Why do I have so many masters?

Chapter 731: Chapter 37 Stinginess, Generosity (1/2) (3600)

The piercing blade light layered upon itself, unfolding in sequence like the unpredictable flow of autumn water, causing Liu Ling’s old coachman to unwittingly open his mouth wide, feeling as though a chill seeped straight into his bones, even making his eyes feel cold.

By the time the blade light receded, the previously haughty young swordsman who had disregarded the onlookers had already plunged to the ground. Blood was seen flowing from his body, spilling onto the ground and melding into the puddles, creating layers of red diffusion.

With a sudden snap, the forty-three Divine Martial Mansion disciples simultaneously sheathed their swords and stepped back in unison. Apart from the extra tinge of crimson in the puddles and the corpse sprawled on the ground, there was no difference from moments ago, and even the faces of the many warriors from the Divine Martial Mansion were as indifferently normal as ever, with their swords stopping back in their original positions.

This silent display of power brought an oppressive intimidation far more formidable than any raucous roar, causing everyone, friend or foe, to find it somewhat hard to breathe at that moment.

This tactic, known as First Rank Red, was the result of Yuchi Jie’s painstaking contemplation and design. The Divine Martial Mansion practiced it for at least two hours every day, becoming extremely familiar with how to form, change, and slaughter within the formation.

In the blink of an eye just now, the successive flashes of the swords flowed like interlinked ripples on water, and Chen Jinyu was seemingly torn apart alive, with each of his vital points slashed by the Qin waist saber.

Each stroke sought not to cut deep into bone but to follow through in one breath, linked from beginning to end, endlessly circling, giving no chance for the opponent to break free. By the third breath’s time, Chen Jinyu’s protective inner Qi had been shredded by the relentless assault.

By the fifth breath, he no longer could grasp his famous sword tightly.

By the seventh breath, he met an indignant death, his body in disarray and eyes wide open in rage, yet lacking his former defiant spirit, like two dull, dusty stones lying there on the ground.

He was counted as a promising talent of the younger generation within his sword sect. Now fallen here, the middle-aged swordsman should have been filled with regret and anger, ready to fight forward with his sword. But at this moment, those feelings were absent, replaced by a bird startled by the mere twang of a bow, his eyes darting anxiously left and right, pride gone from his heart, leaving only unspeakable horror.