How dull is this?

Blood dripped from the tip of the blade, as Chen Yi raised his knife and stepped forward, his gaze barely settling on the remaining two pale-faced assassins.

These three assassins—rather than exhausting his energy, their true intent was to let Zhao Yan discern the path of his martial arts techniques.

The timing of his breathing, the sharpest and dullest points in his blade technique, the transitions in his footwork, the habits of his arm movements, even the flow of True Qi through his meridians… Zhao Yan, adept at precision assassinations, stared with eyes widened like gaping nostrils, unwilling to miss a single detail.

Chen Yi's mouth curled into a slight grin, and after invigorating his blood, the glint of the cold blade became blindingly bright.

Want to watch?

Then I'll let you watch to your heart's content.

At that moment, one assassin lunged forward, swinging his blade with one hand to carve out a precise, curved arc. The edge of the blade came forward, meeting Chen Yi's blade tip. Upon contact, the colossal surge of energy actually forced the assassin's blade askew. His arm trembled violently as he gritted his teeth and twisted his body. From within the sleeve of his other hand emerged another blade—turns out the first strike was a feint, while the real strike was hidden in the follow-through, this blade slicing directly toward Chen Yi's neck.

Chen Yi chuckled softly.

Kinda... flashy.

But the disparity in martial abilities was simply too vast.

This concealed blade maneuver, though ingenious, was far too slow in Chen Yi's eyes. Sacrificing the earlier move for this hidden strike, its arc was overly pronounced and far too obvious—it was hard not to notice it. Thus, Chen Yi bent forward and delivered a punch. Without retreating or evading, one punch shattered the assassin's face, blood seeping from his seven orifices amidst the sound of his bones splintering.

Just then, another assassin lunged fiercely from behind, seemingly seizing the moment Chen Yi delivered his punch, attempting a single fatal blow. Yet as if Chen Yi had eyes on the back of his head, he twisted his waist and spun, slashing with his blade. The assassin's arm was severed mid-air, his screams piercing and sharp. Before he even hit the ground, a blood-coated blade shadow greeted him head-on.

Splat.

The assassin's body collapsed forward as it hit the ground; his head followed suit.

His head was still tethered to his body by strips of skin—it was uncertain which hit the ground first.

Chen Yi flipped his wrist, casually shaking off the blood from his blade before turning to face Zhao Yan and Tang Ze.

Those three assassins were merely appetizers; these two would be the main course. As for Qin Tu… the self-proclaimed officer who claimed to have fought with him was cowering in the corner—nobody even bothered with him.

Zhao Yan, witnessing the flair of those moves, squinted tightly, his wrinkles knitting together. He couldn't help thinking that if they had struck back at the banquet, their chances of success might have been higher.

But thinking about it was futile—blood had been spilled, and blades were already unsheathed.

Zhao Yan's gaze grew somber, his mind echoing with every strike as he pondered flaws only a true master could perceive. At that moment, Chen Yi raised his blade and moved toward them. Blood droplets slid from the blade's tip as he flicked it upward.

As if silently uttering a single word,

"Come!"

Zhao Yan's expression instantly turned dark and venomous. His fingertips swirled some poisonous liquid, which he smeared across the blade of his knife.

He glanced at Tang Ze and said:

"This brat thinks too highly of himself. Kill him, and you and I can still kill Wei Wuque."

Tang Ze's face shifted between gloom and clarity:

"Alright."

Recalling the arrogant swagger of Wei Wuque as a government officer earlier, Zhao Yan spat viciously:

"That bastard Wei Wuque!"

These words bypassed Chen Yi—it was a toast to embolden their spirits, for in Zhao Yan's eyes, Chen Yi was already a dead man.

Two against one—fifth-ranked against fourth-ranked—one wielding the blade as a fourth-rank Martial Artist, his life was already hanging by a thread over death's gate.

Tang Ze gripped his sword, taking a step forward—not in a straightforward trajectory, but through intricate footwork, his figure undergoing repeated transformations. The first few steps were slow enough to catch with the naked eye, but by the fourth and fifth steps, only the sound of wind rushing past could be heard!

Absolute Cloud Tread!

The towering peaks of Kunlun Mountain are perilously steep, meandering in snake-like shapes, with clusters of winter plum trees standing resolute atop the highest peaks. To enjoy their blossoms is akin to Rocky Mountain deer climbing jagged rocks and penetrating clouds. Hence, the technique earned the name Absolute Cloud Tread—a Kunlun sect legacy.

Within six or seven steps, Tang Ze appeared before Chen Yi. Sword Intent surged forth, the relentless Sword Qi slicing his robes. Tang Ze seemed to have emerged from a sea of clouds as he thrust his blade forward.

Chen Yi didn't respond by cutting straight away; instead, he probed with his blade, flipping his wrist to forcefully lift the blade tip against the sword's body. Tang Ze instantly took another step, arriving at Chen Yi's flank, his arm twisting suddenly to exert force—a horizontal slash aimed at decapitation!

Having seen through the feint of the first strike, Chen Yi murmured inwardly, "A bluff indeed," thus opting for an upward lift rather than an open-cut response. But now, facing this horizontally sweeping sword, Chen Yi twisted his body, allowing his blade to follow the movement like an earth-dragon flipping over. The blade tore out, strings of energy rising—the winds suddenly stilled—the blade momentum was ferocious and violent.

Tang Ze took yet another step, his form vanishing again. The thin line from Chen Yi's blade extended to a thick wall and sliced cleanly through it as if cutting paper. Initially, the cut was smooth, but the subsequent Sword Gang's wind force roiled and rendered the edges jagged. Dust exploded outward, the crack resembling a wide-open mouth emitting eerie whistles.

Chen Yi sought the patterns in Tang Ze's footwork, instinctively slashing leftward.

Guessed wrong.

Like a plum deer leaping leftward, only to use the left push to spring to the right, landing atop a solitary rock.

Tang Ze emerged from his right rear, thrusting a sword without flourish.

The sword charged like a dragon, aiming to pierce through his chest directly. Even if Chen Yi reacted in time to dodge sideways, it would still crush his right shoulder holding the blade.

In Zhao Yan's eyes, a glimmer flashed—his horizontal knife unconsciously dropped by several inches.

But within a single breath, Tang Ze's pupils shrank drastically.

Chen Yi's left-hand fingertips clutched a wad of paper, tossing it outward. As the wind caught it, it expanded mid-air into a giant shield, dense as refined steel. The razor-sharp three-foot Sword Gang collided with it, the clash sounding thunder-like. The mighty shield shattered into countless fluttering paper scraps, but Tang Ze's blade was slowed by several fractions.

A look of shock surfaced on Tang Ze's face, as if silently asking:

You bastard—do you know Taoist Skills?!

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