Republic of China Era: Entering the Dao through Divine Strike.

……

Li Xin stood on the roof of the three-story restaurant, looking down at the capital city. The night wind made the hem of his blue robe flutter gently.

In the battle just now, a bit of golden spiritual energy floated out from Lu Changming's body, and a bit also floated out from Sun Liancheng's body, and then from Wang Wu's body, where the golden energy was the brightest.

As it rose from the base of the wall at the alley entrance, it looked as if someone had struck a match in the night.

Seventeen points of pale red spiritual energy emanated from the three镖局 disciples and someone else in the prison, mingling with the night breeze like fireflies on a summer night, silently merging into his body.

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Chapter 197 Execution Ground Murderous Intent (Please Subscribe)

It wasn't even noon yet, and Caishikou was already as hot as an upside-down pot.

The execution platform, covered with loess, was scorching hot from the sun. The executioner sat upright on the platform, his vermilion brush resting on the edge of the inkstone, the vermilion at the tip of the brush already dried into a hard scab.

Soldiers from the Infantry Department lined up along the street, their torch smoke mingling with the smell of horse manure, all stirred up by the hot wind.

Street vendors jostled through the crowd, their iron woks sizzling and emitting fumes as they fried peanuts.

"This is the last batch. We'll pack up and go home after we're done!" A man in a gray cloth shirt squatted on the side of the street, with two baskets of peanuts in front of him. He was fanning himself with a palm leaf fan, but his eyes kept glancing toward the street corner.

The burly man next to him had his arms crossed, with half of his leather wristbands showing from his sleeves, worn smooth and shiny.

"Brother, how many do you think we should chop down today?" the burly man asked in a low voice, barely moving his lips.

The man in the gray blouse popped a peanut into his mouth and crunched it. "I bet three. I'm putting down a string of cash."

"If I win the bet, I'll buy you a drink."

"Losing the bet is good news, it saves me money."

Further away, a peddler leaned against the wall with his load on his shoulder, two cocked crossbows hidden under his rouge and powder.

Several porters resting in the teahouse glanced around, their carrying poles resting on the table, the iron-bound ends gleaming coldly.

An old man squeezed to the front of the crowd and shakily handed a bowl of cold tea to a soldier next to him: "Sir, you've had a hard time."

The soldier took the bowl, drank a sip, and returned it. The old man then took out another bowl from his waist, poured himself a bowl of cold tea, and squatted down beside the soldier to drink it slowly.

The two bowls were identical; he could tell which one was his. What he offered was respect, what he drank was his life.

Someone nearby was eating sunflower seeds, spitting the shells all over the ground. "Who's that? He's being beheaded and still holding his head high, like he's willingly going to die."

The middle-aged man squatting next to the old man, holding a bowl of cold tea, muttered, "Scholars, they're all too concerned with saving face."

"Whether it's for appearances or substance, once the price is cut, the next batch is waiting. The market is bustling today, like a marketplace."

He took out another handful of sunflower seeds, and was about to put them in his mouth when he suddenly stopped.

He saw a prison van turn the corner at the street corner, with a person standing in a wooden cage. The prison uniform was faded from washing, and the shackles dragged on the ground with a clattering sound, but the man's back was ramrod straight, and he didn't even squint in the sunlight shining on his face.

"Oh, this guy... isn't he afraid?"

The middle-aged man with the herbal tea looked up, the rim of the bowl pressed against his lips, but he didn't take a sip for a long time. "He probably knows what's going on."

"Have confidence? What confidence could there be? With a sword to my throat, even a god would arrive..."

As the prison van passed the street corner, a very subtle commotion arose in the crowd. The person eating sunflower seeds looked in the direction of the commotion and saw a middle-aged man in shorts standing at the front of the crowd, his hand on the hilt of a cloth-wrapped knife at his waist.

The man stared at the prison cart, his eyes bloodshot, and the veins on the back of his hand gripping the knife bulged as if he wanted to crush the hilt.

“Fifth Brother.” The man in the prison cart suddenly spoke. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried steadily through the noise of the street, “Don’t die for me in vain. The affairs of the world cannot be settled with a single sword.”

The man in the short jacket didn't answer. His fingers clenched even tighter, his knuckles turning white.

His eyes weren't red-rimmed, but they were brighter than usual. Bright as the last glint of light on a knife's edge.

The man cracking sunflower seeds nudged the arm of the burly man next to him: "Who's that?"

"Wang Wu of Yuanshun Escort Agency. The top swordsman in the capital."

"You know that guy in the prison van...?"

"A life-or-death friendship."

He paused for a moment while cracking sunflower seeds, then looked down at the handful of seeds he hadn't finished eating and suddenly found them unappetizing.

He put the sunflower seeds back in his pocket and patted the salt off his hands: "Well, today's commotion... I'm afraid it won't be very interesting."

"That one string of cash you gambled is now in jeopardy."

After the prison van passed, Wang Wu whispered something, his lips barely moving, as if he were talking to himself.

"You go your way. Your way is a dead end. I'll go my way... and finish the part you didn't complete."

Before he finished speaking, the moment the barricade was moved aside, Wang Wu drew his sword.

The blade rubbed against the scabbard, producing a clear, resonant sound. The blade's gleam, reflecting the midday sun, was so bright it dazzled the eyes.

"I am Wang Wu..." He took a step forward, sword held horizontally before him, his voice rough and powerful, "Throughout my life, I have drawn my sword for justice, for the people, for loyalty. Today, I draw my sword not to break prisoners, not to save my own life..."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the soldiers and armored figures lining the street, over the wide-eyed civilians, and finally settling on the man with the straight back in the prison cart.

"This is simply to tell the world... those who die for their country are never rebels. Those who sacrifice themselves for their cause are never alone."

"Good!" someone shouted from the crowd, the voice breaking through the noise, only to be immediately silenced.

The person eating sunflower seeds looked in the direction of the sound and saw a figure carrying a load of goods backing away, with half of a cocked crossbow sticking out from under the load.

Wang Wu made a move.

Zhou Dashan charged out from the flank, his twelve-foot-long spear flashing like a dragon.

He thrust his shoulder blades upward, and his spine, from the waist to the tailbone, resembled a fully drawn bow... The dragon stance in Xingyi Quan originates its power from the ground.

A spear pierced through the breastplate of a Qing soldier in the front row, the spear tip protruding from his back, the sound of tearing metal making one's teeth ache.

"That was great!" Zhou Dashan used his arms to lift two Qing soldiers upwards, sending them flying and crashing into the crowd behind them.

He glanced back, the blood from the tip of the gun splattering three inches away, and grinned.

He laughed for a moment, then glanced down at the blood on the tip of his spear and frowned. The shot was off by three inches. A man who had practiced spear fighting for twenty years could see the tip deviate by three inches.

"My gun, today is the only time it's truly..." He didn't finish the sentence about "sharpening the blade," swallowing the rest of the sentence back.

Because he felt that the gun wasn't fast enough today.

Wang Wu cut in through the gap, wielding his nine-ringed broadsword with both hands.

The copper ring hummed and vibrated as it was swung at high speed, and each slash carried an extremely powerful force.

The Qing soldiers in the front row fell to the ground in droves, and broken spears and armor flew into the air.

Master Zhao's voice came down from the roof.

He was over sixty, his white beard braided and hanging down his chest. He lightly touched the roof tiles with his toes, his figure as silent as a withered leaf landing on the eaves. "Disciple, give me the Iron Gallbladder."

Each of the three apprentices flicked out a pair of iron bladders from their waists, the gleaming surfaces bearing a ring of extremely fine scratches around the edges.

The old boxer caught two stones with his left hand, leaving his right hand empty; he didn't reach for the third. His two apprentices hesitated for a moment, then asked, "Master, your right hand…?"

"Keep your right hand for striking." Master Zhao flicked two fingers of his left hand, and the iron gall bladder spun rapidly, flying between his fingers like a living thing. "A palm strikes the back of the neck, the gall bladder strikes the temple. At my age, I can't let people just talk the talk without walking the walk."

He sliced ​​down the nearest crossbowman with a single palm strike, the man's neck twisted at an odd angle as he slid off the roof.

Three iron bullets followed, flying out from the left hand, aimed specifically at the crossbowman's wrist...

With three sharp clangs, the crossbows of the three crossbowmen slipped from their hands, their wrists fractured.

The old boxer landed on the eaves corner, catching the iron ball that bounced back with his left hand without even taking a breath. But he paused for a moment on the edge of the eaves and glanced at Wang Wu's back.

"This kid... is faster than he was thirty years ago."

Then he turned and shouted towards the alley entrance, "Left side cleared. Black Tower kid, what about your side?"

At the right alley entrance, Black Tower and six bandits used grappling hooks to scale the wall.

His bald head was shiny, and a tiger descending a mountain was tattooed on the back of his head. His ghost-head knife was more than twice as heavy as an ordinary single knife, and the blade was full of nicks and nicks left from cutting hard objects.

He swung his sword in a wide arc, severing the barrel of the matchlock gun and cutting down the gunman as well, his face splattered with blood.

The knife was stuck in the man's ribs and he cursed, then stomped on the man's chest and forced it out...

The moment it was pulled out, blood splattered all over his face again. He grinned, bloodstains on his gold-plated front teeth, licked the blood from the corner of his mouth, and spat, "Salty."

"Black Tower! You owe me that drink..." Zhou Dashan's shout came from the middle of the street.

"Zhou Dashan! If you don't die..." Hei Ta cleaved another man in two with a single strike, then turned and roared at the other side, "I've staked all my drinking money saved up over eight years on you!"

"Go to hell! Who's going to drink if I die?"

"Then don't die!"

A gap was torn in the Qing army's frontal line, but it was immediately filled in again.

One row falls down, two more rows are added.

……

Chu Huan stood on the pavilion overlooking the entire long street, his face expressionless.

“Let them charge,” he said softly, as if speaking to Su Yuanchun beside him, or perhaps confirming with himself. “Let them fight. Only when they've exhausted their strength should we close the net.”

Su Yuanchun stood with his hands behind his back, his gaze fixed on the flash of blade in the middle of the street. "Zhou Cang. Get down."

The Iron-Armed Judge Zhou Cang jumped off the attic.

He didn't use any light-footed skills when he landed; he crashed onto the street like an iron ball, leaving two dents in the bluestone slab.

He walked towards Wang Wu, his steps slow, yet each step made the bluestone slabs tremble.

Wang Wu held his sword horizontally in front of him. The two stared at each other for a moment... No need for words, a single glance was enough to tell each other's weight.

Zhou Cang made the first move. His right arm slammed horizontally into his face, the force of the punch muffled and whistling, like someone smashing a wet drum with a hammer.

Wang Wu sidestepped, the blade slicing upwards along his arm...

The blade clashed with the iron arm, sparks flew, and a piercing metallic clang resounded.

A nick appeared in the blade, leaving only a faint white mark on Zhou Cang's arm.

Wang Wu didn't stop.

The second strike followed immediately, three points faster and with three points more force than the first, precisely striking the same white mark.

The blade grazed the iron-gray skin, leaving a shallow groove on the white mark, from which a thin line of blood seeped.

Zhou Cang's brow twitched. It wasn't the pain of a broken defense...

This man was able to find the same spot in the blink of an eye, and draw blood on the second strike. He glanced down at his arm, then looked up at Wang Wu: "Master Wang, that was a precise strike."

"I've been wielding this sword for thirty years, not just for fun." Wang Wu had already unleashed his third strike, with all his might. The copper ring on the blade nearly came off as it cut through the air.

The blade struck the same spot, and the shallow groove suddenly deepened, becoming a thin line the length of a little finger, from which a string of blood beads seeped out.

Zhou Cang took half a step back. Even with his formidable physical prowess, he was still slashed three times in the same spot by the same person…

The third cut actually broke through the skin and flesh.

He glanced down at the thin, bleeding line on his right arm, pressed his fingertips lightly against it, and his fingertips were stained with a tiny bit of dark red.

He remained silent for a moment before looking up at Wang Wu again. His expression turned completely somber, and the slight contemptuous smile from before vanished completely from the corner of his mouth.

"...What style of knife is this?"

"Wind and Clouds Unite in Six Directions." Wang Wu unleashed his fourth slash, the blade whistling as it sliced ​​through the air, cutting straight down towards the fine line.

If this strike lands squarely, the iron plating on Zhou Cang's right arm will be pried open by at least half an inch.

Zhou Cang no longer tried to block the attack.

He sidestepped, pulled his iron arm back to protect his chest, and switched from defense to offense, throwing his left fist at Wang Wu's face.

Wang Wu was forced to change his move, using the blade to block, and the force of his fist struck the blade, causing his hand to go numb.

Wang Wu chuckled. His laughter was rough and dry, like sandpaper scraping his throat. "You dodged."

Zhou Cang's face was gloomy.

"Iron-Armed Judge...dodged my blade."

"...I can't withstand the fourth blow."