My words have become law; I truly have no desire to display my divine power before others.

The stone lay quietly in his palm, neither hot nor cold, and completely still.

The fine lines are still there, like blood vessels or tree roots.

He stared at the stone, his voice low: "What do I do? How do I get out of here?"

The stone did not react.

The second-in-command grew anxious and raised his voice, "Did you hear that! That bear was killed! You lured that bear demon, you're responsible! If that person comes after us, I'm finished! You need to think of something!"

The stone still didn't react.

The second-in-command stared at it, a nameless fear welling up inside him.

"Hurry up—"

Before he could finish speaking, the stone in his hand suddenly became hot.

It wasn't warm, it was scalding, as hot as a branding iron.

He instinctively tried to let go, but his fingers wouldn't obey him.

The stone was pressed tightly against his palm, as if it were ingrained in his flesh.

Then he heard a soft sound.

"Smack."

The stone cracked.

It didn't crumble into powder; it split in two.

The cracks were neat and tidy, as if they had been cut with a knife.

A plume of black smoke drifted out of the crack, its stench pungent and acrid, choking him and bringing tears to his eyes.

The stone is no longer hot; it has cooled down and looks like an ordinary stone.

The two halves slipped from his palm, fell to the ground, rolled into the fallen leaves, and disappeared.

The second-in-command stood there, looking down at his palm.

My palms are red, like they've been burned, but the marks are slowly fading.

His mind went blank.

The stone abandoned him.

It wasn't him who abandoned the stone, but the stone that abandoned him.

He didn't have time to think about why; he turned around and ran as fast as he could.

He couldn't even care about his men down the mountain.

His heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was going to explode.

He didn't know if he could escape, but he knew that if he didn't run, he would die.

After running for an unknown amount of time, the woods ahead suddenly became brighter.

A path winds through the woods, leading down the mountain.

He quickened his pace, rushed up the path, and was about to run down it—

A figure appeared ahead.

His face immediately showed a hint of horror.

The man stood in the middle of the road, less than ten feet away from him.

He was wearing faded white clothes and holding a deep blue longsword in his hand.

It was that young man, the one who killed the hundred-year-old bear demon with a single sword strike.

The second-in-command stopped in his tracks.

His hand rested on the hilt of the knife at his waist, his whole body tense, like a fully drawn bow.

His gaze was fixed on the man, his mind racing: a direct confrontation?

He was at the peak of his blood transfusion, while his opponent was able to kill a hundred-year-old bear demon with a single sword strike; he was at least a Martial Saint.

Fighting head-on is suicide.

Run? The other party was just in the village a moment ago, and now they're right in front of me. How am I supposed to run?

As he was thinking, the young man suddenly bent over, leaned against a tree, and vomited.

He wasn't faking it; he really was vomiting.

Tears and snot streamed down his face, his complexion was as white as paper, and his hand holding the sword was trembling.

The second-in-command was stunned.

He stared at the man for a few moments to make sure he wasn't acting.

His mind started racing again: What's wrong with this guy?

That last sword strike exhausted his strength.

Or was he already injured?

Never mind, this is an opportunity.

He gritted his teeth, and his internal energy suddenly surged forth.

A faint red glow appeared on his body surface, a sign that his blood and qi were burning.

His muscles bulged, veins stood out, and he looked like he had grown a lot bigger.

His knife was also making a sound, the blade vibrating and emitting a low hum.

A wolf's shadowy silhouette appeared faintly behind them.

That is martial intent.

This thin layer of martial intent was his trump card, something he had never used before.

But I can't worry about that now.

He gripped the knife hilt and took a step forward.

The young man was still vomiting.

The second-in-command has taken another step forward.

He raised his knife, and a faint red light flickered on its blade.

His eyes were fixed on the young man's neck, and he had only one thought in his mind: one cut, just one cut.

Then he turned and ran away.

It's not going forward, it's running back.

He ran even faster than he had come, his feet rustling through the fallen leaves like a startled rabbit.

He had only one thought in his mind: even if the person who killed the hundred-year-old bear demon with a single sword strike was unsteady and vomiting, he was still someone he could not deal with.

He doesn't want to die.

Lü Yang leaned against a tree and vomited everything out of his stomach.

He straightened up, wiped his mouth, and let out a long breath.

The aftereffects of shrinking the earth to an inch were so great that he still felt dizzy.

He subconsciously looked up and stared ahead. What the hell?

Why is someone running?

Didn't I check before and find no one there?

He didn't want his carefully cultivated image of a superior person to be ruined.

He blinked and looked again. It seemed to be a man dressed in black, with broad shoulders and a thick waist.

The person had already run far away, and his silhouette was now just a small black dot as he disappeared into the woods.

Lu Yang was stunned for a moment.

Why are you running so fast?

Before he could react, his hand had already moved.

It wasn't his idea; his hand moved on its own.

He thrust his sword forward, and the sword flew from his hand like a blue lightning bolt, shooting straight towards the ever-shrinking black dot.

The sword light was swift.

It happened so fast that Lü Yang only saw a blue-white arc, drawing a graceful curve in the air, before he heard a muffled thud.

It wasn't the sound of swords clashing, but the sound of a blade cutting through flesh.

The sound was muffled, like a knife cutting into damp wood.

Jianfei is back.

It hovered in front of him for a moment, then slowly fell into his hand.

The sword was clean and spotless, without a drop of blood or even dust.

Lu Yang gripped his sword and looked in that direction.

The black spot had disappeared, and the forest had returned to silence, with only the sound of the wind rustling through the treetops.

He stood there, stunned, for a long while.

Then he lifted his foot, wanting to go over and take a look.

When his foot landed, he missed a step.

It wasn't that I missed a step; I stepped on that unseen stone again.

He leaned forward, and the surrounding scenery began to blur.

The trees are gone, the road is gone.

His stomach churned again.

Then he saw the gate of the village, the cracked door panel, and the bear carcass outside the door panel, cut in two.

I saw Zhao Tieshan, and I saw the four martial artists at the Blood Exchange Realm.

They were staring at him, their eyes wide and mouths agape, as if they had seen a ghost.

Lu Yang's stomach was churning violently, and the acid was rising to his throat.

He gritted his teeth and swallowed it back.

His face was as white as paper, his forehead was covered in cold sweat, and his hands were trembling.

But he stood there, his back ramrod straight, gripping his sword, his face expressionless.

He didn't know if he had learned to resemble the immortal master, but he knew he couldn't vomit.

He couldn't vomit in front of those watching him.

Zhao Tieshan walked over, clasped his hands in a fist salute, and said cautiously, "Young Master Lü, you...you just...resolved it?"

Lu Yang glanced at him but didn't say anything.

He was afraid that he would vomit it out as soon as he opened his mouth.

He simply nodded slightly, then turned around and walked into the village.

He walked slowly, taking each step steadily.

He walked out of the village gate, out of their sight, into the alley, then leaned against the wall, bent over, and dry heaved a few times.

Nothing came out; my stomach was empty.

He leaned against the wall, panting heavily, his eyes brimming with tears.

Although I'm physically tired, I feel satisfied!

As for the person killed by the sword, he must have been the enemy that the immortal master ordered to be killed, although it is unknown what heinous things he had done.

But can a celestial master be wrong?