Elderly Martial Saint: Sixty Times the Cultivation Speed ​​at the Start

The deeper you go, the stronger the smell of blood becomes. The first dead guard appears at the boundary between the semi-underground level and the underground level.

The jailer, in his early twenties, collapsed at his post, a clean-edged horizontal cut on his neck.

The man who made the cut had a very steady hand. His right hand was still on the hilt of the knife, and the blade was only pulled out two inches before he had a chance to draw it.

Yi Yang walked past him without stopping, and after a few more steps, there were two more bodies.

One of them had his abdomen pierced, with half of his intestines sticking out. He was curled up in the corner and had stopped breathing.

The other one was leaning against the iron railing, a broken iron nail stuck in his right eye socket, his face still showing a look of shock, having died unexpectedly.

At the corner of the stone steps, the door of one cell was wide open and it was empty. The next cell was also empty.

Continue down to the second partition door on the basement level.

A figure darted out from behind the dark wall on the side, holding a bloodstained dagger, and stabbed at Yi Yang's waist.

Yi Yang shifted his feet slightly, taking half a step to the side. The dagger grazed the hem of his official robe at his waist, cutting a slit in the fabric.

He swung his sword backhand, the back of the blade striking the other man's wrist. The sound of bones breaking was particularly crisp in the narrow passageway. The dagger flew out of his hand, clinked twice, and embedded itself in a crack in the wall.

The man groaned and stumbled backward. Before he could regain his footing, Yi Yang's blade had already swept across his neck from below, spraying blood onto the wall and drawing a fan shape.

The person collapsed. Yi Yang stepped on him, his boot sinking into the still-wet pool of blood, the sticky sensation spreading up from his feet.

Further ahead, from behind the corner of the passageway came rapid breathing and suppressed groans. Yi Yang turned the corner and saw three people.

The two were prison guards who were trapped. One of them was older and had his left arm cut off. His companion was using his own belt to tie a tourniquet on him.

In a flurry of activity, the bleeding wouldn't stop, gushing out from the cut. The younger man's face was covered in tears, and his hands trembled so much that he couldn't tie a knot.

There was another prisoner who had escaped from his cell, lying three steps away with a broken piece of iron bars stuck in his chest. He was already dead—judging from the marks, it must have been the one-armed jailer who had desperately stabbed him in.

Yi Yang walked over, squatted down to help check the situation. The one-armed jailer had already started rolling his eyes; he had lost too much blood, and his face was as white as rice paper.

Yi Yang reached out and pinched three inches above his severed arm. His internal energy emanated from his body, and a very fine wisp of it precisely sealed two major blood vessels.

The bleeding that the guard had been unable to stop was stopped immediately. It wasn't that Yi Yang had learned any hemostatic techniques; he simply used his internal energy to squeeze the blood vessel walls from the outside. It wasn't a particularly sophisticated method, but it was fast.

The young prison guard stared blankly as the bleeding suddenly stopped. His lips trembled for a long time before he finally uttered:

"M-Sir, what's wrong...?"

"Stop talking nonsense, carry him upstairs, find a corner to sit against the wall and wait for reinforcements."

Yi Yang stood up, tossed the water pouch from his waist to the young jailer, and said, "Give him some water, but don't let him fall asleep, or he won't wake up."

The young jailer, clutching the water bag, wept even more bitterly, stammering, "Your Excellency's kindness..."

"roll."

Before the other person could finish speaking, Yi Yang continued walking for less than ten steps and encountered two more fugitives.

These two are more troublesome than the previous ones. They are at the fourth level of Qi and Blood, and they are wearing uniforms that they took from the prison guards.

The two men, each carrying a short knife and with bloodshot eyes, charged at Yi Yang with howls as they saw his blood-stained official robes.

Yi Yang did not use any of the Nine Peaks Saber techniques.

There are only two moves: draw the sword and sheathe it.

Yi Yang had no intention of leaving any of these escaped prisoners alive, for a simple reason:

The prison is in turmoil, fires are breaking out everywhere, and fugitives are running rampant. If you release him today, he might kill an innocent person tomorrow.

Yi Yang was not a kind person, but he would do things that were convenient for him.

Along the way, he couldn't remember how many people he had killed. Ten? Thirteen? Maybe more.

With each kill, Yi Yang's official robes gained another layer of blood, until finally even his cuffs were dripping.

He left a footprint with every step, dark red, which stood out conspicuously on the gray-white stone slabs, but his breathing remained unchanged from beginning to end.

The stone steps led to the place where Feng Haiyuan, the Grand Deacon of the Nine Evil Cults, was imprisoned. Yi Yang's senses had already discerned the situation inside.

The fluctuations of the three people's qi and blood burned in my senses like three balls of fire, one large and two small. The large ball represented the fifth level of qi and blood, while the two smaller balls represented the fourth level of perfection.

Of course, there was a fourth person—Feng Haiyuan, whose breath was weak but far from being exhausted.

One of the Blood-Suppressing Nails on his body was removed, leaving the other one still inside his shoulder blade. However, the seal had loosened, and his blood and qi were slowly returning, allowing his strength to recover.

The sound of chains coming from behind the door came out, a rattling sound of black iron being cut.

Upon hearing this sound, Yi Yang drew his sword and stepped across the threshold.

The prison area was small, with walls made of cast iron that swallowed most of the light. Only the firelight filtering through the open doors cast a flickering orange-red glow on the ground.

At that moment, three people were surrounding Feng Haiyuan. The one making the move was a burly man with a face full of scars. He was holding a pair of specially made iron pliers and was about to break the last black iron shackle on Feng Haiyuan's left wrist.

The burly man's forehead veins bulged, and with each twist of the pliers, the shackles emitted a sharp, metallic wail.

His strength is at the peak of the fourth level of Qi and Blood.

To the left of the burly man stood a lean man, around thirty-five or thirty-six years old, with prominent cheekbones and deep-set eyes. His hands were behind his back as he watched the burly man operate the equipment, his lips pressed into a thin line. He was none other than the expert at the fifth level of Qi and Blood, the Refining Realm.

The third person stood guard at the prison entrance, his back against the iron bars, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his eyes fixed on the direction of the passageway. He was naturally the remaining person with the fourth level of perfect Qi and Blood.

The three people who were being rescued all heard the change in the commotion above; the sounds of fighting that had been coming down were no longer getting louder, but rather getting quieter.

Something was very wrong, but the three of them didn't have the energy to investigate, since one of their missions was to rescue Feng Haiyuan, the Grand Deacon of the Nine Evil Cults.

The lean man standing by frowned; he could sense something was wrong.

According to the plan, the released prisoners, along with the infiltrators, should have turned the entire prison into chaos, and the guards wouldn't have been able to handle it. But now, the screams and cries from above are disappearing one by one, as if something is sweeping away layer by layer from top to bottom.

"hurry up."

The lean man lowered his voice, urging the burly man to hurry, his words quicker than before: "The situation upstairs is bad, we need to act fast!"

Hearing his boss urging him on, the burly man gritted his teeth and twisted the pliers two more times, the iron pliers making a screeching sound.

"Click."

The last shackle broke, and the two pieces of black iron fell to the ground with a dull thud. Feng Haiyuan, who had been imprisoned for three or four days, moved his wrists.

The deep, purplish-black marks left by the shackles chafed his skin in several places. His cracked lips parted, revealing teeth covered in blood scabs, and he was about to speak when—

Footsteps echoed down the stairs, unhurried and slow, descending step by step from the top of the stone steps.

Each step was steady and rhythmic, and finally the firelight illuminated the figure coming down from the darkness.

First, there was a pair of boots stained with blood, then the official robes of the candidate inspector general soaked in blood, and finally, that somewhat wrinkled face.

Yi Yang held his sword in his right hand, tip pointing downwards, with blood dripping down in a line, "drip, drip" onto the stone slab, the sound particularly clear in the quiet hardened criminal area.

Upon hearing this sound, the three people with lower strength turned around at the same time.

The goalkeeper's hand was already gripping the hilt of his knife. The burly man threw away the pliers and reached for the short blade at his waist. The lean man leaned forward half an inch, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet, ready to strike at any moment.

Then they saw the newcomer's face clearly. Upon seeing this face, the burly man and the lean man exchanged a glance, and the tense vigilance in their eyes relaxed slightly. The three of them immediately breathed a sigh of relief.

The old jailer, a man with four layers of qi and blood, even let out a soft snort when he saw that it was Yi Yang who had come down, and removed his hand from the short blade.

At this moment, Feng Haiyuan in the prison also raised his head. His disheveled hair hung down from his forehead, covering most of his face. The only eye that was exposed gleamed with a cold light in the firelight.

He looked Yi Yang up and down at the layers of bloodstains on his body, and said in a hoarse voice, as if sandpaper was grinding against iron, "It seems that Chen Wuyai has some skill."

Yi Yang ignored the other person's voice and stood at the bottom of the stone steps, blood still dripping from the tip of his knife.

Feng Haiyuan leaned against the wall and slowly propped himself up. Although he had been locked up for so many days, although there was still a blood-suppressing nail inserted in his shoulder blade, and although most of his qi and blood had been sealed off.

But in the way he stood up, there was not a trace of the humility of a prisoner.

He tilted his head, his chapped lips moving slightly, his tone flippant as if he were chatting, as if he knew everything:

"He actually anticipated this situation and arranged for you, a master of Qi and Blood at the fifth level, to guard this place."

It's normal that he overestimated Yi Yang's strength. Someone who could fight his way here covered in blood and still remain calm must be at least at the fifth level of strength, unless he's crazy.

Seeing that Yi Yang did not answer, Feng Haiyuan's expression became somewhat disrespectful, but he still had a half-sneer on his lips as he said:

"It seems that the young man at the fifth level of Qi and Blood who went up to deal with you earlier has already been killed by you, right?"

Upon hearing Feng Haiyuan's words, the others had not yet reacted, but the lean man's pupils suddenly contracted; he understood what he meant.

The man responsible for ambushing the old jailer is called He Qi, his sworn brother.

Ten years ago, He Qi was just a young boy on Black Wind Ridge. He was pulled back from the brink of death by him and raised on a diet of rice and vegetables. He Qi had taken a knife for him and he had stitched up He Qi's wounds.

The two agreed that they would share meals and face hardships together for the rest of their lives.

Feng Haiyuan didn't look at the lean man, but he was speaking to him.

Old fox.

Although he didn't know what the other person meant, Yi Yang made a mental note of Feng Haiyuan's words.

Feng Haiyuan shook his head, a hint of regret in his voice, and said leisurely:

"But you're a bit stupid. When you realized something was wrong, you should have just run away and sent the message out. That way, you might still have a chance to survive."

His gaze swept over the blood-dripping dagger in Yi Yang's hand, then moved to his face, and said with regret, "But you insisted on getting down?"

"Still alone."

Why?

Upon hearing Feng Haiyuan's question, Yi Yang, standing at the bottom of the stone steps, had bloody footprints behind him and three assassins and a cult leader in front of him.

He looked at Feng Haiyuan, a slow smile spreading across his face, revealing a gentle, amiable smile typical of the elderly, but his tone was startling as he said, "Of course, it's to kill you."

When those words were spoken, the air in the cell seemed to tighten as if someone had squeezed it.

At this moment, the calm in the eyes of the lean man beside him shattered, and a surge of grief and anger rose from his chest, distorting his entire face.

He Qi is dead, killed by this old bastard in front of him.

Seventy years ago, He was a skinny, bony boy who was squatting in a mud pit in Black Wind Ridge, gnawing on tree bark and almost starving to death. He was the one who pulled that boy up, the one who stuffed the last mouthful of rice from his own bowl into that boy's mouth, and the one who taught that boy how to hold a knife, how to throw a punch, and how to survive.

He Qi called him "Big Brother" without ever making a mistake.

And now, this old man stands here, covered in blood, saying "To kill you," with a smile on his face.

The lean man, He Jiu, let out a bloodcurdling roar: "You killed my second brother!"

He arrived before the sound could be heard, and He Jiu pushed his blood and energy to their limits.

The terrifying power of the fifth level of the Refining Realm filled his right fist, the fist blade tearing through the air with a sharp whistling sound, aiming straight for Yi Yang's face.

This punch carried ten years of affection and a heart full of resentment, leaving no room for mercy and disregarding the consequences. Before the burly man and the gatekeeper could react, He Jiu had already rushed in front of Yi Yang.

Yi Yang didn't draw his sword, nor did he even retreat. He simply raised his left hand, spread his fingers, and went to meet the attack.

When the palm and fist collided, there was no loud boom, only a very short, muffled cracking sound that seemed to sink into the flesh and bone.

He Jiu's fist struck that palm, but it didn't feel like he was hitting a person. It felt more like he was punching into a mountain. The power went in, was swallowed up, and nothing came back.

No, something has been sent back.

A shock force far exceeding the scope of the Refining Realm surged from that withered palm, crushing along his fist bones, wrist bones, forearm, and elbow joint.

The periosteum cracks where the force passes, and the tendons are violently pulled to the brink of rupture.

The excruciating pain finally calmed He Jiu down a bit. His pupils contracted sharply, but before he could retract his fist, Yi Yang's right fist was already upon him.

No fancy moves, just a straight punch, head-on, slamming into He Jiu's chest. The moment the fist touched his sternum, He Jiu felt his chest cavity being completely flattened by an invisible behemoth.

The cracking sound of ribs breaking was like a string of firecrackers, and the shards of bone pierced into the lungs and pericardium.

He was thrown into the air, his body arcing through the air before his back slammed into the black iron prison wall. The iron wall made a dull thud, and a human-shaped dent appeared on its surface.

The body slid to the ground, and a large amount of blood gushed from He Jiu's mouth and nose. His last eyeballs were wide open, but in fact, the light in his pupils had already dissipated while he was still in mid-air.

The sound of He Jiu's body hitting the ground was loud, but there were no other sounds after that. The cell was so quiet that you could hear the faint crackling of grease popping as the torch burned.

The burly man who witnessed this scene was trembling as he gripped the short blade. His mouth opened and closed repeatedly, his throat bobbing up and down, but he couldn't utter a single word.

The other guard was even more outrageous; he took three steps back, his back slamming into the iron railing, which rattled violently. His legs swayed, and his kneecaps clattered together.

Upon seeing Yi Yang make a move, Feng Haiyuan, who had been smiling, also stopped smiling.

The mockery, disdain, and frivolity that had appeared on his face vanished completely the moment He Jiu flew away.

All that remained in his eyes was horror, as if he had witnessed something unbelievable.

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Please give me a gift!!! I'm begging you all. My parents have been arguing again recently, and I'm caught in the middle, which is really tough. I can only write when I'm outside, and it's so painful to create. The plot is about to reach its climax, and the protagonist, Yi Yang, is about to show his strength, but he's being messed up by his family. Sigh, I won't say much more. I don't want to pass on my emotions to everyone. That's all.