Wandering Swordsman |

He closed his eyes.

When it opened its eyes again, there was no trace of human warmth in them, only a deathly stillness that seemed to have burned away everything.

"So that's how it is," he said softly, his voice almost inaudible.

But the next moment—

"boom!"

An invisible wave of energy exploded from his body! The campfire suddenly went out, the wine jar shattered, and the bandits were struck as if by a heavy hammer, flying backward and crashing into the wooden pillars, spitting blood.

Yan Zehu's expression changed drastically. He was about to draw his sword when he saw Shen Mo appear before him like a ghost.

"You..." He was utterly horrified.

Shen Mo grabbed him by the throat, lifting him up like a dead dog. Yan Zehu kicked wildly, his face turning purple, his eyes filled with unbelievable fear.

"Tell me," Shen Mo stared at him, enunciating each word clearly, her voice as cold as shattering ice, "who did it?"

Yan Zehu struggled to point to a thin man with a missing finger in the corner: "It's...it's him...Wang Scarface...he loves...playing with small animals..."

Shen Mo's gaze shifted.

Wang the Scarface was already limp on the ground, his crotch soaked, his whole body trembling like a leaf.

Shen Mo released Yan Zehu, letting him fall to the ground like mud. He slowly walked towards Wang Bazi, each step seeming to tread on the hearts of everyone present.

"You skin them?" he asked, his tone eerily calm.

Wang Bazi, tears streaming down his face, kowtowed repeatedly, pleading, "Spare me! Spare me! I... I was just following orders!"

Shen Mo squatted down and gently patted his shoulder, her movements as tender as if she were comforting a child.

"Very good," he said with a smile.

The next moment, his right hand shot out like lightning, his five fingers forming a claw, and he actually pierced into Wang Bazi's chest!

"Ah—!!!" A scream tore through the night sky.

Shen Mo remained expressionless as he slowly pulled out a still-beating heart, holding it bloodily amidst the embers and flames.

"This one is for them," he whispered.

He then turned around, his gaze sweeping over the terrified bandits of the village, his voice like a judgment:

"Tonight, everyone in your village will be buried with you."

......

The moonlight was swallowed by dark clouds, and the mountain village fell into a deathly silence.

The once bustling bandit stronghold is now only filled with the mournful sound of the wind whistling through the broken beams and the still-warm corpses lying in pools of blood.

In the span of ten breaths, Shen Mo swept through the village like a demon, his figure never stopping, his sword never drawn, and with only the force of his palms and fingers, he slaughtered all the bandits in the village.

Before the knife was drawn, the throat was severed; before the wine was swallowed, life was over.

Limbs and severed arms lay scattered on the muddy ground, and blood flowed into dark red streams that slowly seeped into the embers of the campfire, making a soft "sizzling" sound, like the whispers of hell.

Behind the woodpile at the corner of the village, several kidnapped women huddled together, their clothes tattered, their hair disheveled, and their faces streaked with tears and grime.

They witnessed the massacre firsthand—the young man, as swift as lightning, left heads rolling wherever he went, dying before they could even scream.

His eyes held no anger, not even a flicker of emotion, only the cold ruthlessness of someone carrying out divine punishment.

They were terrified, holding their breath for fear that the slightest sound would bring about their deaths.

Some people's teeth chattered, while others covered their mouths tightly with both hands, their fingernails digging into their cheeks without them even noticing.

They dared not cry, dared not move, and dared not even look up—that was not a human, but a demon descended to earth, a yaksha claiming their lives!

Shen Mo slowly turned around, his blood-stained clothes still wet, and he was still holding the heart that was twitching slightly in his hand. Fresh blood dripped from between his fingers, gleaming with an eerie dark red luster under the moonlight.

His gaze swept over the trembling women, his eyes as cold as snow reflected in a still pond, devoid of sorrow or joy.

"You may leave," he said calmly, his voice as still as a thunderclap in their hearts.

The women trembled, looked up in disbelief, but only dared to glance at it before quickly lowering their heads.

They dared not express their gratitude or utter a word, for fear that uttering even a single extra word would bring about their deaths.

But they knew that if it weren't for this person, they would have spent the rest of their lives trapped in this hellhole.

So they all fell to the ground, their foreheads hitting the blood-stained mud with heavy thuds.

One, two, three... They offered their deepest gratitude in the most humble manner.

After kowtowing, they were afraid of wasting a second, so they quickly got up, stepped barefoot over the pool of blood, and staggered toward the village gate without even daring to look back.

The figure quickly disappeared into the night in the mountains and forests, leaving only the sobs drifting in the wind, like fallen leaves.

Shen Mo stood quietly, watching them leave, a faint ripple finally passing through his eyes—a mixture of pity, relief, and endless loneliness.

He turned around and walked back to the cave step by step.

The cave was still dark and the stench of decay lingered, but he had personally buried the two small skeletons in the clean earth.

He sat cross-legged in front of the grave, gently placing the bloody heart beside the tombstone—it was not a sacrifice, but evidence of his crime, a repayment.

"I have taken the heart of the murderer," he said softly, as if afraid to disturb a sleeping friend. "I have avenged your suffering."

He reached out and gently stroked the tombstone, his fingertips touching the two lines he had carved himself: "My dear friend rests in peace, do not disturb."

The moonlight finally broke through the clouds, a ray of clear light shining into the cave entrance. The gentle light covered the grave, as if heaven and earth themselves shed a tear for the passing of this tiny creature.

Shen Mo slowly stood up. The bloodstains on his clothes had dried and congealed into dark brown marks, just like the indelible marks in his heart.

He bent down, his fingertips lightly touching the fresh soil in front of the grave, as if he could still feel the souls of those two small white skeletons.

After a long while, he turned around and went to the corner where he had buried the "Formless Sutra" years ago.

The soil was compacted, as if no one had touched it.

He reached out and dug, and soon touched the secret manual.

He took it out, brushed off the dust, and ran his fingertips over the cover—the familiar handwriting was already blurred, leaving only a faint ink mark.

He didn't examine it closely, assuming it was just the ravages of time, and gently tucked the book into his bosom, as if holding a memento from an old friend.

He turned around, stepped out of the cave, and never looked back.

The mountain wind swept through the valley, lifting the hem of his blood-stained clothes and dispelling the last trace of blood in the village.

The bandit stronghold was deathly silent, like a tomb. Broken flags hung low, and corpses lay strewn across the land. Only crows cried mournfully in the withered trees, as if singing a lament for this hell on earth.

Shen Mo stared at the ruins, but felt no pleasure whatsoever.

He once thought that the martial arts world was nothing more than a game of chivalry and revenge—to eliminate evil and punish the wicked with a single sword stroke was the essence of chivalry.

But today, as he placed that bloody heart in front of the little monkey's grave, what welled up in his heart was not the pleasure of revenge, but an unprecedented emptiness and sorrow.

"They...shouldn't have died," he murmured, his voice so soft it was almost swallowed by the wind.

The little monkey doesn't know martial arts, doesn't get involved in disputes, and doesn't even understand the meaning of the word "jianghu" (江湖, the martial arts world).

They simply guard their cave, playing at sunrise and sleeping at sunset, living a life free from worldly strife.

However, because the order of the martial arts world is now out of balance, the martial arts alliance has failed to deal with the bandit strongholds in various places, and they have become the most innocent sacrifices.

Shen Mo closed his eyes, and images of them from the past floated into his mind: their furry little hands offering him wild fruit, their bright black eyes full of trust; the day he left, they chased him out of the ravine, chirping, until they could no longer see his back...

But now, only bones remain.

At that moment, he suddenly understood—

Without order in the martial world, the virtuous will perish.

If justice is not upheld, the benevolent will perish.

"The martial world... shouldn't be like this." He opened his eyes, his gaze devoid of any ferocity, only filled with a clear and resolute determination. "If martial arts could wipe out all bandits in the world, then why has the banditry become more and more rampant over the past thousands of years? If killing could bring peace, then hell would already be overflowing with people."

He slowly clenched his fist, but no longer out of anger, but out of a sense of responsibility.

"Stability in the martial world is the greatest form of chivalry."

"Little monkeys, your deaths will not be in vain," he said softly, his voice gentle yet firm. "I will quell this chaos in the Central Plains martial arts world and prevent banditry and turmoil from spreading again."

As the wind rose, he turned and left, his steps firm.