The black-smoke-wreathed figure's blow sent Ji Xia skidding across Southgreen Street, his ribs screaming in protest.
Ji Qianqing moved. Her Qing Jun Sword carved a three-chi-deep trench where the attacker had stood—but he'd already teleported five zhang away.
"The Zhouqing State Preceptor," she spat. "To think a newly-minted Divine Ability cultivator dares skulk in shadows."
The smoke dissipated, revealing a monkey-faced man in tight silks, his fur matted with ceremonial oils.
"I came to kill a wounded Ji Shang," he sneered. "Pity he died before I arrived."
Ji Qianqing's blade never stilled. "Shang at forty surpassed your century of cultivation. You're no prodigy—just a coward who preys on the weak."
The Preceptor grinned as black smoke billowed anew, covering the street. "You stall for reinforcements? Good. More fodder for my Bellyghosts."
From the miasma emerged sixty horrors:
Ghastly faces with curved horns.
Distended bellies squirming with trapped children.
"Each ghost's stomach holds a Taicang babe," the Preceptor crooned. "Their limbs still kick as they're digested."
Ji Xia's vision flushed red. "Your name. Now."
"Qing Furen of Zhouqing," the monkey bowed mockingly. "Soon to be your killer."
The Bellyghosts lurched forward—just as white fog erupted from Ji Xia's pores, swallowing the street.
Steel rang. Flesh tore.
When the mist cleared, the ghosts lay dismembered, and three hundred Shadow Soldiers stood at attention.
Ji Xia stepped over a severed monkey tail, his voice glacial:
"You asked how Taicang defeated six thousand Hyena-Dogs without the Sable-Guard?"
Vengeance floated to his hand, dripping black blood.
"Meet my army."