Chapter Eight: The Art of Combat

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(With a new book just sprouting, I humbly ask all interested patrons and esteemed guests to show mercy and nourish it…)

Ever since Cheng Tiandao’s rebellion twenty years ago, which shook the world, the imperial court had grown increasingly severe in its suppression of these so-called demonfolk. Yet, in recent years, as turmoil unsettled the court, the pressure upon these outcasts had gradually waned…

Wang Ling had no intention of bringing this transmigrator into his own home. That would be courting disaster for his family!

Instead, he planned to lead this stranger into the boundless Wujishan—a remote mountain, thick with forests and a notorious refuge for those fleeing the law. Even the authorities hesitated to venture there. By delivering the transmigrator to that place, Wang Ling would have fulfilled all obligations of benevolence. He swore, too, that from then on, he would sever all ties with this stranger.

The path they took was indeed wild and desolate, yet there were few true mountains—only endless thickets and a vast, empty wilderness, devoid of any sign of human life.

Wang Ling followed the man in black for half a day, probing him with understated questions, and was now convinced the other was truly a transmigrator. Unlike himself—whose soul had traversed worlds and taken a dozen years to adapt—this man had crossed over with both body and soul, only to find himself immediately ensnared in that earlier calamity…

“Fellow Daoist, we’ve been journeying for hours and seen no one. I doubt the authorities could ever find us now. With dusk falling, shouldn’t we rest? Find a place to spend the night?” suggested the black-robed Daoist, Zhen Yunzi.

“Rest for the night?” Wang Ling turned, sneering coldly. “You think it’s safe after dark? Let me tell you, night is even more perilous. Don’t forget—the officials command all manner of ghostly enforcers. If they report to the county, and the magistrate instructs the local spirits, we’ll be in real trouble!”

Zhen Yunzi was taken aback. “The authorities can command spirits and ghosts?”

This was wholly outside Zhen Yunzi’s expectations.

“Of course. The Son of Heaven is the descendant of the Celestial Emperor, lord over all under heaven. Every spirit and ghost of the land obeys his decree. Since that’s so, each local official wields that authority; why is it strange to command the local spirits?”

Wang Ling’s words left Zhen Yunzi speechless. In the ancient world from which he came, there were similar legends, but only in theory.

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The reality was, in his own history, emperors never held such power. Of course, in this world, the Dao showed its miracles openly—nothing like his original home.

So then, what should they do through the night? Zhen Yunzi asked directly.

Wang Ling snapped, “Follow me. As long as we reach the great Wujishan before night falls, we’ll live!”

These Daoists knew how to elude the authorities in this realm; they had their means. Satisfied, Zhen Yunzi quickened his pace, trailing after Wang Ling toward the so-called Great Wujishan.

That day’s light was dim and overcast. Though it didn’t rain, the sky darkened early. By Wang Ling’s estimation, they had at most half an hour—an hour at most—before night blanketed the land.

As they hurried along, a sudden shout rang out: “There they are! After those two criminals!”

From the trees burst a dozen peasants, wielding iron spades and wooden clubs. They surged forward, surrounding the pair.

Wang Ling’s face turned ashen. “So the officials have made such a fuss—mobilizing the villagers from every hamlet to hunt us down. Today is trouble indeed!”

“Then we’ll fight our way through!” Zhen Yunzi’s eyes narrowed, a murderous intent kindling within.

By now, he understood: this world was profoundly hostile to cultivators like him, brimming with deadly threats. If he wished to avoid capture and beheading, he had only one choice—fight for his life.

With such resolve, he cast aside all restraint. Though he had no weapon, he’d found a knife at the market—originally intended by a constable to sever his tendons. Lunging forward, he charged at the burly leader, who stood at the fore brandishing an iron saber.

The man was powerfully built, with long limbs and formidable strength—clearly a practiced fighter and the leader of these villagers. Yet he never expected Zhen Yunzi to hurl himself straight into his arms.

With a startled cry, the man tried to swing his saber, but only felt a sudden chill in his chest, as if all strength drained from him in an instant. Glancing down, he saw Zhen Yunzi retreating with blood dripping from his blade—a fresh wound blooming in his chest, staining his clothing scarlet.

He tried to scream, but managed only a hoarse gasp, collapsing to the ground.

The other villagers shouted and surged forward, not fleeing—whether they hadn’t noticed their leader’s fate, or were simply driven to violence, none could say.

Zhen Yunzi’s knife-fighting was brutal and fierce; he closed in on his opponents, each stab aimed at the throat, heart, or other vital points.

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In a matter of moments, two or three villagers had already fallen to his blade.

Even Wang Ling was briefly stunned by Zhen Yunzi’s ferocity. Nevertheless, he didn’t hesitate—drawing his sword, he joined the fray.

There, their different styles became clear: Zhen Yunzi fought up close, each strike a killing blow, merciless and direct. Wang Ling’s swordsmanship was skilled—one could call him an expert—yet lacked such lethal intent.

Inwardly, Wang Ling muttered, Good heavens, is this Daoist truly a cultivator, or a damned cutthroat assassin?

Within moments, half the villagers lay on the ground. Only then did the rest panic, crying out as they finally fled.

From the first clash to now, scarcely five minutes had passed, but already four had fallen to Zhen Yunzi’s knife—all struck fatally.

Wang Ling had only felled two, neither killed—those still writhed on the ground, groaning in pain.

“What a savage fighting style—did you learn this as a military scout?” Wang Ling continued to probe.

“You could say that,” Zhen Yunzi replied, still drenched in blood, the savagery not yet faded from his eyes.

He strode over and, with two swift motions, slit the throats of the wounded men.

A chill crept into Wang Ling’s heart at the sight. This transmigrator was truly ruthless.

Their attackers were but ordinary villagers, pressed by the authorities to man the roadblocks. Yet Zhen Yunzi showed no hesitation.

But it was too late to say anything now—the matter had spun out of control, and regret was useless.

Thankfully, when Wang Ling had rescued Zhen Yunzi, he’d taken precautions, masking his own face.

“A formidable fighting art, but the weapon’s too short—far too risky. Against armored soldiers, it would be useless. What a pity…”

“Oh?”

At first, Zhen Yunzi thought little of it. In his eyes, this savage method, though fierce, was hardly remarkable.