Smoke clung to the trees like a shroud. The screams had dulled into background noise—flesh tearing, steel ringing, orders barked then swallowed by fire and chaos. The ground beneath Tianyu's boots was sodden with blood, churned by hooves and shattered bone.
But he barely noticed anymore.
His sword moved on instinct. Cuts, parries, thrusts—all blurred together. His limbs burned. His vision swam. His ears rang from too many explosions of Qi. Yet still the enemy came, like the forest itself had cracked open and vomited out every killer in hiding.
Then he saw him.
A black-tattooed figure, half-shrouded by shadow, standing untouched amidst the carnage.
He wasn't fighting—he was commanding. Six fighters moved with him, flanking him in perfect synchronicity.
While others screamed and died, he merely watched.
His gaze scanned the battlefield with calm precision. His lips moved in silent, coded commands. Wherever he pointed, the next squad of bandits surged forward. Wherever he glanced, someone died.
Then his eyes found Tianyu.
And he smiled.
Tianyu's stomach turned cold.
A distant shout ripped through the haze—
"Captain Zhao's hit!"
Tianyu spun, heart hammering.
Zhao stood, barely upright. Blood soaked his robes, and a spear jutted from his shoulder like a grotesque flag. Yet still, he fought, slicing down a bandit with a burst of pure white Qi. Gritting his teeth. Refusing to fall.
"Move the young master to the rear wagon!"
Tianyu ignored it.
His blade flashed again. Qi surged under his skin. He couldn't retreat—not while the others held the line. Not while Zhao bled beside them. Not while Uncle Liu still fought.
He pressed forward—cutting, dodging, panting. His Wind Veil Art kept him moving, flickering between slashes and glancing blows. His side throbbed from a hit that nearly broke his ribs. His arms trembled with each strike. He could barely keep his grip.
Beside him, Liu tore through another pair of attackers, blood dripping down his sleeve, his breaths labored and wet.
"They're herding us," Liu muttered. "Forcing us toward the middle of the forest. Trying to box us in."
Another volley of arrows came. A guard fell with a choking gasp, clutching at the shaft buried in his neck.
Tianyu's chest heaved. Sweat dripped down his brow. For every attacker they cut down, two more surged forward—driven by something more than greed.
This was personal.
Or professional.
He glanced back at the collapsed wagon line. The guards were thinning. And still, that commander figure in the shadows hadn't moved.
Not yet.
Then, the treeline split.
Trees shook. Boots pounded. And a massive silhouette emerged from the forest gloom—seven feet tall, built like a siege engine, his mace dragging trenches in the dirt.
A new presence blanketed the battlefield like a suffocating fog.
Spiritual pressure crashed down like a collapsing mountain.
Cultivators staggered. Horses bucked. Even the bandits paused.
Captain Zhao coughed blood. Liu's eyes widened.
A heavy breath rumbled from the towering figure's throat, deep and slow—like a boulder grinding against stone.
He stepped into full view.
Scarred face twisted in a crooked grin. Eyes dark, sunken, and mean.
His torso bare beneath a threadbare coat, covered in black spiritual tattoos that shimmered with warped Qi. At his side, a massive iron mace thudded against his leg with each step, its spiked head caked in old blood.
A silence spread. Even the bandits seemed to part around him like water around a rock.
Captain Zhao whispered through gritted teeth, barely able to stand.
"…Ironbone Ma Hong."
Tianyu froze mid-step. He didn't recognize the name, but something about the way Zhao said it—strained, hushed, like invoking a curse—sent a chill down his spine. His instincts screamed. The man standing before them, towering and broad-shouldered, wasn't someone he could even dream of facing.
He didn't need to know the name.
His body understood it before his mind caught up.
Zhao continued, breath shallow, blood seeping down his armor in thick streams.
"Expelled from the Crimson Whisper Sect ten years ago..."
Tianyu swallowed.
Zhao's voice dropped lower.
"He slaughtered his own senior brother during a breakthrough ritual. Drove his fingers into the man's chest and ripped out his ribcage. Left him pinned to the altar like an offering."
His knees buckled. The wound on his side had reopened, crimson soaking through the cloth. Still, Zhao planted his halberd into the dirt, forcing himself upright through sheer will.
"Stay behind me," Zhao hissed. "He's—"
A rough, grinding voice cut through the haze of tension, loud enough to drown out the moans of the wounded and the crackling of fire from overturned wagons.
"Oh? So the tales even made it this far?"
The speaker stepped into full view.
Ma Hong.
Ironbone Ma Hong.
He moved with the lazy swagger of a predator that knew no one dared test him.
Each step crunched the gravel beneath his boots like bone shards. His bare chest was crisscrossed with old scars, muscles knotted like twisted cords.
His face held a crooked grin too wide to be sane, lips stretched over uneven yellowed teeth. A jagged scar ran from his left brow to his cheek, stopping just short of his throat. His eyes—small, dark, glinting with the joy of violence—swept over them like a butcher choosing cuts.
He chuckled low in his chest, a sound like rusted chains scraping stone.
A pulse of energy erupted from him without warning. It wasn't elegant or refined—it was violent, unrestrained, soaked in malice. The air warped, grass flattened, and a few of the weaker guards collapsed, vomiting blood. Tianyu felt his knees shake. Breathing was suddenly like inhaling knives.
With a guttural breath, Ma Hong unleashed his Qi—thick, violent, reeking of malice. The air twisted around him, charged with an oppressive weight that pressed down like a stormcloud ready to burst.
"You think you can parade your fancy little convoy through my hills without paying toll?"
Tianyu stepped forward, blade rising instinctively.
"Ironbone Ma Hong. You command these dogs?"
Ma Hong tilted his head.
"Yeah, pretty boy. They're a hell of a lot better than those overfed little princelings your clan calls guards. Took out half your pampered crew in under fifteen minutes. I'd say we're wiping the floor with you just fine."
His eyes dropped, scanning Tianyu—bloodied robes, sweat-matted hair, narrow waist, a touch of youth still clinging to his features.
"Mmh. Prettier up close than the posters make you. I get why there's a bounty on your face."
Tianyu's brow twitched.
"Bounty?"
"Oh yeah."
Ma Hong grinned, licking his teeth with a slow, feral drag of his tongue. He swung his mace once, lazily. The steel head tore a deep gouge in the earth beside them with a thud.
"Someone in your precious little family wants your head on a platter—teeth optional."
Ma Hong sneered, dragging his mace along the dirt with a heavy scrape.
"Said the wagons are mine if I do it clean. I kill you, they smile, and I walk away rich, fat, and very, very satisfied. Everybody wins."
Tianyu's breath caught. That couldn't be true. He got along with everyone—cousins, elders, even the servants. There was no reason...
"You're lying…"
Tianyu's voice cracked. His grip on his blade faltered.
"HAHAHAHAHA! You heard that, boys?! He doesn't believe it!"
Ma Hong's laugh was vile, like a toad choking on filth. The surrounding bandits erupted, pointing, sneering, reveling in the boy's shaken state.
Tianyu's expression darkened. The color drained from his face. The air around him turned cold.
But Ma Hong only grinned wider, stepping into the moment like a predator savoring his prey's fear.
"So the rumors were true. You really are as naive as they say. Your clan pampered you like a little prince, and now look at you—all that talent, wasted on a child who still believes in honor and justice."
He leaned in, voice low and cruel. A vicious smirk curved his lips.
"Guess you really are Mommy's precious little boy. What's wrong, sweetheart? Still hoping she'll show up and wipe your nose? Or maybe you miss her tits? Tell me, do you still dream about suckling while she sings lullabies? Oh—and is it true you've been crawling into her bed at night, too? Damn boy."
"Shut up!!!"
Tianyu lunged, blade flashing like silver lightning.
But Ma Hong moved like he'd been waiting for it. With a flick of his wrist, he swatted the blow aside like it was nothing.
Tianyu was launched backward, crashing into the dirt and skidding several meters. Dust clouded the air. He rolled to a stop—unscathed, but shaken.
He pushed himself up slowly, glaring daggers, lips trembling with rage.
Ma Hong only smiled wider. He took another step forward—each one heavier than the last. The ground beneath his boots cracked under the pressure.
"But the longer I look at you..." he chuckled, eyes narrowing. "The more I think alive might be better. Pretty little face like that? I could squeeze a fortune out of it. Noble ladies pay handsomely for souvenirs like you."
He tilted his head, letting the mace spin once in his hand—casual, effortless.
"Course, no one said you have to stay pretty."
His grin widened into a snarl.
"A few broken bones never hurt the price. And I never liked your fucking face to begin with."
The pressure dropped like an avalanche.
Qi burst from Ma Hong's body, thick and suffocating. The forest air twisted around him, shimmering like heatstroke haze.
Dense. Vile. Saturated with killing intent.
The tattoos across his chest and arms pulsed, reacting to the release. Leaves shriveled The ground beneath him cracked.
The air thickened like syrup.
His cultivation surged unmistakably: Refinement Martial Realm, seventh stage.
The air around him warped subtly, Qi bending unnaturally as trees trembled and the ground shuddered beneath his steps.
And every inch of it warped around him like a cloak of smoke and iron.
The pressure made the lesser guards stagger.
"Yu'er!" Liu barked from behind, voice sharp with panic. "Fall back! Now!"
"I can hold him!"
"Nope, you can't."
Ma Hong charged.
Tianyu planted his foot, Wind Veil Art igniting under him in a burst of pale Qi. The iron mace came screaming down like a divine punishment. He sidestepped just in time—the blow crushed the earth where he'd stood, dirt erupting like a cannon blast.
Tianyu retaliated, blade arcing toward Ma Hong's ribs.
Steel met flesh.
And bounced off.
Ma Hong's skin shimmered with unnatural hardness. Tattoos etched across his body flared briefly with eerie light, dispersing the force harmlessly.
"That's cute."
Ma Hong sneered as his fist followed—
Tianyu blocked it with his blade—
The impact exploded through him. The sheer force hurled him backward over ten paces. He hit the ground hard, tumbling across dirt and gravel, blood spraying from his lips.
Liu charged in, saber flashing.
"Get away from him!"
Ma Hong turned, swung his mace sideways with monstrous strength.
Their weapons collided—
BOOM!
The shockwave cracked the air. Liu's saber shattered. He flew backward like a rag doll, crashing into a wagon wheel with a crunch.
"UNCLE LIU!"
Tianyu's voice broke.
Ma Hong turned back to him, grinning.
"That one's alive. Barely. Maybe you'll last longer."
Tianyu screamed and charged.
He called every last thread of Qi. Wind Veil. Second Form. Body flickering, blade howling, steps lighter than air.
He struck.
A dozen slashes. One after another. Fast. Precise. Desperate.
Ma Hong stood there, laughing.
He let two of Tianyu's strikes land—small cuts that barely scratched the surface.
The skin around the blows shimmered, hardening with layered Qi. The spiritual tattoos across his chest pulsed faintly.
He didn't flinch.
Then the mace came down.
CRACK.
Pain detonated across Tianyu's ribs as the spiked head smashed into him. Bone crunched. His world flipped.
Air vanished from his lungs in a sharp, silent gasp.
Steel met dirt.
His sword slipped from numb fingers.
The forest floor slammed into him, hard and wet. Leaves, blood, and shattered breath swirled in his spinning vision. His chest screamed with each gasp. Blood bubbled at the edge of his mouth.
His arms twitched, but they wouldn't rise. His legs were lead.
Useless. Broken.
Through the haze, the battle still raged—screams, the ring of steel, the stomping thunder of Ma Hong's approach.
Tianyu's eyes flicked weakly to the side. Desperate. Searching.
Zhao. Liu. Anyone.
A jagged spear jutted from Zhao's chest. The captain's eyes—so sharp moments ago—were glassy. Still.
His face locked in mid-command.
Nearby, Liu lay crumpled over a fallen rogue, his saber still clenched.
His throat—gone. Torn wide. Blood pooled beneath him like black ink.
Gone. Both of them.
Ma Hong's shadow fell over Tianyu like a headstone.
The brute loomed, blood-dripping mace slung lazily to the side, that same cruel, crooked grin etched deep into his weathered face.
Tianyu's pulse roared in his ears.
His grip—empty. His sword was gone.
His chest burned—not from fear, but that familiar, reckless flame that had always burned in his blood.
But he couldn't move.
He couldn't breathe.
The mace rose—black iron glinting red with gore.
Ma Hong's voice dropped to a mocking murmur.
"Tch… You're worth more alive. But hey—accidents happen."
Tianyu's chest heaved—shallow, broken gasps. His ribs felt like shattered glass.
The edges of the world curled like scorched parchment.
I failed…
Captain Zhao. Uncle Liu. The guards.
His thoughts spiraled, and one name rose from the chaos—
Mother…
His heart twisted.
No… not like this…
The mace hovered, heavy and inevitable.
The world tipped sideways, the ache in his chest tightening to a suffocating knot. His vision darkened, the forest spinning away as the haze swallowed him whole.
A single, broken whisper rasped from his lips, barely audible above the din of the dying battle.
"I'm… sorry… mother…"
And the world… went black.