CHAPTER 121: 121- SCAR-LIP [1]

The Blackridge Pass narrowed, cliffs of jagged obsidian leaning in like disapproving sentinels.

Mist coiled around the wagon wheels, muffling sound and reducing visibility to hazy silhouettes.

Inside the lead carriage, Fang Lian’s senses extended far beyond the plush interior.

She noticed the shift in the wind, the sudden hush of bird calls, and the unnatural stillness in the scrub along the cliffsides.

An ambush point? she wondered.

Opposite her, Fang Ruì shifted, her own Qi subtly flaring as she sensed it too.

Her knuckles whitened on the scroll she still pretended to read.

Outside, Fang Bong’s heavy, resentful footsteps near the carriage faltered, replaced by the tense hush of drawn breath from the junior guards.

A sharp, artificial whistle split the mist, high, mocking, the universal bandit call to arms.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Figures dropped from crevices overhead, landing with practiced ease on the path ahead and spilling from side gullies, blocking the caravan’s advance and flanks.

Twenty, maybe thirty.

Rough leathers, scarves obscuring faces, eyes gleaming with avarice.

At their head stood a hulking man, a livid scar splitting his lip, radiating the unstable aura of a newly minted Qi Transformation cultivator.

He hefted a serrated axe that glinted dully in the weak light.

"Well, well," rumbled the scarred leader, his voice like stones grinding. "Lin Hao. Fancy meeting your trinket train here. And you brought puppies to bark for you?"

His gaze swept dismissively over the visibly tense junior Fang cultivators before landing with contempt on Fang Ruì’s face, visible through the carriage window.

"What’s this? You are hiring childrens to guard caravans now? How quaint." Raucous laughter echoed from his men.

Lin Hao stepped forward, hands raised placatingly, though his Peak Qi Condensation aura tightened defensively. "Honored Brother Scar-Lip! The toll was paid in Coldwind! Let us pass peaceably—"

"Peaceably?" Scar-Lip spat. "The toll’s tripled. And we’ll be taking that spirit-iron ore. Looks heavy. We’ll lighten your load."

He gestured crudely towards the heavily guarded third wagon.

Fang Ruì pushed open the carriage door, stepping out with deliberate calm.

Her Qi Transformation aura, previously restrained, bloomed subtly, a cool, steady pressure that momentarily silenced the bandit jeers.

"The agreed toll was paid. The cargo is not negotiable. Stand aside." Her voice was steel wrapped in silk.

Scar-Lip’s eyes narrowed, momentarily assessing the young girl’s power.

Then his gaze slid past her, landing on Fang Bong, who stood rigid beside the carriage wheel, fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked.

The bandit leader’s lip curled into a sneer. "Or what? Your little flower will wilt? Or maybe your big, angry pup there will try to bite?"

He pointed his axe at Bong. "He looks like a kicked mongrel ready to piss himself! Pathetic!"

The dam broke.

"PATHETIC?!"

The roar wasn’t just loud; it was a physical wave of fury and pent-up humiliation.

Months of resentment towards Ruì, the searing shame of his public defeat by Lian, the weight of his own perceived failure, it erupted from Fang Bong in a torrent of pure, unadulterated rage.

He didn’t wait for Ruì’s order. Strategy vanished. Catharsis was all that mattered.

His sword flashed from its sheath not with technique, but with raw, terrifying momentum.

He didn’t charge at Scar-Lip.

He launched himself at the nearest cluster of flanking bandits, the ones who had laughed the loudest.

Qi Condensation power, unrestrained and fueled by berserk fury, exploded outwards.

A bandit raised a buckler, still smirking.

When their swords connect.

Wood and bone disintegrated. The bandit screamed, hurled backwards into two companions, sending them sprawling.

Fang Lian watched, impassive from the carriage doorway.

Her eyes, cold and analytical, tracked every movement.

She saw the openings Bong left in his fury, the wild expenditure of Qi, the complete lack of defense.

She saw the brutal efficiency born purely of overwhelming power and unleashed emotion.

So many openings, she observed dispassionately. Well, it’s good that you are wasting your energy on them.

Fang Bong became a whirlwind of destruction.

He didn’t parry; he smashed through spear thrusts, his reinforced body ignoring glancing axe blows.

A bandit lunged with a poisoned dagger; Bong seized his wrist, snapped it like dry kindling, and used the shrieking man as a flail to bludgeon another into unconsciousness.

A third tried to flank him; his sword whistled in a brutal horizontal arc, carving through leather and flesh, painting the mist crimson.

It wasn’t combat; it was exorcism by violence.

The bandits’ laughter died, replaced by shouts of alarm and raw fear.

The sheer, primal ferocity of the Fang cultivator’s assault shattered their bravado. Scar-Lip’s eyes widened, the mockery replaced by wary shock.

Fang Ruì stood firm beside the carriage. She didn’t intervene.

Her gaze flickered from Bong’s rampage to Scar-Lip and his core group.

Her own Qi stirred, a gathering storm held in check.

Let him burn it out on the chaff, she decided, a tactical choice emerging from her initial surprise. He weakens them, expends his strength. And then we can safely handle the head.

Lin Hao ducked behind a wagon, eyes wide.

"By the ancestors..." he breathed, equal parts horrified and impressed by the brutal efficiency.

Scar-Lip, seeing his flank collapsing under the berserk assault, snarled.

He raised his axe, his Qi Transformation aura flaring aggressively. "ENOUGH! Kill the mad dog! The rest, slaughter the guards, take the—"

His command was cut short.

Fang Bong, having pulverized the last bandit in his immediate vicinity, whirled.

His chest heaved, spattered with blood not his own. His eyes, burning with released fury and a terrifying, feral light, locked onto Scar-Lip.

He dropped the broken bandit he’d been using as a club like discarded refuse.

"Your turn," Bong growled, the words thick with spent rage and dark promise.

He leveled his sword, dripping with blood, directly at the bandit leader. The air crackled with unspent violence.

The crushing weight of his humiliation was momentarily forgotten, replaced by the savage, simple clarity of facing a worthy target for his rage.

Fang Lian’s hand finally moved, resting lightly on her sword hilt.

The real threat was engaging.

Fang Ruì’s voice cut through the tension, clear and commanding:

"Bong! Contain him! Juniors, defensive perimeter! Protect the wagons!"

Her eyes met Scar-Lip’s, her own Qi Transformation aura rising to meet his, a silent challenge issued.