While I was chanting a curse, the system said I was Xiao Yan?

Shen Er finally stopped.

He turned his head to look at the old woman, a slight curve to his lips, a nonchalant smile, as if he were looking at a small dog barking at him.

"What's wrong, old lady?"

He said, "Now, can't I come here without joining the Panxing Cult?"

"I'm planning to take a look around first before deciding whether to join."

The old woman narrowed her eyes, looking at the lazy man in front of her, somewhat undecided.

Reason told her that this person was suspicious. At this time, in this location, and with the bounty mission, it was almost impossible for an ordinary passerby to come here.

But I can't sense any magical power!

As the hallmark of the world of sorcery, everyone tacitly agrees that people are ranked by their sorcery power. This person in front of us should undoubtedly be classified as a 'mortal'!

but......

Her grandson didn't speak, but he leaned forward slightly, lowered his center of gravity, and raised his hand from his side with his five fingers together, making a gesture as if he could strike at any moment.

His gaze remained fixed on Shen Er.

He doesn't look at faces or clothes, but at Shen'er's posture—standing posture, center of gravity, the angle of his arms, the distance between his feet. Every detail is magnified, analyzed, and evaluated in his eyes.

Then, his pupils contracted slightly.

A bead of cold sweat slid down his forehead.

His lips moved slightly, and his voice was so low that only the witch beside him could hear it.

"grandmother."

"Um?"

"This person... is no ordinary person."

The witch frowned even more deeply: "As expected? But why doesn't he have any magical power?"

"have no idea."

The grandson's voice was low, with an inexplicable tension: "But his body... something's wrong!"

"Just standing there gives me a very powerful feeling!"

Her gaze toward Shen'er changed; it was no longer one of disdain and wariness, but a more complex scrutiny tinged with apprehension.

"So it really is a curse caster who accepted the bounty?"

Her tone remained firm, but her confidence was different from before.

Shen Er tilted his head, as if he had heard a not-so-funny joke: "It's slightly different."

He said calmly, "But I am indeed here to make money."

"It seems there's no way to get around you now."

He began to walk towards the two of them.

The old woman's eyes changed.

Her hand emerged fully from her robe, fingers spread, the runes on her black ring glowing, and a chilling magical power emanating from her.

"Spirit Summoning Technique!"

Her voice was low and deep, like a whisper squeezed from the depths of her throat: "Miyamoto Musashi."

The cursed power surged from her body, transforming into a cloud of grayish-black mist that twisted, tumbled, and condensed in the air. The mist, like a snake, darted from the witch's fingertips and burrowed into her grandson's body.

The grandson's body trembled violently.

His eyes closed, then opened again.

His eyes changed.

It was no longer the calm yet somewhat lifeless gaze of before, but a more aged, deeper, and sharper look, like that of an old general who had experienced countless life-and-death battles.

His breathing became long and steady, his shoulders slumped slightly, his center of gravity lowered, and his fingers curled slightly, as if he were holding an invisible knife.

"Miyamoto Musashi".

The old woman's voice carried an barely suppressed smugness: "Two Heavens One Style, unparalleled in the world. No matter how good your body is, can it be better than the Sword Saint's?"

"Miyamoto Musashi?"

Shen Er repeated the name, the corners of his mouth curving into a wider smile: "Oh, so it's 'Spirit Summoning Technique'."

He had heard of this technique.

The Witch Doctor, a curse master, uses the spell "Descent," which can "spirit" another person's personality, skills, or even body into a living person. The person whose body is spirited will gain that person's combat experience and abilities.

The stronger the target of the descent, the stronger the combat power of the descented one.

Her most frequently used method is to summon spirits from Miyamoto Musashi.

Miyamoto Musashi, one of the most famous swordsmen in Japanese history, was the founder of the Niten Ichi-ryu sword style and was hailed as the "Sword Saint." At his peak, it is said that no swordsman could withstand three moves from him.

Having been sent to the modern world by spirit, he has already achieved the feat of killing a level one sorcerer!

The grandson did not speak.

His gaze fell on Shen'er, his eyes calm, but beneath that calm was the focus of a hunter locking onto his prey.

He reached for his waist and pulled a knife from his belt.

The knife was not long, about seventy centimeters long, with a slightly curved blade. The edge gleamed coldly in the dim light of the alley. The handle was wrapped with black silk thread, which fit perfectly in the young man's hand.

His grip on the knife changed.

It wasn't the way a young person would hold a sword, but rather the way Miyamoto Musashi would hold a sword. He held the sword in his right hand with the tip slightly downward, his body turned to the side of the enemy, and his left hand hung naturally at his side. He was like an old pine tree rooted in the ground, incredibly steady.

Then, he moved.

Without warning, without any starting stance, without even the sound of footsteps, his body seemed to be pulled by an invisible thread, going from stillness to extreme speed with almost no transition.

It moved so fast that it left only a blurry afterimage in the air.

In that instant, the air in the alley seemed to be torn apart by something, emitting a sharp whistling sound.

With a flash of light, the blade slashed upwards, aiming straight for Shen'er's throat.

The angle, timing, and force of that strike were all perfect.

The blade flashed, tearing through the air and producing a sharp whistling sound.

This one strike, this one cut, is enough to split a person in two!

But Shen Er only turned his body slightly to the side.

The movement was small and subtle, not even like a deliberate dodge; it was more like someone walking down the street, hearing the wind behind them, and instinctively turning their head slightly.

The blade grazed his chin, striking the air with a muffled "hiss," but didn't even touch a single hair on his body.

The grandson's pupils suddenly contracted.

His second strike was already underway; almost the instant the first strike missed, the second strike came down from another angle.

This is the core of the Two Heavens First Class, a continuous attack that gives the enemy no chance to breathe.

Then, Shen Er moved.

His right hand was not quick when he pulled it out of his pocket; in fact, it was quite slow.

But in the next instant, his hand grabbed his grandson's wrist.

No tricks, no techniques, just pure speed!

The grandson's expression changed.

He felt as if his wrist was being clamped by an iron clamp, his bones were cracking, his blood flow was being cut off, and his entire hand was going numb, starting from his fingers.

He struggled for a moment, but his wrist was as if it were welded to the iron frame, unable to move. The force was so great that it was not the strength that a human should have. It was as if he had been bitten by a ferocious beast and could not break free at all!