Chapter 169: The Terrifying Fleshly Body!

Upon the towering walls of Northern Border City, a great formation stood, an impregnable bulwark crafted a thousand years ago by the formation masters under decree of the Grand Ancestor of Great Xia. This barrier required the command token of the Northern Garrison to be opened. From within, none could leave without permission; from without, few could breach its defenses.

Originally, the squad tasked with delivering the command token was to arrive ahead of time and await reinforcement. However, the sudden outbreak of war had thrown the army’s rhythm into chaos, delaying their advance. Only a quarter-hour ago had news arrived—the escorting force was already on the way.

Meanwhile, the young prodigies of the Immortal Sects descended from the city walls, their expressions grave.

The Mystic Wilding warriors—mighty, robust, unyielding.

This was their first impression from witnessing the battle atop the ramparts, a sentiment that aligned perfectly with Ji You’s assessment. The Mystic Wilding race had originated from the intermingling of numerous ancient tribes, merging their disparate bloodlines over centuries into a formidable new people. Each tribe once possessed unique, innate gifts, but through generations of blending, their strengths had fused into an overwhelming force, making them an ever-growing threat.

In truth, humanity had several opportunities to eradicate them, particularly after the founding of Great Xia. The noble Immortal Clans had long prospered under the tributes of countless mortals, their power reaching heights where they could shift mountains and redirect rivers. If they had chosen to descend from their lofty peaks to exterminate the Wildings instead of retreating into seclusion in pursuit of immortality, this threat might have been vanquished long ago.

But they had not.

The histories did not record the reasons, but speculation was not difficult. Perhaps after the chaos of warring states, humanity had sought only to recuperate. Perhaps they had dismissed the Wildings as cowards, too weak to warrant true concern. More importantly, the Heavenly Dao had seemingly favored humanity, as legends often told of divine interventions—blizzards striking at Wilding armies, mysterious disasters unraveling their offensives—proof that mankind was the chosen ruler of the land.

And so, humanity flourished.

But their prosperity birthed discord—the Immortal Sects warring amongst themselves, noble clans vying for supremacy. Great Xia became a mere tool for cultivators to rule over mortals, their struggles never ceasing. The ambitions of the immortals grew boundless; some even questioned why territorial conflicts should concern them at all when they could pursue ascension.

With such disunity, only the gravest of threats could unite them.

In contrast, the Mystic Wildings, hardened by their harsh existence, grew ever stronger through unity. Their determination became unshakable, their advance inevitable. Were it not for the steadfastness of Northern Border City and the Azure Clouds Immortal Edicts, which permitted the Northern Garrison to practice cultivation, the Wildings might have already claimed victory.

Then came the calamity of Qiling Mountain—the corruption of Clan Ancestor Zheng, who ascended through forbidden sorcery, a defiance of fate itself. With this, the Demon Clans stirred, sensing imbalance, tipping the scales ever further.

“Honored Immortal Masters, esteemed envoys, the road beyond the border is fraught with peril. To prepare for the unknown, we shall divide into three groups upon exiting the pass.”

“The envoy delegation will remain at the center, flanked by the Immortal Masters on both sides. Each formation will stay within five miles of each other, forming the River Formation, and proceed toward the Northern Border.”

“If we encounter scattered Mystic Wilding forces, we are to evade rather than engage. Do not tarry in battle—our priority is swift passage!”

The one issuing these orders was Peng Dongyang, the vice overseer of the Immortal Overseer Office, who now stood before them, delivering his final instructions.

Ji You was assigned to the right flank alongside his sect sister Xiao Han Yan, Jiang Chen Feng and Jiang Yan of the Dao Seeking Sect, as well as Gong Shu Chou and Yan Qiu Bai of Spirit Sword Mountain.

The left flank comprised Shi Jun Hao of Heavenly Script Academy, Huo Hong of Mountain and Sea Pavilion, alongside Jiang Yue Rou, Tu Ri, and Xie Chen Yu.

The six elders from the major Immortal Sects—four at the Heaven Resonance Stage, two at the Boundless Martial Stage—would accompany the envoy in the central formation, prepared to adapt as necessary.

Once the divisions were set, the carriages arranged themselves into three lines.

Ji You then reached into his Storage Gourd, withdrawing fifty Spirit Swords and selecting the finest seven, securing them across his body in their scabbards. He now bore a striking resemblance to a lone swordsman from ghostly legends, a spectral warrior clad in steel.

It was neither elegant nor refined, but practicality far outweighed aesthetics.

Should a true battle of life and death erupt, even a moment’s hesitation in summoning a weapon could spell disaster. The Mystic Wildings would grant no such mercy.

His peculiar preparation did not go unnoticed. The other warriors on the right flank turned their gazes toward him, eyeing his peacock-like display of blades with mixed expressions.

“What is this?” one murmured.

“I heard Gong Shu Chou once mention that he wields seven swords at once,” another remarked.

Jiang Chen Feng studied Ji You for a long moment before shaking his head. “Splitting one’s focus across multiple blades… If one’s spiritual sense is lacking, they may very well injure themselves. We should have swapped him for Tu Xu instead.”

Both flanks were designated as defensive units, and it was crucial to maintain balanced strength on either side. To Jiang Chen Feng, Ji You exuded the aura of cannon fodder, an uncertain variable in battle. If the Mystic Wildings struck with full force, would he prove useful at all?

This was no mere Dao Debate, where combat was restrained. In the battlefield, strength dictated survival.

And right now, they were unsure if Ji You would be their shield—or their burden.

Gong Shu Chou strode forward with an air of composed indifference, his gaze fixed upon Ji You.

“Seven swords upon your back, an aura as sharp as the heavens. Indeed, you carry the bearing of a true sovereign.”

“…Huh?”

Ji You had just finished securing his swords when he heard these unexpected words. His expression betrayed his confusion.

He had yet to realize that Gong Shu Chou had devised a peculiar philosophy—one where the greater the renown of his opponent, the more it affirmed his own worth. From Ji You’s perspective, their enmity was one of life and death. In their last encounter, Ji You had nearly slain him, using the oppressive Killing Qi of Qiling Mountain to gain the upper hand. By all logic, Gong Shu Chou should now be seething with vengeance, burning with the desire to end him.

Instead, Ji You had anticipated a different reception entirely:

“You once struck me with a coward’s blow, leaving me—a grand cultivator at the Dao Fusion Stage—gravely wounded! My disgrace was mocked across the land! Today, either you perish, or I do!”

“A mere Mystic Enlightenment Stage cultivator like you? Without the Killing Qi of Qiling Mountain to suppress me, I could crush you with a single finger!”

“Scream if you wish, cry for aid! No one will come to save you now! Hahahaha!”

At least, that was how Ji You imagined their exchange should have gone, based on the countless novels he had read. But instead, he was being praised? How absurd!

[Did I stab his heart an inch to the right of where I thought? Or did I strike his head instead?]

Before he could dwell further on this strange twist, the distant cry of warhorses shattered the moment. Ji You turned his head to see a troop of Imperial Guards galloping toward them, their arrival stirring up clouds of dust. At their head rode a general clad in iron armor—Ding Ze. His face was stern as a blade freshly sharpened.

“Sirs, urgent news has arrived! The barbarian tribes have launched an attack, expanding their battle lines. Now, scouts and raiders lurk within a thousand-mile radius. They must have foreseen the emissary delegation’s journey to the Snow Realm.”

“They do not know your departure time, nor the exact route you take. Thus, they stretch their forces thin, scattering their scouts like seeds upon the wind.”

A tense silence followed. Brows furrowed among the delegation members, the weight of the situation pressing upon them.

Ding Ze raised a hand, silencing the murmurs before they could rise into clamor. “Fear not. The barbarians’ main forces remain entangled at Cold Iron Pass, locked in battle against our grand army. These scattered scouts are no grave threat—but they must be eliminated without exception. If even one survives to deliver word of your path, their warriors will descend upon you in relentless pursuit.”

Ji You, standing at the edge of the group, sighed inwardly.

[So much for avoiding conflict. It seems I won’t just be evading enemies—I’ll be cutting through their ranks.]

This was something the Office of Affairs would have to answer for. The journey had been sold to them as a safe passage, yet the reality was riddled with hidden perils. He made a mental note to demand additional silver upon his return.

Suddenly, Ding Ze raised his command token high. In an instant, a brilliant surge of spirit light shot into the heavens like an arrow of divine will, striking the battlements of Falling Moon Barrier. Ethereal blue runes shimmered upon the fortress walls, flowing outward like ink spreading across silk. Moments later, the formation’s power receded, rolling back like a retreating tide. The great gate of black iron—immensely heavy, forged to withstand the sieges of nations—groaned as it slowly parted. A thunderous grinding sound filled the air, followed by the distant echo of battle from beyond the walls. The acrid scent of blood drifted inward, carried by the frigid winds.

The delegation mounted their carriages and steeds, their figures vanishing into the swirling mist of war. Ahead, the land stretched wide and wild—an endless expanse of untamed wilderness, more barren than even the impoverished provinces of Feng Prefecture.

Here, the land knew no roads, only the tangled grasp of venomous grasses that thrived in desolation. The wheels of their carriages struggled against the sinking earth, each turn a battle against the devouring mud. Even within the shelter of their wagons, the oppressive aura of looming death seeped through.

The Immortal Overseer’s records spoke true—the Northern Wastes were cursed ground, where no bountiful harvests could ever grow. Only these cruel, tenacious weeds—thin-stemmed, dark-leafed, their roots clutching the soil in venomous defiance—could take root. And nearly all bore poison in their veins.

It was no wonder the barbarians craved the fertile lands of the Nine Provinces. How could one expect a people to dwell forever in such a forsaken place?

Through the days that followed, news of the barbarians’ renewed assault upon the frontier began to ripple back across the realm. Yet, within the heartlands of Great Xia, the tidings barely stirred a whisper. Cold Iron Pass was always aflame with war; one more battle was nothing to disrupt the daily lives of the common folk.

Even the grand departure of the diplomatic delegation, which had once drawn bustling crowds, now seemed to have served no purpose beyond a fleeting spectacle.

At the Heavenly Script Academy, the outer disciples did not even pause to discuss the war. Their focus remained fixed upon a far more pressing matter—who would ascend into the esteemed ranks of the inner academy.

Pu Yang Xing had already begun condensing his second strand of Mystic Light, while Lu Han Yan was closing the gap, her cultivation progressing at an astonishing pace.

As for Fang Jin Cheng, he had finally abandoned all hope of sensing the Heavenly Tome. His powerful family had spared no effort, summoning nearly every inner disciple from the Hall of Longevity in a futile attempt to assist him. Yet, despite all their meddling, he remained utterly blind to the tome’s presence.

Thus, in the first year of the Grand Beginning Era, not a single outer disciple managed to attune themselves to the Heavenly Tome.

And yet, among the indifference, among the dispassionate crowd, there were still a rare few who could not shake their unease. Whether for the distant border itself, or for those who now marched toward it, they alone carried the weight of silent concern upon their hearts.

Cao Jin Song, Ban Yang Shu, and Wen Zheng Xin, along with Pei Ru Yi and Qiu Zhong of the Ji Stronghold, all lived their days with clenched hearts, caught between worry and regret.

Earlier, Ji You had declared that should Cold Iron Pass fall, Feng Prefecture would be lost. Thus, he had to go. At the time, they had understood his reasoning.

But after he had truly departed, doubt gnawed at their hearts. No matter what he had said back then, they should never have agreed.

Even if the mission to the Snow Realm succeeded in preventing an alliance between the Barbaric Race and the Demon Clan, if Ji You perished, Feng Prefecture would fare no better. His death would serve as a grim lesson, ensuring that the foreign Immortal Manors would never again allow another disciple of the Immortal Sect to rise within these lands.

Then, tax tributes would soar, and the common folk would suffer even greater hardship.

Elsewhere, the noble daughter of the Prime Minister’s household had not stepped beyond her doors for days. She sat within her residence, gazing endlessly northward, heedless of the sun and moon’s passing, day after day.

The scholar she longed for now stood within the Northern Garrison’s military camp at Cold Iron Pass.

Outside the pass, the battlefield was dire. Wild gales roared as reckless surges of energy clashed, each impact sending dust flying from the walls, covering him in a fine layer of yellow earth. He had no time to brush it off.

“General Ding, this is the fifth day. Any word from beyond the pass?”

“Apologies, Inspector Kuang, there has been no news today.”

The one who had personally opened the Falling Moon Barrier for the envoy’s departure, Ding Ze, had just returned from the city walls. He cupped his hands in response to the inquiry.

Hearing this, Kuang Cheng furrowed his brow, his fists tightening beneath his robe.

Since parting with Ji You in the northwest of Feng Prefecture, he had arrived here.

The Human Race had scout units operating beyond the city, keeping watch on the Barbaric Race’s movements and occasionally relaying word of the envoy’s progress.

At ten miles from the city, they had encountered a scouting party of the Barbaric Race and annihilated them in secret.

At fifty miles, they had evaded a large enemy force by taking a detour.

But in the past few days, there had been no further reports at all.

Ding Ze clapped him on the shoulder. “Our scouts cannot venture deep into barbarian territory, so no news is good news. It means they are moving quickly, likely near the edge of the battle zone. From here on, no further messages will reach us.”

“They have traveled so far already…?”

Ding Ze nodded. “Inspector, do you have a friend in the envoy?”

Kuang Cheng gave a slight nod. “A dear companion. I worry for his safety.”

“No need to fret overly, my lord. The Immortal Sect dispatched many powerful experts for this mission. They march in a ?-character formation, ensuring the emissary is well-guarded. Moreover, though the Barbaric Race possesses immense physical might and innate gifts, they are not attuned to the Dao. Few among them can cultivate.”

“Thus, while the Dao Fusion Stage is still at risk beyond the pass, a cautious approach should prevent death. In my view, the only one truly doomed in that envoy… is the Mystic Enlightenment fool who dresses himself like a peacock on display.”

Ding Ze chuckled lightly, attempting to ease Kuang Cheng’s worries.

But the scholar merely turned to look at him, his gaze sharp, devoid of mirth.

A hundred miles away, deep within the savage lands, atop a rugged mountain ridge—

A heavily built warrior of the Barbaric Race, thick with fur and rippling with muscle, narrowed his eyes at the sword-wielding figure approaching. A murderous intent ignited in his gaze.

His name was Lang Da, squad leader of the third patrol unit.

Two days prior, he had received an order from his chieftain: a human envoy was likely to pass through the Snow Realm. None were to be left alive.

At first, he had not taken it too seriously.

But in the following days, his men had begun vanishing one after another, without a trace.

That was when his instincts screamed at him—the humans had arrived, and they were in his domain.

Thus, he had come to personally investigate.

And sure enough, he had found one.

Perfect. A chance to earn merit!

Lang Da dismounted, gripping his massive steel blade, his lips curling into a bloodthirsty grin. The sinews of his arms swelled, hiding within them an untamed force.

Whoosh!

A mighty slash tore through the air, the force roaring like a storm.

But at that instant, a streak of sword light surged skyward!

Clang!

Blade and sword met in a ringing clash. Lang Da’s pupils constricted, and he instinctively raised his weapon in a defensive stance, reappraising his opponent with astonishment.

Their kind was superior to the frail humans. Their natural strength was unmatched, beyond human reach.

Yet in this moment of impact, he had felt a force akin to an unshakable mountain.

His instincts flared in warning.

His nostrils flared in rapid breaths—not in exhaustion, but in exhilaration.

Excitement!

Lang Da tightened his grip on his steel blade. Facing this lean human, a cruel grin stretched across his face as he charged forward!

A horizontal sweep!

A downward cleave!

A spinning arc!

Boom! Boom! Boom!

His savage strength surged as he struck, each swing of his blade carrying the force of a raging tempest. Yet before him, the human swordsman moved with ghostly grace, his expression unreadable. His blade flashed in response, weaving effortlessly through the storm of attacks.

By now, the sun had begun its descent, casting golden hues across the land. Dust swirled, rising in restless waves.

In a matter of moments, blade and sword had clashed dozens of times, scattering embers of steel across the sky!

With a mighty stomp, Lang Da leapt high, his steel blade carving a downward arc. His entire being pulsed with battle fervor.

For the first time, he had encountered a human whose strength rivaled that of a Barbaric warrior!

The Clash Beneath the Setting Sun

Landa had once served in the vanguard, cutting down countless human warriors. To him, their flesh was as fragile as noodles, crumbling at the mere stroke of his blade. Yet, among his own kind, battle was forbidden. This restriction had long stifled him.

But now, at last, he had found a worthy foe—a human who could withstand his full might!

Buzz!

The iron saber hummed with murderous intent as Landa swung once more—a horizontal sweep, a vertical cleave, then a sweeping arc, seeking to crush the slender figure before him with sheer brute force.

Yet, in that instant, the sword before him quivered violently. A ripple of light surged forth like crashing waves. Clang!—a single strike landed upon his saber, sending a powerful force coursing through its metal frame.

Clatter!

The iron saber was sent flying from his grasp. Landa’s emerald eyes widened in disbelief. He could not comprehend the intricacies of human swordsmanship, nor understand why his weapon trembled beyond his control. A moment of silence passed before rage overtook his face.

Then, his pupils shrank once more—for across from him, his opponent had discarded his own sword as well.

“Unleash your Berserk Form.”

“??”

“Come on! If you refuse, you insult me.”

Landa had barely registered the words when his opponent suddenly spread his arms. A scorching aura erupted from his body, sweeping across the battlefield, stirring even the hairs on Landa’s body.

As the sun sank toward the horizon, dusk’s shadow crept across the land. Night fell in a slow, inevitable descent. A wisp of mist slithered through the trees, coiling around the barren branches near the Black Swamp.

From Shen Hour to You Hour, the sky had darkened completely.

Deep within the rugged mountains, beside the Forest of Deadwood, a caravan had halted for the night, their presence marked only by hushed whispers and flickering torchlight.

Yan Qiu Bai, a disciple of Spirit Sword Mountain, stood watch amidst the trees, her spiritual senses cast outward, alert for the faintest disturbance. She observed the swaying grass as a gust of wind carried lingering spiritual energy through the air.

Then, like a specter, Jiang Yan descended from the night sky, a blood-dripping longsword in hand. A lifeless, fur-covered corpse dangled from her grip.

“Just one?” she scoffed.

“One is not enough, Sister,” Yan Qiu Bai replied. “The deeper we go, the stronger these barbarians become.”

Jiang Yan dropped the corpse with a thud. “I wonder if they classify their warriors as we do. This one was far stronger than those before. Once he entered Berserk Form, his speed and strength were nearly doubled. Their flesh is already absurdly resilient—even more so in that state.”

Five days had passed since their entry into the Savage Wilderness. With each step deeper, more barbarian scouts emerged to block their path.

Yet, perhaps due to the sheer expanse of the territory, the enemy never patrolled in large numbers. Instead, their groups were small and scattered. To avoid drawing attention, the disciples had split up, eliminating enemy sentries one by one. Each corpse had to be retrieved, lest the trail of fallen foes betray their advance.

And indeed, as Jiang Yan had said, the barbarians grew ever more formidable the further they ventured.

Yan Qiu Bai glanced at the corpse. “The Northern Garrison has categorized them. Due to their constant warring, they divide their ranks by military standing—three tiers of soldiers, three of generals, and above them, three king realms.”

Jiang Yan frowned. “What rank was this one?”

“Upper Soldier Realm. In Berserk Form, they are comparable to Mystic Enlightenment’s Upper Stage. Some can even regenerate wounds at terrifying speed, briefly rivaling the Dao Fusion Realm.”

Jiang Yan’s eyes narrowed. “Their third tier alone is this strong?”

Yan Qiu Bai smirked. “Fear not, Sister Jiang. Their connection to the Heavenly Dao is weak. Their three General Realms are but enhancements of the body and natural talent. Unlike us, their power stagnates as they ascend.”

Jiang Yan nodded in understanding. The barbarians were born with superior physique and talents, allowing them immense strength at the outset. However, their later growth paled in comparison to the profound leaps humans achieved through cultivation.

Suddenly, a rush of wind tore through the forest canopy.

Jiang Chen Feng landed amidst a swirl of air currents, his expression unreadable. He casually tossed two more Upper Soldier Realm corpses onto the ground.

Among those present, Jiang Chen Feng stood out—not only was he Jiang Yan’s cousin, but his strength was leagues ahead of most. Slaying two of these foes had only disheveled his ceremonial headpiece.

“Chen Feng, how do you fare?” Jiang Yan inquired.

“My left shoulder aches,” he admitted, rubbing it absently. “They weren’t particularly skilled, but their physical resilience is monstrous. Still, as long as we keep our distance, they fall like any other beast.”

Jiang Yan’s gaze sharpened. “You let them close?”

“No harm done,” Jiang Chen Feng replied lightly. “I merely wished to test a technique I grasped in seclusion. It left an opening.”

Before another word could be exchanged, the rustling of foliage drew their attention.

The trio turned as one. A silhouette emerged from the dense mist, striding toward them, slow and deliberate.

The night air was heavy with the scent of blood and damp earth. As the figures in the clearing looked toward Ji You, his face was cast in shadow, his gaze lost in thought. In his hand, he dragged the lifeless body of a creature thick with coarse fur. His robes were torn, revealing a deep gash across his side. Though he sat in quiet repose, his breath came in ragged gasps, his chest rising and falling with effort. His figure, though composed, lacked the effortless grace of Jiang Chen Feng.

Seeing this, Yan Qiu Bai and Jiang Yan exchanged a knowing glance.

Ever since they had begun the purge of roaming enemy scouts, Ji You had been sent out each night, and each night, he returned, a fresh kill in tow. At first, the opponents were only lower-tier soldiers, warriors at the level of Mystic Enlightenment’s early stage, nothing beyond his capabilities. Yet, despite his continued victories, his return was always far slower than the others. It was clear—the disparity in strength was undeniable.

Now, however, his returns had become even more delayed. His attire, once crisp and unyielding, was now torn and sullied, the traces of fierce battle evident upon him. There were whispers among the group, murmurs of suspicion that he had sustained hidden injuries, yet none dared to voice them aloud.

“For one of his strength, he has nearly reached his limit.” Yan Qiu Bai exhaled softly, casting a glance toward Jiang Yan. “We are still a long way from the Snow Realm. If we encounter a General-ranked barbarian, he may not return at all.”

Jiang Yan followed her gaze. “That would be the better outcome. At least then, the two from the Heavenly Script Academy might still be able to save him, since they are his fellow disciples.”

“And if fortune is not with us?”

“Then it means we failed to eliminate every scout, allowing some to escape. If they bring reinforcements, stronger, deadlier foes, we will have no choice but to abandon the mission and retreat.”

Her gaze fell on Ji You, still seated beneath the gnarled tree.

“With our Dao Fusion cultivation, even if we were injured, we would still have a chance of survival. But him? He is merely Mystic Enlightenment. If forced to stay behind, his fate is sealed.”

A moment of silence passed before Yan Qiu Bai spoke again, her voice carrying a wry amusement. “You say those two from Heavenly Script Academy would come to his aid if we faced a single General-ranked foe, but I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“Oh?”

“Sending a mere Mystic Enlightenment cultivator to the frontlines? It’s nothing short of sending him to his death.”

With that, she turned and strode toward the right side of the clearing. “I will call the others to deal with the bodies. The traces must be erased.”

“The swamp?” Jiang Yan asked.

“It is the fastest method.”

With a graceful sway of her figure, Yan Qiu Bai summoned Gong Shu Chou, Xie Chen Yu, and the others. These were the ones assigned to remain behind, their task to guard the perimeter and tend to the aftermath of each battle. Their work was methodical—dragging the fallen barbarians to the edge of the swamp, where the festering mud eagerly swallowed them whole. A few bubbles surfaced, then silence. Not a single trace remained.

Meanwhile, Yan Qiu Bai went to retrieve the corpse Ji You had brought back. Before disposing of it, she paused, inspecting the engravings upon its armor. Her brows furrowed slightly.

“An elite warrior,” she murmured.

According to the Northern Garrison’s intelligence, an elite warrior was roughly equivalent to a Mystic Enlightenment’s upper stage cultivator, though some, through sheer brute force, could match the lowest tier of Dao Fusion.

She had gained enough experience to discern details at a glance. Judging by the color and texture of the beast’s fur, this one did not belong to the rare breed blessed with exceptional talent. It was, indeed, only a Mystic Enlightenment upper stage.

She let out a quiet sigh. “So, even the tales hold exaggerations…”

It had been said that Ji You had slain eighteen Mystic Enlightenment cultivators in a single night and even bested a Dao Fusion warrior. A feat of unmatched prowess. Yet now, seeing the truth with her own eyes, she was no longer so certain. Those who dwell in the Immortal Manors, cultivating in luxury and without adversity, could hardly be called true Dao Fusion warriors.

At best, Ji You had reached the peak of Mystic Enlightenment, nothing more.

With this thought, she began to drag the corpse toward the bog. Yet, just as she was about to release it, a flicker of unease touched her expression.

“Qiu Bai, is it done?”

“Jiang Yan, come look at this.”

Her tone carried a note of curiosity.

Jiang Yan stepped closer. “What is it?”

Yan Qiu Bai pressed her lips together, then gestured toward the corpse. “This is the body Ji You brought back.”

Jiang Yan gave it a glance, nodding. “Judging by its fur, it is not one of the more gifted ones. It aligns with what Chen Feng suspected—those so-called Dao Fusion cultivators from the Immortal Manors were unworthy of the title. That’s why Ji You could cut them down.”

“I’m not talking about that. Look at the wounds.”

A pause.

Jiang Yan frowned, kneeling to examine the body closely. Ji You wielded a sword—everyone knew it. He had even carried seven upon his back when he left the Heavenly Script Academy, drawing considerable attention.

The barbarians, renowned for their monstrous endurance and unbreakable bodies, required immense force to be felled. It was only natural to assume Ji You had slain this one with a masterstroke of the sword.

Yet, there were no blade marks on the corpse.

Not a single cut.

A body covered in fur would make even the smallest wound apparent, blood seeping into the strands. But the only trace of blood came from the orifices—eyes, ears, nose, and mouth, already dried to a dark stain.

Yan Qiu Bai had sensed something was amiss. Now, seeing it with her own eyes, she was certain.

“Poison?” Jiang Yan speculated.

Then she shook her head. “No… I have never heard of a poison capable of affecting the barbarians. If such a thing existed, the Northern Garrison would have used it long ago.”

She trailed off, noticing that Yan Qiu Bai was staring at the creature’s chest with an odd expression. Without another word, she drew her sword and sliced open its garments.

The two women froze.

The barbarian’s chest had caved inward, flesh and bone pulverized. A deep crater remained where its heart should have been. And at the very bottom of the crater—

A fist mark.

(This novel is translated and hosted on Bcatranslation)

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