, by adopting a trading-injury-for-injury fighting style, Zhu Wen was able to fully leverage the advantage of the Great Xia Dragon Sparrow's greater reach.

The weapons that the enemies hacked into his body were generally not fatal. With a furious roar, he would sweep his blade across, frequently shearing off the back half of an enemy's head, lopping off a skull, or cleaving straight into an opponent's chest.

Some foot soldiers had their limbs severed, collapsing onto the ground and screaming in agonizing wails.

The enemy soldiers before him gradually thinned out.

Zhu Wen knew well that this all-out, instinct-driven style of slaughter relied heavily on the divine power of his saber. If he had been wielding merely an ordinary long saber, the blade would have long since rolled and notched, costing him his combat capability.

Yet a legendary divine weapon, much like a knight's fine steed, was inherently part of one's strength.

After a bout of furious combat, Yan Jingming suddenly realized that only half of his men were still left standing.

Relying on his footwork, Zhu Wen moved with blinding speed, often avoiding direct engagement with Yan Jingming, who was the strongest among his opponents. Meanwhile, every time Yan Jingming clashed blades with Zhu Wen, he would instinctively retreat to the rear of the formation to recover his strength.

Disregarding physical exhaustion and fighting at a breakneck pace actually reduced the number of enemies directly swarming him at any given time.

Even though he was driven by bloodlust and let his instincts command his fighting, Zhu Wen's tactics were by no means a mindless, reckless brawl.

That was because the experience of life-and-death combat had long since been engraved into his very marrow.

"Brother Yan, we've already lost quite a few brothers. Look at this..." Finally, one of Yan Jingming's subordinates spoke up with a trembling voice.

"Even if this Zhu San blabs about it, Alliance Master Wang won't do anything to us," another foot soldier chimed in, implying that killing Zhu Wen to silence him was entirely unnecessary.

Although a few unlucky souls in the peasant army were occasionally beheaded and displayed publicly by Wang Xianzhi for rape and murder, or given dozens of military floggings to enforce discipline, the majority who did such things truly faced no serious consequences.

For in any uprising army throughout history, such occurrences were hardly rare.

Moreover, Yan Jingming was, after all, one of Wang Xianzhi's more favored outer disciples.

Panic finally began to rise in Yan Jingming's heart.

"We cannot leave this fellow alive!"

He shouted with a sudden fury, though he could not immediately think of a valid reason.

"He won't let us go... He'll slaughter every single one of us!" Yan Jingming continued, forced to resort to an absurd justification.

Yet the foot soldiers knew that with the numerous holes they had poked into Zhu Wen's body, things would indeed be hard to settle peacefully; however, the one truly bearing the responsibility was Yan Jingming, their leader.

If they truly wanted to run, how could a Zhu Wen who had already lost so much blood possibly pursue them?

And so, some began to turn on their heels and flee.

"Nobody runs! Go back or I'll kill you!"

Yan Jingming screamed frantically, raising his long saber and hacking down toward Zhu Wen with the force of an avalanche.

Yet Zhu Wen, entirely coated in fresh blood and fighting with an increasingly unhinged ferocity, had already struck profound terror into his heart.

With such horrifying endurance and tenacity, this kid was no longer human; he was an Asura stepped straight out of hell.

With a piercing clang, accompanied by a tiger-like roar from Zhu Wen's throat, Zhu Wen's blade struck the exact midpoint of Yan Jingming's long saber. With a sudden burst of force and vibration, the weapon snapped on the spot, its broken pieces flying wildly through the air.

In truth, all weapons were forged from iron; even a legendary blade hacking against mortal metal could not achieve the "slicing through iron like mud" of tavern tales.

However, when the vector of force aligned precisely with a structural weakness in the blade, it could achieve the effect of deflecting a thousand pounds with four ounces—much like splitting bamboo along its natural grain.

Furthermore, the terror gripping Yan Jingming's heart caused him to fumble frantically when trying to draw his backup waist-blade; it snagged in the scabbard and refused to come free.

"Master Zhu, we can talk this over..." Yan Jingming staggered backward.

Zhu Wen wiped the blood from his face, lunging forward at Yan Jingming with the ferocity of an enraged falcon.

"Save me! What am I even paying you lot for?!" Seeing that Zhu Wen's killing intent was growing instead of fading, Yan Jingming could only flee while howling at his remaining henchmen.

Yet nearly half of their number had already been cut down by Zhu Wen, freezing the blood of these desperate men and leaving them with zero stomach left for a fight.

What brotherhood or loyalty could ever compare to the importance of keeping one's own head attached to one's shoulders?

Zhu Wen's form was as swift as lightning, and he was on the verge of overtaking his target.

Yan Jingming grit his teeth, hardened his heart, and let out a sharp roar as he finally wrenched his backup waist-blade free. Like a striking viper, he slashed viciously toward Zhu Wen's throat.

Yet Zhu Wen swerved his body, accelerated abruptly, and slammed his shoulder directly into Yan Jingming's chin, causing his upper and lower jaws to violently collide. A front tooth, dripping with blood, shot straight out of his mouth and embedded itself into the damp, blood-scented soil.

This just went to show that when Chen Liqing had previously taken Zhu Wen's heavy punches and slaps—receiving at least a dozen blows—not a single tooth had been knocked loose; her facial skin truly was exceptionally thick.

Meanwhile, Zhu Wen's Dragon Sparrow saber plunged directly into Yan Jingming's right chest, piercing clean through his lung and erupting out of his back.

"Spare me! Spare this humble one, and I'll give you anything! That pretty demonic boy, the women in the caravan, everything on my body—it's all yours..."

Faced with the imminent threat of death, Yan Jingming had begun babbling incoherently.

Zhu Wen's response was to forcefully snatch the waist-blade from his right hand, toss it to the ground, and grab Yan Jingming by the throat.

With a flick of his wrist, he yanked the Dragon Sparrow free, and amid a fresh spray of blood, he swept the blade around in a backhand arc, blasting apart the head of one of Yan Jingming's loyal thugs who had mustered the courage to launch a sneak attack from behind.

By this point, the majority of the foot soldiers had already vanished like startled rabbits.

"We're all brothers in the peasant army, one big family! I was just momentarily confused, and from now on I'll surely call Master Zhu our leader... Don't kill me, I'll be of use, I'll serve you like a dog or a horse."

Suspended in the air by his throat in Zhu Wen's iron grip, Yan Jingming was still breathing, struggling to force the words out: "The men we killed... they had nothing to do with Brother Zhu, right? From now on, I'll turn over a new leaf and never do such things again."

Zhu Wen violently hurled Yan Jingming onto the ground and planted a boot squarely on his face: "Who the fuck cares if you turn over a new leaf! This young master never wanted to meddle in this damn nonsense in the first place."

These words reignited a flicker of hope for survival in Yan Jingming, but with his mouth pinned beneath Zhu Wen's boot, he could produce no words, only a few muffled grunts.

"Dog-eating slave! This is the first time this young master has been hurt this badly, I'll need days just to recover!" Zhu Wen let out a deafening roar: "I merely rode out to enjoy the scenery, only to get dragged into your pile of shit. You aren't leaving here alive, and Alliance Master Wang couldn't save you lot either!"

If that mob of thugs had mustered the courage to press their all-out assault just a bit longer after suffering half-casualties, Zhu Wen's life would likely have been forfeit by now.

Yan Jingming realized that Zhu Wen's boot had finally lifted from his lips, leaving a massive smear of bloody mud across his mouth, the stench of iron stinging directly down his throat.

He fluttered his swollen lips, desperately trying to seize one final chance at survival: "Y-Yes... This humble one will never dare cause Master Zhu... trouble ever again..."

Before the sentence could finish, a crimson blade-light swept downward, and a curtain of blood surged into the sky. Yan Jingming's head parted from his body, his eyes wide with disbelief, an expression of utter astonishment frozen upon his face.

Zhu Wen turned his still-chilling gaze toward the caravan members: "You cowards over there, someone bring some fabric and help me stop the bleeding!"

The caravan members, having witnessed the entire bloody carnage unfold before their eyes, were frozen stiff in shock. Hearing Zhu Wen's command, they snapped back to their senses in terror. Several women hurriedly tore strips of fabric and approached him, adopting intensely flattering expressions as they set about bandaging his wounds.

"If not for this brave gentleman's righteous assistance, we truly... this humble woman is endlessly grateful for your immense grace today!" A woman in her early thirties, still possessing a mature charm, attempted to press her full breasts against Zhu Wen's back.

"This young master isn't that dead ghost, I don't buy that act!" Zhu Wen shoved her away, kicking Yan Jingming's headless corpse with his foot.

The numerous cuts and stabs across his body flared with a piercing, bone-deep agony, nearly forcing him to bare his teeth in a grimace. Knowing that doing so would ruin his imposing majesty, he grit his teeth and forced it down.

He took a heavy breath and shifted his gaze toward the youth in scholarly robes who still retained a youthful, delicate face.

"Hey, why aren't you saying anything, kid? You're not deaf—this young master just saved your life, yet you haven't even muttered a single word of thanks."