Chapter Sixty-Six: How Can I Face My Departed Parents?

“Spring in March is like mist, the sword entwines, and so do the hearts of men...” The more he practiced this Four Seasons Sword Technique, the more deeply Xiao Nan felt the sensuous artistry and poetic imagery of its creator.

He realized that the move “Jade Threads Entwine” was not merely a sword technique but concealed within it a whole body movement method.

A rapid burst of gunfire flashed, bullets howling past him. Yet, in such a complicated environment, none struck Xiao Nan; instead, a few errant shots hit some pleasure-seeking patrons.

However, the burly men in black rushing downstairs paid no heed to such things. Or perhaps, driven by terror, they no longer cared if innocents were harmed.

That ghostly figure truly seemed like a specter, his movements elusive and lightning-fast. One moment he was in the distance, the next, he was at their side. The dim lighting was no help; even in broad daylight, it would be near impossible to aim at him.

A cold gleam circled him, and any attack, from any direction, was met with a sword thrust through the throat. Under the dazzling, multicolored lights, his sword exuded an eerie aura—like a storm raging across a desolate plain.

Once seen, survival was nearly impossible.

Xiao Nan could only feel helpless. He longed to wield the true essence of “Slanting Fine Rain,” to kill silently and unseen, which would have suited his attire all the more. Unfortunately, the dramatic surge in his physical power left his swordsmanship unable to instantly adapt. Thankfully, this did not diminish its lethality.

If “Jade Threads Entwine” became ghostly and unpredictable thanks to his newfound leg strength, then “Slanting Fine Rain” now bore no resemblance to gentle rain at all.

The moment he struck, a violent gale howled—his swordplay ferocious and wild. To call it a storm would be an understatement.

“Nineteen left? The rest must be on the second or third floor.”

Xiao Nan’s ears twitched. Sword thrust after sword thrust, his mind parsed all the chaotic sounds, automatically analyzing and computing.

Having reached the state of “Sitting Oblivion” with his spirit, his mind was now utterly unlike that of ordinary men. Every bit of information required no conscious thought; as soon as he received it, he reached flawless conclusions.

He could even, by a multitude of subtle noises, construct in his mind the building’s layout, the distribution of people, and the weapons they held.

The strength or weakness of each person, their vitality—all surfaced in his mind, nothing missed.

“Fifteen on the second floor: five with swords or knives, three with automatic rifles, seven with pistols. And one with twin pistols, lying in a corner, only extending his right hand to shoot.

“The third floor is stirring—eight people, four thugs, four higher-ups. Two have vitality like blazing torches, likely at or beyond the limit—possibly martial artists. The other two are only slightly stronger than Black Snake; and astonishingly, one of the higher-ups is a woman.”

Once again, Xiao Nan deeply appreciated his homeroom teacher’s earnest lessons—so full of weighty, golden advice. The level of one’s spirit truly was paramount.

He didn’t know whether anyone else who reached the “Sitting Oblivion” state possessed such control over the battlefield. Perhaps not, but likely not far off. Combined with his newly heightened senses, under the guidance of this mental power, it was as if the scene formed directly in his mind.

If he grew stronger, would he reach the legendary realm of spiritual scanning, where the surroundings would be as clear as if seen with his own eyes?

It was this difference in spiritual realm that set folk martial artists apart from those of the higher academies. The body could be refined and its power increased over time, even through unsavory methods, but there was no shortcut for the spirit. If you couldn’t grasp enlightenment, brute force was useless.

Martial artists unable to break through, when facing an opponent with a higher spiritual realm, must surely feel a maddening sense of powerlessness.

“The authorities tolerate these lower-level martial artists not out of inability to control them, but because they see it as children’s games... If things truly get out of hand, they simply send a master to snuff them out.

“As long as it doesn’t go too far and they obey the rules, they’re allowed to run wild... At least, when facing barbarians or beasts, they’re ten or a hundred times more useful than ordinary citizens.”

Turning these thoughts over, Xiao Nan gained a new understanding of the rules of this era, and this city.

Meanwhile, his body swept through the corridors like a storm, bursting through doors into rooms... Rolling, he darted out, evading dense gunfire, moving like a spirit snake pressed low to the ground.

His sword traced arcs of light, cutting down enemies to left and right.

The first floor was soaked in blood, shadows shrieking and scattering.

On the second floor, amidst the muffled thuds, his sword howled, reaping souls—wherever he passed, bodies fell in his wake.

Ascending to the third floor, Xiao Nan couldn’t help but admire the man called Wu Gang.

To have trained his men to such fearlessness was rare indeed.

Moreover, the scent of blood that clung to each of them spoke of countless life-and-death struggles. Remembering what Wu Tie had said—that his elder brother often hunted beasts and was fairly well-known among Yuanjiang’s martial artists—Xiao Nan immediately understood.

Wu Gang’s men extended far beyond these few; many more likely perished along the road of violence.

There would always be those who, for the sake of glory, would gamble everything for a future. These young men, filled with bright dreams, after witnessing bloodshed, either died and were forgotten, or survived to rise above the rest.

The benefits and dangers of a martial society were all here—it could kindle courage in the heart, but also unleash inner brutality.

Once men possessed power, standing above ordinary folk, their worldview and actions changed utterly.

...

Wu Gang’s chest heaved, his stance like a starving tiger, body leaning forward—both hands braced on a low table, murder flashing in his eyes.

He stared fixedly at the screen in the room...

A shadow flickered closer, every sword stroke a death—soon, it would reach his very door.

“Brother Gang, should we go out to meet him? He’s clearly coming straight for us,” said a gray-haired middle-aged man, his voice cold and ruthless. His fingers flexed, the alloy rings on them clicking with a metallic hum.

“White Hawk, you’re still so impatient. Don’t you see? This man’s movements are unpredictable, his swordplay ingenious and intricate. If we go out, we’d be using our weakness against his strength; we might not be able to keep him.

Little Tie and Black Snake were surely killed by him. I haven’t even found his home, and yet he’s already come to kill us. He’s decisive and merciless—never underestimate him.”

A woman in a red dress, her figure sinuous and alluring, looked grim as well. “We’ve raised so many loyal men, and now they’re all lost. Doesn’t that pain you?”

“Pain me? Of course it does!” Wu Gang’s beard bristled like steel needles, his low growl that of a tiger. “My little brother Tie never knew much happiness, you know? Do you know how he died today? His chest was shattered by a blow—his neck stomped and broken like a chick beneath a boot.

Aside from a few odd little habits, he was always honest and never offended anyone. He went out just to clear his head, and ended up dead? How am I supposed to face our parents in the afterlife?”