One Move

Marshal Yang really was very old—so old that he no longer needed profound insight or wisdom to see through worldly affairs and look beyond the mortal coil. Many years ago, he had moved from the Central Plains to the Western Regions to live in seclusion, only to become entangled in a grudge he could never escape.

His younger brother, Yang Zheng, who was not yet that old, had died beneath a Golden Peng Assassin's blade. He had to avenge him. The Gu Family, with whom he was bound by ties that could neither be severed nor unraveled, had been wiped out. He had to avenge them.

He had learned all his skills from the Gu Family. The time had come to return them all in one stroke.

He had spent a long time searching for allies, but in the Western Regions, no one was willing to oppose the Unrivaled King. He had no choice but to challenge him alone, saber in hand. If he waited any longer, the little life he had left would no longer be enough to ignite.

Because he had threatened to slaughter everyone in Jade City, the monks of the Four Truths Blue Lotus agreed to send him up the mountain—but only up the mountain. They would not let him into Golden Peng Fortress. He had been spared a round of slaughter and now stood before the fortress gates. After waiting half a day without seeing the Unrivaled King, he received only a group of black-clad assassins, along with the ignorant, bewildered youths in the distance.

"How many people like you do I have to kill before the Unrivaled King comes out himself?"

Marshal Yang asked in a voice that sounded old and weary, robbing the arrogant, disdainful question of much of its force.

"You have no right to see the King Lord." Assassin Ye Sheng held a Narrow Saber in his hand, contempt on his face. He had always treated so-called martial artists this way.

"Is it that I have no right to see him, or that you have no right to answer my question?" Marshal Yang's words remained as aggressive as ever, but his voice was still feeble, like a timid old man reciting words someone else had taught him.

Before his voice had even faded, the two had already crossed hands. Marshal Yang had only wanted to distract his opponent; he did not care about the answer at all.

Marshal Yang's speed was the exact opposite of his aged voice. Their figures crossed, and the youths watching from afar could not even tell who had struck first. Many of them had not seen what happened at all before the exchange was over.

Exchanges between experts were always brief. Gu Shenwei had understood that long ago, but this one had been far too brief. Before he even had time to worry about Marshal Yang, the tall old man had already retreated to his original spot and coughed twice, seeming to have no strength left for a second move.

Assassin Ye Sheng's right hand held the Narrow Saber, which had already descended halfway. The blade had apparently stopped against Marshal Yang's scalp. His left hand was in an even stranger position—not a fist, nor a palm, as though he had wanted to flick something out, changed his mind halfway through, and failed to withdraw his hand in time.

The fight had not been fierce in the slightest. The youths looked at one another, all hoping to find the answer in someone else's face: Had they fought or not? Who had lost, and who had won?

After a while, the answer revealed itself. Assassin Ye Sheng crashed to the ground without changing his posture. He was clearly dead.

An old man had killed a Golden Peng Assassin barehanded, and with only one move. The youths' confidence took a heavy blow, and their excitement vanished. Shangguan Fei muttered under his breath, "Idiot. Why did he go up alone?"

Shangguan Ru's brows drew together tightly as she glanced at Shangguan Yushi beside her. Normally, her older female cousin would explain things to her, but this time she was disappointed. Shangguan Yushi looked just as bewildered.

The youths of Golden Peng Fortress had grown up hearing tales of assassins. They found the reality of the assassins' helplessness impossible to accept.

While everyone's spirits sank, Gu Shenwei's heart surged so fiercely that it nearly burst from his chest. He wanted nothing more than to step forward and proudly tell everyone, "Look, that is my Gu Family's secret technique—Hehe Jin."

Although he had not understood what happened at the time, everything was crystal clear to him now. Marshal Yang had certainly practiced Hehe Jin, and his skill in it was profound.

Gu Lun had once explained the characteristics of the Gu Family's Internal Force to his younger son. Ordinary Internal Force was either fierce and forceful, making an opponent retreat step by step because he could not withstand it, or soft and yielding, injuring an enemy invisibly, with the consequences often appearing only after a long delay. Hehe Jin cultivated both yin and yang. Progress was slow, but it combined the strengths of many schools. Yang Jin could kill an enemy on the spot, while Yin Jin could neutralize the force of a countershock. If the enemy did not move, he would bear even more of the force.

Gu Lun had personally demonstrated it on a wooden post. When he struck with pure Yang Jin, the post shattered, splinters flying everywhere. When he attacked with pure Yin Jin, the post did not move, but after it was split open, every vein in the wood had been severed. When he used both forces together, the post shattered without sending splinters flying; all the fragments fell in place.

At the time, Gu Shenwei had only watched for the spectacle, clapping and exclaiming in admiration without taking it seriously. Remembering it now, he felt both grief and pride. This was the Gu Family's Hehe Jin!

In a fair contest of martial arts, even Golden Peng Assassins were no match for it. And he had already memorized the entire art. Sooner or later, he would become as formidable as Marshal Yang.

The black-clad assassins ahead remained unmoved. They were accustomed to life and death and were not as easily shaken as the inexperienced youths. Three more assassins stepped out, drew their Narrow Sabers, and advanced on the enemy from three directions, step by step.

Marshal Yang ignored the danger. He turned, took a saber from the weapon rack, and actually presented his back to the enemy.

The assassin on the far left could not resist this "temptation." He took a slightly quicker step, and the formation of the three men, which had originally moved in perfect unison, became faintly disordered.

An opening appeared and vanished in an instant. A black-clad assassin watching the battle had just conceived the thought of warning them when Marshal Yang seized the opportunity. He drew his saber, leaped backward, and, with a reverse grip, drove the blade into the left enemy's lower abdomen.

The remaining two assassins made a second mistake. They changed their routes, hoping to attack while taking advantage of the opening.

The moment Marshal Yang's saber entered his enemy, he leaped forward and returned to his original position. Not only did he evade the two assassins, he had also reached the right enemy's flank.

Two enemies had become one. Though the interval had been no longer than a blink for the youths in the distance, it was enough for Marshal Yang to strike and kill another man.

One mistake followed another. The third assassin realized that he alone remained alive and hesitated. In front of him stood an enemy whose every blade stroke killed; behind him was a line of comrades ready to fight at any moment. If only...

He thought no farther. The instant fear arose in his heart, death already had him in its grasp.

In a matter of moments, Marshal Yang had killed all three. His body suddenly seemed several times larger, but once an enemy fell, he became a white-haired old man again, seeming to struggle even to hold his saber.

The watching youths grew restless. This was not the scene they had imagined, with the Golden Peng Assassins achieving a sweeping victory.

Gu Shenwei, however, watched with a touch of dread. Every move Marshal Yang used was genuine Gu Family Saber Technique, yet his application was utterly different from what Gu Shenwei had learned since childhood. Marshal Yang seemed to have no method at all. He attacked entirely according to his enemy's momentary carelessness and openings. A forward grip could become a reverse grip in an instant; a right slash could turn into a left chop. Even someone most familiar with the Gu Family Saber Technique would find him impossible to defend against.

Who had this Marshal Yang, whom he had never even heard of, learned his martial arts from? He was actually far stronger than Gu Lun had been in his lifetime.

Gu Shenwei carefully stored the fragments of the kills in his mind. He had gained an entirely new understanding—not only of the Gu Family Martial Arts, but of every form of martial arts he had studied over the past few months.

Five more black-clad assassins stepped out ahead. Behind Marshal Yang stood two monks and Stone Bridge, so the attackers could only form a semicircle. Five was the limit that would not hinder their movements; one more would only get in the way. The assassins understood this perfectly.

The five assassins advanced slowly, every step cautious, as though the enemy were within arm's reach. Even when Marshal Yang turned again, calmly lowered the saber, and picked up a spear, not one of them charged recklessly. They had already learned their lesson.

When Gu Shenwei's master, Yang Zheng, held a spear, his posture was upright and proper, always prepared for battle. His elder brother, Marshal Yang, was different. He planted the spear on the ground and held it loosely in his right hand, like an old man leaning on an overly long walking stick.

No one now looked down on the old man or the weapon in his hand.

The five assassins' steps grew slower and slower. When they were still seven or eight paces from Marshal Yang, they stopped together. They had reached the edge of the spear's range. They could either charge at full speed and stake everything on one life-or-death strike, or wait for the enemy to attack one of them while the others seized the opportunity to strike from the side. In any case, they could not use short weapons to fight a long one.

At some point, the snowflakes in the sky stopped falling, but no one noticed. Everyone held their breath, especially the youths at the gate. The strongest among them knew nothing more than flashy, empty techniques compared with true experts, yet at that moment, even those who knew nothing at all about martial arts could feel the heavy killing intent.

They simply could not tell whom it came from—the spear-wielding Marshal Yang, or the five assassins whose muscles were drawn taut.

If an enemy did not reveal an opening of his own accord, a true expert had the ability to create one. His father's words surfaced in Gu Shenwei's mind once more. He had paid them no heed back then, never expecting that they had already been branded deep within his heart.

Marshal Yang had learned the Gu Family Martial Arts. The details might differ from Gu Lun's, but the tactics were exactly the same. Moreover, he was a true expert.

Without the slightest warning, Marshal Yang let out a sharp shout. His voice was deep and immense, like several male lions roaring together. The youths watching from afar felt their entire bodies tremble, while the ringing in their ears lingered.

The weakest of the five assassins panicked. His body seemed drawn by an enormous force, and he involuntarily stepped half a pace forward.

An opening had appeared.

The spear shot out like lightning.

The old Gu Family retainer, Yang Zheng, used a spear like a meticulous master craftsman. Every thrust was precise and orderly, clear enough to see yet impossible to evade. In Marshal Yang's hands, the same thrust took on an entirely different style—like a ghost, like a divine dragon, elusive and unpredictable, fierce and unstoppable.

One thrust, two thrusts...

Every thrust killed. Five thrusts became one. In the blink of an eye, Marshal Yang had withdrawn the spear and returned to his original position, panting heavily, as though those few simple moves had exhausted all his strength.

To outsiders, the old man might have been deliberately feigning weakness to trick his enemies. Gu Shenwei knew that Marshal Yang's exhaustion was real. When Yang Zheng had urged him to practice spear techniques, he had reminded him countless times: if a thrust could not be delivered with at least eighty percent of one's strength, then that thrust had been practiced for nothing.

Yang Zheng had trained bitterly for many years, thrusting his spear every day without pause. Even he had to rest after every five or six thrusts before continuing. Marshal Yang had fought three battles in succession. Though each had taken only one move to kill, his strength had already been greatly depleted.

But no one else knew this. In their eyes, Marshal Yang, whose aged appearance became fully apparent after each kill, was already an insurmountable mountain. More than a dozen black-clad assassins remained, yet all of them had lost the will to fight.

Marshal Yang steadied his breathing and raised his head. He looked like a stubborn old scholar lecturing a hopeless student as he spoke slowly:

"To kill someone, you need a genuine killing intent."

That was precisely the problem. The assassins had already lost their killing intent. To turn the tide, Golden Peng Fortress would have to send out someone even more formidable.