Chapter Forty-Five: Possessed by the Little Mountain?

Compared to his enemies, Xiaoshan was most acutely aware of the changes in his own body. Faced with a great crowd, he seemed so utterly alone.

Breath heaved in his chest, betraying how powerless he still felt, yet he lifted his foot.

He moved—sword tip scraping the ground—as his whole body charged at the middle-aged man.

His ankle pushed off, body hurtling forward with wind trailing behind. Across from him, the middle-aged man’s face remained calm and deep, as he swung his blade in the same unhurried manner.

Xiaoshan’s pupils contracted sharply; this strike was fiercer than before, the blade’s shadow slicing through the air. Yet this time, his right hand did not rise—was he surrendering? His heart tensed.

Just as the blade was about to cleave his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifted in a mocking, ambiguous smile.

He stamped his right foot hard, his whole body suddenly pitching left, as if struck by a great force—falling!

The blade missed him by a hair’s breadth. Xiaoshan blinked—he was playing with fire, a deadly fire! This was a race with death.

“What swift footwork!” the middle-aged man exclaimed softly, clearly caught off guard.

He turned his head, only to see Xiaoshan dashing straight into the ranks of his army. The man frowned, raised his blade, and gave chase.

Xiaoshan felt the scenery before his eyes shift rapidly to the right—he was moving so fast, even reality seemed unable to keep up.

His heart still pounded with fear; the scene from moments before echoed in his mind. Though he could barely control his body, the sensation of inhabiting it was painfully real, pressed under the weight of the middle-aged man’s aura—an oppressive feeling, hard to endure.

He thought he should have run the other way, not charged toward the army. Yet here he was, sword in hand, rushing in.

His breath came ragged as ever, unrelenting—he knew his body well.

Though his sword hand trembled, it was steadier than before.

His speed did not falter as he charged straight at the army.

“This sensation!”

Xiaoshan gripped his sword, feeling every vibration along the blade’s length.

He was astonished—a sword that seemed so dull pierced through a man’s chest without the slightest resistance.

“I killed someone!”

These words echoed alone in Xiaoshan’s mind, casting his thoughts into chaos.

His mind stalled, but his body did not. A ferocious grin twisted his face, as if he relished the sensation.

The sword withdrew, and the soldier collapsed. The surrounding soldiers reacted instantly, surging toward Xiaoshan.

He curled his lip as if disdainful, then his mysterious footwork reappeared, allowing him to glide among them untouched.

Leaping off the dead soldier’s body, he soared through the air, the tip of his sword driving into another soldier’s skull, blood spurting forth.

Using the corpse as a pivot, he sprang again. As Xiaoshan turned, the middle-aged man was already at his side, blade lifted.

Xiaoshan’s smile faded, his next move interrupted. He brought his sword to his chest, braced by his left hand, steeling himself to take the blow head-on.

As expected, he could not withstand it—if the last strike was too much, this one was worse.

His ankle scraped the ground, leaving a deep groove. Qi flowed through his meridians, and at some point, his sword began to emit a blue glow.

Yet this time, he was barely injured. Instantly, he spun around and resumed his flight. The soldiers nearby, faces shifting, parted to let him pass.

There was no surprise on Xiaoshan’s face, as if he had known they would make way.

Just as he vanished from sight, he turned and gave the middle-aged leader a smile.

“Not bad at all!” The man’s face grew grave; in his eyes, a single cut should have been enough to kill him.

Yet he had already struck three times, each blow heavier than the last, and still Xiaoshan stood before him, lively as ever.

Most striking of all, as he fled, Xiaoshan had smiled at him—a meaningful smile. This matter was not over; it was only beginning.

A soldier bowed his head, fist clenched. In their eyes, in a mere instant, two of their comrades were dead—without the slightest chance to resist.

They had no other thoughts—only the bitter knowledge that they were not strong enough.

~~~

“Xiaoshan!”

“Xiaoshan, where are you going?”

“Are you going to leave me behind?”

...

A familiar voice reached Xiaoshan’s ears; gentle, yet full of confusion.

“That’s Ruoxi’s voice?!” Xiaoshan slowly voiced the question lingering in his mind. His brain began to function again—the scene just now had hit him hard, leaving his mind blank. He was not used to killing; he had never experienced such a thing before.

His eyes slowly opened, filled with astonishment. The scene before him had returned to what it was before. He looked around—nothing in the environment had changed, save his own position.

Ruoxi stood just ahead, her large, sparkling eyes fixed on him. Even Haotian and Haopo were watching him, though they stood hundreds of meters apart.

Xiaoshan stood alone, hands hanging at his sides, looking pitiful and forlorn.

“What were you saying just now, Ruoxi? I didn’t catch it!”

“Why did you suddenly run off ahead? We couldn’t even keep up with you!” Ruoxi’s face was full of grievance as she spoke; she had come with Xiaoshan, and if he left her behind, what would she do?

“Run?” Xiaoshan scratched his head, pausing, not quite understanding her question.

He himself could not make sense of what had just happened. It felt as though he had not been himself, as if he had been possessed or controlled by someone else.

He could not command his own actions—though he felt every sensation acutely, he held no control over himself!

It was most peculiar!