Chapter Seventy-Two: Reinforcements Have Arrived

After hearing the butler’s words, Qin Yang immediately felt a pang of regret. He hadn’t expected the undead, animated by a hundred and fifty soul points, to be so feeble—what a waste. His store of soul points was already meager, and this time he’d even had to draw upon the spiritual power stored in his jade pendant. He cursed himself for not heeding the butler’s advice, but all his frustration was now focused squarely on his foes, especially when he realized the ring on one man’s finger was a spiritual treasure. He made up his mind to seize it.

With a thought, the remaining fourteen undead rose into the air, emitting a succession of eerie, inhuman wails. Cody, too, seemed to realize these specters weren’t as terrifying as he’d imagined and steadied himself, shouting, “Your tricks are useless! Come out and face your death!”

“Looking for death,” Qin Yang sneered. At the same time, one of the ghosts dove downward—not toward Cody, but another man. The target lashed out, aiming to strike, but was startled to find his fist passed harmlessly through the ghost’s insubstantial form; unlike before, these entities didn’t vanish upon contact. Instead, when the ghost brushed his arm, a chill like ice penetrated his very bones.

“Damn it! What the hell are these things?” the man cried out, stumbling back in fear. Four more ghosts descended, harrying the others relentlessly. Cody himself was busy fending off two ghosts that flitted back and forth around him, too distracted to notice that the ring on his finger could actually harm these undead.

Hidden in the shadows, Qin Yang watched their renewed panic with a sinister grin, drawing a crossbow. He had commissioned it specially from Huang Zequn, whose uncle was a high-ranking official in the southeastern provincial police department. Under the pretense of going hunting, it hadn’t been hard to obtain a powerful crossbow. It was jet black, as if handmade, patterned after a pistol’s grip, with a bowstring of first-rate ox tendon. But the true menace lay in the bolts: half a foot long, with triple-edged points, three blood grooves, and several cruel barbs—lethal and excruciating wherever they struck.

Qin Yang took aim but realized the distance was too far, and his marksmanship left much to be desired. He reluctantly crept forward ten more meters, hiding behind a gravestone. He sent his ghosts darting about wildly, herding his opponents together. No matter how poor his aim, with them clustered like this, he couldn’t possibly miss.

With a hum, a short bolt whistled through the air. Cody shivered instinctively and leapt sideways just as a cold gleam flashed past his chest. A split second later, a scream of agony erupted from one of his men. Glancing over, Cody saw a black bolt quivering in the man’s right chest. Blood gushed ceaselessly from the grooves in the shaft. Fortunately, the bolt had missed the heart, but without timely aid, the man was surely doomed.

“Damn it!” Cody swore, drawing his pistol and firing round after round toward where the bolt had come from, the sharp reports echoing through the night.

But three or four more ghosts drifted over. In a rage, Cody lashed out with his fist; the ghost he struck vanished instantly. Again, confusion welled within him—what was going on?

“You’d best withdraw the ghosts now,” the butler’s voice suddenly sounded in Qin Yang’s ear. “Blame it on imaging equipment if you can, but if they realize the truth and you fail to wipe them out, word will reach Heaven’s agents. With your pitiful strength, you’d be crushed without mercy.”

Qin Yang was startled. Indeed, he wasn’t confident he could kill them all. If even one survived to recount tonight’s supernatural events, Heaven would surely take notice, and trouble would follow. Thinking quickly, he pulled out his phone and tossed it out. The men recoiled, thinking it another weapon, and hurriedly dove for cover. But all that erupted was a blaring, headache-inducing pop song from the cheap phone’s speaker.

The absurdity of it all left Cody and his men fuming, veins bulging with frustration. Watching the last of the strange ghosts fade away, they felt all the more humiliated—this was mockery, plain and simple.

“Find cover! Suppressive fire!” Cody barked. Aside from the wounded man tending to himself, the others quickly found concealment and unleashed a barrage toward the gravestone where Qin Yang had been hiding. After the thunder of gunfire, the gravestone toppled—only to reveal a stick propping up a clown mask, its wide grin twisted in mocking laughter.

“Bastard! Damn bastard!” Cody and the others were on the verge of exploding with rage—was this guy just here to taunt them?

But just then, a gunshot rang out behind them. Instinctively they ducked, yet another of their number cried out and collapsed. The remaining four, Cody included, spun to retaliate, only for Qin Yang to dart from a dark corner, loose another arrow, and melt away into the night.

“Damn it!” Three of their group had already been wounded without even getting a glimpse of their assailant—two by treacherous arrows, and the third worst of all. Though only shot in the wrist, the bullet’s force had pulverized his entire right hand, leaving a bloody, mangled mess.

Movies always made gunshot wounds look mild, but in reality, the damage was far worse, almost unbelievable to anyone who’d witnessed it firsthand. Modern firearms, even those designed for speed over stopping power, could blow bowl-sized holes in a person. Bullets spun at high velocity as they left the barrel, shredding flesh and bone as they entered. A wound might look small at the entry point, but the exit was always gaping. The notion that someone could take a bullet to the limb and still run around as if nothing had happened was laughable—usually, a hit to the thigh meant amputation, or worse, a leg blown off on the spot, the flesh barely holding together. An AK-47 round could easily obliterate a man’s leg. As for shots to the chest, surviving with the heart intact was pure fantasy; any hit to the left chest would reduce the heart to pulp. A bullet to the wrist invariably meant a hand destroyed beyond saving.

“Who is that guy?” Through his spirit-seeing eyes, Qin Yang could clearly make out a man hiding behind one of the gravestones, gun at the ready to ambush his foes.