Chapter 35: Third Brother’s Head (Revised)

Ling Chi was secretly delighted; this technique seemed tailor-made for someone like him, who favored assassination and infiltration.

He took some time to swipe a mask from the street and prepared a few tools.

As midnight approached, Ling Chi left the county town, heading straight for Greenridge Mountain, the stronghold of the Lianshan Bandits.

The Greenridge Stronghold was not large, housing only a hundred or two at most. Though the Lianshan Bandits claimed three hundred iron riders to outsiders, in truth their true elite numbered just over a hundred. Each time they struck, their comings and goings were as swift as the wind. Many guessed that they had once served as elite soldiers.

Usually, they concealed themselves in Greenridge Mountain, preying on travelers and merchants passing through, flying the banner of Blackwind Fortress. Their ostensible aim was wealth, not lives, and so they had a modest reputation among the outlaws. Yet behind the scenes, they were guilty of slaughtering villages and destroying settlements.

Ling Chi once suspected the Lianshan Bandits were the black-gloved hand of some powerful figure, kept hidden away. Their methods were not merely reminiscent of the tactics of certain bigwigs in his former world, the Free Federation—they were identical.

But Ling Chi did not fear them. The expert hiding behind the Lianshan Bandits would hardly remain in this godforsaken Greenridge Mountain, would he?

Why did Ling Chi not dare reveal his identity? Because if this tangled with the disputes of certain powerful people, his current, fragile self would stand no chance.

Especially when it came to political struggles. The intrigue ran so deep it defied comprehension, ensnaring countless petty and great figures alike, dragging them into the vortex. Ling Chi had no intention of becoming cannon fodder.

If not for the blood feud of his predecessor, he would have gladly left this mess alone.

Ling Chi slipped smoothly to the mountain’s foot, observing the sentries, both visible and hidden, and their shift changes.

Once he discerned their pattern, he acted decisively—eliminating the hidden sentries first, then the obvious ones.

Ling Chi’s tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted frame made him too distinctive to disguise himself and slip in unnoticed.

Thus, he could only strike before the next shift, slipping in through bloodshed. His short blade was blackened to avoid giving off any telltale glint. With his mastery of Shadow Veil, he moved as if in his element—assassinations and infiltrations became effortless.

Six henchmen added more than thirty wisps of spiritual energy to his reserves, sending a thrill through his heart—truly, they were all good brothers aiding his cultivation.

Ling Chi slaughtered his way into the stronghold.

On the way, he interrogated a thug about the layout, then decided to start with the barracks where the elite were stationed.

With dagger in hand, he reaped lives within the barracks, removing all sentries, both in the open and concealed. His yang energy grew steadily. These elite bandits were at best at the fourth or fifth stage of Body Tempering; the higher-ranked captains only reached the seventh or eighth stage.

By the time he had finished with the barracks, he had gained four or five hundred wisps of spiritual energy—all due to the killing sins these men had committed.

Ling Chi then slipped into the outer camps, slaughtering the rabble as well.

The endless carnage intoxicated him, yet he did not lose himself to it. Silently and efficiently, the entire camp was soon awash in blood, corpses sprawled in every grotesque manner imaginable.

There were those with necks twisted, throats slit, hearts shattered with a punch, spleens pierced with a blade—every manner of death one could think of.

Ling Chi nearly exhausted all the skills from his previous life, as if handing in an assignment, or performing a grand and final farewell.

Those in the Vein Opening stage, whether captains or lieutenants, had their own quarters and need not crowd in the common dormitory.

A creak sounded.

The houses in the stronghold were built of stone and timber; the wooden doors, old and long neglected, groaned as they were pushed open.

“Who’s there?” a man’s voice called from inside.

“Boss, someone’s dead outside.”

Ling Chi tried to mimic the scene when he killed the old village chief.

Alas, he failed.

“Who are you? You’re not one of us—our own never call the chief ‘boss’ like that.” The minor captain stared in horror at the black-clad figure before him.

Ling Chi was unfazed—no one had seen him anyway.

With a swift slash, Ling Chi stabbed the captain in the leg.

“Where are the others?”

There were some empty bunks in the barracks, but Ling Chi found no one else.

“The chief’s closest men are all drinking in the Hall of Brotherhood,” the captain stammered.

“How unfortunate for you—not trusted enough to join them, and now you’ll die ahead of them. In your next life, try to become a trusted confidant,” Ling Chi said, dispatching him with another stroke.

Hall of Brotherhood, within the stronghold.

Dozens of men sat around a long table, drinking and feasting, the atmosphere boisterous.

At the head of the table sat a cold-faced, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested man. Raising his wine bowl, he declared:

“Brothers, fulfill the orders from above and glory, wealth, and eternal life will be within our grasp. We must unite as one—drain this cup, and we shall have no regrets in this life!”

“No regrets in this life!” the crowd echoed in unison.

The mood climbed higher still.

Outside, muffled thunder rumbled. Lightning flashed through the window, illuminating faces aglow with firelight.

“Thunder—seems it’s going to rain,” one thug remarked.

“What’s it matter? Rain’s good for sleeping,” another replied.

The second-in-command turned to look at the chief, uneasy. The thunder seemed too close.

The chief noticed as well, nodded, and gestured with his chin toward the doorway.

The elite, seeing their leaders’ movements, set down their wine bowls, reaching for weapons at their waists or nearby. Their actions were precise and unified—clearly the mark of a disciplined crew.

The second-in-command rose and walked toward the door.

Ling Chi, having taken out the sentries, exhaled deeply.

He would hide no longer; it was time to charge in face to face.

With his war blade in hand, killing intent surged, thunder crackled—golden lightning in his left eye, amethyst in his right.

He drew a deep breath and kicked the doors open.

He stormed in, thunder rolling with him.

A man strode toward him but was caught off guard—Ling Chi’s punch landed squarely on his face, sending him flying.

“Careful, Second Brother!” the chief shouted.

“Hahaha! Filthy scum of the Lianshan Bandits, your granddaddy is back!”

“Your third boss is dead drunk—your granddaddy brought him to you!”

Ling Chi’s face twisted into a wild smile as he shouted, tossing a head onto the long table.

“Third Brother!”

“That’s his head!”

“Curse this dog!”

“Avenge Third Brother!”

The hall erupted in curses and shouts.

“Hng!” “Ha!”

The “hng” shattered souls, the “ha” destroyed spirits—both exploded alongside the thunderous roar. Everyone inside felt as though a giant hammer had struck their skulls, leaving them dizzy and dazed.

Ling Chi pressed the attack, plunging into the crowd like a rabid tiger or a mad demon.

With every flash of his blade, limbs and bodies flew. In an instant, the reek of blood thickened, screams and curses blending together in a horrific symphony.

Ling Chi charged left and right, unstoppable and unmatched, slaughtering the elite until they were terrified out of their wits.

“Wretched fiend, little bastard, die for me!” the chief roared, his energy bursting forth as he dashed along the table, leaping high and bringing his fist down toward Ling Chi’s head.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Ling Chi laughed, ignoring the rest.

So what if you’ve reached the Qi Sea stage? Your spiritual energy is likely no match for mine. Having absorbed seven or eight hundred wisps of spiritual energy in a single night of slaughter, Ling Chi’s thunder vortex had grown to monstrous proportions. His body was now no weaker than a Qi Sea stage fighter—perhaps even stronger!