CHAPTER 8

  Rain began to fall.

  Wind surged in rolling gusts.

  Bamboo leaves scattered and dropped.

  Yang Feng tightened his grip on the sword hilt.

  His breathing was heavy.

  His shoulder trembled slightly.

  He knew.

  One beat too slow…

  and he would die.

  A sharp whoosh tore through the air.

  The demonic cultivator’s figure burst out from the black mist.

  So fast the naked eye could barely follow.

  His clawed hand swept sideways.

  A blurred line cut across the air.

  Yang Feng twisted to dodge.

  Not completely in time.

  A stream of icy force grazed his shoulder.

  His entire arm went numb.

  The sword nearly slipped from his grasp.

  He gritted his teeth.

  Retreated two steps.

  The demonic cultivator gave him no time.

  The left palm was already pressing in.

  One strike.

  No explosion.

  No light.

  Only a sinister surge of Spiritual Power slamming straight into his chest.

  Yang Feng’s body was flung backward.

  His back crashed against a bamboo trunk.

  Breath jammed in his throat.

  The world spun.

  His ears rang.

  His chest burned as if crushed beneath a boulder.

  He forced himself to inhale.

  Air entered… but little.

  Very little.

  The demonic cultivator walked forward.

  Slow.

  But each step seemed to compress the air.

  “Weak.”

  His voice was hoarse.

  “Very weak.”

  Yang Feng planted the sword into the ground and forced himself up.

  His mind reeled.

  His legs were soft.

  But he stood.

  Did not retreat further.

  The demonic cultivator swung again.

  A stream of black-gray force shot out.

  Yang Feng ground his teeth, twisted, raised his blade to block.

  Spiritual Power collided with steel.

  Boom!

  His entire arm went numb.

  Muscles spasmed.

  He was shoved back several steps, nearly falling.

  Rain lashed against his face.

  Icy cold.

  But it cleared his head a little.

  The demonic cultivator laughed.

  “You can block.”

  “But useless.”

  He vanished from sight.

  Yang Feng’s eyes widened.

  His heart pounded wildly.

  “Left—”

  Before he could turn, a shadow was already upon him.

  A sweeping strike.

  Yang Feng raised his sword on instinct.

  The impact was so heavy he slid across the wet ground.

  His knee smashed into mud.

  Air burst from his lungs.

  He coughed.

  Each breath hurt.

  The demonic cultivator stood a few steps away.

  Looking at him like a toy about to break.

  “First time in combat?”

  His voice carried mockery.

  Yang Feng wiped rain from his face.

  Did not answer.

  He stood.

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  Slowly.

  With difficulty.

  But stood.

  The demonic cultivator curled his lips.

  “Good.”

  He vanished again.

  Not truly vanished.

  Just too fast for sight to track.

  Rain fell harder.

  Yang Feng did not turn.

  He closed his eyes.

  One beat.

  Wind.

  Rain.

  Water striking mud.

  And…

  A gap.

  On the right.

  He did not think.

  His foot stamped into the wet ground.

  His body twisted sideways.

  Whoosh!

  A palm strike tore through the place he had just stood.

  The air dented inward.

  The bamboo behind him snapped with sharp cracks.

  Yang Feng had not yet regained balance.

  The demonic cultivator was already before him.

  Too close.

  A withered hand shot toward his throat.

  He did not retreat.

  Had no time.

  The sword snapped upward from below.

  Not to cut.

  But to block.

  Clack!

  The demonic cultivator’s fingers clamped onto the spine of the blade.

  Terrifying force squeezed down.

  The steel shrieked.

  The demonic cultivator smiled faintly.

  “Slow.”

  His wrist twisted.

  A torque ran through the blade.

  Yang Feng’s wrist wrenched sideways.

  A sharp stab of pain.

  The sword slipped from his hand.

  Fell into the mud.

  In that instant…

  Yang Feng did not bend to retrieve it.

  He kicked straight into the demonic cultivator’s knee.

  With everything he had.

  No elegance.

  No technique.

  Pure instinct.

  Thud!

  The demonic cultivator stepped back half a pace.

  Only half.

  But enough.

  Yang Feng lunged forward.

  Left hand grabbed mud.

  Flung it into the opponent’s face.

  Rain mixed with soil.

  Splashed wide.

  The demonic cultivator tilted his head.

  But did not avoid it entirely.

  One beat slow.

  Only one.

  Yang Feng dove down.

  Rolled.

  Seized the hilt.

  Pulled up.

  A horizontal cut.

  Low.

  Aimed at the leg.

  Shhk!

  This time the black mist did not gather fast enough.

  The blade sliced across the hem of the demonic cultivator’s robe.

  A thin, long line.

  Blood seeped out, faintly.

  Not much.

  But still a wound.

  The demonic cultivator looked down.

  Silent.

  Then…

  He laughed.

  Not loud.

  Just a rasping sound.

  “I see.”

  Black-gray Spiritual Power erupted stronger.

  The ground around him cracked.

  Rain striking the dark aura turned to vapor.

  Yang Feng stepped back.

  Breathing ragged.

  His right arm nearly useless.

  His chest stabbed with pain at each inhale.

  But he had cut him.

  Not because he was stronger.

  Because of timing.

  The demonic cultivator stepped forward.

  No more testing.

  He raised a hand.

  Spiritual Power condensed into a thin black blade of force.

  Sharp.

  Cold.

  “You think… that is enough?”

  He slashed horizontally.

  Yang Feng did not block.

  Could not.

  He twisted aside.

  The blade of force tore open his left shoulder.

  Blood sprayed into the rain.

  Burning.

  Scalding.

  Then freezing.

  His foot slipped in mud.

  He dropped to one knee.

  The demonic cultivator appeared directly before him.

  A hand descending toward his head.

  Less than half a meter away.

  Yang Feng saw every crack in that gray, lifeless skin.

  The stench of death struck his nose.

  He could not raise his sword.

  Could not retreat.

  Only shift.

  whoosh...

  The hand brushed past the crown of his head, but the palm force, half an inch off, still struck his left shoulder.

  A muffled grunt tore from his throat.

  His shoulder exploded as if smashed by an iron hammer.

  The scapula cracked with sharp snaps.

  His entire arm went limp.

  Pain.

  Numbness.

  Then burning heat.

  But Yang Feng did not resist the force.

  He followed it.

  His body tilted along the arc of the palm.

  Feet sliding in mud.

  All momentum tipping forward.

  The distance collapsed instantly.

  Before the demonic cultivator’s arm had fully withdrawn…

  Yang Feng drew his sword.

  Not a cut.

  A thrust.

  No hesitation.

  Thud.

  The blade pierced into the demonic cultivator’s flank.

  Not deep.

  But it struck.

  Black blood burst out, hot and thick, mixing with cold rain.

  The demonic cultivator stalled for one beat.

  Yang Feng sprang backward, left arm hanging useless, nearly senseless.

  The demonic cultivator’s hand swept across reflexively.

  Boom!

  The compressed Spiritual Power slammed into the ground where he had stood, crushing it into a deep crater.

  Yang Feng was blasted backward… collapsing into mud.

  He gasped for breath.

  Left shoulder nearly shattered.

  Right wrist dislocated.

  Chest crushed with pain.

  The sword flew from his hand, stabbing into the earth at a distance.

  For the first time, something different appeared in the demonic cultivator’s gray eyes.

  Not anger.

  But…

  Interest.

  “You…”

  He spoke slowly.

  “Are not like the other prey.”

  Yang Feng rolled over.

  Pushed himself up.

  Did not answer.

  He knew.

  He could not win.

  Not now.

  But he also knew something else.

  The demonic cultivator no longer saw him entirely as trash.

  That alone was enough.

  He clenched his teeth.

  Dragged himself toward the sword.

  The demonic cultivator did not stop him.

  Only watched.

  “You…”

  He said.

  “In my eyes… are no different from,”

  “A toy.”

  Yang Feng grasped the hilt.

  Shaking, stood up.

  Unsteady…

  He looked straight at him.

  His voice hoarse.

  “Right…!”

  “But I am a toy…”

  He coughed blood.

  “That bites back…!”

  The demonic cultivator laughed.

  Spiritual Power around him surged higher.

  The air grew colder.

  Rain split apart upon touching his aura.

  “Then…”

  He lifted his hand.

  “Let see how long you last.”

  Yang Feng lowered his center of gravity.

  This time he did not wait.

  He lunged first.

  Not to win.

  But to seize the rhythm.

  Seize his breath.

  Seize the right to live one more moment.