Both men were acutely aware of the Tang Clan’s mastery of poison and martial arts, which made them nearly impossible to defend against. During the fight, they had not only held their breath but also taken great care to avoid any physical contact with their three opponents. Yet, their caution left them unable to gain the upper hand. Despite their precautions, the cold energy of the Cushion Palm still seeped through their swords during the clashes, leaving them vulnerable.
If they hadn’t immediately combined their internal energy to expel the poison, they might have ended up in the same state as San’er. Even so, as the two exchanged glances, they were shaken to the core, breaking into a cold sweat.
–– At this moment, San’er let out a low whimper and collapsed to the ground. Its limbs twitched once before falling still. Within moments, the yellow fur that had covered its body was completely corroded by the poison and fell off in clumps.
The frail boy sat in a daze next to the lifeless dog. Though he couldn’t speak, his narrow eyes brimmed with tears, silently streaming down his face.
A tremor ran through the yellow-clad boy as a piercing scream erupted from his throat—a sound that seemed to come from the depths of hell.
“You… dared… to… kill… my… San’er!”
The previously cheerful, round face was now twisted with fury. His thin lips trembled, and his large dark eyes glistened with tears that threatened to spill over.
“You massacred the people of Xing Yun Manor—that alone deserved punishment. But now you’ve dared to kill my San’er!”
Reaching into his robe, there was a sharp “zing” as a sword appeared in his hand.
The veins on the back of his hand stood out faintly as he raised the sword slowly. Everyone could see the weapon clearly.
The sword was two feet long, jet-black from tip to hilt.
The handle was crimson, as if dyed in the blood of tears shed by the brokenhearted.
The next moment, there was a fleeting flash of black sword light as the yellow-clad figure lunged forward, then retreated just as quickly.
Suddenly, the sword was embedded in the hand of the foremost assassin.
The assassin had raised his hand to protect his throat. If he had been even a fraction slower or miscalculated the trajectory, the short sword would have pierced his neck.
This was the same unnaturally large hand, twice the size of an average person’s, which had clashed with swords and palms earlier, producing metallic sounds—clearly not made of mere flesh and blood. Yet, when the boy’s short sword pierced through it, there wasn’t even the faintest sound. The blade was drawn and sheathed without leaving a trace, not even a single drop of blood.
The Tang Clan assassin stood frozen, staring in disbelief at his injured hand.
He knew, however, that from this day forward, the hand that had been his pride—the hand that had delivered the deadly Cushion Palm—would never function again.
–– Encountering this sword had sealed his fate. The hand ranked third on the Tang Clan’s Dragon-Tiger Register was now crippled forever. His career as an assassin was over.
It seemed he could hear a familiar, chilling sigh. It felt as if he could see a jade-adorned hand slowly removing a portrait from the Dragon-Tiger Register.
–– His own portrait.
The boy in the yellow jacket seemed stunned. He had drawn that sword. He had actually injured someone with it!
–– What kind of sword was this?
The only uninjured Tang Clan assassin seized this moment of distraction. With a flick of his wrist, iron caltrops scattered through the air like a storm.
Before one could blink, the boy sprang into action. His yellow robes swirled as he moved, and with a swift motion of his short sword—one stroke to deflect and another to withdraw—the air was filled with the sharp clinking of metal as the caltrops rained to the ground.
When he looked up again, the three Tang Clan assassins were already gone. Outside, the wind and rain howled with unrelenting fury, roaring like demons from hell, battering at the doors of the inn.
With a faint “hiss,” a wisp of blue flame ignited on the hem of his yellow robe.
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