The Qingcheng disciple's sword tip was no more than three inches from Chen Wuya's throat, its sword wind already having sliced a thin line across the side of his neck. But in that instant, Chen Wuya's left arm jolted violently, and he spun backward with Bai Zhi in his arms, his back slamming hard into the cliff wall. The five fingers of his right hand spread open, a layer of dark-red ripples surfacing in his palm, as though some force within him had been forcibly reversed.
Twin blades tore through the air from either side, one aimed for his heart, the other to sever the back of his neck. The two assassins moved almost in unison, their staggered footwork leaving no gaps—clearly a killing formation honed through long cooperation. As the blades descended, Chen Wuya slammed his elbow against the ground, using the recoil to shift sideways by half a foot, while his right palm pressed to the earth and shoved—
"Boom!"
A twisted burst of force exploded from his palm and fanned out across the ground. It was not the path of orthodox internal energy circulation, but more like a shockwave unleashed after his meridians had been forcibly twisted. The instant the two long blades touched his clothes, they abruptly veered aside. The blades collided in a shower of sparks; the swordsmen's tiger's mouths split open, and they staggered back.
Chen Wuya did not look at them. His throat tightened, and he sprayed a mist of blood over the grass before him. He lowered his head, gasping, while spasmodic agony pulsed beneath his ribs, as if something were rushing upstream through his meridians and crashing about. In his sea of consciousness, the system suddenly shook:
``` [Warning: True energy circulation has deviated from the main meridians. Backflow has appeared