Flying Knife Technique---Flying Feather

The pine forest was thick with the heavy stench of blood, mingling with the unique fragrance of pine resin to form a nauseating, bizarre odor. Ye Yun knelt on one knee, forcing down the churning in his stomach as fine beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. He took a deep breath, compelling himself to calm down, only to find the hand gripping his blade still trembling slightly—not from fear, but from his body's instinctive reaction after a life-or-death struggle.

I have to hurry. Ye Yun muttered to himself, his voice hoarse and unrecognizable. He held his breath, his ears twitching slightly as he keenly tracked the sounds around him. Aside from the rustle of wind through the pine needles and the occasional caw of a crow in the distance, the entire forest was deathly still.

Ye Yun slowly crouched down and began searching the Second-in-Command's body. The corpse's warmth hadn't fully faded, but the flesh was already starting to stiffen. When he undid the bloodstained lapel, a yellowed, thread-bound booklet slipped from an inner pocket and landed on the pine-needle-covered ground with a soft thud. The three archaic seal-script characters for Flying Feather Knife gleamed with an eerie luster under the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy, the strokes as sharp as blades, as if about to tear through the paper.

Ye Yun's pupils contracted. Carefully using his sleeve as a cushion, he opened the first page. The flyleaf bore an inscription: Grip the handle like plucking a flower, unleash force like a mountain crumbling; the eye sees, and the blade arrives; the heart still, and the spirit is divine. These eighteen characters flowed like dragons and serpents, the ink deeply soaked into the paper, causing a faint sting in his eyes, as if he were staring straight at a blade's edge.

So this is that elusive Flying Knife Technique? Ye Yun's heart pounded wildly, his throat tightening. He forced himself to stay composed and continued searching the corpse. In a hidden pocket, his fingertips touched a stack of paper of unusual texture. He pulled it out—a bundle of banknotes, each with a face value of five hundred taels. A rough count showed over twenty notes, totaling a staggering ten thousand taels.

Ye Yun's brow furrowed deeply, sweat trickling down the bridge of his nose. How could a mountain bandit's Second-in-Command have such a fortune? Stranger still, these notes were all official drafts from Da Zhou Bank, crisp and new, with consecutive serial numbers—not something an ordinary bandit could obtain through plunder. He had a vague feeling that there was more to this than met the eye.

After tucking the manual and banknotes securely against his body, Ye Yun began meticulously cleaning up the scene. He pulled out the Second-in-Command's saber—the blade was pitch-black, long and narrow, cold to the touch. He deliberately carved a few gashes of varying depths into a nearby tree trunk, then spent considerable effort arranging the two bodies into a pose of mutual destruction—the Second-in-Command's hand gripping Sun Gan's sword, thrust into his own heart, while the fatal flying knife was lodged in Sun Gan's throat.

By the time he finished, Ye Yun was drenched in sweat. He didn't forget to use pine branches to erase his own footprints and cover the bloodstains with dirt. After a final check to ensure no traces remained, he slipped away silently.

The clamor of battle on the main field had died down, leaving the air thick with the heavy smell of blood and the scorched odor of heated weapons. Though the bandit leader Zhang Kui was formidable, holding his own against two opponents, he was eventually exhausted and captured under the coordinated efforts of Zhao Meng and Chen Qingzhou. But both men paid a heavy price—Zhao Meng's right arm was broken, the stark white bone piercing through flesh; Chen Qingzhou had a sword thrust clean through his left shoulder, blood soaking half his official robe and pooling into a shocking crimson puddle on the ground.

"Tally the casualties!" Zhao Meng ordered through gritted teeth, his voice wavering from blood loss. Soon, an adjutant reported: "Sir, we have seven dead, twelve severely wounded. Deputy Squad Leader Sun Gan has not yet returned to camp."

Zhao Meng's face changed dramatically, already pale, now completely drained of color. Though Sun Gan was arrogant and rude, he was still a son of the Sun Family in the prefectural city. He immediately dispatched his finest squad to search, and in that dark pine forest, they discovered a shocking scene—Sun Gan and the Second-in-Command lay dead, facing each other, each with the other's weapon buried in a vital spot. The surrounding tree trunks were covered in signs of struggle, and the pine-needle ground was soaked with blood, taking on a eerie purple-black hue.

Chen Qingzhou, dragging his wounded body, carefully examined the scene with the support of an adjutant. His brow furrowed deeper and deeper, and the wound on his left shoulder began seeping blood again from the exertion. "Judging by the wounds," he said, pointing at the flying knife buried deep in Sun Gan's throat, the blade almost entirely embedded with only the hilt visible, "Deputy Squad Leader Sun must have unleashed a fatal strike, while the Second-in-Command used his ultimate technique just before death."

Though this explanation held water, a closer look revealed several inconsistencies—for instance, why was there no blood on Sun Gan's sword, and why was the wound on the Second-in-Command's throat so clean, as if sliced by some invisible blade? But without other evidence, it was indeed the most plausible account.

Zhao Meng's expression shifted uncertainly, his right hand unconsciously rubbing the token at his waist. He knew better than anyone Sun Gan's identity—though born of a concubine, he was still sent by the Sun Family to gain experience. Now that he had died in a bandit suppression, would the Sun Family let this go? At the thought of the accountability he might face, his stomach twisted in pain.

As the sun sank in the west, the dying light was like blood, painting the entire Black Wind Ridge a deep crimson. The suppression force marched back to the county town with their prisoners, their steps heavy. Ye Yun walked at the rear of the column, dragging his exhausted body, the battle scenes replaying in his mind and unsettling him further.

Back home, after confirming that Uncle Fu was asleep, Ye Yun gently closed the door. The room was pitch black, with only a few slivers of moonlight leaking through the window lattice. He fumbled to light an oil lamp, its dim yellow light flickering in the room, casting his shadow on the wall in twisted, grotesque shapes.

Ye Yun carefully took out the Flying Feather Knife manual and studied it intently under the lamp. When he opened the first page, those sharp strokes seemed to come alive, dancing before his eyes:

Grip the handle like plucking a flower, unleash force like a mountain crumbling...

Ye Yun tried adjusting his grip according to the formula, and immediately felt his wrist become much more agile. His fingers were as light as if plucking a flower, yet brimming with astonishing explosive power.

The eye sees, and the blade arrives; the heart still, and the spirit is divine...

He closed his eyes and focused his mind. Suddenly, he heard the sound of a falling leaf outside the window and could accurately pinpoint its landing spot. This level of sensory sharpness was something he had never experienced before.

The basic techniques in the first half had already benefited him greatly, but the content in the second half left him utterly stunned:

Using Qi to guide the blade, chasing souls across a thousand miles...

This was clearly a high-level martial art requiring Essence Qi to activate! How could a mountain bandit possess such profound techniques? Stranger still, the paper of this manual was of a special texture, and the ink faintly shimmered with gold powder—far from an ordinary martial arts text.

Just as he turned to the last page, his fingertip suddenly touched a slight bump. Ye Yun's eyes sharpened, and he carefully pried open the hidden layer with his nail—a paper-thin slip fluttered down. The slip was no wider than two fingers, but the writing on it was perfectly legible:

The remnants of the Ye Family must die.

Ye Yun's hand trembled violently, and the slip fell silently. The bloodbath ten years ago—there really was more to it! This Second-in-Command was likely one of the participants back then!

Outside the window, a cold crescent moon climbed onto the branches, its clear light filtering through the window paper and casting mottled shadows on the floor. In the distance, the night watchman's clapper sounded, piercingly sharp in the silent night. Ye Yun clenched his fists, his nails digging deep into his palms. Blood seeped through his fingers, but he didn't notice. This path of revenge had finally shown a glimmer of light, but with it came even denser fog and more dangerous killing intent...