Gu Xiang bemoaned the situation internally: she was injured and did not know how long she could hold out for, but there was not one person around whom she could turn to for help. She stuffed a dagger in Zhang Chengling’s hands, and shoved him outwards with all her might, shouting, “Run!” Then she rose as nimbly as a sparrow, and braced herself to meet the suicide warriors head-on.

In his panic, Zhang Chengling did not think of where to run, and simply scrambled towards the woods. While running, his tears started to fall as he started to dwell on how useless he was, and how he always burdened others. First it was his shifu, then it was Cao-dage and Gu Xiang-jiejie… But reality did not give him the time to reminisce and regret; a few sharp whistles sounded by his ear, and three to four men in black popped into existence from different directions, blocking his path. Zhang Chengling stood there with a short dagger Gu Xiang had given him in hand, holding it like a child holding a toy.

The hooks in the hands of those black-clothed men glinted with a cold light. In the instant they closed in, Zhang Chengling’s ferocity was suddenly provoked. He thought, why do you want me to die? What bad things have I done? Why can other people live, but not me?!

A man in black accelerated, and the hook swept towards his chest like a giant scorpion. Zhang Chengling put his left foot forward, and somehow, he thought of the words Wen Kexing had said to him that night—as a mighty eagle ensnares a rabbit, as a bow drawn without regrets, weaken at the peak, but surge when suppressed—he suddenly whirled and jumped up, stepping on a tree trunk to borrow momentum for a great leap, and pounced with his whole body towards that cold light. In that instant, his mind was completely empty, save for four words: Fight to the death.

The short sword clashed with the scorpion’s hook, the clang of metal jarring to the ear. Wen Kexing’s voice rang by his ear once more: When permutations are superficial, the aura of your blade should be breezy, floating unsteadily; when boundless metamorphosis occurs, all possible variations are embodied within one. His blade was halted by the hook; putting all his might on the hand restrained by the hook, Zhang Chengling twisted and sent his hand forwards, forcefully driving the short sword into the black-clothed chest.