Big mistake.
Linyue stepped in—swift as lightning—and with her left hand (her good hand, thank you very much), she caught his wrist mid-strike. Just snatched it out of the air. Then—
WHACK.
Her stiff, plank-like right hand—rendered useless earlier by that mysterious vial of suspicious cosmetic water—moved with surprising speed and smacked the assassin square in the face. The sound was… profound. Deep. Spiritual. The kind of smack that echoed not just through the alley but possibly through generations.
The assassin flew sideways, sailed through the air, and crashed into a stack of crates. Wood splinters. Feathers flying (where did those come from?). A single cabbage rolled out and bumped into his twitching leg. He lay there, limbs twitching, eyes unfocused, mouth open in the universal expression of deep regret.
Linyue shook her right hand delicately and stared at it with wide eye, "… What a potent water!" she murmured, blinking in mild awe.
She thought that it was just normal, regular, possibly mislabeled toilet water? But this? This was power. Unexpected, unexplainable, and most importantly, potentially weaponizable. If it could harden her hand like this, then it could be used as a hidden weapon. Even a non-cultivator could slap someone into ragdoll with a palm soaked in this miraculous fluid.
Incredible, she thought, nodding seriously. A hidden weapon disguised as beauty product.
Elegant. Unexpected. Slightly concerning.
Like herself.
She made a mental note to hunt down that merchant later. The vial said "potent" and "long lasting" but how long? Hours? Days? Weeks? Until next full moon? Could she use it on other limbs? Could she make her entire arm indestructible? Could she high-five a demon into another dimension?
She needed answers. Research. Controlled tests. Possibly volunteers—not Song Meiyu, she'd whine too much.
And most importantly… were there side effects? Would her hand stay like this? Would she wake up with a rock-hard hand a month later? Could she knock someone out just by waving?
Linyue stood in the alley, deep in thought, while chaos unfolded behind her. She was mentally designing the future of slap-based martial arts:
Power: Moderate.
Elegance: High.
Slap potential: Devastating.
Her gaze drifted toward Shen Zhenyu, just in time to check his battle status. As expected, the assassin who had foolishly approached him was now… a sculpture. Folded neatly on the ground like an old laundry pile someone gave up on. One arm behind his back. One leg under his head. One shoe was nowhere in sight, and dignity lost to the wind.
Shen Zhenyu looked like he hadn't even moved. Perhaps he hadn't. The assassin might've fainted from fear. Maybe Shen Zhenyu had flexed a single eyebrow, and the laws of physics just gave up. Linyue gave a thoughtful nod.
Clearly, slap-based combat had potential. But eyebrow-based destruction? That was advanced level. Probably needed ten years of quiet seething and tea drinking to master.
Then her eyes landed on Song Meiyu.
There she was, flailing around, hopping on one foot, twirling in semi-circles, and dodging the assassin's attacks. She hadn't brought her sword. Of course not. She was currently playing the role of humble maidservant. A maidservant with a sword would raise questions. Many questions. Most of them involving security breaches and identity checks.
If she had reached the Peak Stage, it will be different story. At that stage, cultivators could conjure spiritual weapons from thin air—very flashy, very cool, very much not something Song Meiyu could do yet. Song Meiyu was still at Late-Stage Third Level.
Still, Linyue and Shen Zhenyu didn't step in. Not out of cruelty, but because they knew better. Song Meiyu was many things: dramatic, easily excited, prone to strange leg movements but weak was not one of them.
And once Song Meiyu saw how Linyue had smacked an assassin into a new constellation using nothing but her cosmetic-planked hand, her eyes sparkled with wicked inspiration.
"Oh?" she gasped, wicked joy bubbling up. "We're doing that now?"
She grinned, raised her stiffened left leg—the one doused by that suspicious miracle water—and with a perfectly timed pivot, then—
BAM.
A perfect spinning kick. Her stiff leg, powered by skincare and spite, collided directly with the assassin's ribs.
The man went airborne. Not with grace, not with dignity but with speed. He sailed across the alley, bounced once off a crate, slammed onto the ground with the dull thud, and lay there groaning, instantly rethinking his life choices.
Song Meiyu landed, planted her good foot, adjusted her posture, and gave a proud nod. "Hah! I should've started kicking people more often." She looked down at her leg with admiration.
Linyue, watching all of this, rubbed her wooden hand thoughtfully and nodded in approval.
Yes. This was definitely one of the more… creative assassination attempts.
The alley was a mess. Crates smashed. Trash scattered. One shoe hanging from a roof tile. Several unconscious assassins were arranged in various uncomfortable positions. The silence that followed was heavy. The air even smelled a little like guilt and poor planning.
Only He Yuying remained, his smile lopsided in the most terrifying way possible, staring down at the last assassin. The last assassin—poor, sweaty, and now very aware of how doomed he was—stood frozen. His eyes darted between the chaos around him, wondering if he, too, would be smacked by a magical skincare product.
He Yuying, as a fire-element cultivator, thought of all the options available. Should he sear the man into a sizzling street-side barbecue? Or perhaps go all in and reduce him to a neat little lump of charcoal suitable for winter stoves?
He flexed his fingers. Sparks danced across his knuckles. The alley flickered with faint orange light.
But then…he paused. His eyes shifted to the side, just in time to witness Linyue—graceful, calm, half-bored—slap a man across the alley with her stiff, glorified wooden-plank hand. Then Song Meiyu followed, yelling something loud and triumphant, and kicked her opponent using her stiff leg. The man flew backward with so much force, his shoes stayed behind.
He Yuying tilted his head slightly, eyebrows raised in amusement. The fire at his fingertips dimmed. Should… he tries that too?
His left cheek, still frozen by the bizarre cosmetic, had long since lost any hope of functioning normally. The skin felt numb, his eyebrow twitched without permission, and any attempt at expression resulted in strange muscle spasms. Using his face was not an option anymore. What was he supposed to do? Slam his cheekbone into the enemy's fist and hope the assassin got confused and left out of sheer awkwardness?
He chuckled at the thought, and that was when things got… unsettling.
Thanks to the immobile side of his face, the chuckle twisted his features in the worst way. What should have been a confident grin turned into something unnatural. The right side of his face smiled. The left side… didn't. At all. The result was a warped, twitching expression that looked completely cursed.
The assassin facing him blinked. Then took a step back.
He Yuying, thoroughly enjoying himself now, widened the grin—lopsided, eerie, completely wrong.
The assassin stared, his eyes locked onto He Yuying's broken expression. His training screamed attack. His instincts screamed run. His common sense screamed DEFINITELY run.
He chose wisely.
The assassin turned and bolted. Not in a silent, shadowy escape. He scrambled. Arms flailing. Feet slipping. He tripped over a bucket. He smacked his shin into a barrel, yelped, then stumbled again.
He Yuying didn't move. Just watched calmly as the man vanished into the night, crashing and yelping every few steps. There was a final thud, followed by a weak groan. Then silence.
The rest of the group stared at He Yuying.
He wiped a speck of dirt from his sleeve and spoke casually, despite the fact that half his face still refused to move. "Perfectly executed strategy."
Song Meiyu clapped once. "Very stylish. Very scary. Never do it again."
Linyue made a note in her mind: He Yuying's face now counts as a weapon.Use with caution.
"Should we chase him?" Song Meiyu asked, tilting her head toward the direction the last assassin had run—noisy, clumsy, and full of regret.
Linyue raised her stiffened hand, flicked it once, and spoke in a steady voice. "Leave him be. Maybe nature's call. If it's urgent, he'll come back later."
He Yuying gave a low snort, his haunted half-smile still firmly in place. Shen Zhenyu crossed his arms and looked away, clearly hiding amusement.
The alley, filled with unconscious attackers, broken barrels, bent crates, one lonely cabbage, and one boot with no owner, finally went quiet.
And just like that, the chaos was over.
Four cultivators—one completely composed, three operating under various degrees of spiritual nonsense—turned as one and walked out of the alley without speaking. No dramatic exit. No heroic pose. Just calm steps and the faint creak of a leg that still hadn't fully recovered from cosmetic side effects.
They left behind a scene no one would believe. Unconscious bodies, splintered crates, one shoe lodged on the roof, and a single unlucky assassin who would need several weeks of therapy before ever accepting another contract.
In fact, he might take up farming. Safer. Less slapping.