"Are you worthy?"
As soon as the bandit leader spoke, laughter erupted from the surrounding bandits.
That was right.
One old man with one foot in the grave.
Two six-year-old children about to start school.
What could they use to fight against over forty burly, powerful bandits? What could they use to contend with them?
The bandits lived by the blade's edge. Rarely did they encounter such entertainment, and they mercilessly mocked Yang Ming for overestimating himself.
"Which village did this little brat come from? So stupid, so naive!"
"I just love that look on his face—he hates us, but he can't do anything about us."
"Little kid, you haven't even grown any hair yet. Have you ever seen a spear? Can you even lift one?"
The bandit's suggestive words immediately drew knowing laughter from the others.
The bandits' jeers and mockery did not shake Yang Ming's fighting spirit.
Yang Ming held a sword in one hand and a spear in the other. Like a volcano suppressed for far too long, his starry eyes gleamed with a chilling light—like cold blades, like frost, as though he were looking upon the dead.
A mad red glow shone from Yang Ming's pupils as the Three-Tomoe slowly rotated.
In an instant, Yang Ming's volcano erupted, its scorching lava utterly breathtaking!
"Kill!"
A hoarse, low roar tore from the depths of Yang Ming's throat. The cold glint arrived first, then the spear shot forth like a dragon. Before the bandit leader could react, it thrust straight at his throat!
At the same time, Tang San charged at the other bandits.
Though the bandit leader possessed no Soul Power, he was still a veteran of countless battles.
His mind had not yet reacted, but his body's instincts moved first. He took a step back and tilted his head slightly upward. The sharp spear tip barely grazed the tip of his nose, drawing blood.
He touched his nose, and thick blood stained his fingertips.
The bandit leader was first stunned, then flew into a rage.
"Little bastard, you're courting death!"
The bandit leader was enraged. The sixty-pound mountain-cleaving saber in his hand moved as though it were an extension of his arm, its swings flashing with cold light. A frigid gust bore down on Yang Ming, and as the blade was about to split his head apart, Old Jack's breath nearly stopped, his heart rising into his throat.
No sooner said than done!
Before the Three-Tomoe Sharingan, the bandit leader's movements were as slow as a snail's. Yang Ming curled his lips into a cold smile filled with killing intent. With Ghost Shadow Perplexing Track beneath his feet, his body swayed from side to side and vanished from beneath the blade.
"Eh?"
His slash missed, and the bandit leader could not stop his momentum. His mountain-cleaving saber struck the ground, its edge wedged into a crack, impossible to pull free for the moment.
"Where did he go?"
Yang Ming appeared behind the bandit leader. Like Bleach delivering a death notice, he lightly breathed into his ear.
"I'm here!"
The bandit leader's pupils abruptly shrank to pinpoints, but this time, no matter how fast his instincts were, they could not surpass the sword in Yang Ming's hand.
The sword was called the Mysterious Sword, a Killing Blade made specifically for killing!
Its edge was incomparably sharp. The bandit leader's half-body armor was as thin as paper before the Killing Blade and was pierced clean through.
White in, red out.
The blade tip was stained with the blood from his heart. Yang Ming pulled out his sword, and as the muscles contracted and relaxed, a spray of hot blood burst forth and splattered across his face, making him resemble a demon that had crawled out of hell!
Though this was Yang Ming's first time killing someone, he had struck in fury. His hand trembled only at the beginning before quickly regaining its calm.
Because reality gave him no room for any abnormality.
His blood-stained young face turned toward the approaching bandits. His crimson eyes held a chill so bone-deep it made hearts tremble. Even these murderers, hardened by countless killings, could not help but pause beneath Yang Ming's stare before flying into a rage from humiliation.
They swarmed forward, intending to hack Yang Ming into a thousand pieces! Yang Ming stuck out his tongue and licked the blood that had flowed to his lips.
Blood did not taste good. It was astringent and bitter.
Yet the taste of personally killing an enemy was sweet as nectar.
At that moment, on that noisy battlefield, facing bandits taller, broader, and more vicious-looking than himself, Yang Ming's heart was calmer than ever before.
Because there was no one behind him to rely on!
Only by fighting, only by killing, could he carve out a bloody path through such adversity!
Ruthless Charge!
The spear trembled. Yang Ming planted it into the ground and leaped into the air like a flying swallow.
Watching Yang Ming descend in a graceful arc through the sky, the bandits felt no fear. They even found it somewhat ridiculous, thinking he was performing some acrobatic trick. Their lips moved as they prepared to mock his overconfidence.
But in the next instant, the spear struck the ground like lightning from a clear sky. Centered on Yang Ming, a wave of air surged outward in all directions.
Very quickly, the surrounding bandits could no longer laugh. Terror even appeared in their eyes!
For they suddenly discovered that their feet had left the ground against their will, their bodies lifted into the air!
Yang Ming held his spear in one hand and his sword in the other as he charged directly into the bandits.
Under Cloud-Piercing Dragon, all three thrusts landed in the same spot. A bandit had only just caught sight of Yang Ming's cold face when several spear blossoms came rushing at him. Then pain erupted in his chest. A deep hole appeared in his half-body armor, while the heart inside had already been shredded into pulp!
Then came the Killing Blade, choosing only the toughest opponents. One slash, one bandit. Every strike drew blood, and heads flew high.
The spear was a spear that took lives.
The sword was a sword that claimed enemy heads!
And the one wielding that spear and sword was merely a half-grown child!
This scene deeply shocked Old Jack.
Old Jack's mouth hung open like a koi's, wide enough to swallow an entire salted duck egg!
Old Jack had set a strict training plan for Yang Ming. Though he had imagined Yang Ming might already be strong, he had never imagined that Yang Ming would be this strong!
One step, ten killed; a thousand miles, no one left behind!
Wherever Yang Ming passed, not a single opponent could withstand one exchange. One sword, one spear, meant one life lost. Thick blood had already dyed his clean white clothes crimson, making it impossible to tell what their original color had been.
After Yang Ming killed fifteen bandits in succession, the remaining bandits finally realized that this little brat they had initially regarded as insignificant was now capable of deciding their Fate.
The other bandits came to their senses. Some mounted their horses, determined to crush Yang Ming with a cavalry charge, while others drew bows and crossbows, taking aim at him from afar.
The situation was far from optimistic!
Yet faced with all this, Yang Ming showed not the slightest fear. Instead, he returned to the carriage, pulled out a jar of rice wine brewed by Old Jack, removed its lid, and tipped his head back to drink deeply.
The icy rice wine poured down his throat, followed by a fiery heat that rose to his head. Yang Ming suddenly felt heroic spirit surge within him.
"Bring in the wine—let the cups never cease!"
"Let me sing you a song; I ask that you listen closely!"
(Do not get too hung up on whether to use "blade" or "sword." Certain idioms and phrases require particular wording in some scenes, and being overly strict would only make it less beautiful.)
Before you continue