Night of Killing (Seventh update, seeking follow-up reads)

The hall doors were left ajar, candlelight leaking through the gaps, mingling with the sour stench of cheap liquor and the charred aroma of roasted meat.

Chen Yuan used the tip of his knife to lift a corner of the door curtain.

The main room was small, with two square tables pushed together in the center, littered with the debris of a messy feast.

Eight men were present—two were dead drunk, one slumped over the table and the other leaning back in his chair, their snores rising and falling in a rhythmic chorus.

The remaining six were gathered around the table, playing finger-guessing games and urging each other to drink, their bowls clinking with a sharp, metallic ring.

Chen Yuan's gaze swept across the faces of the six men one by one.

Five were ordinary gang members, their faces flushed red, eyes unfocused, their hands trembling as they played their game.

But the lean, wiry man sitting toward the back was different.

He held a wine bowl, a smile plastered on his face, but the mirth didn't reach his eyes.

His finger joints were thick and prominent, and the hand holding the bowl was as steady as a rock.

He wore a tight-fitting short tunic with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his forearms.

His skin was darker than the others, glowing with a faint, waxy sheen under the candlelight—the telltale sign of toughened skin and flesh.

He must be the remaining entry-level martial artist of the Golden Blade Sect.

He would be hard to kill.

Chen Yuan made his assessment.

A sneak attack would only work on the first target; once he struck, the others would react instantly.

If he failed to kill this martial artist, getting bogged down in a group fight would be troublesome; two fists were no match for four hands.

He had to prune the wings first, then focus his energy on the main threat.

He took a deep breath, sinking his energy into his dantian.

Then, he launched himself into the hall like a cannonball fired from a chamber.

Using the Darting Step of the Six Harmonies Mind Boxing, his trailing foot crushed half a brick as his shoulder slammed into the door panels with a thunderous "bang."

His left hand, fingers curled like an eagle's claw, clamped onto the back of the neck of the Yellow Tooth man near the door, using the momentum of his charge to smash the man's head violently into the tabletop.

"Crack!"

The man's forehead shattered the porcelain plate, shards embedding into his flesh, and he slumped down without even a groan.

At the same time, the Bone-Cleaving Knife in Chen Yuan's right hand flew from his grip.

The blade spun twice in the air before burying itself deep into the throat of the man next to Yellow Tooth, the tip protruding half an inch from the back of his neck.

The man had been in the middle of raising his bowl to his lips; it clattered onto the table with a "clang" as he instinctively clutched at his throat, finding only the hilt of the knife.

From the door-smashing to the throwing of the knife, not even a single breath had passed.

Two down.

The room erupted into chaos.

"Who—!"

"Damn it, someone's here!"

The remaining three ordinary gang members reacted quickly enough; after all, they were seasoned thugs, and even if the liquor had gone to their heads, their instincts remained.

One grabbed a bench, another drew a short blade from his waist, and the third, fueled by alcohol, lunged at Chen Yuan with his bare hands.

The lean man moved at that exact same instant.

He pushed off the tabletop with both hands, vaulting backward to land steadily on his feet, knees slightly bent, one foot in front of the other.

This wasn't a retreat; it was the instinct of a trained fighter.

When someone suddenly crashes through a door, a veteran's first move is to create distance and observe the situation before committing.

But Chen Yuan gave him no time to observe.

He kicked the bench in front of him, sending it tumbling toward the bare-handed thug, who instinctively raised his arms to block.

Using the force of that kick, Chen Yuan surged forward like an arrow released from a bow, heading straight for the lean man.

His right hand whipped out from his waist in a Crushing Fist.

The fist traveled along the center line, and under the drive of his Clear Force, the tendons and bones of his entire right arm hummed in unison, a continuous "crackle" of explosions echoing as the wind of his strike hit the man's face before the fist even arrived.

The lean man's pupils contracted.

He had already opened up the distance, intending to gauge his opponent's style before engaging, but he hadn't expected the man to ignore the three thugs behind him and charge straight at him.

The punch was too fast, too heavy, and too direct—no fancy tricks, just a straight, crushing blow aimed squarely at his heart, dead center.

He had no time to think, crossing his arms to block the path of the Crushing Fist.

"Bang!"

Fist met arms with a dull thud, like the beating of a war drum.

The lean man felt a spiral, twisting force drill through his forearm, numbing the web of his hand and sending the blood and qi in his arm surging back toward his shoulder.

He was struck with terror—this man's Clear Force was more than a notch heavier than his own.

His Skin Realm toughness was also no match for the opponent.

This was no ordinary character.

He used the recoil of the punch to retreat three steps, thinking to himself that this mark was a tough nut to crack and hard to handle without a weapon in hand, so he seized the opportunity to reach for his saber.

In the ten heartbeats it took him to retreat, collide with a pillar, and grab his blade, three dull thuds and a scream rang out behind him.

After forcing the lean man back with a single punch, Chen Yuan did not pursue.

He pushed off the ground with his right foot, using the recoil to twist his waist and pivot one hundred and eighty degrees, his left leg carving an arc through the air.

A turning Splitting Fist, the heel of his palm like an axe, slammed squarely into the neck of the gang member holding the short blade.

The man was just raising his blade to stab, the tip still half a foot from Chen Yuan's back, when the heel of the palm struck the side of his neck.

With a crisp "crack," his collarbone shattered, and he flew sideways into the wall, his neck lolling at an unnatural angle as he slid down.

The third one.

The remaining two—one had just tossed aside the stool he'd been kicked over with, and the other was just scrambling to his feet.

The one with the stool hoisted it over his head, but before he could bring it down, Chen Yuan had already closed the two inches between them.

He slammed into the man, his left shoulder dropping, and struck his chest with a concentrated, full-body force.

The man spat out a mouthful of wine-scented air and flew backward, crashing into a table and sending broken bowls and dishes clattering to the floor; his chest caved in, and who knew how many ribs had snapped.

The fourth one.

The last unarmed gang member turned to run.

His legs were trembling, and after only two steps, he tripped over the stool on the floor and fell.

He rolled over to see Chen Yuan walking toward him, and in a fit of terror, he wept and scrambled backward on his hands and feet: "Don't... don't kill—"

Chen Yuan kicked him in the chin.

The dull sound of teeth biting through a tongue accompanied the snap of a dislocated cervical spine, and the man slumped to the floor, silent and still.

The fifth one.

With that, the only person left standing in the room was the lean man who had just retrieved his saber.

He gripped the saber with both hands, the tip pointed at Chen Yuan.

His eyes no longer held ferocity, but wariness.

The lingering force of that Crushing Fist still throbbed in his forearm, and the web of his hand remained numb.

He had seen it clearly—after forcing him back, the man had turned and killed three people in succession, a clean and efficient display of fists and kicks.

The five underlings might not have been top-tier, but they weren't made of paper, either.

In just these few heartbeats, they were all gone.

"Who are you?" the lean man asked in a low voice, the tip of his saber dipping slightly, "And what is your connection to the Black Dragon Gang?"

Chen Yuan did not reply.

He flicked his toe, sending the short blade on the floor popping up, and caught it in his left hand.

Holding the short blade in a reverse grip with his left hand and keeping his right fist empty, he planted his feet—three parts in front, seven in back—and settled firmly into the Three-Body Stance.

The lean man stopped talking.

He stomped his foot and slashed out.

The saber tore through the air with a violent shriek, descending from above to split Chen Yuan's head.

The strike was heavy and powerful, fueled by Clear Force, the blade wrapped in a scorching gale.

Chen Yuan did not block.

He took quick, short steps, his figure flickering backward as the saber grazed his nose and slammed into the square table with a "boom," carving a foot-long gash into the wood.

The lean man's strike missed, but his wrist flipped with lightning speed—shifting from a chop to a slice, the blade swept horizontally toward Chen Yuan's waist.

Chen Yuan retreated again, the blade grazing his lapel and slicing off a scrap of fabric.

The slice turned into an upward flick, the tip of the blade angling toward Chen Yuan's ribs.

Chen Yuan turned his body, his ribs narrowly avoiding the tip.

Seven or eight strikes followed in rapid succession, each one intended to kill.

The main hall was left in shambles—wood chips flew from the pillars, a corner of the table was shorn off, and a wine jar shattered under the blade's sweep, spilling liquor across the floor.

But he could not touch Chen Yuan.

Chen Yuan moved around the pillars, around the overturned tables and chairs, and around the corpses on the floor.

Short steps and sliding steps alternated, each one landing exactly at the transition point of the saber's momentum.

His figure darted left and right, advancing and retreating, like a snake weaving through the cracks in the stone.

The lean man's strikes grew increasingly frantic.

He realized that every one of his slashes felt like it was cutting into water.

What was worse, after a dozen strikes, his breathing began to falter, his footwork grew unsteady, and the rhythm between his attacks became disjointed.

Fast hands but slow feet—he had the technique in his arms, but his stance training was insufficient; his base couldn't keep up with his upper body.

The fifteenth strike.

He lunged with a straight thrust, overextending his force, and the tip of his blade sank two inches into a wooden pillar.

Now.

Chen Yuan kicked off with his right foot, closing the distance in a flash.

His left hand caught the machete's hilt with a horizontal block, a metallic "clang" ringing out, while his right knee slammed violently into the lean man's abdomen.

The lean man let out a muffled grunt, his body instinctively pitching forward, his grip on the machete loosening by half.

Chen Yuan's right hand had already locked onto his wrist—Eagle Catch transitioned into Dragon Form wrist-lock, his five fingers clamping down like iron hoops, twisting inward and flipping outward.

"Snap!"

The wrist joint dislocated.

The machete clattered to the ground.

The lean man shrieked, his left hand instinctively swinging a punch toward Chen Yuan's face.

Blinded by agony, the punch lacked any form. Chen Yuan tilted his head to avoid it, his right hand still locked onto the man's wrist, and dropped his left shoulder, slamming his entire body into the man's chest—Bear Form: Bear Mountain Lean.

"Bang!"

The lean man's feet left the ground as he was sent flying, his back crashing into a square table. Bowls and plates shattered everywhere, and he tumbled to the floor, covered in spilled wine and porcelain shards.

He struggled to stand, but as soon as he propped up his upper body, a sweetness rose in his throat, and he vomited a mouthful of blood.

Chen Yuan walked up to him, looking down from above.

Though this man was an entry-level martial artist, his foundation was hollow and his blade work chaotic; it looked as if he had reached this level through pills.

If not for the sharp blade in his hand, he would have died ten times over.

The lean man looked up, the ferocity on his face completely shattered.

He scraped backward on the floor with his left hand, his voice trembling:

"Don't... don't kill me... I know I was wrong... You want silver? Take it all! The territory is yours too!"

Tears and snot mingled as they streamed down his face, dripping onto the bruise on his chest.

Chen Yuan crouched down, looking into his eyes.

"Do you know what I hate the most?"

Chen Yuan's voice was as calm as ever. His right fist was already clenched, his knuckles slightly protruding, the surface of his fist flat and steady, without a tremor.

"I hate it when people apologize after the fact."

Crushing Fist. The power rose from the ground, knees and hips synchronized, waist and spine twisting to generate force, the fist tip spiraling with short-range power.

The punch landed squarely on the lean man's Adam's apple.

"Crack—"

The cartilage shattered, the force of the blow driving deep into the cervical spine.

The lean man's body went rigid, his eyes bulging wide, his mouth agape, before he toppled over like a puppet with cut strings, twitching twice before falling silent.

Chen Yuan stood up and shook the blood from his knuckles.

He pulled the Bone-Cleaving Knife from Yellow Tooth's throat and walked to the table.

The two who had been dead drunk were still there.

One had just groggily lifted his head, but upon seeing the blood covering the floor, his pupils constricted, and his drunkenness faded by half.

He opened his mouth to scream, but the phlegm in his throat turned the sound into a hoarse rasp.

He reached for the hilt at his waist, but before his fingers could touch it, Chen Yuan was already behind him.

The Bone-Cleaving Knife pierced through the back of his neck, driving upward at an angle to penetrate the brainstem.

He pulled the blade out, and the man slumped back onto the table without a sound.

The other was still snoring, completely oblivious.

Chen Yuan grabbed his hair to lift his head, slit his throat, and let go, leaving him to slide back onto the table.

He finished off the rest of them to ensure they were truly dead.

He then looted the bodies, finding over twenty taels of silver on the ten men, along with a few unknown medicinal pills.

Squeezing the lifeblood out of the common people had earned them enough to cover three months of his wages; no wonder they didn't want to run a long-term business—this was a "get rich quick" strategy, Chen Yuan clicked his tongue in secret.

But in the end, it all fell into his pockets; it truly lived up to the saying: murder and arson lead to golden belts.

Looking back, the entire hall had fallen completely silent.

The candlelight flickered, illuminating the chaos strewn across the floor.

Overturned tables and chairs, shattered bowls and plates, and corpses sprawled in every direction, with bloodstains on the walls slowly trickling downward.

The stench of blood, mingled with the sour reek of leftover wine, was so thick it felt almost congealed.

Chen Yuan wiped the Bone-Cleaving Knife clean on a tablecloth, walked to the corner of the room, severed the hemp ropes binding the three girls' hands and feet, and pulled the rags from their mouths.

"Can you stand?"

One girl looked up at him, her eyes red and swollen, her lips still trembling, but she gritted her teeth and nodded.

"Leave through the back door," Chen Yuan said, standing up. "Don't look back."

He turned and pushed open the main hall doors.

The night wind surged in, carrying the scent of blood and causing the candlelight to flicker violently.

The darkness outside was thick and impenetrable, and the wind from the Yi River poured in through the alleyway, carrying the chill of late autumn.

Chen Yuan tore off his black face mask, tucked it into his tunic, and stepped, one stride at a time, into the deep night.