CHAPTER 7
A fluctuation of Spiritual Power.
Very faint.
But enough to send a chill down Yang Feng’s spine for a beat.
He stood still within the shadow of the bamboo, unmoving.
His hand tightened around the sword hilt.
No circulation of Qi.
Only…
Listening and sensing.
A normal bandit camp should not have Spiritual Power.
Those thieves who robbed and killed were mostly mortals, merely a little stronger than ordinary people.
But this fluctuation…
Not mortal.
The owner of that Spiritual Power,
Was it someone in Qi Refinement?
Or a demonic cultivator?
Or a cultivator fallen to the bottom of society, hiding in this bamboo forest to survive?
Did it matter?
Was it the leader?
Or an outsider?
Judgments flashed continuously through his mind.
…It was inside the camp.
“Is this… still a Level 2 mission?”
The thought only brushed across his mind.
But Yang Feng decided to move forward.
He was not here to prove himself.
Nor to risk his life.
He only needed to confirm one thing…
That Spiritual Power… was it an enemy or not.
The wind hissed through the bamboo forest.
He lowered his center of gravity, stepping forward slowly, placing each foot almost without sound.
The camp gate stood half open.
Through the gap, he looked inside.
Three bandits sat around a crude wooden table, liquor spilling across its edge.
Another leaned against a pillar, blade in hand, eyes bloodshot.
Only mortals.
But deeper inside, within the largest house of the camp.
The door stood half closed.
From there… the Spiritual Power fluctuated.
Growing heavier by the moment.
Chaotic.
Repulsive.
Filthy…
This twisted Spiritual Power…
There was no doubt,
A demonic cultivator.
Suddenly,
“Bang!”
A body was thrown out from the house.
It slammed against the ground.
A corpse.
No longer clearly human in form.
More precisely…
It had been drained dry.
A figure stepped out afterward.
Thin.
Very thin.
So thin that the dark gray robe on his body hung as if draped over a skeleton frame.
His skin was pale, not the pale of sickness, but a pale… devoid of life, as though warmth had long been drained from it.
Long hair hung in tangled strands, sticking together, covering half his face.
But with a single glance, Yang Feng saw his eyes…
No whites.
Only a murky gray, dull like ash.
Each time he inhaled, the air around him trembled slightly, as though something invisible were being drawn toward him.
Not wind.
Not Spiritual Power.
But… human breath.
The corner of his lips lifted, forming a thin smile, cold, without emotion.
His voice was hoarse, like rotten wood being scraped:
“Trash.”
“I told you to bring more people…
Why is there only this little?”
One bandit chuckled nervously.
“Immortal Master, don’t be angry… next time we’ll bring more.”
“It’s just… we’ve already killed too many people…”
“It will cause too much attention…”
“Next time?”
The demonic cultivator’s eyes turned cold.
“You still have a next time?”
A surge of Spiritual Power burst outward.
“Pfft!”
The bandit who had spoken stiffened.
A small bloody hole appeared in the center of his chest.
He fell, eyes still wide open.
He did not even understand what had happened.
The other two immediately dropped to their knees.
“Immortal Master spare us! Spare us!”
The demonic cultivator gave a faint laugh.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“You mortals… it would be best if all of you became nourishment for me.”
He stepped closer.
Unhurried.
Unrushed.
As though choosing which dish to eat first.
One bandit trembled so violently his forehead struck the ground again and again.
“Immortal Master! I am still useful! I can still capture people—”
“Capture people?”
The demonic cultivator tilted his head.
“You think I need you… to capture people?”
He raised his hand.
Without touching.
Only flicked lightly.
The bandit froze instantly.
His mouth opened as if to scream, but no sound came out.
A thin mist-like strand was drawn from his chest, trembling like a thread being torn apart.
The demonic cultivator caught it in his palm and swallowed it like swallowing a breath.
“Bland.”
He frowned.
“Not as good as children.”
The last bandit collapsed onto the ground, face drained white.
He did not dare run.
Did not dare breathe heavily.
Only trembled.
The demonic cultivator glanced at him once.
No emotion in his eyes.
“You… can be kept.”
He turned away.
“To clean up the bodies.”
The bandit trembled so violently he could not stand, yet nodded repeatedly, as though stopping for even a breath would mean death.
Within the bamboo’s shadow.
Yang Feng tightened his grip.
He had just seen something very clearly.
This was no longer about suppressing a bandit camp.
This was…
a demonic cultivator using bandits.
Killing mortals like slaughtering chickens.
A demon wearing human skin.
Within the bamboo’s shadow, Yang Feng’s breathing halted.
That demonic cultivator…
was not merely killing mortals.
He was eating them.
Not in the literal sense, but in the most terrifying way of cultivation:
draining Yang Qi, souls, warmth…
to feed a corrupt art.
Yang Feng gripped the sword hilt until his knuckles turned white.
He wanted to retreat.
Wanted to return and report to the sect.
Wanted someone else to deal with that disgusting thing.
That was the safe choice.
The choice that suited him.
The choice… to live.
He took a step back.
Very lightly.
Very slowly.
But at that moment…
A faint cry sounded from behind the largest house.
Weak.
Thin.
Like a kitten.
A child.
The demonic cultivator turned his head.
His murky gray eyes flickered with a cold glint.
“Oh… one small sprout left.”
He moved toward the child.
Step by step.
Slowly.
As though he had already chosen his prey.
A thought pierced through Yang Feng’s mind… small, but sharp as a needle:
If I turn away… that child will die.
He clenched his teeth until his jaw ached.
His heart pounded.
Not from courage.
Not from fury.
But from fear.
Fear of death.
Fear of being unable to win.
Fear that once he stepped out… there would be no way back.
He knew clearly.
If he took one step back.
If he pretended he had seen nothing.
If he told himself…
“This is not my business.”
He could live.
At least today.
But his throat tightened.
His breath would not go down.
Before his eyes was no longer the bamboo forest.
But Linghe Village.
The burned roofs.
The cracked walls.
The limping man bowing before him.
The old woman trembling, asking, “Another… another cultivator has come?”
Their gazes held no resentment.
Only exhaustion.
Only… approaching despair.
And that child.
Not a name.
Not a mission.
Only a child.
Someone waiting for it to return.
Perhaps a mother still sitting before the door.
Perhaps a bowl of rice already gone cold.
If he turned away.
Tonight another roof would go dark.
Tomorrow another person would kneel in a dirt courtyard.
Yang Feng closed his eyes.
Only for a breath.
He did not think of the Heavenly Dao.
Did not think of cultivation realm.
Did not think of Sword Arts.
He thought only of something very mortal.
If it were his mother.
If it were the house he had grown up in.
If it were himself at ten years old, lying on the gravel by the river…
And Leng Wuqing had not come.
His chest tightened.
Pain.
Not from being struck.
But from understanding.
Understanding the helplessness of only being able to watch.
He opened his eyes.
His gaze heavy like stone sinking underwater.
“This is not only Linghe Village.”
“Not only that child.”
“If I turn away today…”
His voice was very low.
“…tomorrow it could be my mother.”
“Someone I know.”
“Or myself.”
He feared death.
Still feared it.
But there were things… if not held onto,
living would hold no meaning either.
The sword in his hand trembled slightly.
This time,
not from hesitation.
But because he had chosen…
He had to fight.
The demonic cultivator bent down.
His shriveled hand reached toward the trembling child in the corner.
In that instant…
there was no wind in Yang Feng’s mind.
no coarse laughter from the bandits.
no sound of his own heartbeat.
Only one thought:
Not a shout.
Not determination.
Only a small voice, tired, yet impossible to ignore.
He stepped out from the bamboo’s shadow.
No Qi released.
No Spiritual Power circulated.
No technique unleashed.
Only a step.
But the heaviest step of his life.
The blade in his hand trembled slightly.
Not because he wanted to fight.
But because he was trying not to let it fall.
He charged forward.
Not fast.
Not elegant.
Not like a sword cultivator at all.
But it was everything he had.
The blade fell in a straight line, crude in its simplicity.
No skill.
No Sword Intent.
Only a slash from someone…
Forced
To
CUT.
He rushed forward.
Not fast. Not beautiful.
His heel struck the ground.
His shoulder twisted off-center.
His arm strained until the tendons felt ready to tear.
The blade shook from uneven force.
The demonic cultivator turned his head.
His murky gray eyes widened slightly…
Not in fear.
But in surprise.
sharp
He had not expected an outer disciple in early Qi Refinement…
to dare strike at him.
Dark gray Spiritual Power erupted around the demonic cultivator, like a layer of poisonous mist.
The sword swept through the haze with a tearing rush—
Yang Feng’s blade struck that mist.
A “shhk” sound rang out…
metal meeting something soft yet freezing cold.
The recoil surged back, so strong his wrist went numb.
His wrist twisted out of alignment.
Blood spilled from his mouth.
His shoulder felt torn.
His fingers lost sensation.
He nearly dropped the sword.
He steadied himself.
The demonic cultivator gave a faint laugh.
A thin smile, cold, without emotion.
“Interesting.”
“You…!”
Yang Feng stepped back.
Breath ragged.
Heart pounding wildly.
Hands trembling.
He knew he was weak.
Knew he was not an opponent.
Knew he could die in the next instant.
But he still stood there.
Did not step back further.
He was not brave.
He simply had no other choice.
If he retreated…
that child would have no one left.
The demonic cultivator licked his lips, voice hoarse:
“Your Yang Qi… is stronger than those mortals.”
“Let me see… how long this little sword cultivator can last.”
Dark gray Spiritual Power coiled like toxic smoke.
The air turned icy.
Yang Feng tightened his grip on the sword hilt.
His breath trembled slightly.
But his eyes…
no longer wavered.
