Chapter Sixteen: Rout

The heart-mind attacks of martial artists specializing in spiritual techniques were silent and elusive, impossible to guard against. Ordinary people could only perceive such assaults in the midst of mortal combat, when their spirits were stretched to the utmost tension. Yet for psychic cultivators, this was far simpler. Whether it was the innate mind-body unity achieved through martial training, or the psychic vision granted by solidified arcane arts, both allowed them to trace the trajectory and manifestations of these heart-mind assaults.

Thus, the nearly broken formation of the martial artists was abruptly stabilized.

The “Hungry Ghost Domain” unleashed by Geng Liangchen had transformed half a street into a living hell. Driven mad by the fear and frenzy of having their flesh devoured, the Dongyang soldiers began attacking indiscriminately. At once, their suppressive rhythm was shattered, revealing vast gaps in their firepower.

A window of ten-odd seconds without suppressing fire. A distance of several dozen meters. For elite soldiers, this was already a chance to charge and break through. All the more so for these martial artists, whose physical abilities far surpassed ordinary humans.

“Charge with me! By the order of the Immortal Master—not a single one must be spared!” It was Zhao Jian who roared and stepped forward, his presence like a divine titan descending. His muscles heaped upon his body like granite, Zhao Jian—whose defensive and offensive strengths had been tailored to his talents by Lan Yi—resembled a temple’s bronze statue.

Even if a dozen rifles concentrated their fire on him, Zhao Jian did not so much as furrow his brow.

By contrast, any Dongyang soldier who fell into his hands met a gruesome fate. With superhuman strength, Zhao Jian tore his enemies apart with shocking ease, reducing flesh and bone to shreds as though ripping through paper or noodles; joints and tendons were all torn asunder by brute force.

If martial artists lacked anything, it was never courage in the face of blood and death.

The machine guns and artillery had been entangled. At the fore, Zhao Jian—like a steel juggernaut—charged ahead; behind, the enigmatic pressure of the Immortal Master pressed upon them all. Already filled with hatred for these pillaging Dongyang invaders, the martial artists’ bloodlust was stoked to the utmost. Braving the thinning hail of bullets, they broke into an all-out assault.

The Dongyang front lines were nearly shattered at a stroke.

Deprived of the cover of heavy machine guns and artillery, Dongyang soldiers who had emptied their rifle magazines and had no time to reload found themselves face-to-face with a horde of savage, grinning Xinghan martial artists! Their minds sluggish, the Dongyang soldiers instinctively thrust their bayonets forward.

Kill!

What happens when ordinary men clash at close quarters with these monstrous martial artists? A martial artist from the Eight Trigrams Sect provided the perfect example. Facing the rapid thrust of a bayonet, he sidestepped with superhuman reflexes, flipped his hand to dislodge the blade from the muzzle, and then, wielding it, brought it down in a swift chop!

With a sickening slice, the steel-forged bayonet, empowered by martial strength, glided through the Dongyang soldier’s chest as easily as through cake, splitting bone and flesh alike. Hot, steaming viscera gushed to the ground as the martial artist slipped past, moving to his next target like a butcher at work. The Dongyang soldier, staring dumbly at his opened chest, felt a pain beyond description in his final moment—yet he had no strength left even to scream, and collapsed lifeless to the earth.

Gunshots rang out in rapid succession.

“Heh heh heh! Dongyang devils, your bullets only tickle!” Zhao Jian, targeted by several Dongyang soldiers for his formidable physique, laughed menacingly. His body, seemingly as heavy as a statue, moved with uncanny speed. Opening his arms wide, he gathered the four Dongyang soldiers before him into a crushing embrace.

With a terrible crack, the power of his martial mastery was unleashed. The four men, lifted off the ground, screamed in agony as their ribs, spines, and organs were instantly pulped, their eyes bulging with blood, their faces contorted in terror and despair at the moment of death.

It was nothing short of hell.

The remaining Dongyang soldiers, witnessing Zhao Jian’s demonic strength, froze for a moment—then turned and fled without a backward glance.

They ran for their lives, discarding rifles, helmets, even their belts—anything that might hinder them. Chaos took hold as they scrambled to escape.

The Dongyang front had collapsed.

The Dongyang officers cursed furiously; on the battlefield, a rout meant certain death. They had once routed the soldiers of the Qing and the Boxers, and knew well that fleeing men stood no chance against bayonets and bullets—let alone now, when what pursued them was far more terrifying.

A gust of wind—or was it a chill—swept through.

As they ran, the fleeing soldiers’ eyes grew vacant; they forgot what they were doing, forgot where they were, glancing around in confusion as if shrouded by a clinging haze.

Their memories fractured. The next instant, their heads lolled, and their minds were lost forever.

Behind them, the unremarkable, phantom-like figure of Huo Yuanjia appeared.

Elusiveness, withering, detachment.

Huo Yuanjia, too, had achieved a natural breakthrough in the heat of battle. His heart-mind power, the “Dust of No-Self,” allowed others to unconsciously overlook his presence—even if he stood before their eyes. Turned upon his enemies, it created temporary blanks in their memories.

In mortal combat, to suddenly forget what you were doing, to forget where you were, to lose your bearings—even a few seconds of confusion meant certain death.

Thus, the fleeing Dongyang soldiers, lost in bewilderment, had their necks easily snapped by Huo Yuanjia as he drew near.

“Hm?”

Huo Yuanjia suddenly frowned.

A hungry ghost materialized at his feet, drooling, jaws yawning so wide that its back teeth were bared, eyes filled with greed and longing. With rotting yellow fangs, it lunged for Huo Yuanjia.

In the next moment, a swirl of grey dust erupted.

The ghost was instantly shattered by the dust.

Huo Yuanjia had been attacked by a heart-mind technique—Geng Liangchen’s unique “Hungry Ghost Domain.” He was not alone; other martial artists, too, found themselves beset by hungry ghosts, hastily retreating to corners beyond Geng Liangchen’s perception and line of sight.

Lan Yi had once explained that for mind cultivators, such attacks required either seeing or sensing their target to lock on.

“Geng Liangchen?”

“Zhao Jian, something’s wrong with Geng Liangchen.”

“I’ll hold the line here, you go check on him!” Huo Yuanjia shouted, suspecting that Geng Liangchen was in trouble.

“Don’t order me around!” Zhao Jian snapped, his old rivalry with Huo Yuanjia flaring up despite their recent reconciliation—but his body obeyed, heading straight for Geng Liangchen’s hiding place, from which the most hungry ghosts were emerging.