Chapter 605: Mirror-of-the-Sky Blood (9)

We bagged four bald frauds in the morning. Three this time.

I’d heard their party numbered sixteen.

Subtract the seven cripples, and that’s nine.

At least one of those has to nurse the wounded, so the enemy’s usable strength right now was eight or fewer.

We’d already cut them down by half.

Still, I felt a twinge of regret.

If only the front group—the one with the old fraud—had been the ones to “kindly step aside and let us go first.”

Odds were the old one was the highest realm among them.

I’d hoped to plant one ambush strike—like a Tathāgata Handprint to the face—and bolt.

What do they call it in strategy—going for the command, cutting off the head? Hm, there was a fancy term for it. Hm. Hm. Anyway—

The right answer is decapitation strike, and I basically said the answer myself, but it isn’t exactly common-culture knowledge; not knowing the word doesn’t matter.

We hopped a wall to the main road, slipped into the opposite alley, skimmed over a few brick roofs, and into—some alley.

We crouched in a stranger’s pinched little backyard to catch our breath and listen.

“Backyard,” but really it was just a body-wide windbreak gap between house and wall—designed by a carpenter’s eye for a cold region’s draft shielding and insulation.

—Aaaagh! Where are you! You devil-spawned bastards! I’ll kill you!

The voice rang from far off.

Good lungs for an old man.

I smiled behind my face wrap.

High praise, really. An enemy’s harsh curses are my delight; in translation, the old man was shouting:

—What a bold performance, what a daring ambush, and what a high level of skill. We took heavy losses and are very angry. It was such an excellent move that this old man forgot his age and bellowed.

Sure, let’s go with that.

Why hide in the narrow slit just inside the wall, back to the bricks, knees brushing the wall—a perfect windbreak nook in a cold district—instead of bolting farther?

Because to the eye, they’re respectable Lama Monks; ask “Where did the ones who just ran go?” and the people of Tianjun will point with their fingers and tell them straightaway.

In a pinch, the principle is: hide behind the door.

—Where are you! Don’t hide—come out! I said come out!

The furious voice came fast—suddenly just beyond the wall—feet pounding past.

—You think you can run? Even if I fall into hell, I’ll drag you brats down with me!

A leap up high, then the angry voice receded quickly.

For a monk, he should have trained his mind, yet he lets himself be whipped by rage like that.

Then again, a “trained mind” that slaughters plateau folk but spares Middle Kingdom folk out of fear of their backers—forgivable?

His inner-energy in the shout was resounding, though.

He was at least Flower Realm; the confidence to chase unknown-realm enemies alone, even losing his temper, fit.

“Move, move. Now. We go now.”

I hurried the party the other way—the opposite of where the old monk vanished—by the shortest route.

Shortest route.

I pried bricks as neatly as possible to open a crawl-hole.

On all fours I trespassed into the home; luckily, it was empty.

I stacked a silver or two by the hole, nice and visible, then crossed the house, out the door, down the alley, and reached the main road.

Apologies to the owner, but well—

Moving across rooftops risks being seen.

Could we just fight? Sure.

We’ve got one master beyond the realm line, two hacks, and a cheer squad.

The old monk was above the early Flower Realm and below the Translucent Realm—call him mid-Flower. If he’s only mid-Flower, we roll him.

But if he’s late-Flower, we might not finish it fast; then the other Lama Monks in the city will converge.

So: reduce their numbers first.

Back on the main road, we sprinted into a familiar alley and rounded the corner.

Two Lama Monks jolted in surprise.

Faces that said, Why are you coming out of there?

Behind them, three cripples on improvised stretchers—dragged by conscripted passersby, plateau folk pressed into service, no doubt.

My lips split in a vicious grin.

You relax just because the enemy fell back?

“Lightning always strikes twice!”

I barked and—boom—stomped the frozen ground, launching forward.

A monk whipped up his long staff.

A pilgrim’s staff with a finial—red aura surging like a spear!

They were “super-transcendents,” all right; they tried to respond fast.

Boom!! A rough stomp that shook the earth.

Not acceleration—braking. My body, a bolt in flight, stopped dead on a dime.

The finial-topped staffs brushed past a handspan in front of me; I pointed straight at the spot under the monk’s navel.

A black straight line connected my index fingertip and the monk’s crotch.

This was the “Heavenly Demon death-beam,” a little secret trick of the Heavenly Demon line.

A tiny blast bloomed between his legs; in an instant, his trouser seam ripped, and the anatomical piece that should have been there was neatly minced and scattered.

A miracle that turns a man into not-a-man!

If a cultist of the Heavenly Demon line had been present, he’d have fallen to the ground in five-point prostration, weeping at the miracle of his lord.

“Huuk!” “Uuugh.”

One monk recoiled a step in animal fear; Peng Daesan, against his will, let out an infrabass shudder—

—and another bolt followed behind me.

Gyeon Pohee’s unconditional follow-up—she always chases in my wake.

The remaining monk panicked and lunged with his finial staff like a spear, aura sheathing it.

But what can a mere pinnacle-level practice do to stop a fighter at the very peak of super-transcendence?

Gyeon Pohee’s hand—wreathed in a delicate peach-blossom aura—caught the staff and yanked; the monk lost his balance and stumbled forward.

Her palm slapped—smack!—his cheek; her opposite foot scythed his ankle. He opened flat as a cartwheel axle and spun on both shoulders.

At about a turn and a half, she snatched his arm—crunch.

A joint popped and reversed.

She caught his leg—crunch—and, as if gripping a mace by the haft, spun once and slammed him to the ground.

Heaven-and-Earth Great Bearing.

A Heavenly Demon method that lets you redirect the direction of force applied to you at will.

Strictly speaking, not “redirect,” but overpower—crushing it with greater force—so it belongs to the way of domination, not softness.

Its name means to seize earth and sky and forcibly reverse the natural order.

The usual “four taels move a thousand pounds” is the opposite principle.

This one uses two thousand pounds to steer a thousand—totaling three thousand pounds of destruction.

Thus its true power is the capacity to unleash sudden, extreme force; with each stage, that instantaneous strength doubles.

Because of that, at the end, the human body can’t withstand the peak, and the art remains unfinished—a tragic study.

Meanwhile—crack!—I drove a joyous kick into the super-transcendent monk’s core—a taekwondo-style Heavenly Demon forced core-break.

The monk, who’d just lost something precious and blanked out for a moment, now had his core shattered too; he spat blood and flew.

I stepped to finish the job—

“Oh, no you don’t!”

An old man rushed in and threw himself in the way.

“How can you do this to a monk—are you not afraid of hell? How can you—heavens.”

What are “monks” to these people?

I started to tell him they weren’t monks at all—just bald frauds, murderous cultists—but then thought: when the Lama Monks come looking later, he might suffer for it.

So, what then. I’ll be the bad one.

With the old man clinging to my waist, I stomped the pinnacle monk’s core and cracked it too.

“Hee-mae, grab one.”

“Okay!”

I gently peeled the old man off me.

Then I scooped the fallen monks—one under each arm like bundles—and sprang away.

Collateral damage kept blooming along our route, because whenever the way was blocked, I punched through a wall.

The first time’s the hardest; keep breaking walls and, somehow, the guilt begins to fade.

We’re paying for repairs generously, aren’t we?

Nothing to do all winter—patch some walls, pass the time; with the change left over, buy yourselves something tasty.

“Gasp! Wh-what—!”

“We’re terribly sorry. Use this to fix the wall, and keep the rest.”

Peng Daesan, well-practiced now, sliced off a gold piece and handed it over.

The homeowner, face flushed crimson a second ago, quickly recovered his normal color.

“Ahem.”

Some took one look at the bundles in my and Gyeon Pohee’s arms and collapsed to their knees, or begged for their lives; but a gold piece in hand brought visible relief.

Thus, following back-alleys plus household breakage, we returned to the first house where we’d stored the morning’s neatly trimmed “bundles.”

Thankfully, none had stopped breathing yet. I thought a couple might die from how viciously I’d smashed their cores.

Tenacious life-force, I’ll give them that.

But they were wilting, fever burning them hazy. Heh—hurts, doesn’t it.

I tossed the newly procured frauds beside the old bundles.

Peng Daesan’s brow twitched.

“You plan to hide here? After that ruckus, if they decide to search, they’ll be on us in no time.”

“Eh. Even if we hide, the commoners aren’t on our side—they’ll point us out in a heartbeat. By now they’ll be braced for ambush, so tricks will be harder. And if we just leave, they might take it out on the innocent and start another massacre. These bastards are very emotional. Better to make them chase us.”

“Mm.”

A furrow dug between Peng Daesan’s brows.

He’d thought we’d run straight out of the city. Instead, I was saying: fight.

Risk ourselves for the common folk.

Hard to object to that.

This is the terror of righteous cause.

I gave an abashed eye-smile.

“I know it’s petty, but we’ll try to shrink their numbers as much as we can—and if it looks bad, we pull out. If I had to choose between strangers and any one of you, of course I’d choose you. But we should do what we can.”

“I said nothing.”

“Right, right. I know you’re worrying for us.”

“Ahem. So—what now?”

“First, we tidy these.”

I pointed at the Lama Monks.

Peng Daesan’s face curdled again.

“Tidy,” she says. Such a pretty word.

Thus, the method of tidying villains.

Ingredients: a villain. Straw rope. Inner-energy. One Ice Technique user.

One: Freeze the villain’s limbs thoroughly.

Arms to the shoulder, legs to just below the pelvis—frozen solid is best.

Two: Sever the frozen limbs with inner-energy.

Freeze first, then cut—there’s no spray of blood, it’s sanitary; the ingredient doesn’t thrash; and the ingredient stays alive and fresh.

Three: Wrap the torso well with straw rope, and between the shoulder blades, twist a loop for a good handhold.

Careful not to cinch the neck.

“What on earth is this...”

“Hm? You can’t tell even looking at it?”

I lifted the loop at the back.

The limbless fraud’s torso spread wide—just the right size to shield me.

Only then did I reveal the finished product.

“Ta-da. Shield complete. If we’re being precise: a human shield—no, not human. Trash below human—so a trash shield? Recycled shield? Vermin shield?”

Peng Daesan clutched his forehead.