014 His Nightmare [Part 4]

  "But did you forget? I was a 4th-stage expert!"

  Zha Dong’s voice rang with arrogance as he parried Elder Fu’s sword with the sharp precision of a darting hummingbird.

  Their blades clashed, steel crying out in sparks and shrieking echoes. Elder Fu's strikes were relentless, his sword flowing like the crashing waves of a mighty waterfall. Each swing carried the weight of decades of experience, each stroke brimming with unwavering resolve.

  It had been a long time since he last wielded his sword in battle. His bones ached, his body screamed for rest, but he did not stop.

  He could not stop.

  Zha Dong, however, remained unfazed despite being pushed back. A smirk played on his lips, his breathing steady, his movements fluid.

  "I could tell," he sneered. "You used to be a 4th-stage expert, huh? Too bad for you—your skills have regressed with your cultivation!"

  Elder Fu gritted his teeth, ignoring the sharp pang in his muscles as he pressed forward. He did not need to be reminded of his decline. He could feel it with every step, every strike.

  Zha Dong's eyes gleamed with sadistic amusement. With a sudden burst of speed, he executed a precise thrust.

  Skull-Piercing Stab!

  His sword, shrouded in sharp demonic qi, shot forward in a deadly straight line.

  Elder Fu reacted on instinct, twisting his body at the last moment. But he was too slow.

  A sharp sting spread across his cheek as Zha Dong's blade nicked him, drawing the first blood.

  Had he been a second slower, the blade would have pierced his skull.

  "You dodged that one. Lucky you~" Zha Dong taunted, his voice laced with mockery.

  Elder Fu staggered back, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths.

  His vision swam. His grip on his sword trembled.

  Damn this old body.

  If he still had the strength of his youth, if he still wielded the power of the 4th stage, this fight would not be so one-sided. But he was no longer the man he once was.

  He was old. He was frail.

  And it was taking everything he had just to stand his ground.

  Elder Fu’s breath was heavy, his body trembling from exhaustion. His vision blurred at the edges, but his grip on his sword did not waver. He had no time left. No strength to spare. If he did not end this now, no one in One Well Village would survive the night.

  With a deep, shuddering breath, he made his decision.

  His thumb stabbed into his own Dantian.

  A sharp pain like molten fire erupted through his core, but he did not cry out. This was the price he would pay.

  Qi, raw and uncontained, burst forth from his body, rippling through the battlefield like a violent wave. His robes fluttered as the sheer force of his unleashed energy cracked the ground beneath his feet. His aged body, weary and slow mere moments ago, now stood unshaken.

  A suicidal move—one that no sane cultivator would ever attempt.

  Elder Fu was no longer concerned with survival.

  "You filthy demonic cultivator… You were so proud of your strength," he growled, his voice carrying the weight of decades of regret, pain, and fury. "Let's see you fight with all you’ve got!"

  Zha Dong’s smirk wavered as he instinctively took a step back. Impossible.

  Cultivators had been known to burn their Dantian to achieve temporary power boosts, but to forcefully return to a higher cultivation realm? That was unheard of. And yet, before him stood Elder Fu—his aura unmistakably that of a Spirit Mystery Realm cultivator.

  "My name is Xiang Fu!" The elder’s voice rang across the battlefield, his qi crackling like thunder. "Once an inner disciple of the Flowing Blade Sect! Die!"

  He vanished.

  No, he moved too fast for mortal eyes to follow.

  The only sign of his attack was the whisper of his blade slicing through the air.

  Flowing Hundred Consecutive Cuts!

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

  Each strike landed with razor precision, the air itself vibrating with the force of his technique.

  Twenty-Five. Fifty. Seventy-Five.

  The world blurred into a storm of steel and qi. Like the wet monsoon reversing its flow, the battlefield was engulfed in a violent tempest. The wind howled. The heavens trembled.

  One Hundred Cuts!

  A drizzle fell—a mere flicker of mist in the air. But hidden within it was death.

  Zha Dong’s arms shook as he desperately raised his sword to block, but he was already too late.

  The first slash tore through his shoulder.

  The second ripped across his ribs.

  Then the third, the fourth, the fifth—too many to count.

  Blood sprayed in every direction, painting the ground in crimson as the storm of blades swallowed him whole.

  "DIE!"

  Elder Fu roared, raising his sword for the final strike.

  But his body…

  His body no longer listened to him.

  The elder staggered, his vision darkening. His knees buckled. His arms fell limp. His blade, once so steady, slipped from his grip and clattered onto the blood-soaked earth.

  The price had been paid.

  His life force was spent.

  His Dantian was in ruins.

  His soul flickered like a candle in the wind, and finally, it went out.

  Elder Fu collapsed, his body lifeless, his face frozen in grim determination.

  Except for the wound on his cheek, not a single blemish remained on his body.

  The storm had passed.

  And Zha Dong still stood.

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  Dripping with blood, gasping for breath, his clothes in tatters, his flesh riddled with cuts—but alive.

  A moment of silence filled the air.

  Then—

  "He… hehe… hehehehehehe… HAHAHAHAHAHA!"

  Zha Dong's bloodied lips curled into a manic grin as he threw his head back and laughed. His laughter echoed through the empty village, bouncing off the ruined houses, reaching the ears of those too weak to run, too terrified to scream.

  The demon had survived.

  And there was no one left to stop him.

  ***

  **

  *

  Xiang Ya’s tears streamed down her pale cheeks, her face frozen in grief as she watched the only family she had left perish before her eyes. Her consciousness teetered on the edge, her mind drifting between dream and reality.

  “N-no!”

  The demonic qi ravaging her veins left her weak, unable to even whimper.

  ***

  **

  *

  Zha Dong, consumed by rage and madness, stabbed Elder Fu’s corpse over and over again, each thrust of his blade fueled by his twisted satisfaction. His eyes gleamed with cruel delight, his lips curled into a manic grin.

  "That’s what you get for getting ahead of yourself," he spat, plunging the blade into the elder’s chest once more. “DIE! DIE! DIE!”

  ***

  **

  *

  Nee Chen stood paralyzed. Elder Fu… a cultivator? He never would have guessed. The elder was one of the staunchest advocates for keeping their village free from the influence of cultivators, yet he had been one all along. The revelation was startling, but it was drowned out by something far greater—rage.

  A raw, unfiltered anger surged within Nee Chen, unlike anything he had ever felt before. It swelled in his chest, boiled in his veins, and reached a breaking point. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms as he stared at the bloody corpse of the elder who had once guided their village. The nightmare unfolding before him—he wanted it to stop!

  And then, it happened.

  Nee Chen felt something within him shift. A sensation both alien and natural at the same time. A warmth, a pulse, a swirling energy forming at the core of his being. Near his navel, his qi condensed, swirling like a storm, forming what he instinctively knew was a Dantian.

  The Martial Tempering Realm. The first step into cultivation.

  But there was no exhilaration in this newfound power. No moment of triumph.

  Only rage.

  His vision cleared, sharper than ever before. He could feel the flow of qi in his blood vessels, coursing through him like a rising tide. The world around him slowed just slightly, every movement of Zha Dong’s erratic stabbing more pronounced, every breath from Xiang Ya’s trembling form heavier.

  And yet, he did not act.

  Nee Chen knew better.

  Even with this strength, even with his Dantian now formed, the gap between him and Zha Dong remained like an insurmountable chasm. If he rushed in blindly, it would mean nothing but certain death.

  So he waited.

  A calm rage fermented within him. A silent promise forged itself in his heart.

  ‘I swear—I will make this filthy man suffer a thousand cuts!’

  Nee Chen struggled to steady his breathing. His mind was a whirlwind of panic, but he forced himself to focus. Survive.

  Xiang Ya had to survive.

  Lu Gao had to survive.

  But how?

  "Die, die! Old bastard!"

  Zha Dong's manic laughter echoed through the village as he plunged his sword repeatedly into Elder Fu’s lifeless body. The sickening sound of steel piercing flesh filled the air, each thrust dripping with hatred and cruelty.

  Nee Chen clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. His eyes darted around, searching—desperate for something, anything that could turn the tide.

  Then, his gaze landed on Elder Fu’s sword.

  It lay just a few paces away from him, gleaming under the dim moonlight. Had the elder thrown it toward him in his last moments? A final act of hope, a silent plea for someone—for him—to act?

  The weapon was smooth and slightly curved, its length falling between that of a long sword and a polearm. Nee Chen had watched in awe as Elder Fu wielded it, each stroke fluid, each movement precise. How had the old man controlled such a long blade with such effortless mastery?

  A mystery for another time.

  Now, he had to act.

  One wrong move, and he was dead.

  They were all dead.

  His gaze flickered toward Xiang Ya’s broken form, then toward where Lu Gao lay unconscious. Doing nothing was worse than taking a risk.

  With each controlled breath, he fed his fear into the fire growing in his heart. His pulse pounded in his ears, but his grip was steady as he reached for the sword.

  Slowly. Carefully. Quietly.

  Step by step, he inched closer to the demonic cultivator.

  Zha Dong was still hunched over Elder Fu’s corpse, his sadistic delight clouding his awareness.

  This was his chance.

  This was it!

  With everything he had, Nee Chen swung the sword.

  He felt the weight of it immediately—it was much heavier than he had expected. But he didn’t falter. He twisted his hips, rooted his feet into the ground—just like when he tilled the soil. His core was strong. His stance was steady.

  Strike!

  The blade whistled through the air.

  CLANG!

  Zha Dong blocked it with ease.

  "Fool!" the demonic cultivator sneered, his golden eyes flashing in amusement. "I saw that coming a thousand li away!"

  Nee Chen's heart dropped. His full-force attack had been nothing more than an annoyance.

  Zha Dong’s laughter rang through the night, twisted with rage and glee. He gripped his sword tightly, yet he did not bother to channel his qi. What need was there to use his full strength against a mere farmer?

  "I will vent my anger on you, pathetic bastard! Don’t die on me yet! Make sure you endure! HAHAHAHA!"

  With reckless cruelty, he swung his sword.

  Nee Chen barely managed to react. His body moved on instinct, raising Elder Fu’s sword just in time to intercept the incoming strike. The impact sent violent tremors through his arms. So heavy! His muscles screamed in protest, his grip barely holding. Sweat poured down his back, and his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.

  Yet, he endured.

  His feet dug into the dirt, his heart pounding like a war drum. Fear clawed at his mind, whispering that death was near, but Nee Chen shoved it away. If he hesitated—**if he faltered for even a second—**he would die.

  Zha Dong’s golden eyes gleamed with surprise. Blocked? His arrogant smirk twitched. "Hoh? That’s unexpected."

  Nee Chen didn't waste this one chance.

  Beneath his sleeve, his fingers curled around the handle of his carving knife. The same knife he used every day for woodcraft. His grip was firm, practiced. Though it was not a weapon meant for battle, it was an extension of his hands—a tool he had wielded with passion and skill for years.

  Like a striking viper, Nee Chen’s hand moved.

  SLASH!

  The knife sliced through flesh.

  Zha Dong staggered back, blood spilling from a deep gash across his throat. His eyes widened in shock.

  It wasn't a fatal wound—not yet. A mortal would have died instantly, but Zha Dong was no ordinary man. His demonic qi surged, slowing the bleeding. But he had been wounded.

  By a farmer.

  By a nobody.

  Nee Chen’s breath came in sharp gasps, his heart slamming against his ribs. He had done it—he had landed a hit!

  There was no technique. No polished swordsmanship. Only survival.

  But in that desperate moment, something had awakened in Nee Chen.

  Like a soldier who wielded a spear after a lifetime of plowing fields, or a dancer who found themselves naturally gifted in combat, Nee Chen had unknowingly walked a path all his life.

  A farmer’s hands, skilled in tilling the soil, became steady in battle.

  A carver’s precision, honed through countless hours of practice, became a deadly strike.

  This… this was his Dao.

  And it had wounded an expert.

  Zha Dong’s expression twisted in fury. He kicked at the ground, sending up a cloud of dust as he created distance. His demonic qi pulsed, sealing his wound just enough to keep him from weakening further.

  His voice was low, seething with rage. "You little… worm."

  Nee Chen said nothing. He only tightened his grip on the sword, his breath steady despite the storm raging inside him.

  He had no cultivation. No great power.

  Yet he had drawn first blood.

  Some would call it luck. Some would call it talent.

  Zha Dong clutched his wounded throat, his demonic qi slowing the bleeding, but the pain and humiliation burned deeper than any wound. His golden eyes bore into Nee Chen, filled with fury and resentment.

  "You…" His voice came out hoarse, but the rage was unmistakable. "I will come back for you! You were lucky!"

  The demonic cultivator sneered, stepping back as he tossed his sword into the air. In a single, fluid motion, he leaped and landed on its flat side, balancing with ease.

  "Remember my name! I am Zha Dong of the Bones Devouring Sect!"

  With that, he fled.

  Like a coward. Like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs.

  Nee Chen stood frozen, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he watched the unbelievable sight of a man surfing on a sword through the sky. The cultivator shrank into a mere speck against the vast night, disappearing into the darkness.

  It was… over.

  "...Ha… ha… ha…" A dry, mirthless chuckle escaped Nee Chen’s lips, soon turning into a strangled laugh. Tears streamed down his face as his body trembled, his legs barely holding him upright.

  "You, piece of shit…" His voice cracked as he spat the words, but he wasn’t directing them at Zha Dong.

  He was cursing himself.

  If only he had woken up earlier. If only he had warned Elder Fu about the danger before the attack began. If only they had evacuated sooner… Maybe the elder would still be alive. Maybe fewer villagers would have died. Maybe… maybe this nightmare could have been avoided.

  But 'maybe' meant nothing now.

  Futile.

  That was all it was—a madman’s denial of the inevitable. Evil had knocked on their village’s door, and they had not been strong enough to keep it out.

  A long, shuddering breath left Nee Chen’s lips as he let the tension in his body finally ease. His arms felt like lead, his grip on the sword loosening as he willed himself to breathe.

  He couldn't believe it.

  He made a cultivator flee.

  This was the best possible outcome. The chance of it happening had been impossibly slim, yet against all odds—it had happened.

  A miracle.

  But deep inside, Nee Chen knew it wasn’t just luck.

  At the back of his mind, he had planned for this.

  He had inflicted a severe enough injury, knowing that even a cultivator wouldn’t risk death when faced with a fatal wound. He had hoped for Zha Dong to flee.

  And it worked.

  The nightmare had finally ended.

  Yet, the pain remained.

  Nee Chen wiped at his tears with the back of his trembling hand, his gaze shifting toward Elder Fu’s still, lifeless form. His heart clenched.

  The old man was gone.

  But he had given them a fighting chance.

  Nee Chen closed his eyes and whispered a silent promise.

  "Elder Fu… thank you. If you are watching, know this—I will take vengeance on those who have wronged us."

  His hands curled into fists, his resolve hardening like tempered steel.

  Tonight, the village had suffered a great loss.

  But Nee Chen had survived.

  And he would not let their deaths be in vain.