Chapter Eighty-Five: The Deadly Duel

Liang Yan endured the searing pain, his mind racing. As the Dingguang Sword was about to strike again, the right hand he had kept behind his back suddenly extended, pointing at Zhuo Bufan.

He pressed his fingers together in the shape of a sword, and a streak of blue lightning burst from his fingertips, roaring toward Zhuo Bufan—it was the "Lightning Technique" he had cultivated to minor mastery!

Zhuo Bufan showed not the slightest hint of surprise, reaching out to touch the Dingguang Sword and casting a sword formula.

The Dingguang Sword, with its hilt as the center, began to spin rapidly in the air. Streams of lunar radiance poured forth, transforming into a full moon!

The full moon shielded Zhuo Bufan, and the lightning from Liang Yan’s spell struck the moon with a thunderous crash. The lightning dissipated, but the round moon still hovered in mid-air, radiating a silvery glow.

This Dingguang Sword was a gift from Zhuo Bufan’s own uncle; it absorbed lunar essence, making it a rare treasure. In battle, it could cut through gold and stone, or hold the line defensively.

Although Liang Yan’s lightning carried a trace of celestial might, he had only reached minor mastery, and it was merely ordinary lightning conjured by spiritual power—not one of the legendary divine thunders of the world. It was no match for Zhuo Bufan’s lunar sword.

But Liang Yan never intended to injure his foe with this strike. The moment he released the lightning, he stamped his feet and charged at Zhuo Bufan. His right hand erupted in golden light, forming a fist that he thrust forward—the "Fist Aspect" of the Hunhun Technique.

Having reached the entry stage of Hunhun Technique, Liang Yan could manifest its power with every movement, no need for elaborate gestures—the aspect arose from the heart.

Zhuo Bufan narrowed his eyes and shifted his sword formula, pointing at Liang Yan from afar.

The full moon in mid-air vanished in an instant, reverting to a stream of silvery lunar essence. It left a lingering shadow as it shot toward Liang Yan.

Liang Yan’s right hand, still glowing with gold, attacked Zhuo Bufan with the "Fist Aspect." At the same time, he turned slightly, his left hand swirling with pale blue light, sketching a circle before him.

The Dingguang Sword moved with astonishing speed, arriving before Liang Yan and piercing into the blue glow he had conjured.

The blue light shattered like fragile clay, obliterated in a single strike. The Dingguang Sword paused only briefly, then flashed with lunar radiance and stabbed forward.

"What!"

Liang Yan was startled. He had practiced the "Heart Unsettled Method" for years, perfecting this dispersal technique. In past battles, no matter how fierce the enemy’s attacks, he could always blunt their momentum and greatly diminish their power—a method that had never failed him.

He didn’t expect to fully neutralize the sword’s force this time, only to delay it enough to avoid a fatal blow. But the flying sword was so fierce that it shattered his Confucian spiritual power outright.

Yet Liang Yan did not panic. Twisting in mid-air, he adopted a strange posture, narrowly dodging the vital strike. His right hand still shone with gold, attacking Zhuo Bufan with the "Fist Aspect."

He now understood the might of a sword cultivator and knew their range was vast; within thirty feet, death was certain. To survive, he had to risk everything and fight at close quarters.

A sharp sound split the air—the Dingguang Sword grazed his left chest, leaving a long, narrow wound and the faint sound of cracking ribs. Liang Yan gritted his teeth and pressed on, reaching Zhuo Bufan and smashing his right fist forward.

Zhuo Bufan’s expression changed; he tossed a copper mirror from his storage pouch.

The mirror was mottled with rust, its surface cloudy and ancient, unable to reflect anything. As it spun in mid-air, a giant black hand emerged from its face, forming a fist that punched back.

Boom!

The fists collided with a deafening crash.

Liang Yan’s right hand blazed with gold, pushing forward unscathed, while the black giant hand shattered like dead wood, crumbling bit by bit. Finally, Liang Yan’s fist struck the mirror, shattering it into pieces that scattered across the ground.

But the force of Liang Yan’s punch was spent; Zhuo Bufan seized the opportunity, lightly tapping the ground and retreating again. The hard-won proximity was lost once more.

"Who are you, boy? How do you practice both Buddhist and Confucian arts at once?" Zhuo Bufan’s face was filled with astonishment, no longer calm and composed.

Liang Yan offered no answer, suppressing the agony in his chest and charging at him once more.

"Hmph, no need to answer!" Zhuo Bufan’s face hardened. "Once I kill you, I’ll study your secrets at leisure!"

He cast another sword formula, summoning the Dingguang Sword to defend him.

But as Liang Yan charged halfway, he suddenly leaped, deliberately throwing himself at the returning Dingguang Sword.

"Boy, you’re courting death!"

Zhuo Bufan’s expression twisted, his sword formula shifting. The Dingguang Sword transformed from a slash to a thrust, stabbing straight at Liang Yan.

Liang Yan’s entire body blazed with gold, Hunhun Technique at its peak, as he met the sword with his right fist.

Just as fist and sword were about to collide, his left hand flicked upward, releasing a small redwood box from his sleeve.

The box burst apart in mid-air, dissolving into a cloud of red mist. In the next instant, the mist vanished, revealing thousands of fiery red needles, shooting toward Zhuo Bufan.

Sword cultivators focused their power on their flying sword; nearly all their magic was bound within it. Liang Yan knew that if the sword was nearby, Zhuo Bufan would be unscathed—only when the sword attacked was his defense weakest.

Earlier, Liang Yan had risked grave injury to destroy his protective artifact for this very moment—a killing strike.

Liang Yan roared, punching at the Dingguang Sword. The sword flashed coldly, stabbing mercilessly at him.

A sharp noise—the Dingguang Sword pierced through layers of golden light, into his right fist, and out through his shoulder. Liang Yan grunted, blood vessels bursting in his arm; even he could not suppress a cry as he fell from the air.

But his interference delayed the Dingguang Sword—it could not return in time to protect its master. The myriad red needles reached Zhuo Bufan. His face flashed with panic; he retreated swiftly, but could not outrun them.

Just as Zhuo Bufan was about to die beneath the needles, a white worm suddenly burst from his chest. It had no eyes, nose, or ears—only a mouth, terrifying to behold.

It leaped from his chest, squeaking in midair. The red needles, as if bewitched, abruptly changed course, all shooting toward the worm and impaling it until it resembled a hedgehog.

The worm fell to the ground, rolled once, whimpered a few times, and then lay still.

Zhuo Bufan’s face turned pale; his scholar’s cap was gone, long hair disheveled, legs trembling, barely able to stand.

Most bizarre of all, his cultivation, once at the peak of the seventh level of Qi Refining, had fallen to the fifth level, his aura wildly unstable, as if it might plummet further at any moment.

"Well done, Brother Liang!"

Zhuo Bufan gritted his teeth. "I underestimated you. You destroyed my 'Tribulation Substitute Gu,' nurtured with my own blood, causing a backlash from the Gu technique!"

Liang Yan lay on the ground, unable even to stand. He stared at Zhuo Bufan in a daze, despair rising in his heart...

"What technique was that? There’s no such secret art in the Yixing Pavilion!" That was the last question to cross Liang Yan’s mind.

But Zhuo Bufan had no intention of answering. He formed a sword formula, and the Dingguang Sword roared, eager to avenge its master.

At that moment, a voice echoed across the empty square.

"Mmm..."

The voice was eerie, as if it imprinted itself directly onto their hearts—like someone who had just awoken, stretching lazily in the shadows.

Zhuo Bufan’s face turned alert. "Who’s there!" he shouted.

Who’s there... Who’s there... Who’s there...

The square was empty, no one replied, only Zhuo Bufan’s echo bouncing back.

Panic flickered on Zhuo Bufan’s face; Liang Yan wore an odd expression.

As the strange voice sounded, the feverish craving that Liang Yan had buried deep inside began to stir, stronger than ever—no matter how he circulated his arts, he could not suppress it.

"Kill him!"

"Slaughter him!"

"Kill, kill, kill!"

...

It was as if ten thousand voices whispered in his ear, murmuring endlessly.

Liang Yan was startled, looked around in confusion, and saw that he was surrounded by countless figures—men, women, old, young, all with vicious faces, each extending their right hand to clasp his.

His ruined right hand was drawn upward by their grasp; glancing down, he was shocked to see that in his right hand, he was holding a blood-soaked butcher’s knife!