Republic of China Era: Entering the Dao through Divine Strike.

“That’s good, you can’t take it.” Wang Wu slowly raised the tip of his blade, pointing it at the thin line on Zhou Cang’s right arm. “I’ve been slashing for thirty years… specializing in slashing those who can’t take it. Before each strike, I know whether you’ll dodge.”

Zhou Cang: "...What makes you know?"

"Because I was just like you thirty years ago...thinking I could handle it."

Zhou Cang fell silent. He looked down at the thin line on his right arm, still oozing blood, then looked up and said, "Master Wang, there won't be a fifth cut."

"……Why?"

“Because…” Zhou Cang’s gaze suddenly shifted from Wang Wu, looking over his shoulder towards what was behind him. “Sun Jiuzhen, aren’t you coming out?”

Wang Wu's pupils contracted sharply. He heard a very faint whooshing sound behind him... Five azure silver needles had already flown to within three inches of the back of his neck.

He turned to parry with his sword, and three arrows clattered against him. The fourth arrow grazed his shoulder, and the fifth arrow lodged in the gap of his left scapula.

The moment the needle pierced the flesh, a burning sensation that was both numb and itchy exploded from the wound, and my left arm instantly lost most of its sensation.

Wang Wu grunted, and the hilt of the knife slipped half an inch from his hand, but he managed to hold it tightly with his right hand to prevent it from falling.

“Master Wang.” Sun Jiuzhen silently emerged from the crowd, thin as bamboo, his ten fingers nearly half the length of an average person's, silver needles dripping azure venom from under his fingernails. “A knife that’s too fast isn’t good either…so fast that you forget what’s behind you.”

Wang Wu gritted his teeth and pulled the silver needle out of his left shoulder blade, the needle tip pulling out a clump of blackened flesh.

He tossed the poisoned needle to the ground, and the tip corroded a thumb-sized black crater in the cobblestone. "A sneak attack is considered skill?"

“Yes.” Sun Jiuzhen smiled silently. “Only the living have the right to count.”

Wang Wu held his sword horizontally in front of him. He couldn't lift his left arm anymore, and blood from the split wound on his right arm was flowing down the hilt of the sword.

Zhou Cang and Sun Jiuzhen sandwiched him between them, one in front and one behind.

"Get out of the way."

Wang Wu suddenly spoke, his voice not loud, but Zhou Cang paused for a moment.

"Get out of my way..." Wang Wu looked at Zhou Cang, slowly raising his blade. "I still have my fifth strike to make. Get out of my way, I'll only make one more."

Zhou Cang was silent for a moment. Then he moved half a step to the side... not to move aside, but to face Wang Wu directly.

But it was this half-step that allowed Wang Wu to see the gap exposed on Sun Jiuzhen's flank.

He suddenly moved, not towards Zhou Cang... The blade drew an arc in the air, slashing back towards the shadow where Sun Jiuzhen was hiding.

Sun Jiuzhen's expression changed. He hadn't expected that Wang Wu, with his left arm crippled and his hand split open, would still have the strength to change his moves.

Four silver needles shot out simultaneously, three of which were deflected by the blade, while the fourth embedded itself in the back of the blade. The blade continued its momentum, sweeping across Sun Jiuzhen's sleeve and tearing a gash in it.

Several silver needles scattered out and fell to the ground with a clattering sound.

Sun Jiuzhen retreated five steps, his face ashen.

“I already said it,” Wang Wu gasped for breath, the tip of his blade pointing towards the ground, blood dripping from his hand onto the bluestone slab. “There’s a fifth strike. Get out of the way, that blade will cut him.”

He looked at Zhou Cang, grinned, blood smeared on his teeth, and said, "You wouldn't let... that knife cut you."

Zhou Cang didn't answer. He glanced at the gash on Sun Jiuzhen's sleeve, cut by the blade...

If that cut were three inches off, it would have cut open Sun Jiuzhen's wrist.

"Master Wang," Zhou Cang said after a long silence, "your left arm is ruined."

“I know.”

"You still have the strength for a fifth strike?"

"Don't move..." Wang Wu tightened his grip on the knife. "Try it."

"That's enough."

A voice came from the attic, not loud, but it drowned out the noise of the entire long street.

Chu Huan stood behind the railing, overlooking the stalemate in the middle of the street, his face expressionless: "Zhou Cang retreat. Sun Jiuzhen retreat. Let them charge. Wear them down..."

He paused, his gaze falling on Wang Wu's still-bleeding left hand. "Wang Wu, your knife is sharp, but you don't have enough men. Look around you."

Wang Wu turned around. Old Master Zhao was cornered on the edge of the roof by a group of crossbowmen. His right arm hung limply at his sides, and his left hand was still flicking iron balls, but his accuracy was not as good as before.

An arrow from a crossbowman whizzed past his ear; he tilted his head to dodge, but his foot slipped…

In the instant he lost his balance, a silver needle shot up from below, piercing through his right elbow joint.

The needle tip emerged from behind the elbow, bringing with it a drop of dark red blood.

The old boxer groaned, and his right arm instantly lost sensation, hanging limply at his sides.

He didn't cry out in pain. He glanced down at the injection site and said, "This poison... is specifically for treating arms."

The apprentice rushed forward to help him up: "Master!"

"Don't panic." Master Zhao grabbed the corner of the eaves with his left hand to steady himself, then threw three iron balls at the faces of the three crossbowmen. He then flipped off the roof and was caught by his two disciples, who leaned him against the wall.

My right arm was swollen and black, and bright green pus was oozing from the injection site.

He glanced at his apprentice sideways: "Who are you trying to fool with that long face? Hand over the iron dagger; you can still flick it with your left hand."

"But you..."

"But what? I'm sixty-three years old. I should be crying when both my hands are useless. Now I only have one hand... consider it a win."

Black Tower was entangled by two guards at the right alley entrance, and the force of his ghost-head slash was noticeably slower.

Before he could even catch his breath, Zhou Cang punched him in the chest... three crisp cracking sounds.

"Black Tower!" Zhou Dashan's gun was bound by three iron chains, the ash wood shaft bearing deep white marks. He desperately pulled back, the blood on the tip of the gun splattering onto the bluestone slab in an arc.

"Don't... don't worry about me!" Black Tower was sent flying backward, his back hitting a sandbag.

A metallic taste rose in his throat, which he swallowed hard, but a trickle of blood still escaped from the corner of his mouth.

He glanced down at the sunken patch on his chest, grinned, and his gold-plated front teeth were covered in blood: "Zhou Dashan... I haven't saved enough money for drinks yet! You... don't try to renege on your debt!"

Zhou Dashan swept his spear across, severing three iron chains. Just as the spear tip pierced the shoulder of one of the guards, a third guard rushed up from the flank and pierced his thigh with a spear.

Zhou Dashan did not kneel...

He bent one knee, then straightened it again. He looked down at the spearhead protruding from his thigh, touched the blood on it, then looked up at the guard and said, word by word, "Your spear... didn't go in deep enough."

Then he gripped the spear shaft with one hand and pulled it out of his own flesh.

Blood splattered all over the ground. He stood in the pool of blood, leaning on half a gun barrel, his teeth clenched so tightly that they cracked. Blood seeped from between his fingers as his legs bent. His knees bent for a moment, then straightened again.

"Zhou Dashan!" Wang Wu's roar came from the center of the street.

"Still...still standing!" Zhou Dashan's voice was squeezed out through clenched teeth. "As long as this gun hasn't fallen, I haven't fallen!"

Wang Wu watched all of this. It felt as if a piece of red-hot iron had been stuffed into his chest.

He roared... The sound was not human; it was squeezed out from the deepest part of his throat, rough, hoarse, and desperate.

He charged forward with his sword raised, the blade aimed straight at the crack on Zhou Cang's right arm, and finally unleashed his fifth strike.

Zhou Cang did not retreat.

He blocked with his right arm, and the crack burst open on its own before the blade struck... It wasn't cut open; Zhou Cang withdrew his inner energy.

The skin and flesh were torn open, revealing bright red tendons underneath. The blade cut in half an inch, and blood splattered out, covering Wang Wu's face.

Zhou Cang grunted and simultaneously threw out his left fist, slamming it into Wang Wudao's body.

Wang Wu was forced back three steps, knife and all, and knelt on one knee. The large knife he had been sharpening all night finally flew out of his hand and landed with a clatter a few steps away.

“…The fifth cut.” Zhou Cang looked down at the half-inch-deep gash on his right arm, blood trickling down his iron-gray arm and dripping onto the bluestone slab. “Master Wang, I’ve got it.”

Wang Wu knelt on the street, his hands supporting him on the bluestone slabs, blood dripping from his tiger's mouth and pooling in the cracks between the slabs.

My left arm was completely unable to be lifted, and my right arm was shaking like a leaf.

He looked up at the cut on Zhou Cang's arm, grinned, and his teeth were full of blood: "Remember that. Next time... I'll cut off my left hand."

Zhou Cang remained silent for a long time. Then he took a step back, relinquishing the main battlefield...

Behind him, Mingxin had already emerged from the street corner with four gray-robed monks.

With each step, the frost within three feet of the ground melts away, revealing the cracked bluestone slabs beneath.

Snow fell in May.

The first snowflake landed on Wang Wu's knife, and a thin layer of ice instantly formed on the blade.

The second, the third... countless snowflakes drifted down from the clear sky, landing on pools of blood, on blades, on fallen corpses. The snowflakes touched the blood, and the blood froze.

The entire Caishikou Street plummeted from sweltering heat to freezing winter in the blink of an eye.

The idle man who was eating sunflower seeds scattered them all over the ground.

He stared, mouth agape, at the falling snow, then at the blinding sun overhead. His lips trembled for a long time before he managed to stammer, "My...my mother..."

The middle-aged man next to him was kneeling on the ground, his forehead pressed against the bluestone slab, his whole body trembling.

"Gods, immortals have descended to earth..."

Someone shouted, and then countless people knelt down.

Some people started to back away, but their retreat was blocked by the people behind them, and they cried out in desperation.

A mother, clutching her child, desperately tried to squeeze through the crowd, causing the child to cry loudly, "Mommy! Mommy, I'm scared!"

"Don't be afraid, don't be afraid..."

"That monk! Look at that monk!"

Four gray-robed monks spread out in a triangular formation, enveloping the entire long street in their array.

The last monk walked behind, with a handsome face and a bright red cinnabar dot between his eyebrows, looking no more than twenty years old.

He was twirling a string of glossy black Bodhi seed prayer beads in his hand. The surface of the beads was polished smooth as a mirror, and extremely fine Sanskrit characters were engraved on the beads. They would light up once with each turn.

Mingxin. He travels the world through the Ling Shan Temple in the Great Snow Mountain and is twenty-six years old this year.

His uncle, the old monk Wuchang, said in the courtyard that this was a "once-in-a-century" event, and he believed it for ten years.

It wasn't until the day before yesterday, when his martial uncle sent him a letter, that he gleaned something from between the lines that had kept him awake all night...

…My uncle only wrote three lines: “Caishikou, Wang Wu, you go.”

He didn't write "be careful" or "come back alive".

Where Mingxin walked, the blood on the stone slabs separated on its own, as if an invisible hand had parted them in the middle.

Wang Wu propped himself up on his knees to stand up.

The knife was still a few steps away, its blade covered with a thick layer of ice.

He glanced back at his daughter kneeling in the pool of blood, then turned to look at Mingxin.

"If a monk isn't chanting scriptures in the temple..." Wang Wu's voice was hoarse, each word sounding like it was scraped from his lungs, "he's going to the execution ground to kill someone, no matter what Buddhist teachings he's chanting... it's all fake."

Mingxin stopped in front of Wang Wu. He didn't speak first, but looked down at Wang Wu's chipped knife.

Then he raised his eyes, which had no pupils, only two very faint golden halos that slowly swirled within them.

"Your knife has already killed many people. But I heard from my uncle on the mountain that... this knife of yours didn't used to kill people."

"You used to work as a镖师 (bodyguard/escort), and the knife was used to intimidate people. Later, when that stopped being effective at intimidating, you started using it to kill."

Wang Wu paused for a moment, then laughed: "You monk, you even know that I didn't used to kill people. Do you know why I do now?"

"Because you've discovered that a knife that can't frighten people is less useful than a knife that can actually cut them."

“Wrong.” Wang Wu stared into Mingxin’s eyes. “Because I’ve discovered that a knife that cuts people hurts more than a knife that scares them.”

The rosary in Mingxin's hand suddenly stopped. The beads paused between his fingers, and the light of the Sanskrit inscription dimmed for a moment at the last instant.

He paused for a moment, then started turning around again, his voice a fraction lower than before.

"This humble monk has not come today to kill."

"What are they here for?"

“Saving people.” Mingxin’s voice was not loud, but every word was clear and distinct. “This humble monk has saved Brother Jinzhong and Brother Yinping. They both died at the hands of that benefactor named Li Xin…”

If I hadn't come today, the Impermanence Monastery would have sent someone else another day. I'm young, so I can walk faster and save on travel expenses.

"You know your martial uncle is testing you?"

“I know. Before I came, I read through all the records about the Golden Flame of the Burning Sea in the Sutra Repository of Lingshan Temple.”

First time I looked it up, nothing. Second time I looked it up, still nothing. Third time…