Chapter Thirteen: Yao Bodang, Die!

It was as if time had reversed.

Yao Bodang and the songstress clashed once again, this time with the tide of victory tipping even faster than before.

Though the old bandit was a bit advanced in years, his robust and powerful frame was evident, his internal strength profound, and his experience overwhelming. Previously, he had only been toying with the songstress; now, despite lingering discomfort in his arms and a heaviness in his chest, achieving an easy victory was far from difficult.

Soon, the songstress found herself in grave peril, feeling as though a single move away from death.

“Swish!”

Startled by the sound, Yao Bodang’s technique faltered. By the time he registered the thud of a chicken bone piercing a pillar—realizing Zhang Chengyi had not actually thrown the bone at him—it was already too late.

With a sharp hiss, a deep gash split his chest.

The songstress, invigorated, pressed the attack relentlessly, causing Su Xinghe to shake his head privately, ready to intervene and save her.

Pursuing a fleeing opponent is not a poor tactic in martial contests, but only if one possesses the requisite skill. Weak forward strikes, clumsy backhand moves, sloppy techniques, and scant experience rendered the pursuit useless, exposing unnecessary openings that gave Yao Bodang his chance.

Sure enough, the old bandit seized the opportunity with keen instinct, slashing brutally toward the songstress’s neck—a strike that if landed would sever life instantly.

Meanwhile, several bandits from the Qin family stronghold, taking advantage of the duel in the center that captivated everyone’s attention, quietly changed their grip on their knives.

Su Xinghe failed to notice this, his focus entirely drawn to the songstress’s side.

He was no novice. As a disciple of Wuyazi, even if his martial focus was divided, he remained a top-tier expert in the martial world. His back-and-forth clashes with Ding Chunqiu in novels alone testified to his prowess. Though he might not always win, the fact he could hold his own was impressive.

But his confidence in Zhang Chengyi’s strength was absolute, and with his master clearly biased toward the songstress, he completely overlooked the Qin bandits’ intent to strike at their master.

“Swish!”

Another familiar sound of a chicken bone slicing through the air. Yao Bodang, now reckless and driven by savage fury, pressed blindly toward the songstress’s neck.

He relied on his trust in his men to land a surprise attack; even if they couldn’t kill the despicable man, he was willing to die alongside the wretched woman.

“Shing!” “Crack!”

The simultaneous clash of blades slicing the air and the snap of breaking steel echoed almost in unison.

Yao Bodang had thought death was imminent, but to his astonishment, the chicken bone missed him and struck his blade instead, breaking it. Elation burst within him because he recognized the source of the blade’s slicing sound.

Besides the famed Five Tigers Broken Gate Blades, the Qin bandits possessed a unique throwing knife technique called “Roaring Descent,” devastating in power. When multiple knives were hurled together, evading them was nearly impossible—especially during a surprise attack.

He looked over with a hopeful expression, only for his face to freeze in shock.

“Keep going,” Zhang Chengyi said calmly, twirling a single knife in his hand while the rest of the knives thrown lay neatly arranged on the table.

To him, the so-called “Roaring Descent” was nothing more than slow-moving projectiles, crawling like snails. He plucked them down one by one as if picking apricots, even meticulously lining them up in order.

“Pffft!”

Yao Bodang froze, but the songstress did not—she drove her sword straight into his shoulder socket.

Had it not been for her seasoned experience allowing her to twist the blade just before impact, he would have become a corpse then and there.

With one arm disabled and no weapon in hand, he was now truly on equal footing with the songstress, and the two engaged in a fierce, clumsy skirmish.

“Thud!”

One of the bandits who had thrown a knife at Zhang Chengyi tried to flee, but the knife returned with lightning speed. A dull thud sounded as it pinned the bandit’s palm to the table.

“You gave it to me. I’m just returning it. Fair, isn’t it?” Zhang Chengyi said with a smile.

“Run!” someone shouted, and the Qin bandits scattered in all directions, even Yao Bodang abandoning his post.

When life hangs by a thread, how many can truly face death without fear?

After all, Yao Bodang was not one of the Qin family, and their stronghold was a bandit mountain camp. In the novels, they had desperately sought to defeat Sima Lin of the Qingcheng Sect, who nearly assassinated him with hidden weapons to maintain their dignity. Now, faced with an unimaginable enemy, no one was willing to die for him.

Su Xinghe was about to intervene when the knives on the table almost simultaneously returned to their master’s hands, pinning him firmly to walls, pillars, tables, and the floor.

One unlucky bandit was flipped over just as his crotch brushed a stove, sparking flames that ignited his pants. Yet, pierced through the palm, the pain prevented him from realizing the new peril he faced.

Throwing knives—without even employing the “Roaring Descent” technique—were easily wielded by Zhang Chengyi with deadly accuracy, speed, and precision.

His physical conditioning wasn’t like a game where you just add strength or speed. True constitution growth affected the entire being—except for the profound and mysterious comprehension and innate traits, all increased together. Becoming a sharpshooter capable of hitting a target a hundred paces away was effortless for him.

Wiping the oil smudges from his lips with a handkerchief, he stood with a calm expression. “Now, among all of you, only these two are spared. Anyone else who moves, dies.”

“Tremble!” Two chopsticks were pressed beside the ears of a terrified, fallen Qin bandit. He was so scared he lost control entirely, his face collapsing in despair, but he dared not move an inch.

“Wretched woman! Wretched woman! Wretched woman!” Yao Bodang screamed madly. One eye had been injured by a sword in their earlier tussle, and the creeping approach of death was driving him insane. Perhaps adrenaline surged, for he gathered strength in a palm strike, sending the songstress flying, roaring:

“Ranger, what kind of hero are you!”

“Shameless fiend, using hidden weapons to harm, your heart is like a snake and scorpion. I’ll fight you to the death!”

Disheveled, battered, and mad, he staggered forward a few steps before his strength drained away. His knees buckled, and he sank halfway down, scanning the fearful and terrified faces around him before looking down at his chest.

That’s right.

Why had the songstress been flung by his palm? Because a long sword had pierced through his chest.

But his body, riddled with wounds and pain, had long numbed the sensation. Fueled by fury, he unleashed his last strength before death...

Only to perform a pitiful farce for others.

A strange smile twisted Yao Bodang’s face as blood bubbled at his lips. His single, intact eye stared venomously at Zhang Chengyi. His exhausted body could no longer sustain speech.

If not for this sudden scoundrel’s appearance, how could it have come to this...?

His final strength faded, consciousness slipped away, darkness enveloped him, and he collapsed sideways. Within moments, he breathed no more; his chest ceased to rise and fall.

Yao Bodang, chief of the Qin family stronghold.

Dead.