The Little Demonic Cultivator in the Courtyard: Borrowing 100,000 Japanese Pirates to Heal

The impact of Yamamoto's death was greater than Xu Jiande had anticipated.

A lieutenant colonel had his head smashed with a stone in a narrow alley behind the military police headquarters. More than thirty Japanese soldiers and snipers were lying in ambush around him, and twenty mortars were on standby.

As a result, the assassin not only killed his target, but also killed more than twenty people in return, and finally escaped unscathed amidst the artillery fire.

When the message reached the command center, Sasaki Maki smashed the teacup on the table to the ground.

Porcelain shards littered the floor, and tea spilled onto the trousers of the officer next to him; no one dared to bend down and wipe it up.

What angered him even more was not Yamamoto's death, but that the assassin had escaped.

More than 30 people, 20 mortars, and a pre-arranged ambush, but the enemy came and went as if they were strolling through a vegetable market.

What does this show? It shows that the Imperial Army couldn't even catch a single assassin in its occupied territories.

If this gets back to the military headquarters, where will he, a major general, put his face?

Of course, this also confirms once again that their current skill level is exceptionally high, necessitating the dispatch of elite troops.

The ordinary Imperial Army was no match for the enemy.

Meanwhile, the shelling of the residential area was also reported.

Sasaki glanced at the report and tossed it aside. The bombing had killed and injured some civilians; it wasn't a big deal.

There are plenty of people in Daxia; the death of a few won't affect the overall situation.

He wrote four words on the report: Continue the investigation.

He even decided to add fuel to the fire.

Yamamoto is dead, so let someone else take his place. Not only should executions continue, but they should be intensified so that the whole city knows the price of killing an Imperial Army officer.

That afternoon, another group of people were executed at Caishikou, twice the usual number. An interpreter, holding a tin megaphone, shouted in the square, saying this was the consequence of resisting the Imperial Army.

When the news reached Xu Jiande's ears, he had just returned to the courtyard house.

Bai Ling brought him a bowl of cornmeal porridge, but he only took two sips before putting it down. It wasn't that he wasn't hungry; it was just that there was something stuck in his chest that he couldn't swallow.

The images of the bombed-out houses and the people buried under the rubble kept replaying in his mind.

And then there were the ordinary people at Caishikou who were arrested and publicly executed. They were complete strangers to him, but they died because of him. Regardless of whether the cannons were fired by the Japanese or the executions were carried out by the Japanese.

The Japanese devils held them accountable, but he could only keep it to himself.

"It's frustrating," Xu Jiande said to himself.

The most taboo thing for a demonic cultivator is feeling stifled. Feeling stifled will breed inner demons, and inner demons will turn around and devour their master. Before, at the execution ground, he was forced to kill that young resister with his own hands, which caused his demonic energy to go berserk, and he almost lost control on the spot.

This feeling of frustration is deeper, heavier, and more suffocating than before.

For the next three days, Xu Jiande was like a machine that had been wound up tightly.

Every night after midnight, he would climb over the wall and go out, returning around three or four in the morning. When he came back, he was covered in blood and sweat, and the smell of blood on his clothes was so strong that Bai Ling could smell it in the bedroom.

He no longer targeted traitors, but only Japanese soldiers. Not ordinary soldiers on guard duty, but patrol teams, officers' quarters, and supply depots. He specifically chose to attack those forces that were armed, well-prepared, and organized.

This is a head-on collision, with no fancy tricks.

On the first night, he wiped out two mobile patrol teams. Each team had three men, for a total of six Japanese soldiers.

He used a bayonet, not resentment energy; resentment energy was too slow. He needed to be fast. The bayonet pierced his lower back and pulled out, pierced his throat and pulled out, pierced his heart and pulled out.

Every strike was fatal, every strike drew blood.

The following night, he attacked a supply depot, throwing three grenades that destroyed a truck loaded with ammunition. The explosions carried for miles in the dead of night, and the flames illuminated half the sky.

In the chaos, he touched two more Japanese soldiers, both officers who had been drawn by the explosion to check the situation.

On the third night, he scaled the wall and entered the Japanese barracks.

This was a makeshift military camp in the north of the city, guarded by only a small squad. He crept in under the cover of darkness, killing five men with his bayonet, and then used a grenade to blow up the machine gun emplacement at the entrance of the barracks during his retreat.

After the battle, he squatted in the alley, looked down at his hands covered in blood, and let out a long sigh.

The frustration is still there, but at least it's lessened a bit.

In three days, he killed more than fifty Japanese soldiers. Adding to the previous total, the number of Japanese soldiers who died at his hands has exceeded five hundred.

The demonic energy in his dantian was more condensed than before, and the dark red core at the center of the vortex had grown from the size of a grain of rice to the size of a broad bean. Every time he circulated his energy, he could feel his meridians being stretched and slightly swollen.

The foundation of the three-layered Qi Refining is now completely solid.

But to reach the fourth stage of Qi Refining, another five hundred Japanese soldiers need to be killed.

These three consecutive nights of intensive attacks put the Japanese troops in the entire Upper City on high alert.

The number of patrol members doubled, and the sentry posts changed from two people to four people. Flashlights were everywhere at night, and the sound of leather boots echoed from morning till night.

But the effect was not obvious; those who were destined to die still died, and those who were destined to be bombed still suffered.

The Japanese soldiers at the rank and file began to complain privately that the assassin was impossible to catch and that the higher-ups only knew how to send their men to their deaths.

At the same time, the continuous gunfire and explosions made the people of Beijing realize that there were still people resisting.

In this dead city, completely sealed off by the Japanese invaders, in the darkness where everyone was swallowing their anger and living their lives in silence, there were still people who dared to confront the Japanese head-on.

And it wasn't just once or twice, it was a continuous, uninterrupted attack.

Someone in the darkness strained to hear the distant gunshots, silently counting how many blasts were fired.

Someone opened a window a crack and looked at the night sky, which was reddened by the explosion, seemingly lost in thought.

Strangely, some people regarded these attackers as heroes, secretly hoping that they would kill more Japanese soldiers and take the city back from the clutches of the Japanese.

Some people wished they would die quickly, because the Japanese would retaliate after each attack.

The target of the revenge was not the attackers, but ordinary people.

The next morning, as Xu Jiande continued his patrol, he heard two different voices on the street.

A middle-aged man squatted against the wall and whispered to the person next to him that there was another explosion last night that hit a truck and killed several Japanese soldiers.

His tone carried a suppressed excitement. When someone next to him asked who did it, he replied, "Who else could it be? Those guys, of course." As he said "those guys," he gave a thumbs-up, waved it, and then quickly pulled his hand back into his pocket.

As soon as Xu Jiande turned into another alley, he heard a completely different sound.

A woman stood by the roadside holding a child whose face was covered in soot and whose clothes had several holes, clearly affected by the explosion the previous night.

The woman slapped the child's face while cursing, saying, "You damned resistance fighters, what are you doing fighting in the middle of the night? You've shaken the house down! You're playing the hero, but we're suffering because of you!"

After scolding, he squatted down, hugged the child, and cried, keeping his voice low so as not to be heard by the passing patrol team.

Xu Jiande paused briefly as he walked past her, but without turning around or explaining, he continued walking.

The main problem is that it's inexplicable.

He couldn't stop to tell her that before each attack he would deliberately lure the Japanese soldiers away from residential areas, but bullets don't have eyes, explosions don't have eyes, and war doesn't have eyes.

He couldn't possibly tell her that the reason he killed so many Japanese soldiers was to frighten them and prevent them from indiscriminately slaughtering civilians.

Faced with this situation, Xu Jiande had no choice but to continue his killing spree.

Lou Bancheng, on the other hand, was preparing to contact Xu Jiande.