Killing Monks

"Killing the Monk" - Stunning writing style and a thrilling plot!

(Don't bother reading this, it's just random stuff I wrote.)

But it has always been there. Waiting, waiting for an opportunity. Now the opportunity has arrived.

Golden light surged from the mirror, not in a wisp, but in a burst, like the sun leaping out from behind the clouds, its radiance dazzling and blinding.

The moment those Heavenly Realm warriors were pierced by the golden light, their world went awry. It wasn't that they couldn't see, but that they saw things they shouldn't have seen.

They saw their past, the people they had killed, the expressions on their faces as they died, their eyes, and their own faces reflected in those eyes.

Those faces were twisted and grotesque, not like humans, but like ghosts. They killed so many people, yet they never considered themselves ghosts.

Now they realize it. They feel like ghosts, and their hearts tremble; their hearts tremble, and their hands shake; their hands shake, and their knives become unsteady; their knives become unsteady, and they can't kill anyone.

They may not have been afraid of mirrors before, but the one who used the mirror was Guangyuan!

Guangyuan is also a Heavenly Realm expert.

He did not waste the opportunity.

He flashed and was already in front of the third person. That person had his eyes closed, struggling with the illusions in his mind. His face was contorted beyond recognition, drool was dripping from the corner of his mouth, and his hands were flailing wildly in the air like a drowning person grasping at straws.

Guangyuan didn't look at him; he looked behind him.

The fourth man was breaking free from the golden light. His eyes had adjusted to it, his sword had regained its steadiness, and his killing intent had returned.

He was the strongest of the eight, so strong that Guangyuan recognized him at a glance. Strong people should be killed first. If you don't, he'll kill you.

Guangyuan's body slid past the third person's shoulder, like water flowing around a stone. His right hand emerged from under the third person's armpit and pressed a palm against the fourth person's chest.

This palm strike is different from the one before.

The previous palm strike was "gathering" power; this one is "releasing" it. "Releasing" means expelling all the power within your body, leaving nothing behind. Once you've expelled it, you're empty; once empty, you're light; once light, you're fast; once fast, you win.

When the fourth person was thrown out, a section of his chest collapsed.

It wasn't a fracture, it was a shattered bone. The shattered bone pierced the lung, causing it to rupture, air to leak out, blood to rush up, and block the throat.

He wanted to shout, but couldn't; he wanted to cough, but couldn't; he wanted to breathe, but couldn't. He opened his eyes and looked at the roof, which was very high, as high as the sky.

There were stars in the sky, very bright, just like the ones he had seen in the mountains when he was a child. Back then, he was too young to know what murder or death was.

Now he knows. Knowing is the end of it.

Guangyuan did not stop.

His body spun in the air, like a kite blown off course by the wind, drifting towards the fifth person. That person had not yet broken free from the golden light; his eyes were closed, his knife hung limply, and his body trembled slightly.

Guangyuan touched his brow with her fingertip, a light, fleeting touch, like a dragonfly skimming the water. The man froze. Not dead, but frozen in place.

His consciousness was drawn into a deeper illusion by Guangyuan's finger, so deep that he believed it to be real.

It's true, he can't get out. If he can't get out, he'll live in that world forever.

That world had everything he wanted—power, money, women, immortality. He could have whatever he desired.

Having everything, he didn't want to come back. Not wanting to come back meant staying there forever. Staying there was better than death. A million times better.

The remaining three people woke up.

They broke free from the golden light, opened their eyes, and saw the corpses of their companions—one with a broken shoulder, one with a shattered chest, and one frozen in place, motionless, like a wax figure.

Their hearts sank. Not out of fear, but because they knew they couldn't kill Guangyuan today. If they couldn't kill him, they had to run. If they couldn't escape, they would die.

If you don't want to die, you have to fight. Fighting might save you; not fighting means certain death. They chose to fight.

Three swords slashed down simultaneously from three directions.

There were no fancy moves, no superfluous actions, only the blade. The blade was so fast that it sliced ​​through the air with a piercing whistle.

The knife was heavy, so heavy that even before the blade touched the ground, the wind emanating from it was suffocating. The knife was cold, so cold that frost would form in the air where the blade flashed.

Guangyuan did not back down.

His hands drew a circle in the air. The circle wasn't big, just enough to protect his body. The three swords struck the circle, as if they were striking an invisible sphere; the blades slid away, disappearing in different directions.

Their strength was completely neutralized by the circle, leaving not a trace. Their bodies leaned forward from the excessive force, revealing a weakness in their chests.

Guangyuan didn't look at the flaws; he looked into their eyes. What was in their eyes?

There is fear. A person who is afraid will slow down their knife. That momentary slowness is enough for them to do a lot.

His right hand gripped the back of the knife on the left, his left hand pushed aside the blade of the knife on the right, and the middle knife grazed past his ear, shaving off a lock of his hair.

Her hair floated in the air, blown about by the wind.

He tilted his head slightly, avoiding the blade, and at the same time raised his knee, striking the middle man in the abdomen. The man bent over, and Guangyuan's elbow struck him on the back of the head.

He collapsed to the ground, face down, motionless. He wasn't dead, he was unconscious. Being unconscious is better than being dead. When you're unconscious, you don't feel pain.

If you don't feel pain, you won't suffer.

The remaining two men still had their knives, but they didn't want to cut anymore.

It wasn't that they didn't want to, it was that they dared not. Their hands were trembling, and so were their knives, that the light on their blades shattered.

The shattered light fell on Guangyuan's face, cutting his expression into pieces, making it impossible to discern whether it was joy, anger, sorrow, or happiness. Unable to see clearly, they dared not move.

If you don't move, you might live; if you move, you'll certainly die. If you don't want to die, you can't move.

Guangyuan looked at them without saying a word.

His hands hung limply at his sides, blood dripping from his fingertips. It wasn't his blood; it was someone else's. He stood there, amidst the chaos, among the fallen, bathed in the golden light of the mirror.

The golden light gradually dimmed, dimmed, and disappeared.

After the fire was extinguished, the room went dark again.

It got dark, and then it was quiet. In the quiet, you could hear his heartbeat. It was his own heartbeat, steady and firm.

His steps were as steady as his hands, as fluid as his words, "Gathering, transforming, circulating, and releasing." It wasn't that he wasn't afraid, it was that he couldn't be afraid. If he was afraid, he would lose. If he lost, he would have nothing left.

He bent down, picked up the shaved hair from the ground, looked at it, and put it in his pocket.

Then he straightened up, dusted off his robes, walked to a chair, and sat down. He closed his eyes and continued rubbing his temples.

It's as if nothing ever happened.

But everything happened.

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