Dragon Vein Storyteller

Chapter 26 Chaotic Battle

The one-eyed giant's massive, ghost-headed broadsword joined the fray. Weighing a good forty pounds, he swung it with one hand, the seven copper rings on the back of the blade clanging, aiming a blow at Master Yuan's back. Without turning his head, Master Yuan shifted to the left, the blade grazing his robe before striking the bluestone slab with a loud bang, sending sparks flying. With a flick of his right hand, the string of prayer beads he had been holding appeared in his palm; with a snap, he sent the beads lashing the giant's wrist. The giant groaned, the ghost-headed broadsword flying from his hand, bouncing twice on the ground, the copper rings shattering into pieces.

I protected Little Chick and Zhang Linghe as we retreated deeper into the rock face, with Crippled Feng and Baldy Liao flanking me on either side. Sanjin stood at the very front, shovel held horizontally, like an iron wall. His right shoulder was slightly forward, his left leg half an inch back, his center of gravity extremely low, the shovel angled outwards, facing the densest part of the crowd. His breathing was heavy, a low gurgling sound emanating from his chest, like a bear cornered in a dead end.

"Don't scatter!" I shouted in a low voice, moving Chen Dong further into the stone wall. The little chick was behind me, its face pale, but its eyes weren't stunned by fear... It was watching. It was learning. It was watching how these people fought, how they killed, how they fought their way out of a desperate situation.

But I was preoccupied with something else. The group of tomb raiders hadn't moved yet. Three or four of Zhao Ming's desperate men were already dead, and seven or eight were still fighting. But the old man with the shovel and the seven or eight tomb raiders behind him remained crouched in the corner, neither rushing to grab the water nor retreating. They were waiting. Waiting for what? Waiting for these wolves to finish off each other before coming out to collect the spoils. My heart tightened… these fellow tomb raiders were probably the most troublesome.

"Baldy," I nudged Liao Baldy's arm with my elbow and said in a low voice, "watch those tomb raiders. They're the ones who are really waiting for their chance."

Liao the Bald glanced at that corner, his lips moved but he didn't say anything, but I could see the shape of his mouth: I know.

Just then, the old woman in hemp clothing made a move.

When she huddled in the corner, she looked like a half-dead old woman, but once she moved, she was faster than Zhao Ming. She braced herself against the ground with her black-threaded wooden staff, and like a giant bat, she swept through the air. The black threads wrapped around the staff unfurled with a "whoosh," covering the people around the kettle like a spiderweb. Whoever the black threads touched screamed and jumped away as if burned… The black threads were poisoned—corpse poison, a despicable method commonly used by those who practiced evil arts, who spent long periods with rotting corpses. Contact with it caused flesh to rot and decay; at best, the skin would peel off, at worst, the flesh would rot to the bone.

"Hehehe..." The old woman let out a piercing laugh, her withered hand already reaching for the kettle. She touched the kettle, and the water inside spilled out, splashing onto the back of her hand, washing away the thick layer of grime and leaving several white streaks.

Just as she was about to succeed, a figure darted out from behind the crowd, not towards the kettle, but towards the old woman's throat. It was a tall, thin man who had been cowering in the corner, dressed in tattered shorts, clutching half a sharpened crowbar. The old woman had just touched the kettle and hadn't even had time to pull her hand back when the tall, thin man pounced on her back, the crowbar piercing through her throat with a "thud." The old woman's smile froze on her face, and a mouthful of black blood gushed from her mouth, splattering onto the kettle she had just obtained. The kettle was knocked to the ground, spout down, the water flowing even faster, spreading along the ditch in all directions.

"Die, you bastard!" the tall, thin man roared through gritted teeth, kicking the old woman away from the kettle. The old woman fell to the ground, black blood gushing from a bloody hole in her throat, flowing down the grooves of the bluestone slab. Strangely, the blood seemed to be drawn by something, not flowing downwards, but instead meandering along the grooves, converging in the center of the hall. A small patch of the carved pattern on the stone slab began to fill with blood.

I stared at the blood flowing in the ravine, and a chilling thought suddenly popped into my head... This pattern, it seems, will have to be filled with blood. The blood of everyone.

The melee continued. Zhao Ming's men and Liao Yuan's monks were now locked in a fierce battle. Zhao Ming's blade swung faster and faster, cleaving down the monk Huijue with a single blow. The blade sliced ​​diagonally down Huijue's shoulder blade, severing three ribs, and blood splattered all over Zhao Ming's face. The monk Huijue groaned, his vajra falling to the ground, and he collapsed to his knees, a mouthful of blood gushing from his mouth. The compassion on Liao Yuan's face finally vanished completely, replaced only by rage and murderous intent. He aimed his left hand for Zhao Ming's throat with an eagle claw, while his right hand swept his prayer beads across Zhao Ming's lower body... These two attacks were launched simultaneously, a combined assault from above and below. Zhao Ming could dodge the upper attack but not the lower one, and could only roll backward, his back slamming against the stone wall, sending stone fragments flying.

Yan Kuan finally made his move.

He had been waiting. While everyone was engaged in a fierce fight, their attention completely drawn to the kettle, he waited silently, like a venomous snake hidden in the grass. He waited until Zhao Ming was forced back by Liao Yuan, until the monk Hui Nan deflected the two desperate men with his fists, until everyone's attention shifted for a fleeting moment… and then, at that very moment, he moved. His sword wasn't drawn, it slid out. The sword slid silently from its scabbard, its blade slender and long, unlike an ordinary three-foot sword, more like an elongated dagger, its tip gleaming with a cold, eerie blue light. It wasn't poisoned; it was the sword's material itself… it was black iron, the ghost iron of the Western Regions, a rare weapon specifically designed to break through hard qigong.

He didn't rush towards the kettle, but towards the monk Huinan. Huinan was dealing with two desperate thugs; he had just punched one away when the other grabbed him from behind. In that instant, Yan Kuan's sword arrived. The tip pierced through Huinan's ribs, avoiding the ribs, and went straight for his heart. Huinan's body stiffened, and he looked down at the sword tip emerging from his chest. Blood gushed from his mouth, flowing down the blade and dripping into the trench in the ground, mingling with the blood of others and flowing towards the center.

"Hui Nan!" Master Liaoyuan roared hoarsely, ignoring Zhao Ming and turning to pounce on Yan Kuan. Yan Kuan, having landed a blow, immediately withdrew his sword and retreated, a cloud of blood mist trailing behind as the blade was pulled from Hui Nan's body. He took three quick steps on the bluestone slab, retreating to Zhao Ming's side, a faint smile finally appearing on his thin face… a smile as cold as the winter wind, sending chills down Liaoyuan's spine.

Master Liaoyuan's skill was indeed profound; he unleashed his Eagle Claw technique relentlessly upon Yan Kuan. Yan Kuan, relying on the length of his sword, thrust again and again, the tip slicing seven or eight gashes into Liaoyuan's robe. Liaoyuan was stabbed in the left shoulder and right leg, yet he couldn't manage to grab Yan Kuan with a single claw… The old monk was, after all, quite old; that previous onslaught had exhausted him, and he was now panting.

Just when everyone thought the melee would continue until only one person remained standing, Zhang Linghe made his move.

He had been leaning against the stone wall, supporting Chen Dong, and I thought he was too weak to stand. But suddenly he straightened up, and the Five Thunder Finger Seal in his right hand flared with golden light. The acrid smell instantly intensified tenfold; even I, standing next to him, could smell the burnt odor. His Celestial Master's Mansion token flew up from his waist, hovering three feet above his head, the Five Thunder Talisman on it emitting a dazzling golden light.