Flying Sword

Flying sword!

Qin Sang snapped his eyes open, only to be instantly blinded by the harsh sunlight and hurriedly shut them again.

His throat was parched beyond endurance, and pain surged over him like a tide from every direction. Bracing his arms against the ground, Qin Sang pushed himself upright and realized he had somehow tumbled out of the prison cart and lay unconscious on the ground. His right leg was pinned under a broken cage—no wonder the pain in his calf was especially sharp; it might have been snapped.

How had the cart overturned?

Qin Sang struggled to recall the memories before he blacked out, his head splitting with pain. He barely managed to sit up and looked around—the scene in the distance was utter chaos.

The ancient trees along the riverbank were toppled or snapped, some looking as if they had been struck by lightning. One tree had burst into flames, and the thick smoke blown over by the wind was choking.

That vast stretch of yellow grass flats was also unrecognizable, as if a herd of wild boars had plowed through it. Deep gullies were exposed across the ground, with pale, tangled roots crisscrossing everywhere.

When the convoy had passed through, the riverbank had been perfectly flat.

Qin Sang stared blankly at all this, finally piecing together fragments of memory.

A white-robed youth descended from the sky, and the bandits all fell to their knees, shouting, "Immortal Master..."

A flying sword shot toward the black-cloth carriage. The carriage exploded with a boom, and a figure in a black robe flew out. The two seemed to have a grudge, immediately coming to blows. Then he thought he heard a strange sound before passing out.

What had happened after he lost consciousness?

Both of them could actually fly—that was clearly abnormal. The bandits had called them Immortal Masters. Could they really be gods?

As a child, Qin Sanwa had heard many tales of immortals, but Qin Sang had assumed they were just superstition, like in his past life. Now, it seemed otherwise.

Which Immortal Master had won?

Qin Sang saw no sign of them. Scanning his surroundings, the prison carts were tilted and scattered, most of the cages on them smashed. The fellow sufferers who had been trapped inside lay strewn across the ground in a mess.

No wonder the surface beneath his hand felt so soft—he was pressing on someone's stomach.

Qin Sang quickly lifted his hand, then paused with a slight start. Carefully, he reached out and felt the person's wrist. No pulse.

Dead...

Perhaps because he had died once before, Qin Sang's courage was much greater than in his past life. A corpse lay right beside him, yet he felt little fear.

Was anyone else still alive?

Qin Sang hurriedly looked at the others. Everyone lay motionless on the ground, even the horses pulling the carts—not a single sign of rising or falling. The scene was eerily strange.

Suddenly, Qin Sang noticed a group of people lying on the riverbank as well. Those bandits had been chopping trees to build a raft. When the white-robed youth appeared, they had all knelt and called out "Immortal Master." For some reason, they too had all fallen unconscious.

Qin Sang's expression shifted sharply. Those bandits were strong and hadn't fallen—they might very well be like him, merely unconscious, not dead!

At that thought, Qin Sang quickly leaned forward and struggled to lift the wooden cage pressing on his leg. He sucked in a sharp breath and couldn't help but groan in pain, but fearing it would alert the bandits, he forced the sound down.

Please don't let my leg be broken, or even if I escape, I won't make it out of these desolate mountains alive.

Qin Sang prayed silently, pulling his leg out to examine it.

Fortunately, the bone wasn't broken.

But when he tried to put weight on it, another sharp pain shot through him—at the very least, a crack. Walking would be impossible for a while.

Even if he had to crawl, Qin Sang would do it. He found a knife at a bandit's waist, first cut the ropes binding his own hands and feet, then went down the line. He aimed for the heart at first, but a rib blocked the blade, jarring his hand, so he switched to slitting throats and then stabbed the heart as a finishing blow.

He stared at his blood-soaked hands for a long moment before realizing that the bandits hadn't made a sound when stabbed—they were already dead. Yet he had been like a madman, striking again and again.

He felt a flicker of fear, not of the corpses, but of himself.

He threw the knife away, turned, and crawled to the river. He buried his face in the water, holding it there until he was nearly suffocating, then jerked his head up, gasping for air. His emotions calmed slightly.

If I didn't kill them, they would have killed me!

If I'd had this realization in my past life, would I have ended up like this?

No!

There's one more!

Qin Sang jolted with a start, cold sweat nearly breaking out. Only when he saw a corpse riddled with wooden splinters did he relax, collapsing to the ground. When the black-cloth carriage exploded, the leader had been right beside it and died on the spot.

All the bandits were dead, but Qin Sang still didn't dare let his guard down. He used a wooden stick to prop himself up.

When he took in the full view of the grass flats in the distance, Qin Sang couldn't help but marvel. Was this all caused by the two Immortal Masters fighting? The power is terrifying.

Among the wild grass, two figures lay prostrate—one in black, one in white.

Reason told Qin Sang that these two Immortal Masters weren't normal people, unlike the bandits. Now was the best time to escape. Though his leg couldn't walk, the river current wasn't fast, and a nearly finished raft sat nearby. If he tied the last two vines, he could leave this place of trouble.

After a fierce inner struggle, Qin Sang picked up the knife and crawled over.

Up close, he saw that the black-robed man had been cut in half at the waist by a single sword stroke. The flying sword must have been incredibly sharp—the cut was smooth, the scene somewhat gruesome.

The white-robed youth had a shocking blood hole in his chest, as if something had viciously gouged into his flesh. Inside, it was a mess of blood and mangled organs.

They had killed each other.

Qin Sang felt a mix of relief and disappointment.

Carefully, he lifted the black robe. Qin Sang was startled by an old, ugly, strange face, then began to search the man. This Immortal Master seemed quite poor—there wasn't a single silver coin on him. In the end, Qin Sang only found a piece of material like sheepskin and a book at his chest.

He flipped through the book. He could recognize most of the characters, but they were obscure and hard to understand. The sheepskin had nothing on it at all—aside from being unusually soft, it was just an ordinary piece of hide.

"Huh?"

Qin Sang suddenly noticed something pinned beneath the black-robed man's body. After shifting the corpse's torso aside, he saw a black banner lying on the ground.

The banner was small, its pole no longer than his palm, with a pointed tip and a smoothly rounded base. Qin Sang picked it up for a closer look. The pole's material was unknown to him, cold to the touch, and carved with three small characters—Yanluo Banner.

It sounded like nothing good. Coupled with the earlier scene of the Demon Lord draining a man dry, Qin Sang nearly threw the Yanluo Banner away.

The banner's surface was a long, narrow strip of tattered cloth, slightly shorter than the pole, riddled with holes. A faint pattern of a malevolent ghost could still be made out.

After a second glance, Qin Sang felt as if his consciousness was being sucked into it. He quickly averted his eyes.

Truly sinister!

There was nothing good on this Demon Lord!

Qin Sang hastily wrapped the Yanluo Banner in a jumble, bundling it together with the book in sheepskin. He turned his head to look at the white-robed youth, his expression complicated.