Purged in the Rainy Night

Autumn rain poured in torrents, fierce wind hurling bean-sized droplets against the blue stone slabs with sharp, crackling pops.

Deep in the night, Qinghe County lay like a slumbering beast, only the night watchman's clapper occasionally piercing the rain-curtain, lending an extra layer of desolation.

Chen Ping, clad in a straw rain cape with an official saber at his waist, led two yawning constables on patrol through the western alleyways.

Rainwater slid off the brim of his conical hat, forming a beaded curtain before his face.

Ever since breaking through to the first layer of Qi Refining, even without deliberately circulating the Everlasting Spring Technique, his five senses had become astonishingly sharp.

It was a strange sensation—an invisible antenna had appeared in his mind, able to extend outward at will.

For now, that antenna could only reach about ten zhang, and its perception was blurry, but to any mortal martial artist, it was already a crushing advantage.

"Chief, this rain's too heavy. Old Wang's Tavern up ahead is still open—how about we duck in for a bit?"

One of the constables behind him wiped the rain from his face and hunched his neck as he made the suggestion.

Chen Ping paused mid-step.

In his perception, inside Gourd Alley, two streets ahead, over a dozen icy killing intents lay in ambush.

Though these auras were carefully suppressed, to his nascent Spiritual Sense, they blazed like torches in the dark night.

The two auras at the alley's entrance, in particular, had long, steady breaths and calm heartbeats—hardened men who'd spilled blood before.

"Jin Zhenshan, you just couldn't hold back, could you."

A cold smile curled at the corner of Chen Ping's mouth. Hidden in his sleeve, his fingers lightly caressed a willow-leaf Flying Dagger.

"You two go ahead. Grab me two ounces of Strong Liquor while you're at it—make sure it's hot."

Chen Ping turned and casually tossed out a piece of silver. "I'll check that alley up ahead—seems like something's stirring."

The two constables caught the silver, overjoyed, thanked him repeatedly, and dashed off toward the tavern without a second thought.

Once their figures vanished into the rain-curtain, the warmth on Chen Ping's face faded, replaced by an indifferent expression.

He tightened his straw cape and, alone, walked with steady steps toward that murder-laden Gourd Alley.

The rain grew heavier; thunder rumbled faintly.

The moment Chen Ping stepped into the alley's entrance, the air around him suddenly congealed.

"Kill!"

A violent shout exploded, mingling with the thunder.

Over a dozen black figures burst from the eaves and corners on both sides, their blades gleaming with a sinister blue light under the lightning's flash.

The edges were coated with poison.

If this had been before, Chen Ping might have had to draw his saber to parry, using footwork to weave through the fight.

But now.

Under the envelopment of his Spiritual Sense, these men's movements seemed to him as slow as punches thrown underwater.

Chen Ping didn't draw his saber.

He simply tapped his toes, shifted his form, and melted into the rain-curtain like a ghost.

Several Steel Sabers chopped down where he'd stood, splashing up mud and water, but didn't even graze his clothes.

"Where'd he go?!"

The lead assassin was horrified, craning his neck in every direction, but saw only the vast downpour.

Just then, Chen Ping stood in the shadow at the alley's far end. The faint yet pure strand of mana in his Dantian trembled slightly.

A wisp of blue energy flowed along his Meridians into his fingertip, coating the paper-thin Flying Dagger held between his fingers.

"Go."

Chen Ping gave a soft shout and flicked his wrist.

The Flying Dagger left his hand, utterly silent.

As if possessed, the dagger traced a bizarre arc through the air, like a swift swallow darting through a forest, ignoring the resistance of the rain.

Puff! Puff! Puff!

Three soft sounds rang out almost simultaneously.

Three leading martial arts masters clutched their throats, eyes wide with disbelief.

Blood spurted from between their fingers, instantly washed into a pale red by the rain.

By the time they hit the ground, dead, they still hadn't seen where the blade had come from.

The remaining assassins broke on the spot.

This wasn't martial arts—this was sorcery!

"Ghost... it's a ghost!"

Someone shouted, and the rest dropped their weapons, fleeing in panic.

Chen Ping didn't give chase.

These are just hired thugs doing a job for money. Killing them holds no interest.

He walked over to a corpse, pulled out the Flying Dagger, and wiped the blood clean on the dead man's clothes.

"Mortal martial arts, before a cultivator, are truly nothing but children waving sticks."

Chen Ping sheathed the Flying Dagger and lifted his gaze toward the eastern edge of the city.

That was where Iron Palm Martial Hall stood.

Since he had already made his move, he would have to root out the problem entirely.

Iron Palm Martial Hall.

The main hall blazed with lamplight.

Jin Zhenshan sat in a high-backed armchair, a whetstone in hand, methodically sharpening the Thick-backed Mountain Cleaver that had followed him for decades.

The blade gleamed coldly, reflecting his aged and twisted face.

Ever since his only son, Jin Shijie, died in the arena, this once-renowned master of Qinghe County had gone white-haired overnight.

He was consumed by hatred.

Hatred for that little bastard Chen Ping, and even more hatred for his own powerlessness.

"By now, they should have succeeded."

Jin Zhenshan paused, testing the blade's edge with his thumb.

For tonight's ambush, he had sold off his ancestral property and hired the most infamous killer on the underworld—Soul Chasing Hands.

Even if Chen Ping had three heads and six arms, trapped in that narrow alley under the siege of over a dozen experts, he would surely die.

Thud.

The front door suddenly let out a dull sound.

It hadn't been forced open—it seemed more like the wind had gently pushed it.

A damp, cold wind mixed with rain swept into the hall, making the candles on both sides flicker wildly.

Jin Zhenshan snapped his head up, his pupils contracting.

Standing at the entrance was a young man in a straw rain cloak.

He took off his wide-brimmed hat, revealing a face that was disturbingly calm.

His clothes were spotless—not a trace of blood, and even the inner layers were bone dry.

"Chen... Ping?!"

Jin Zhenshan shot to his feet, the cleaver clattering against the corner of the table.

"How are you still alive? Where are Soul Chasing Hands and the others?"

Chen Ping didn't answer. Instead, he reached back and closed the door, sealing out the wind and rain.

He walked step by step toward the center of the hall, his footsteps echoing in the empty space.

"Master Jin, if you had chosen to live out your years in peace, I might not have come for you."

Chen Ping's voice was soft, yet it pierced clearly into Jin Zhenshan's ears. "Too bad you insisted on seeking death."

Seeing Chen Ping completely unharmed, the shock in Jin Zhenshan's heart turned to despair, and then to madness.

"Fine, fine, fine! It seems you've hidden yourself deeper than I ever imagined!"

Jin Zhenshan laughed in fury, his blood energy erupting like a blazing furnace, his once-hunched frame swelling a full size.

"I've trained in martial arts for forty years. Today, I'll use every ounce of that lifetime's power to drag you, little bastard, down to hell with me!"

Roar!

Jin Zhenshan let out a beast-like howl, the blue bricks beneath his feet shattering into fragments.

Like a maddened tiger, he gripped the blade with both hands and brought it down toward Chen Ping's head with a desperate, unstoppable momentum.

This single strike gathered all his spirit, will, and strength, faintly carrying the might of a Xiantian Grandmaster.

The blade's wind howled, drowning out even the thunder outside.

Yet, facing this earth-shattering blow, Chen Ping simply stood still.

Until the blade was less than three inches from the top of his head.

Chen Ping raised his right hand.

He didn't use Shattered Stone Palm. He didn't even draw a weapon.

He simply channeled a thread of mana from his Dantian, coated his palm with it, and casually flicked his hand.

Like swatting away an annoying fly.

Crack!

A crisp, explosive sound rang out.

The Mountain Cleaver forged from fine steel shattered into a dozen iron shards the moment it touched Chen Ping's palm.

Immediately after, a surging force slammed into Jin Zhenshan's chest.

Pfft—

Before Jin Zhenshan could even cry out, his entire body was blasted backward.

Boom!

He crashed heavily into the shrine above the main hall, shattering the Ancestral Master Statue that had been enshrined for a hundred years.

Wood splinters flew, dust billowed.

Jin Zhenshan lay limp in the wreckage, his chest caved in, blood mixed with fragments of internal organs gushing from his mouth.

He struggled to lift his head, staring at the young man standing in the center of the hall, hands still clasped behind his back.

There was no anger left in his eyes, only deep terror and confusion.

"This... this is... what... technique?"

Jin Zhenshan asked haltingly.

He had trained in martial arts his whole life and never witnessed such terrifying power.

That force far surpassed internal energy—it was a higher level, something capable of crushing mortals outright.

Chen Ping walked over to him, looking down at the once-arrogant hall master.

"The dead don't need to know too much."

Chen Ping didn't torment him. With a flick of his finger, a Flying Dagger pierced straight through Jin Zhenshan's brow.

The tyrant who had dominated Qinghe County's martial world for decades breathed his last.

Silence returned to the hall.

Chen Ping gazed at Jin Zhenshan's corpse, his heart utterly calm.

The formidable enemy that once made him tread carefully and scheme step by step was now as fragile as an ant before him.

"So this is a cultivator?"

Chen Ping murmured to himself.

The thrill of controlling life and death could easily seduce a man, but he quickly steadied himself.

He deftly pulled a porcelain bottle from his robe and poured Corpse Dissolving Powder over Jin Zhenshan's body.

Sizzle sizzle sizzle—

Accompanied by a grating sound and acrid yellow smoke, the corpse rapidly dissolved into a pool of yellow liquid.

Chen Ping then faked some signs of a struggle, creating the illusion of a vendetta attack.

Done, he turned and walked toward Jin Zhenshan's study.

There was a secret chamber there, the Jin Family's treasure vault.

Using his Spiritual Sense, Chen Ping easily found the mechanism and opened the hidden door.

The chamber was small, stacked with a few chests holding gold, silver, jewels, and some martial arts manuals.

Chen Ping didn't spare the valuables a glance.

Mortal wealth was more than enough for him already.

His eyes settled on an unremarkable Black Iron Box in the corner.

A sweep of his Spiritual Sense confirmed no traps inside.

Chen Ping opened the box. Inside lay a piece of tattered beast hide.

The hide was yellowed, its edges jagged, clearly torn from a larger map.

It bore crude lines of mountains and rivers—simple, but the terrain was still recognizable.

In the map's upper right corner, a red dot was marked in cinnabar, with four ancient seal script characters beside it—

[Taihang Market]

Chen Ping then pulled out the Crimson Token he'd taken from the Evil Cultivator old Daoist.

The mountain patterns carved on the token's back matched a specific terrain on this fragment perfectly.

"Taihang Market..."

Chen Ping's fingertips traced the four characters lightly, his eyes burning with fervor.

A market—that was where cultivators gathered to trade.

Finding it meant truly stepping through the gates of the Cultivation World.

There would be spirit stones, elixirs, immortal arts to extend Yun Niang's life, and the Path of Eternal Life he dreamed of.

Chen Ping carefully tucked the map fragment and token into his inner pocket.

When he walked out of the Iron Palm Martial Hall, the rain had stopped.

The dark clouds parted, revealing a cold, waning crescent moon hanging at the edge of the sky.

Chen Ping stood before the ruins of the Jin Family, taking a deep breath of the rain-moistened air.

The bloodshed and grudges behind him had dissipated like smoke with the passing rain.

"The waters of Qinghe County are too shallow to nurture a true dragon."

Chen Ping tightened his straw raincoat and strode off into the night.