The forest clearing was a pit of tension. Fifty disciples of the Misty Cloud Sect surrounded one man, their blades shimmering with dou qi under the pale moon. Elders barked commands from the rear, voices straining to keep fear out of their tone.
Xiao Chen stood in the middle, sword dangling at his side, its edge catching stray moonlight. He didn't posture, didn't ready himself. He simply stared, that faint smile curling at his lips, the kind that mocked without words.
"So many of you," he said quietly. "And yet, in the end… you'll all die the same."
The first man lunged. Xiao Chen moved.
His sword flashed once—Asura Sword Scripture, Third Form. The disciple's body froze mid-stride, then his face slid neatly in half, the top half toppling to the dirt with a wet slap. Screams tore through the circle.
Xiao Chen's eyes narrowed, amused. "Already screaming?" He stepped into the chaos.
A blade whistled for his neck. He ducked low, and his sword traced upward—Fifth Form. The man's torso split from hip to shoulder, innards spilling in steaming ropes across the ground. Xiao Chen stepped past him before the corpse even hit dirt.
"Don't falter! He bleeds like anyone!" an elder shouted desperately.
"Bleeds?" Xiao Chen chuckled, twisting his blade out of another man's throat in a spray of red. "You've mistaken me for prey."
Three disciples rushed him together. Xiao Chen's blade danced—Seventh Form. A head spun into the air, blood jetting from the neck like a fountain. His sword flipped backward into his grip, impaling the second man through the mouth and tearing the back of his skull apart. He kicked the third in the chest, ribs snapping like brittle wood, before ending him with a single thrust to the heart.
They screamed and swarmed. Xiao Chen's expression never changed.
"You'll need more than numbers," he said coldly, parrying two strikes in one motion. His strength bore down, his sword moving faster than eyes could follow. "No matter how many ants gather… at the end, they're still only ants."
Twelfth Form. His sword spiraled low, shearing through both legs of a disciple at the knees. The man collapsed shrieking, only for Xiao Chen's blade to silence him with a single thrust downward through the eye.
Another elder came roaring in, dou qi flaring. Their weapons clashed, sparks spitting into the night. The elder pushed forward with everything he had, his veins bulging with strain. Xiao Chen's gaze remained steady, almost bored.
"Strength without skill is still weakness," he murmured. Nineteenth Form. His sword twisted, breaking the elder's guard like snapping twigs. The blade punched through his eye, bursting out the back of his skull. Xiao Chen yanked it free, blood and brain matter spraying the dirt.
The elder's corpse dropped like a felled ox. The circle broke. Fear became panic.
Some fled, others froze. Xiao Chen advanced, calm as death itself. His blade worked with clinical precision, his movements so fast the air hissed with each strike. A disciple's arm spun away into the grass. Another man's mouth opened in a cry—cut short when the sword sliced straight through it, splitting his head clean in two halves that slumped apart.
One fell to his knees, sobbing, his blade clattering away. "Spare me, I—I beg—"
Xiao Chen's laugh was soft, cruel. "Mercy?" His sword pierced the man's throat and wrenched upward, tearing his head open like a ripe fruit. "Why?"
The massacre dragged on, the forest filled with shrieks, steel, and the wet sound of flesh parting. By the end, only silence remained. The earth was black with blood, corpses sprawled in broken heaps. The stench of gore hung thick in the night air.
Xiao Chen stood alone among them, his chest rising calmly, his blade dripping steady trails of red. He tilted his head, studying the last man crawling pitifully away, his fingernails tearing into the dirt in desperate effort.
"Pathetic," Xiao Chen muttered, lifting his sword for the killing stroke—
Clang!
The strike was stopped. By fingers.
Xiao Chen's eyes sharpened.
The figure before him was cloaked in drifting mist, his aura cold, unreadable. He held the bloodied sword between two fingers as though it were no more dangerous than a reed.
"You kill with skill," the man said evenly. His tone betrayed no fear, only a measured calm. "Precise. Efficient. But why waste your mastery on worms? You are meant for more."
Xiao Chen pulled back his blade, lips twitching in faint amusement.
The stranger's voice lowered, almost conspiratorial. "Bring us Xiao Yan. Alive. Bring us the flame he carries. Do this, and the Xiao clan will be erased overnight. You will have your revenge without lifting another finger."
The mist swirled, and then he was gone.
For a long moment, Xiao Chen stood in silence. Then his lips curled into a cruel smile, his voice low and venomous.
"Pathetic parasites," he spat, flicking blood from his sword. "If I want something gone, it won't exist to see the sunrise… no matter what some maggot says."
He turned, stepping over the mountain of corpses, vanishing into the night. Behind him, the battlefield reeked of slaughter, and not a soul dared breathe.