Chapter 397: Chapter 181: Tiger Monarch

Huang Feng was the name of the tiger Chen Cheng was riding.

He knew because he had found an identification tag for Huang Feng, along with a map, in a pouch on the side of the saddle. It was clearly something Steward Sun had prepared in advance.

He leaned to the side, pulled out the map, and once again confirmed the direction of Grass Vulture Mountain.

Since Yunlei City was in the complete opposite direction, he had no intention of wasting time by going there. Instead, he would head directly for Grass Vulture Mountain.

And while checking the way to Grass Vulture Mountain, he also made a point to note the location of another place: Feidang Mountain.

...

Grass Vulture Mountain. The bandits’ den.

The stronghold’s main gate lay shattered, splinters of wood littering the ground.

Several gaps had been torn in the stone ramparts, and fallen rubble revealed the rammed earth core within.

The bodies of bandits lay strewn about the central clearing of the fortress. Severed limbs were scattered everywhere, and blood flowed in rivers.

Broken blades, shattered shields, and snapped Arrows lay scattered amongst the heaps of corpses. The air was thick with the smell of iron and the characteristic stench of ruptured organs.

Huang Jiao stood amidst the piles of corpses, the Longsword in her hand angled toward the ground, its tip still dripping blood.

Her pale yellow tunic was spattered with only a few dark red specks of blood, its hem unwrinkled.

Her expression was placid and her breathing even. There wasn’t a single bead of sweat on her brow. It was as if the recent slaughter had been nothing more than trivial child’s play.

The other six members of her group were scattered around her, each in a different pose.

One man leaned against a fortress pillar with his arms crossed, his saber already sheathed. The toe of his boot tapped lightly at a severed head on the ground.

Another crouched on the stone steps, delicately pinching a speck of dust from the cuff of his brocade sleeve. He flicked it away, then patted the spot clean.

A third was propped against a broken flagpole, lazily flipping a blood-stained copper coin over and over in his hand.

Nearby, the remaining three were laughing and joking, already planning which pleasure house in Yunlei City they would visit after this.

After such a huge battle, the worst they had suffered were slightly sullied clothes.

"They all said the bandits on Grass Vulture Mountain were nothing but paper tigers. I used to be skeptical..."

Huang Jiao sheathed her Longsword. She smiled, perfectly composed, and said,

"After today’s battle, I can confirm it. They were laughably weak."

"Heh, isn’t that the truth?"

The young man with his foot on the severed head jeered,

"The Military Merit from the Patrol Office, the reward from the Zhang Family... it’s like we’re getting paid for nothing! If making money is always this easy, our little alliance of seven will be a massive force before we know it! Seventy strong, then seven thousand, then seventy thousand... Heh heh!"

"Who’s there?!"

Suddenly, the young man toying with the copper coin froze. His gaze, sharp as a blade, shot toward the fortress gate.

The coin slipped from his fingers, clinking as it rolled into a pile of corpses. He paid it no mind.

An instant later, the eyes of the other six were fixed on the same spot.

Framed by the splintered remains of the gate, a small, wizened old man with a hunched back shuffled slowly inside.

He wore a filthy sheepskin vest. The gray-white wool was matted into greasy clumps, full of grass and dirt.

His coarse trousers were rolled to his knees, revealing two shriveled, sun-darkened calves. He wore a pair of tattered straw sandals, and the cracks between his rough toes were caked with grime.

At a glance, he looked like a farmhand so frail he probably couldn’t even lift a hoe. In any village, no one would have given him a second look.

And yet, he had walked right up to them, and not one of the seven masters present had sensed a thing until he simply appeared in the gateway.

"This old man is more than he seems! Together!"

The young man with his foot on the head stomped down, crushing the skull. He used the momentum to launch himself forward.

The others, not daring to underestimate him, drew their blades and swarmed in as well.

In a flash of movement, their figures blurred as they completely surrounded the old man.

Flashes from their sabers and swords wove a dense, inescapable net of steel that descended upon the frail figure.

"Ah, youth... no respect for the warrior’s code..."

The old man pursed his lips. His face, a crosshatch of deep wrinkles, was like a parched field carved by wind and frost. His murky eyes were half-closed, but his lips were turned up at the corners in a ghostly, not-quite-smile.

As a Refined Iron Long Saber chopped down at him, the little old man simply raised one hand in a casual, almost dismissive, gesture.

He held his index and middle fingers together, their tips waiting in the path of the descending blade. At the perfect moment, he flicked them.

TING! A crisp sound, as clear as a resonant chime, echoed in the ears of all present.

In the next instant, the valuable Refined Iron Long Saber shattered.

It shattered like fine porcelain, exploding into countless fingernail-sized shards.

But the shards didn’t scatter. Instead, as if tugged by invisible threads, they all shot backward in unison.

The young man, left holding nothing but the hilt, went rigid.

The countless Refined Iron shards pierced his Transforming Force Barrier and his body as easily as if they were passing through tofu.

A dense spray of blood erupted from his back as the shards shot through, burying themselves in the stone wall several yards away.

He didn’t even manage a grunt. His body, as if boneless, crumpled to the ground.

In the next instant, the little old man parted his two fingers just enough to deftly catch a blade that was sweeping toward his throat.

Without any apparent effort, he snapped the Refined Iron blade as if it were a rotten twig.

Before anyone could react, the broken half of the sword flew back and pierced through the head of the woman who wielded it.

The Broken Sword’s momentum didn’t falter. As if guided by an invisible hand, it passed through the woman’s head, then carved a sharp arc through the air to skim past the neck of the person beside her.

In the blink of an eye, the man’s neck was sliced halfway through. His head flopped to one side, held on by only a flap of skin and muscle at the back. A column of blood geysered three feet high from the gash.

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