Chương 25: Too Late to Kneel (3/3)

The question was violently cut short as the physical agony finally caught up to his nervous system.

Zhao dropped heavily to his knees, the impact reverberating through the polished floorboards with a dull, meaty thud that sent tremors through the nearby wood. His eyes rolled back until only the bloodshot whites remained visible, veins spiderwebbing across the sclera like crimson lightning. A shrill, breathless scream of absolute torture ripped from his throat—raw, primal, the kind of sound that stripped away all pretense of cultivation and reduced a man to his most basic animal state.

His entire body convulsed in violent spasms, muscles seizing uncontrollably as if possessed by malevolent spirits. Thick cords of sinew stood out against his sun-darkened skin, twitching and jerking beneath the surface. His right arm dangled at a grotesque, unnatural angle, the elbow joint bent backward in a way that defied the body's natural architecture. The limb hung by nothing but torn muscle fibers and skin stretched taut as parchment, the bone structure within completely compromised.

Blood began to seep through the pores where the meridian had ruptured internally, the spiritual channels meant to carry Qi now torn and hemorrhaging. Dark crimson spread across his forearm in creeping, irregular blotches like ink bleeding through rice paper, the stain deepening as more vital essence leaked from the severed pathways.

"AAARGHH! My arm! My meridian!" Zhao writhed violently against the floorboards, his massive frame thrashing like a landed fish. Spittle flew from his pale, trembling lips in foaming strings, spattering across the wood beneath him. Each ragged breath came with a wet, rattling wheeze.

He clutched desperately at his ruined shoulder with his left hand, fingers digging into his own scarred flesh hard enough to draw fresh blood. Crescents of torn skin appeared beneath his nails as he clawed at himself, as if he could somehow claw the agony out through sheer desperation. His face turned a mottled purple, the color of deep bruising, slick with cold sweat that poured down his temples and dripped steadily onto the wood beneath him in fat, glistening droplets.

He threw his head back with such force that it cracked against the floorboards, his bloodshot, terrified eyes—now wild with pain and shock—darting frantically toward his stunned subordinates who stood frozen like statues.

"Kill him! Flay this rat alive! Tear out his meridians and feed them to the dogs! What are you standing there for?! MOVE!"

"Boss!" The four lackeys snapped out of their shock like puppets whose strings had been yanked. Their hands flew to their weapons—hooked swords with serrated inner edges and iron daggers with pitted, blood-stained blades—drawing them in a discordant chorus of scraping metal. They lunged simultaneously at Shi Yan's back, their faces twisted into masks of fury and desperation, screaming incoherent curses that echoed through the now-silent hall.

In his peripheral vision, the transparent blue screen flickered into existence, cold and clinical against the chaos, instantly tracking the incoming hostiles with mechanical precision: [Entities Recognized: Rogue Cultivators] [Cultivation Resonance: Tier-1 (Ash-Marrow Realm – 1st Stage: Cinder-Blood)] [Threat to Current Vessel: ZERO] [Estimated Yield: 20-30 Dao Embers per target] Base-level cultivators. Worthless yield.

The information processed in his mind with the detached efficiency of a tactical assessment. Barely worth the effort.

"You crippled rat! You're courting death! I'll carve your face off and wear it as a mask!" the first lackey roared, his face twisted in vicious anger that contorted his features into something bestial. Spit flew from his mouth in a fine mist as he swung his hooked sword in a wide, telegraphed arc.

Shi Yan didn't even turn his head. His pale eyes remained fixed forward, utterly unconcerned.

As the first lackey swung his hooked sword at Shi Yan's exposed neck with a whistling horizontal slash, Shi Yan sidestepped the blade with a millimeter to spare—a minimal, economical movement that wasted no energy. The sharpened edge whistled past his ear close enough that he felt the displacement of air, the steel slicing cleanly through a single strand of straw from his cloak. The severed fiber drifted slowly downward through the amber lamplight.

Without breaking stride, he raised his right boot—still damp leather, the sole caked with dried mud—and delivered a crushing kick directly to the side of the lackey's knee. The impact was precise, brutal, aimed at the weakest structural point of the joint.

The joint inverted with a wet, sickening crunch that echoed through the silent hall. Ligaments snapped like overstretched bowstrings, the sharp crack of tissue failure distinct and visceral. The kneecap dislocated entirely, twisting inward at an angle that made several onlookers gag and turn away.

"AAARGH! Heavens above, my leg! My leg!" the lackey shrieked, his voice breaking into a ragged, high-pitched wail that cracked with pure anguish. He collapsed immediately, his hands tearing frantically at his ruined knee with trembling fingers, as if trying to push the shattered joint back into place through sheer will. He folded onto the floorboards like a broken puppet, rolling back and forth in agonizing spasms, his body curling inward protectively.

His hooked sword clattered away from his spasming grip, spinning across the polished wood with a metallic ringing before sliding to a stop near the feet of the horrified crowd.

Without pausing, without even a flicker of expression crossing his face, Shi Yan ducked under a wild, desperate thrust from the second lackey, who was screaming at the top of his lungs, "I'll gut you alive and hang your entrails from the rafters—!"

The threat was instantly cut short, severed as cleanly as silk beneath a razor.

Shi Yan stepped into the man's guard with fluid precision, closing the distance before the lackey could adjust. He drove a rigid, two-finger strike—index and middle finger locked together like a spearpoint—directly into the solar plexus, targeting the precise center of the man's chest where the ribs parted.

The sheer kinetic density of his [39 Physique] attribute crushed through the lackey's pathetic, paper-thin Qi barrier like it didn't exist, the translucent shimmer of defensive energy shattering into dissipating motes. His fingers drove deep into the soft flesh beneath, compressing the diaphragm and sending a shockwave through the internal organs.

The man's breath exploded outward in a wet, explosive gasp, spittle and droplets of blood spraying from his mouth. His eyes bulged grotesquely from their sockets, pupils contracting to tiny pinpoints of shock. His face went slack, all muscle control vanishing in an instant. He staggered backward on unsteady legs, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a suffocating carp, completely unable to draw air into his paralyzed lungs.

"Guh… ck!" A wet, choked gasp escaped the man's lips, barely audible. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth, frothing pink as it mixed with saliva. His eyes glazed over, consciousness flickering. He crashed backward onto the floor with a heavy thud, his skull bouncing once against the wood. He writhed pathetically on the polished surface, clutching his crushed chest with both hands, fingers clawing uselessly at his sternum.

"Haaah… haah…" he gasped in short, pitiful wheezes like a dying fish on a riverbank, each breath weaker than the last. More blood trickled from his mouth, pooling beneath his cheek.

The remaining two lackeys froze mid-charge, their weapons trembling violently in midair as if held by palsied hands. Their blades wavered, tips dipping and rising erratically. All of their previous arrogance evaporated in an instant, burned away like morning mist under the harsh sun. One look into Shi Yan's hollow, unblinking eyes—those pale, dead irises that reflected no emotion, no hesitation, nothing human—sent a primal shock of fear straight down their spines like ice water poured over their souls.

Their faces drained of all color, going from flushed aggression to corpse-pale in mere heartbeats. Cold sweat broke out across their foreheads in beaded drops.

"S-Senior!" one stuttered, his voice cracking and breaking. His jaw trembled uncontrollably as the terrifying reality of the power disparity crashed down on him like a mountain. This was no fellow Cinder-Blood cultivator. This was something else entirely.

"We didn't know! We were blind! P-Please spare this lowly one's worthless life, Senior!" the other begged, his voice cracking in raw desperation. His knees began to buckle, threatening to give out entirely.

They didn't wait for him to answer, nor did they dare maintain even a shred of their former hostility. They dropped their blades as if the metal had suddenly turned white-hot, the weapons clattering uselessly against the tavern floorboards with dull, discordant clangs.

Scrambling backward in a pathetic, graceless panic—all dignity abandoned—they shoved over heavy wooden chairs that toppled with crashes, knocked into tables that scraped loudly across the floor, spilling ceramic cups and sending spirit lamps rocking dangerously on their bases. They melted into the stunned crowd like rats fleeing a sinking ship, completely abandoning their crippled master to his fate without a single backward glance.

The entire pavilion—moments ago filled with raucous noise, laughter, and the clinking of cups—remained suspended in a state of ringing, paralyzed shock. The silence was so complete that the crackling of spirit lamp wicks and Zhao's ragged, whimpering breaths were the only sounds.

What... what manner of technique was that?!

Did you see his Qi? There was no spiritual fluctuation at all! If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

He didn't use any Qi! There was no technique, no dao art, no spiritual law! Just raw physical force! A Body Cultivator? But his aura reads as Cinder-Blood!

How can mere flesh overcome Obsidian-Frame bone density?!

The rest of the cultivators stared at Shi Yan as if looking at a vengeful ghost or an ancient killing machine given human form. Their eyes were wide, pupils dilated with instinctive fear. They saw only brutal, unrecognizable, terrifyingly economical violence stripped of all cultivation theory.

A lower-realm cultivator at Early Tier 1, Cinder-Blood stage—the weakest foundation—had just crippled a Peak Tier-1 Obsidian Frame cultivator and his four lackeys in under three seconds without using a single technique, formation, talisman, or spiritual art.

Pure physicality. Martial brutality in its most distilled form.

Several cultivators unconsciously took half-steps backward, creating more distance. Others gripped their weapon hilts with white-knuckled hands, not in aggression but in the desperate need for psychological comfort.

Shi Yan didn't even look at the whimpering, broken men on the floor. They were beneath notice, already catalogued and dismissed as irrelevant.

He dusted off his shoulder with one gloved hand, adjusting the straw cloak that had been disturbed during the brief exchange. The motion was casual, mechanical—the same gesture one might make after brushing past a spiderweb. Before he could take his first step toward the inner halls, the crowd suddenly parted again with a ripple of movement.

"A brilliant display of martial prowess, Daoist Brother! Truly, your technique eclipses the common path!" a clear, bright, and insufferably righteous voice called out, resonating with the cultivated tones of orthodox sect education.

Shi Yan paused mid-step. His pale eyes shifted, scanning the newcomers with the cold assessment of a predator evaluating new variables.

Four young cultivators, dressed in pristine white silk robes bordered with intricate silver thread depicting stylized clouds in perpetual motion, stepped confidently into the clearing. The fabric was immaculate, not a single stain or tear marring the expensive material—a stark contrast to the blood-spattered chaos around them. They carried elegant straight swords with silver-wrapped hilts at their sides, the pommels adorned with jade ornaments that caught the amber lamplight.

Each one radiated the pure, untainted Qi of mid-Tier 1 orthodox cultivators, their spiritual pressure clean and refined, free of the chaotic impurities that marked rogue cultivation.

As he looked at them with his flat, expressionless gaze, a transparent screen flashed before his eyes, overlaying his vision with cold data: [Multiple Entities Recognized: Human Cultivators (x4)] [Cultivation Resonance: Tier-1 (Ash-Marrow Realm – 2nd Stage: Iron-Vein)] [Threat to Current Vessel: VERY LOW. Extremely susceptible to cervical fracture.] [Estimated Yield: 300 Dao Embers per target.] So, for a human cultivator, the reward in Dao Embers is that low?

His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly behind the shadow of his bamboo hat, a faint crease appearing between his brows as he processed this information. He had thought the previous barbarian bandit was simply too weak, too far beneath the system's threshold for the system to properly assign significant value to his Dao Embers.

So it turned out the boss-like monster at the bottom of the abyss he fought was just... rare. An anomaly. High-value targets weren't common.

This is troublesome...

His lips pressed into a thin, hard line beneath the hat's shadow. Because if that was how the system assessed things, then the bounty he took—if the target was human—would yield a far lower return than he'd initially expected. The mathematics were unfavorable.

Well, grinding is grinding...

He silently shook his head in faint disappointment, the motion barely perceptible. The efficiency was poor, but resources were resources. For now, his pale eyes narrowed fractionally as they refocused on these newcomers, cataloguing details with mechanical precision.

The Cloud-Mirror Sect.

Recognition clicked into place immediately, pulled from the fragmented memories still lingering in this stolen body. A vassal organization of the Celestial Remnants hierarchy. The exact sect that owned this body before I took it.

A cold calculation ran through his mind. Did they recognize him? Had his physical movements, his gait, his mannerisms somehow betrayed the face hidden beneath this hat despite the disguise?

"To see a hero still stand up to defend justice in this corrupt age is truly rare! Like a lotus blooming in filth!" the lead disciple continued, his voice ringing with practiced sincerity. He offered Shi Yan a polite, formal Daoist salute, pressing his fist into his opposite palm and bowing slightly at the waist with perfect textbook form.

The disciple possessed a handsome face with sharp, aristocratic features—high cheekbones, a strong jaw, eyes that gleamed with inner conviction. His expression radiated complete confidence in his own righteousness, utterly convinced of the moral superiority granted by his sect affiliation. His topknot was bound with silver wire, not a single hair out of place.

"Your physical refinement is most intriguing, Daoist Brother," he continued, his tone taking on the subtly condescending warmth of someone addressing a talented but uneducated peasant.

"Although your spiritual aura suggests merely Cinder-Blood stage, your body has clearly been tempered through arduous trials. Such dedication is admirable." He paused, as if delivering a great honor.

"Have you considered stepping onto the Orthodox path? Our Cloud-Mirror Sect is always willing to accept promising individuals as menial disciples into the outer peaks. With proper guidance, your talent would not be wasted on the rogue path."

The other three disciples nodded approvingly behind him, their expressions mirroring the same patronizing benevolence—the look of those offering charity to the unfortunate.

Shi Yan stared at the man with his cold, unblinking pale eyes, his face an expressionless mask.

So, he didn't recognize my face.

The assessment was immediate and certain. He only saw the hat, the cloak, the projected weak aura. He thinks I'm an eccentric, unaffiliated body refiner with some talent and wants to recruit me as cheap labor for his sect. Manual work disguised as opportunity.

"Of course," Shi Yan replied, his voice utterly deadpan and flat, offering a slight, perfunctory nod to disguise the profound coldness lurking in his eyes.

"Should the Heavens align favorably, I will certainly consider visiting your esteemed sect to pay respects."

The words were perfectly polite, empty of all genuine intent.

"Excellent! Truly excellent! We shall await your arrival with great anticipation, Daoist Brother!" The lead disciple smiled broadly, his expression radiating immense satisfaction with his own magnanimity and successful recruitment. He was completely oblivious to the fact that he had just extended an invitation to a predator, opening the gates to a wolf and calling it a loyal dog.

The four white-robed disciples clasped their hands in farewell and turned gracefully, walking away with measured, dignified steps. The crowd parted respectfully for them as they passed, onlookers bowing slightly and murmuring deferential greetings. The sect disciples accepted the deference as their natural due, not even glancing at the commoners.

Shi Yan turned his back on them the moment they were no longer watching, dismissing them entirely from his attention.

He then stepped cleanly over the whimpering, paralyzed husk of Iron-Cleaver Zhao—who was still clutching his ruined arm and sobbing incoherently, reduced from a feared enforcer to a broken, mewling wreck—and walked with unhurried steps toward the secure Appraisal Counter at the far end of the hall.

The crowd parted before him like water before the prow of a ship, no one daring to obstruct his path. Whispers followed in his wake, but no one spoke loudly enough to be clearly heard.

The counter was carved from a single, massive slab of black ironwood, its surface polished to a deep, lustrous sheen that reflected the amber lamplight. The wood was incredibly dense, nearly as hard as stone, its grain running in tight, dark whorls. It was shielded by a faint, shimmering Daoist barrier that rippled occasionally with translucent waves of pale blue energy, inscribed runes glowing softly along the counter's edge in protective formations.

Seated behind it with perfect, rigid posture was a senior appraiser—an elder with a lean, austere face and perfectly combed silver hair tied in a strict, formal topknot secured with a jade pin. He wore the deep crimson silk robes of the Silk & Ash Chamber, the fabric embroidered with intricate gold thread depicting scales and coins in endless patterns. His hands were thin and elegant, the fingers long and dexterous, showing the refined control of decades of appraisal work.

Fitted over the elder's right eye was a polished crystal Qi-loupe, a complex monocular device held in place by a thin brass frame that hooked over his ear. The lens was inscribed with microscopic golden runes that spun slowly around the circumference of the glass in perpetual motion, glowing faintly as they cycled through their enchantments.

The elder was calmly writing on a long scroll with a spiritually infused ink brush, the bristles moving with practiced precision across the parchment. Each character he formed glowed briefly before settling into permanent black ink. His expression was serene, utterly composed.

He hadn't flinched once when Zhao screamed. He hadn't looked up during the entire violent confrontation. His brush hadn't even paused.