Chapter 7: Uncle Fu Reveals His True Strength

“All right, I’ve given you time. Clearly you’re out of options. Rest in peace and join your family below,” the man in the azure robe said calmly.

He drew his sword; the blade flashed like lightning, slicing through the darkness as it swung toward Yang Tian.

“Young master, run!” cried Yang He and the others, stepping forward as one to shield Yang Tian, their blades clashing with the oncoming strike.

Crack—crack—

Their strength had already been reduced to a mere fraction; how could they withstand such an attack? In a single blow, they were forced back, grievously wounded, coughing up blood.

“Such loyalty… Then go together and keep protecting him in the afterlife,” the azure-robed man said, sauntering forward leisurely, utterly unconcerned that Yang Tian might escape.

Yang Tian remained eerily calm. His hand slipped into his robe, ready to draw out his Literary Dao treasure. He had been secretly gathering his literary aura all along.

“Lay a finger on the young master, and you die!” a harsh voice thundered. Suddenly, Wang Fu appeared.

Yang Tian froze, astonished. In his memory, Uncle Fu had never been a cultivator. The man had hidden himself far too well; his former self had no inkling.

Yang He and the others were equally dumbfounded.

Wang Fu gripped a writing brush, and with a stroke in the air, he inscribed the character “Kill.”

Immediately, murderous intent filled the air. The character seemed to come alive, each brushstroke a deadly strike, surging at the azure-robed man.

This was the attack method of a practitioner of the Literary Dao.

“To kill within ten paces, and travel a thousand miles unseen!” Wang Fu recited loudly.

The character “Kill” gleamed even brighter.

Yang Tian was dazed—wasn’t this the poem he had written just that day? He was sure it did not exist in this world. Uncle Fu must have seen it in the study and, from its verses, comprehended his own killing technique.

Uncle Fu’s mastery of the Literary Dao was by no means weak.

Finally, the azure-robed man’s expression changed. He swung his sword repeatedly, sword energy crossing with the living character, locked in fierce combat.

“You’re Wang Fu, steward of the Champion Marquis’s residence?” he shouted. “I never imagined you were a practitioner of the Literary Dao, and at the eighth rank no less. You hid yourself well. How is your power unrestrained, your literary aura so abundant, and how do your verses embody such deadly force? What is going on?” he demanded, even as they fought.

His words revealed his shock and confusion. None of the intelligence on the Champion Marquis’s household had ever mentioned Wang Fu being a cultivator.

Worse yet, in these times, the highest attainable rank in the Literary Dao was the eighth. It was simply inconceivable.

Even more astonishing, Wang Fu maintained the full combat strength of an eighth-rank Literary Dao practitioner. Ever since the path of the Literary Dao was severed a millennium ago, all such practitioners’ powers had been suppressed, their literary aura insufficient, their techniques greatly weakened.

The azure-robed man was riddled with questions he longed to solve. But Wang Fu had no intention of answering.

Under Wang Fu’s relentless assault, the azure-robed man could no longer maintain a composed facade. He was now the one on the defensive.

“Tell me, who is your master? I’ll spare you torture and leave your corpse whole,” Wang Fu demanded.

“Never! You think you can really kill me?” the other man roared.

“Uncle Fu, kill him. Don’t bother asking,” Yang Tian ordered.

He could see Uncle Fu overwhelming the foe—killing him was no challenge. There was little hope of extracting the mastermind’s name from the man’s lips.

Better to kill swiftly and cleanly, avoiding any unexpected mishaps. This man was the best example—if he had struck in silence at the first moment with his skill, Yang Tian would already be dead.

He suspected Uncle Fu had only just arrived; had the man not wasted time talking, Wang Fu would not have made it in time.

Thus, Yang Tian resolved: never waste words when killing, never delay for any reason.

“Yes, young master,” Wang Fu replied, unleashing even greater power.

As the man tried to flee, Wang Fu’s brush traced “Kill” after “Kill” in the air, the characters surrounding and pursuing him. Countless glowing “Kill” characters interwove with the flashes of sword energy, the murderous aura overwhelming.

In less than ten minutes, Wang Fu returned, dragging the corpse of the azure-robed man.

“Uncle Fu, did you recognize him?” Yang Tian asked.

Wang Fu looked startled; he was just about to report, surprised that the young master had already guessed it. He was truly extraordinary.

Yang He and the others felt they no longer recognized their young master. He had surprised and confounded them so much today; he was not the same as before.

“Let’s not talk now,” Yang Tian said after a moment’s thought, “We should hurry on, just in case.”

Such moments were often when unexpected dangers arose. Even as an eighth-rank Literary Dao cultivator, Wang Fu was not invincible. The best course was to press on.

No one objected; they mounted up and rode hard through the night.

It was only at dawn that they finally stopped to rest. Their horses were foaming at the mouth from exhaustion.

They were still some distance from the next city. They decided to rest, let the horses graze, and enter the city once they had recovered.

“Young master, that man was Wang Qifeng, known as Master Greenpeak, a seventh-rank martial cultivator and a retainer of the Second Prince,” Wang Fu reported.

Yang Tian ate his dry rations without any particular emotion.

Yang He and the others felt rage burning within. Now they understood—most likely the Second Prince had orchestrated the deaths of the Marquis and the eldest young master.

“Young master, we—”

“Enough! Hold your tongues and behave. The young master will make his own decisions,” Wang Fu snapped, suppressing their outcry.

He too was furious, but recklessness was not an option. Even if they suspected the killer, there was no evidence. And with their current circumstances, could they go back for vengeance? They would only be sending themselves to their doom.

Revenge would have to be carefully planned.

Wang Fu hoped the young master would stay calm and not be blinded by hatred. Survival was what the late Marquis would have wanted.

He changed the subject, curiosity in his voice: “Young master, how did you know I would recognize the man?”

He truly had no idea.

Yang He and the others, struggling to contain their anger, all turned to Yang Tian.

Yang Tian had no wish to discuss the mastermind; it was enough to remember.

“I was only guessing, but it seems I was right,” he replied. “The man had seventh-rank martial prowess. Why didn’t his master have him assassinate us directly, instead of sending black-clad killers first? Likely because he wasn’t obscure; if something went wrong, his identity would be exposed. Those black-clad men were probably deathsworn, with no clues to offer.”

The others suddenly understood.

They looked at Yang Tian with eyes full of awe and admiration. The young master was too clever—his mind so quick, his reasoning so sharp.

“If you hadn’t been so resourceful and outwitted those two groups of black-clad men, Wang Qifeng would never have shown himself, and Uncle Fu wouldn’t have had the chance to kill him and reveal his identity,” Yang He marveled.

“Oh? Two groups of black-clad men? Yang He, what exactly happened?” Wang Fu demanded, alarmed. Was there someone else besides the Second Prince who wanted the young master dead?

“Er… Uncle Fu, it’s best if the young master explains. We’re still not sure how he did it ourselves,” Yang He replied awkwardly, scratching his head.

They all gazed at Yang Tian with the avid curiosity of eager students.