Fast, precise, deadly. Those were the first things Hao noticed about Mo Bangcai as he slid his dagger into the two shoulders of a man too slow to defend himself. He was painting white cloaks red.

  If there was an opening, it was filled by the small blades. Soft flesh was split and fallen rust-colored leaves caught the pouring blood by the handful.

  “Nothing Rash, like before…” An old voice called over the skirmish. Hao recognized the voice and saw the commands in it.

  The coordination was immaculate. He doubted them before, but they proved they weren’t famed for no reason.

  Hao was still left wondering if he had a chance to get to Bangcai and Hongyu alone.

  There was never a moment of respite for either side. The moment one disciple in a white cloak was pushed out of position, Mo Bangcai was behind him with another disciple in blue robes pushing forward from his position.

  Another disciple in white had to block one or the other. Then the one under assault had to respond in time or fall back in position to escape the mortal coil.

  A part of Hao hated to admit it. The entire group, all of Mo Bangcai’s hunting group, was terrifying, and the same could be said for everyone around Meng Hongyu.

  As for Meng Hongyu himself, he looked like a blister. Where there wasn’t scarring, molted flesh bubbled up ready to burst; it looked like some already had as a foaming cream-colored liquid blended with his cloak. His once sharp eyebrows were long gone.

  Hao recognized the orange-red strands falling from his neck down his shoulders in streams. It was the burning fungus. The orange mushrooms growing from the spores he cursed Hongyu with months ago.

  Hongyu was the opposite of Bangcai in the fight. His feet were still, but each of his sword movements was a sudden glint, and each strike carried a lethal intent. A single clash with him sent the one on the receiving end reeling a half-dozen steps.

  The stumbling of his opponent and the chaos of the skirmish gave him enough time to raise his sword again. World Energy manifested around it. Controlled in such a way. No longer could it be called World Energy; it was Spiritual Energy, or Qi, clattering with steel and the ground as it fell to the earth.

  Two held steady against Hongyu. The Nightwatcher Hao called him, the man he clashed with the night he snuck into Bangcai’s camp and killed two men in their sleep. That old man was a lynchpin on the battlefield. He was the only one able to hold his own against Hongyu and still move forward fast enough to combat that executioner’s sword before it became a scythe to anyone in blue.

  Others joined him, taking Hongyu from the side. Primarily one, but a third jumped in to push Hongyu further from the center of the battle, giving the Drifting Stream Sect more space to put pressure down and gang up on individuals from The Blue Moons Mountain Sect.

  As things were going, they would never land a fatal blow on him. Hongyu’s puppet-like step barely left an opening on his person, so when the opportunity arose, those in blue turned their attention to someone else in white.

  The numbers on each side weren’t even.

  Hao knew they never were; Mo Bangcai’s group was two hunting teams of ten people, three of them were killed at Hao’s hand, and a few others remained injured but fighting.

  Meng Hongyu led a large group before. But that was long ago, months and months in the past, when the Polarity floor was on the ground and summer made the Secret Realm a nightmare. He left them; now his new group was small.

  Hao counted only five, now four, as another hit the ground, pressured from two directions, and then ambushed by Bangcai with his daggers.

  The man who fell to the daggers wasn’t killed. Blood poured from his side as he crawled backwards, people at his side jumping closer to him so he could retreat. Those allies supported each other.

  Those who walked out to the battle alone, like the man in tears, were nothing more than fallen leaves in the eyes of those dancing around trees and clashing blades.

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  Perhaps some would have thought the way the cloaked Cultivators fought had no honor. Rotating in and out of combat. If they didn’t and lost the space they had, they would be pushed against the trees and separated. The moment one was alone on either side, they were done.

  The coordination of both groups made the time Hao hunted Green-Horned bulls in a group seem like a comedy.

  Hao felt like a fool for ever doubting the coordination of Mo Bangcai and his group, and a larger fool for doubting Bangcai himself, even if he was some Elder’s bastard son. He was still the First Elder’s in-name disciple.

  With only four white cloaks on the field, they could fully focus on the three members of the Drifting Stream Sect on Meng Hongyu while the rest of the field became a four-on-four.

  *

  Quiet fell for just a moment when Hao stepped out. The setup of the battle was instantly disturbed, spears slowed, and swords paused their clash.

  There was no point in entertaining the thought of a sneak attack in broad daylight against either group. Both had endured such attacks already. They were ready for it, and a sudden attack in their line would do nothing but get him tangled up and killed. Evident in the dead man being walked on.

  Though they looked his way, the battle didn’t pause for him, and the glances he got were anything but friendly. The strongest in the conflict—Hongyu, Bangcai, and the Nightwatcher—gave glances that commanded Hao’s death.

  “Leave or die, like him before you.” The craggy voice of the Nightwatcher called as he returned to battle, sword high and pointed at Hongyu.

  Hao walked on, waiting for someone to come to him.

  “Go slow him down. I will hold Hongyu for a while longer. Don’t let him take up any more space!” The Nightwatcher said again, but he didn’t look over.

  The battle had been going on for a while before Hao arrived. Sweat was nearly as ample as blood. Hao almost felt bad for the man running towards him with stuttered steps. He was just a scout, if Hao remembered right.

  Sword in hand, pointed out to kill, holding a bag on his waist full of loot, eyes like pinholes in paper, staring like he was a wolf after a rabbit. The scout came, his speed impressive.

  Most of the people out there were not Hao’s match, not when he was at the Seventh Rank of Reclamation, and not now.

  The only people he had to worry about were the people who kept glancing at him, directing the battlefield, and sending waves of Qi that nearly split the trees in two. Both the Nightwatch and Hongyu may have been Ninth Rank, at the very least, eighth. That was Hao’s best guess; he didn’t have a sensory skill like the rest, the most he could feel was the movement of the World Energy around them.

  Their eyes flashed when they looked at him. Hao knew the look; he must have looked the same when looking at them. In all their caution, there was a smile behind their eyes.

  Enlightenment, immortality, yes, yes, they were all goals of Cultivation. Still, each time Hao walked into a battle, he was reminded of what the purpose of cultivating Martial Skills and mastering martial arts was for. Fighting and killing, he had to thank the dead man he approached for reminding him.

  To find an opponent that made cold blood feel warm was an undeniable pleasure, no matter how hard Hao pushed it down.

  “Don’t do anything rash…” The Nightwatcher called.

  Hao split his focus, giving his opponent little attention as his opponent approached, the battle shifting again, Mo Bangcai landing another brutal blow.

  “Young Master, move on, someone, join me!” The Nightwatcher shouted while being pushed back by Hongyu in his puppet-like state.

  Hao kept track almost perfectly; the only one hard to keep an eye on was Bangcai himself. Three on three, three on Hongyu, one running at Hao, once the man running at him was close enough, Hao shifted his attention to where he needed it.

  The scout running at him held his sword high. Already coming down to split Hao’s head in two, giving plenty of time to react.

  Hao could have stepped aside, but he didn’t need to; everyone turned back, focused on their battles, and the scout was the only one looking at him at the moment.

  There were so many tricks that Hao had yet to use in the Secret Realm. It was the perfect chance to use them.

  Hao simply pushed his hand out in front of him, his elbow pointed away from his chest, as if he were holding something in his hand. He didn’t need to thrust—He just had to wait.

  The scout ran at him, his shoulders falling. All his power was in the swing of his strike, all his speed propelling him.

  Hao pulled the spear, yet to touch blood, from the Spirit-Holding Bag’s space. It came into existence with a glow from the sun. He could feel the flesh part and metal rub on bones as the man looked down at his chest, dropping his sword behind him. The tip of the spear went no further than the man’s spine. Then, it was gone.

  The scout stared down in shock and confusion, his life fading, blood like a waterfall drained while bending light in curves, making smooth arcs like a single colored rainbow. Red sprayed as he tried to speak. Not a spoken word could be heard, but the head tilted and a dozen eyes glinted.

  Hao took another step forward.