Chapter 20: The Massacre of the “Elderly Village” (2)
Yan Tie no longer concerned himself with the life or death of the fallen assassin. Tightening his grip on the iron spear, he swung it to the right. The weapon’s initial forward thrust shifted into a sweeping motion, its iron ball crashing into the skull of a nearby assailant before its blunt end gouged out the eyes of another.
The reduced sweep radius ant the next target narrowly evaded the strike.
Yan Tie’s right hand then caught the shaft of the spear as it completed its arc, releasing the blunt end from his left hand. With a powerful backward swing of his right arm, his body spun, and the iron spear shifted its trajectory, smashing downward toward the assassins behind him.
Several of the white-clad enemies had taken advantage of Yan Tie’s blind spot to attempt a sneak attack. Yet, seeing the iron spear hurtling toward them, they quickly retreated. The foremost among them had no ti to evade, forced to raise his sword defensively while twisting aside.
However, the sheer force behind the spear could not be countered with a single hand. Though the assassin’s head was spared, his shoulder was not. With a sickening crack, the blunt end of the spear slamd into his shoulder, causing him to vomit blood and collapse unconscious.
Yan Tie released his grip, allowing the spear to rebound mid-air, rotating a full 180 degrees before its handle fell perfectly back into his right hand. He took a step forward, grasped the spear shaft with his left hand, and lunged in a powerful bow stance. The forward lunge increased the distance from the enemies behind him, while the spear pierced the chest of the nearest white-clad man, who had no ti to defend himself. Blood gushed as the assassin’s life was extinguished.
With a forceful pull, Yan Tie withdrew the spear, gripping it firmly with both hands. The weapon shot backward again, aid at the enemies behind. Startled, the white-clad assailants instinctively retreated, wary of the relentless attacks.
Standing amidst a ring of enemies, Yan Tie’s eyes blazed with fury. In less than a minute, he had claid nearly ten lives, yet his wrath remained unsatisfied.
His gaze shifted to the burning wooden huts in the distance. The cottage at the village’s edge had already collapsed, and the flas had spread, consuming half of the village. It was only a matter of ti before the entire settlent was engulfed.
So elderly villagers still held out in the wooden huts near the village’s entrance, resisting desperately. Yet, escape was impossible. Once the fire spread, death was inevitable.
A sense of helplessness washed over Yan Tie. The only thing he could do was eliminate all the white-clad assassins as quickly as possible, hoping he could still save a few elderly villagers.
His focus returned to the enemies surrounding him. Their morale had been shattered by his fierce aura. The remaining twenty white-clad n kept retreating, widening the defensive circle, terrified that a single step too close would an instant death.
From a distance, the leader of the white-clad assassins noticed the dire situation. Flanked by two guards, he advanced toward Yan Tie, shoving aside a retreating subordinate. “Step aside! I’ll handle him!” he barked, drawing a silver sword and advancing.
Unlike the standard blades wielded by the others, the leader’s sword was broad, its surface gleaming with a stark white sheen marked by irregular patterns. Without hesitation, he raised the sword and struck.
Yan Tie lifted his spear to parry, but the leader’s sword was unusually sharp. Though deflected, its edge managed to slice off the tip of the spear, embedding it into the snow-covered ground.
Following the montum of his strike, the leader retracted his sword and swiftly thrust it forward. Anticipating the follow-up, Yan Tie angled his spear to deflect it. At this point, his weapon was no longer a spear—rely a heavy iron rod.
The leader chuckled dismissively. “Interesting. Let’s see you handle this.”
Holding the sword upright before his chest, he ran his left hand along the blade, saring it with blood from a self-inflicted wound. The blood flowed through the sword’s patterns, suffusing it entirely.
With a fierce glimr, the leader slashed downward. Yan Tie raised his iron rod, intending to et the force head-on and create an opening for a counterattack.
However, a sudden flash of blinding white light followed the strike. The impact sent Yan Tie staggering two steps back. His weapon had been cleaved in two, and a deep gash stretched from his left shoulder to his right abdon, blood dripping steadily and staining the snow beneath him.
From the burning huts, an elderly voice cried out, “Run! That’s a magic weapon—run! Don’t forget the two children!”
A surge of clarity jolted through Yan Tie’s mind. The children! The flas were already closing in. He had no more strength to save the village. Determined, he turned and fled.
His broken spear halves pierced the throats of two obstructing enemies, creating an opening for his escape. As he ran, he retrieved his bow and arrows, firing backward to hinder the pursuers.
The wound seared with pain, forcing anguished cries from his throat. The sword had cut deep, but the bone remained intact. Only the sheer will to protect the children kept him moving.
The leader of the assassins ordered, “Chase him down! He’s severely wounded—he won’t last long. I’ll catch up shortly.” Turning to his n attacking the wooden huts, he commanded, “Burn it down! We don’t have ti to waste on these old fools. Leave no one alive!”
Yan Tie exhausted his arrows, discarding his bow and quiver before drawing his short sword. His pursuers maintained a cautious distance, wary of the cornered warrior’s desperation. Only when he bled out would they dare close in for the kill.
Reaching a small gate, Yan Tie secured it with its latch, reinforcing it with wooden beams. Only then did he rush toward his father’s residence.
“Father! Why haven’t you left yet? Where is Second Brother?” Yan Tie called out as he entered the largest wooden house in the rear courtyard.
The old village chief, seated in a wheelchair, faced the entrance. A square table before him held a sword, a teapot, and four cups.
Upon seeing his blood-soaked son, the chief asked urgently, “Where are you hurt?”
Yan Tie glanced at his wounds and forced a smile. “It’s nothing—a slash across the chest, but nothing vital. Just hurts a lot. Let carry you out of here. They’ll break in any mont!” His voice trembled with urgency.
The old chief observed the wound and then his son’s strained expression. A gentle smile appeared. “I can’t abandon my old brothers. Besides, in this snow, I’m just a burden. Your second brother has already gone up the mountain to fetch the children. Take care of him and the little ones. He’s thoughtful—listen to him. Now, go. Leave the rest to .”
Yan Tie knew his father’s resolve. With a heavy sigh, he stomped his foot and dashed toward the back courtyard.
In the storehouse, he hastily grabbed a bottle of liquor, a container of dicinal powder, and a roll of bandages. As he turned to leave, a pungent sll caught his attention. Oil had spread across the floor, nearing the entrance. The oil lamp above burned steadily, and several barrels of gunpowder were missing.
Recalling his father’s final words, Yan Tie’s eyes filled with tears. Wiping them away fiercely, he ran toward the wasteland behind the storehouse.
The white-clad leader ordered his n to encircle the estate while leading the remaining assassins to break through the front gate. Their search yielded no signs of life—only the eerie silence of an abandoned hall.
In the central hall, the old chief sat in his wheelchair, smiling serenely. “Guest or foe, all are visitors. Why not sit and state your purpose? An old man like can still offer a humble cup of tea.”
The leader hesitated, montarily stunned. Here to massacre, yet invited to tea—this old man was truly unfathomable.
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