Hao looked over at the man bleeding out as he stood beside him. Stepping wide of the blood he sprayed in his wet, muffled scream, knees touching the ground, racing the tears falling from his face.

  Seeing droplets on the man’s face, it itched at Hao. “Did all those you killed shed tears in the same way? Did their eyes change to fear just as fast, whimpering as they realized what was fading?”

  Hao stopped still, his knee level with the man’s shoulder. “Probably not right… Most of the people living have a purpose beyond tormenting others at the beck and call of an old man and his young master…”

  He couldn’t stop himself from speaking. The battle was in front of him, and there was no point in trying to point out the wrongdoings of a corpse breathing its final breaths. Maybe he hoped the man would realize his crimes. He could wear remorse and feel pity for the first time in his final moments.

  That didn’t happen.

  The man leaned forward, his fingers tracing the hole in his chest, “You’ve killed me, you’ve killed me,” he repeated. His cultivation kept his heart pumping. Bubbles of blood from his mouth burst as he spoke, and even now, he seemed blind to any blood on his hands but his own.

  Hao couldn’t blame the man for being so self-absorbed in the moment. Still, the guy’s stare of blame and anger directed at Hao left him with a bad taste in his mouth. The man truly believed he had done nothing wrong in his life and deserved to live.

  Self-Absorb… I hope I can do more and bark and whimper when I am dying.

  “Pathetic,” Hao turned towards the man. His ears were going deaf to the repeated words that got more grating by the second, staying just as loud as the first time.

  He shot out his hand. A quick palm strike with wind whistling between his fingers, Hao hit the man in the center of the forehead with a…

  Shpa!

  The man’s head cracked, a mix of red and gray splashed, then a single heartbeat of silence made the sound of his back hitting the ground echo in the ears of everyone fighting.

  It turned heads. Some ignored it and continued fighting, and some never noticed the dead men beneath them at all.

  Those who flinched didn’t react to the death itself. They were older than Hao; they had seen more death than he had, created more than he wanted to imagine—perhaps that was just more justification he created.

  But clean cuts and pretty punctures. That was all the battle was to them: swords, spears, claws, horns, techniques, and posturing. The death of it escaped them, corpses left behind, what was inside the person slain never considered. That man’s head showed them now. The reddest melon they had ever seen cracked with bones-white edges, spilling a thick, dark red syrup.

  Looking back up at the bulk of the battle. Hao was convinced that the only person with a brain to think was the Nightwatcher; he took notice beyond the cracked head, at the hole in the man’s chest.

  “You go block him! Watch out for hidden weapons!” His old voice ripped the air, his eyes almost glinting recognition.

  Again, a person rotated away from Meng Hongyu. Confidence in their step with those same pin-like pupils and a face that said he knew every one of Hao’s secrets came towards him in steady steps.

  Confident, but far more cautious.

  Hao assumed this one was also a scout, the way he looked around the edge of Hao’s body, his eyebrows getting tighter with each inch forward. His steps got slower, his back to his allies.

  Sensory skills were less of a technique than suggested. Reclamation practitioners could hardly use spell work being called skills, but there was a clear advantage to them. Feeling World Energy with accuracy. Around a person, an area, or even feeling out the element dominating a space.

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  The man stopped his approach. Staring at the World Energy around Hao, feeling for abundance or lack thereof, only for him to take his best guess at what Hao’s strength was from that.

  Hao waited as the man took a defensive stance. An annoyance, since he would have to approach the bulk of the battle and get entangled with many while he was alone. He crouched quickly and took up one of the swords on the ground. Of course, while he was down there, he didn’t forget the man’s spatial treasure either, the bag cut loose and slid down Hao’s sleeve, vanishing.

  Hao was not great with bladed weapons. Beyond rudimentary skills from a book in the library tower, he struggled to master anything, swords least of all; weapons seemed to shiver in his hand. To use it fairly in a life-or-death battle against someone who used it as their primary weapon was a foolish idea. He charged forward.

  His opponent held his sword up, the wide silver edge prepared to block the incoming strike.

  Hao let the sword go. The blade and handle, already dripping in the blood of the battlefield, created a flower in the air as it flew towards the man’s face.

  The man scowled and lifted his blade to block it. His feet repositioned as he took a few steps toward Hao.

  Hao thought it would give him a chance to strike and leave an opening for him to break into, but he was mistaken.

  It was the opposite. Not for the first time, Hao underestimated his opponent and lacked the experience for such a head-on confrontation.

  Hao closed in and stood within reach. He extended his arm to land a strike, and the sword that deflected the blade came back down the way it went up, splitting the air. He had to snap his hand back. But his side was left open.

  Not leaving the exchange unscathed, he felt a pain in his ribs, as the blade quickly pulled back a small amount, it cut to the bones of his abdomen, going no deeper than skin, just splitting soft flesh. A small sting of a wound Hao could accept over the alternative.

  If Hao had committed, he would have lost his arm—thankfully, his speed was greater than his opponent’s. Still, he had to admit his opponent’s reaction was brilliant. Just a little bit slower, and his arm wouldn’t be lying at his side but at his feet, and his belly would be open. But he noticed the second movement of the blade just as it started, and the third a little later. He felt like he had learned something—they could easily kill him, the way he had easily killed one of them.

  The unpredictability of battle had a certain entertainment to it, turning disadvantage into advantage. Just as Hao was surprised, he surprised his opponent—he clamped the arm he almost lost down against his side, catching the swords in his body as he ground against his skin, pressing against his ribs and elbow. His opponent was open, bladeless.

  Hao ignored the pain. His other arm brought up and back for a strike to bring an end to the man in front of him before he let go of his blade and joined his allies, who were already too comfortable on the battlefield.

  The Drifting Stream Sect, in their blue robes. Mo Bangcai’s group was dominating the battle, and Hao was just an interloper in the same robes, of the same faction, without an ally.

  Meng Hongyu didn’t flinch watching his fellow Blue Moons Mountain disciples fall. When they hit the ground, he simply raised his sword again. He was robotic, not all there, just a mess of blisters fighting what he couldn’t see.

  Hao saw pieces of the battle over the man’s shoulder as he stuck his face.

  The man’s life remained intact, his face and neck the same; at most, his nose broke, but his arm didn’t keep shape, holding onto his sword as he fell back, eyes glazed for a moment, his elbow bent the wrong way. He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth. Biting down, he drew more blood on himself just to muffle a shout.

  Hao got a grip on his opponent’s robe sleeve. He was about to deliver another blow, as the sword fell to the ground, one to finish the opponent off and even the odds of the battle. Before he could…

  The soft dirt of the ground, wet from the dew of morning and quiet rains of night, squelched. The sound was subtle. To Hao, it was like a scream in his face. He already knew what it was, had seen the tactic multiple times since he arrived to see the death of a few people, and he was the next target, it seemed.

  Seeing it was different from reacting to it.

  Mo Bangcai was at his side, looking up at him, blade aimed at his armpit, nearly as quiet as Hao himself was. Just as fast—if not faster. The growing grin on his face showed his eagerness to kill Hao and take out another opponent.

  Now Hao knew how the beast this group hunted felt. But he was not a simple beast. He knew how to stop the Bangcai’s momentum; it was better to sacrifice something than to lose something fleeing or falling into a deeper trap. Going forward has worked so far; why would he stop now?

  The dagger’s blade was long for its handle; it glinted silver under the red streaks, Bangcai’s teeth glittered the same way as the sun rose to that noon time, its brightest dim compared to summer days.

  Hao ground his teeth until they made a sound. It itched and burned, the feeling of something going through his limb, and the pain wasn’t unfamiliar.

  Bangcai’s smile vanished. His dagger stopped short of Hao’s face or neck, yet blood came running down the blade and handle to his thumb.

  It wormed deeper into Hao’s forearm. The pain was manageable as he stared down at Mo Bangcai.