In that instant, with his vision, all he had been able to catch was a shadow that had sliced through the air. Then that Poisonous Scorpion’s head had separated from his body. Wen Kexing stood apathetically to the side, his head lowered. His robes were speckless; only four fingers of his left hand were dripping with blood.

He had no sabre or sword, or any sharp weapon in hand. Yet, he had used some mysterious method to ‘slice’ the Poisonous Scorpion’s head off his neck bare-handed. Could he have possessed the ability to condense the air at his fingertips into the aura of a blade? Wen Kexing’s entire demeanour was one of a malicious ghost that clawed its way up from Hell--his expression was not one particularly grave or severe, but it made others could not help but desire to retreat leagues away from him.

Hugging the pillar, Zhang Chengling opened his mouth. No words came out.

By this point, Gu Xiang, Cao Weining and Gao Xiaolian had come out and joined the fight. Leisurely, Zhou Zishu appeared at the door, uncorked the small medicinal bottle the Great Shaman had given him, and, without taking it with any water, dry-swallowed a pill. Crossing his arms in front of his chest, his belt still loosely tied, he did not arm himself with the Baiyi sword. His gaze skipped past Wen Kexing and the others to rest directly on where the Scorpion was standing in the shadows.

The window to the Great Shaman’s room had been pushed open sometime ago. The Great Shaman did not jump in the fray, but simply watched by the window. When his gaze landed on Wen Kexing, his brow creased.

Lord Seventh, with a robe spread over his shoulders, asked from behind him, “What do you think of his martial ability?”

The Great Shaman was silent for a moment, and then said, “If it is a matter of true martial ability, at the full peak of his abilities, Manor Lord Zhou may try to have a fair fight with him. However, if they truly exchange blows, he will be unable to score victory over this person.”

Pausing slightly, taken aback, Lord Seventh asked, “What about you?”

The Great Shaman shook his head. “Unless I had no other choice, I will never face this person in combat.”

Gaze sombre, he looked at Wen Kexing, who was standing in the middle of the courtyard--Wen Kexing seemed to have smiled slightly, raised his hand, and then lapped at his four fingers, still dripping with human blood, once. It left a crimson bloodstain on his lips.

Be it the Great Shaman himself or Zhou Zishu, while they might have been experts of whose calibre were rare in the jianghu, their martial skills were imparted by a master, and then--according to how someone else had taught them--slowly figured out on their own, whetted and polished through toil.