Chapter Forty-Four: Like a Dream, Yet Not

As soon as Xiaoshan crested the hill, he caught sight of a large group of people, all dressed in black military uniforms. At the front stood their leader. Xiaoshan squinted, noticing how much this man resembled Lin Feng, and instinctively tried to probe him with a question.

The leader, clearly taken aback by the situation, did not reply; his eyes bore into Xiaoshan with an unblinking stare.

Xiaoshan's face flushed scarlet in embarrassment. Supporting himself with one hand against the ground, he sprang to his feet.

Unlike Lin Feng, whose aura was usually restrained—so much so that he seemed like any ordinary middle-aged man when nothing was happening—this man exuded an overwhelming presence, his expression stern and commanding. The two were completely different, sharing only some resemblance in their features.

"Who are you?" the leader demanded.

The question caught Xiaoshan off guard. He had no understanding of the current circumstances and no idea how to answer. Instinctively, he gripped the sword in his hand. Sometimes, silence is the best response—especially when a wave of killing intent is pressing down on you, making your nerves taut.

He glanced at the sword in his hand, his gaze sharpening as realization dawned. After years of calm, a sudden turbulence had arisen today, and in his hand was a strange, pitch-black sword that resembled a stone. So many coincidences could not simply be happenstance.

Suddenly, Xiaoshan sensed the world around him begin to shift. Stunned, he realized the man in front was drawing closer. He tried to move his hand, but found he could no longer control his own body.

It was the sword's cry.

His sword had left its scabbard, and though it had no edge, it rang out with a resonant, piercing sound.

This not only meant his draw was swift, but also that his mastery of the sword was remarkable.

The soldier opposite him reacted without hesitation, drawing his blade as well.

No words passed between them. Xiaoshan, unable to master his body, advanced under the man's oppressive aura. The soldier, driven by his own purpose and suspicions, met him in battle.

Xiaoshan's body charged forward, while his mind recalled an old adage: When faced with unanswerable questions, silence is the best reply. In this case, attack was the best defense. He had no choice anyway—his body had already made the decision for him. He could only console himself with this thought.

The two closed the distance in a flash. Blade and sword met, without any flourish—only stark, unadorned movements.

Xiaoshan could feel his body's changes, his right arm moving at lightning speed, sword slashing at his opponent. When the sword met the soldier’s blade, sparks flew. Only then did Xiaoshan realize his sword was indeed made of stone—only stone would strike sparks when clashing with sharp metal.

The sword moved so swiftly and relentlessly, up and down, left and right, strike after strike. Xiaoshan thought each blow would finally land, but every time, the soldier blocked it.

It wasn’t long before Xiaoshan’s eyes grew sore; he could see only the afterimages of the sword, its speed ever increasing, his focus pushed to its limit, draining his strength and weighing him with fatigue.

He was grateful he was not fighting this man himself—had it been so, he doubted he could withstand even a single move.

The middle-aged man was even faster, parrying Xiaoshan’s swordplay with an unchanging, composed expression.

That was the difference between them: Xiaoshan could barely discern the sword’s path, and even if he could see the attacks, his body would be unable to dodge them.

The man’s lips curled in impatience, as if done testing. With a casual swing, he brought his blade down towards Xiaoshan’s chest.

To Xiaoshan, this strike was unavoidable. Until now, the man had been purely on the defensive, revealing only that his blade was quick and his arm strong.

With just this one move, even before the blade reached him, Xiaoshan felt as if he’d already been struck.

His eyes widened, and he swung his sword with all the speed and strength he could muster, desperate to block the blow.

Clang!

Blade and sword collided, the sound rippling outward. Xiaoshan’s hearing vanished in an instant, his ears ringing. The force of the impact traveled up his arm, making the sword tremble violently in his grasp.

His hand shook uncontrollably; it felt as though he’d lose his grip at any moment. The pressure of the blade forced him down, his ankle sinking into the ground. He glanced down as the blade’s tip grazed his chest, tearing his clothes with a sharp rip.

The impact sent him staggering back a full meter, where he dropped to one knee, sword driven into the ground to support his swaying body.

He could hold back no longer—a mouthful of blood surged up from his throat and sprayed from his lips. Clutching the sword in his right hand, he wiped the blood from his mouth with his left, braced his ankle, and tried to stand, his hand pressed to his aching chest.

A dull pain radiated from his chest—he was gravely injured. Just one strike, and though his body had not been cut, the force of the blow had passed through, injuring his lungs.

He must not fight this man—he had to escape! Though Xiaoshan thought this, his body would not obey; he could not control it.

Nevertheless, his body stood up, swaying unsteadily, his sword hand trembling, the weakness in his grip betraying how far his strength had fallen.