Chương 46: 112 Seconds Left (2/3)

The freezing rain of the Black-Ash Marsh fell in heavy, relentless sheets, each droplet fat and sluggish with the marsh's corrupted humidity. But the drops never reached Shi Yan's flesh—they hissed and vaporized the instant they entered the shimmering corona of heat radiating from his body, exploding into wisps of steam that coiled upward like funeral incense. The air around him warped and twisted, distorting his silhouette as though he stood behind a wall of invisible flame.

He didn't even slow down. His boots struck the slick stone in steady, grinding footfalls, each step accompanied by the wet hiss of evaporating puddles beneath his soles. His 110-Might physique simply ignored the howling wind-barrier, walking straight through the violently pressurized Qi as if he were wading through a gentle spring breeze.

The invisible wall of compressed air roared and screamed around him, whipping his sodden tunic against his frame and scattering droplets in wild spirals—but his body moved forward with the relentless, mechanical certainty of a siege engine, muscles rippling beneath skin so hot it glowed faintly red in the storm's dim light.

The disciple's eyes bulged in disbelief, the whites stark against his rain-slicked face as his cultivation technique utterly failed to halt the monster's advance. His jaw hung slack, trembling. Impossible! No one should be able to withstand the power of wind— Panic consumed him, flooding his chest with ice colder than the rain.

But instead of retreating further, he yanked his jian upward with both hands, the wet leather bindings of the scabbard squeaking in his white-knuckled grip as he aimed for a desperate, half-drawn slash. The blade scraped against the scabbard's mouth with a shrill metallic whine.

"Die! Just die, you crawling filth!" His voice cracked with hysteria, spittle flying from his lips and mingling with the rain streaming down his face.

Shi Yan didn't block the desperate slash. He simply stepped completely inside the boy's effective range with a single fluid stride, closing the distance so abruptly the youth's eyes couldn't track the movement. He jammed his heavy, iron-plated vambrace directly against the youth's forearm, the cold metal striking with brutal finality to physically pin the sword inside its scabbard before it could clear even halfway.

A dull, bone-jarring clang of thick pig iron striking lacquered wood and steel echoed through the storm, the sound ugly and flat in the rain-soaked air. It was followed instantly by the sickening, wet crack of the boy's radius shivering under the sheer hydraulic pressure of Shi Yan's arm—the bone splintering lengthwise with a sound like green wood breaking, fragments grinding against each other beneath the skin. The disciple's face went white, his mouth opening in a soundless scream as agony lanced up his arm.

With the disciple's arm pinned, trembling and useless against the scabbard, Shi Yan didn't even look at him. His pale eyes remained forward, cold and empty as winter ice. He simply flicked his wrist with surgical precision. The frosty edge of the stolen jian effortlessly severed the carotid artery of the wind-barrier cultivator, the blade passing through skin, muscle, and vessel with barely a whisper of resistance.

A pressurized spray of vivid arterial blood painted the freezing rain in crimson, the hot stream hissing faintly as it met the cold air. The spray arced outward in a pulsing fan, splattering across the wet stone and darkening the puddles with swirling clouds of red. The disciple's eyes went wide and glassy, his mouth working soundlessly as his knees buckled.

Entity Slain: Cloud-Mirror Sect Disciples Cultivation Resonance: Ash-Marrow / Obsidian-Frame (Tier-1 Peak) +300 Dao Embers Before that body even began to fall—before the youth's fingers could fully slacken on the scabbard—Shi Yan pivoted on his heel like a mechanical reaper, his wet boots grinding against the stone with perfect traction despite the downpour. Steam billowed from his shoulders in thick coils.

Two more junior disciples had just managed to draw their weapons behind the wind-barrier cultivator, their blades clearing their scabbards with the ringing hiss of spiritually refined steel.

Their faces were pale with terror, eyes darting between their dying brother and the monster who had killed him.

Shi Yan didn't give them the instant required to even draw their Qi and use their cultivation techniques.

"Quick! Form the array!" one of the youths shouted, his voice breaking with panic as he struggled to adjust his grip on his sword. His hands shook so badly the blade wavered in the air, rainwater streaming down its length.

"As long as we unite our Qi, we can stop him—!"

"He's only a mortal!" another disciple cried, though his pale face—bloodless as wax—and trembling hands betrayed his fear. His jian dipped, the tip wavering as though the weapon had grown suddenly too heavy.

"No matter how strong he is, he cannot contend against our sect's formation!"

His voice faltered, cracking on the final syllable.

"T-The Patriarch will arrive soon—!"

Neither boy got to finish their final words.

Exploiting his monstrous 110-Agility, Shi Yan's body blurred, his form seeming to split into overlapping afterimages as raw speed distorted perception. The silver-tasseled jian flashed in a brutal, perfectly horizontal arc, the tassel snapping taut with a sharp crack as the blade cut through the air. The blade sheared cleanly through the cervical vertebrae of both youths simultaneously, bisecting flesh, cartilage, and bone with the effortless ease of a butcher's cleaver through soft meat.

Their heads snapped backward, entirely severed from their spinal columns, tumbling through the air in opposite directions with expressions of frozen shock still etched on their youthful faces. Their pristine white robes were instantly drenched in a horrific wave of gore, the fabric clinging wetly to their collapsing bodies as arterial fountains erupted from the stumps of their necks. The bodies stood for a single, surreal heartbeat—headless and swaying—before crumpling into the mud with heavy, wet thuds.

Blood pooled rapidly around them, mixing with rainwater and marsh muck into a sickly pink slurry.

Entity Slain: Cloud-Mirror Sect Disciples This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Cultivation Resonance: Ash-Marrow / Obsidian-Frame (Tier-1 Peak) +300 Dao Embers Entity Slain: Cloud-Mirror Sect Disciples Cultivation Resonance: Ash-Marrow / Obsidian-Frame (Tier-1 Peak) +300 Dao Embers That makes four...

The final junior disciple, standing to the far right, witnessed three of his martial brothers butchered in the span of a single heartbeat. His breath came in short, rapid gasps, visible as pale fog in the cold air. The psychological conditioning of his pampered sect life completely snapped. His pupils dilated to pinpricks, his body locking rigid as primal terror overrode every lesson his masters had ever drilled into him.

"No! No, stay back!" he shrieked, tears of sheer terror mixing with his sweat and the rain, streaming down his cheeks in hot rivulets. His voice was high and raw, stripped of all dignity. He abandoned his sword entirely, the blade slipping from his nerveless fingers and clattering onto the stone with a discordant ring. He realized, with gut-wrenching clarity, that he wouldn't have time to raise it before this mortal assassin reached him.

With a sharp clap that echoed over the storm, the boy slammed his palms together, his fingers interlocking with desperate force. He drew upon every last trace of Qi within his dantian, reaching deep into the spiritual well at his core and yanking the power upward with reckless abandon. Vast currents of spiritual power surged through his meridians, the energy channels lighting up beneath his skin like molten rivers.

They bulged visibly against his flesh, distending and throbbing as more Qi than they were meant to carry flooded through them.

Heedless of the damage it would inflict on his cultivation foundation—heedless of the months of meditation and refinement he was destroying in a single desperate gambit—he pushed himself beyond his limits. Crimson radiance erupted from his palms, flickering wildly with unstable power. The light cast harsh, dancing shadows across his face, illuminating the wild terror in his eyes. Heat shimmered around his hands, the rain evaporating before it could touch his skin.

"Demon!" His eyes were bloodshot, the delicate vessels burst from the strain of channeling so much Qi at once. Spittle flew from his lips as he roared in fury, his voice hoarse and breaking.

"When the Patriarch arrives, your soul will be cast into the Heavenly Furnace and refined for ten thousand years! Scorching Cloud Palm!"

The youth thrust his glowing, superheated hands directly at Shi Yan's face, projecting a localized wave of thermal destruction—a roiling, invisible blast of heat meant to melt flesh straight from the bone, to peel skin and boil eyes in their sockets. The air rippled and distorted around his hands, and the stench of ozone and scorched fabric filled the space between them.

Ohh?? A thermal projection?

Shi Yan's mind processed the threat instantly, his military training dissecting the attack in the microseconds it took to manifest. Highly lethal. However, the stance is overly wide, overcommitted, and completely voids his center of balance. He leaves the entire lateral thoracic region completely exposed.

Well...

Shi Yan didn't even look at the incoming wave of fire. His pale eyes remained fixed on the disciple's torso, tracking the exact position of his ribs. Instead, he let his body drop flawlessly to the side, his knees bending as his center of gravity shifted with liquid precision. The movement was so smooth it seemed almost lazy, as though he were simply leaning out of the way of an inconvenient branch.

He let the searing heat of the Scorching Cloud Palm blast harmlessly over his right shoulder, the invisible wave passing close enough that it merely singed the damp fabric of his tunic, blackening the edges and filling the air with the acrid smell of burning cloth.

Hehe, got you.

Utilizing the rotational momentum of his evasion, his body coiling like a compressed spring, he drove the jian backward in a reverse-grip thrust. His shoulder rolled forward, his entire body weight channeling into the strike.

He aimed precisely for the anatomical gap between the fifth and sixth ribs, his mind's eye overlaying the skeletal structure onto the youth's body with perfect clarity. The blade slipped through the narrow space, entirely circumventing the youth's muscular defense, parting skin and intercostal muscle like silk. It slid cleanly through the ribs and directly into the heart of the final disciple, the tip puncturing the right atrium with a wet, meaty thunk.

The boy's fiery aura instantly sputtered out, the crimson light dying as though doused with cold water. His mouth opened in a silent, agonized O, his eyes bulging as his body tried and failed to process what had just happened. His hands fell limply to his sides, the spiritual energy dissipating into harmless wisps that faded into the rain. Blood sprayed violently across the inside of the golden dome, hot and vivid, splattering in wide arcs that painted the shimmering barrier with dark streaks.

The Heavenly Celestial Formation, now utterly bereft of all five of its spiritual anchors, violently collapsed upon itself. The golden dome flickered once—twice—then shattered like fragile glass, the Daoist symbols unraveling into streams of fading light that dissolved into the storm. The barrier's collapse sent a shockwave of displaced air rippling outward, whipping rain and steam in chaotic spirals.

Entity Slain: Cloud-Mirror Sect Disciples Cultivation Resonance: Ash-Marrow / Obsidian-Frame (Tier-1 Peak) +300 Dao Embers The notifications cascaded rapidly in his peripheral vision, the text appearing and fading with mechanical efficiency.

Five pristine, elite disciples lay dead or dying in the black mud, their bodies sprawled in graceless heaps. Their white robes were stained beyond recognition, soaked through with blood, rain, and marsh filth until the fabric clung to their bodies like burial shrouds. Limbs lay at unnatural angles. Mouths gaped open, eyes staring sightlessly at the storming sky.

Shi Yan slowly stood to his full height, straightening with the unhurried deliberation of a man who knew no threat remained in his immediate vicinity. The stolen silver jian was held casually at his side, angled downward. Dark blood washed off its fuller in the downpour, running down the blade in thin rivulets and dripping from the tip in slow, rhythmic drops that pattered into the puddles at his feet.

Thick coils of white steam rolled off his broad shoulders, rising in lazy spirals before being torn apart by the wind. The black, geometric lattice of his active Black-Iron Body Art pulsed visibly beneath his pale skin, the veins writhing like living things with each beat of his heart. The patterns branched and forked across his forearms, his throat, his temples—dark and stark against flesh that glowed faintly with residual heat.

He turned his dead, emotionless eyes toward the final remaining target, his expression as cold and empty as a winter grave.

The senior disciple stood at the edge of the shattered stone path, alone. The golden light of the formation no longer illuminated him. Rain plastered his hair to his skull, water streaming down his face in rivulets.

His mystical third eye had slammed shut, the golden iris disappearing as the lid sealed tight, overwhelmed by the recoil of the broken formation. A thin trickle of blood leaked from the corner of the closed lid, running down his cheek like a crimson tear. His face was deathly pale, drained of all color except for the dark circles beneath his eyes.

His legs visibly trembled beneath his robes, the fabric shaking as his knees threatened to buckle. He looked upon the pile of butchered bodies that he had, just moments ago, confidently led into the Outer Wards of Skycloud City. His mouth worked soundlessly, his throat convulsing as though he might vomit. His hands hung at his sides, empty and useless.

Shi Yan did not immediately charge.

Let's check... Shi Yan felt the heavy, piston-like thud of his heart against his ribs, each beat a dull, meaty percussion that resonated through his chest cavity. The rhythm was fast—too fast—driven by the unnatural demands he was placing on his cardiovascular system.

I've kept the Black-Iron Body Art running continuously through the Elder's engagement, that damn panther kill, and breaching this perimeter. I probably have about 112 seconds of duration left before my muscles start failing.

He shifted his weight slightly, rolling his shoulders and feeling the deep, insistent burn radiating through his calves and thighs. The sensation was familiar—the creeping edge of exhaustion that came from pushing mortal biology to its absolute limits. A familiar, dull burning in his calves. The muscles trembled faintly with each breath, the fibers twitching as lactic acid accumulated in the tissue.

Then, counting the time since my last sprint... the Blood-Ignition Flash Step is still on cooldown. I need exactly 26 more seconds before my vascular system can survive another sonic displacement.

He was incredibly fast right now, boasting 110 Agility—fast enough that mortal eyes struggled to track his movements. But he didn't have his supernatural gap-closer, the explosive burst that could close dozens of meters in the blink of an eye.

Furthermore, the Sieve Effect was taking its toll.

Maintaining the absolute peak of mortal biology was draining his stamina into the environment at an aggressive 400% rate. It was like trying to hold water in cupped hands—no matter how tightly he gripped, it slipped through his fingers, bleeding away into the cold air.

He could feel the dull, creeping burn of lactic acid building in his forearms, the muscles stiff and heavy as though filled with sand. Beneath that, deeper still, was the heavy, hollow ache of caloric starvation deep inside his cells—a gnawing emptiness, as though his body were slowly consuming itself from the inside out to fuel the impossible demands he placed upon it.

I need to close this out efficiently, he thought, staring down the senior disciple with cold, analytical focus. His pale eyes tracked the man's posture, the trembling in his legs, the rapid rise and fall of his chest. No extended trades. No testing his swordplay. A single, decisive biological shutdown.