The mounting clatter of metal boots crushing churned earth struck at the chest, fraying nerves and stirring the spirit to alertness. The first piercing sounds to breach Wei Wuyin's focus were the clinks of armor mingled with ragged breathing and guttural exertions.

What advanced toward him was unsettiing to behold. A towering, heavily muscled warrior clad head to toe in battered armor charged forward. His right forearm was missing, wrapped hastily in stained bandages deepened by dried blood, while in his left hand he gripped a battleaxe freshly smeared with gore, jagged with bone fragments and torn flesh along its blade.

This towering figure easily eclipsed an ordinary man's stature, his face hidden beneath a formidable helm that obscured all but fierce, burning eyes. Yet what propelled this imposing presence was not the ruthless urge to fight but raw terror—terror of death, of an unavoidable fate. Those burning eyes expressed not relentless bloodlust, but a desperate, clawing hunger to survive.

Trailing behind him were four armored pursuers, their stride smooth and measured— each breath controlled to conserve strength and optimize every stride. These were elite warriors, honed for the hunt: two carried swords, one wielded a spear, and the last was armed with a recurve bow, arrow nocked and ready.

Wei Wuyin froze for a heartbeat as the desperate figure lunged forward with brutal momentum. And yet, who was he truly?

Trained in deadly arts since childhood, Wei Wuyin had been taught to kill before he could even stand steady. Though his cultivation reduced ordinary conflict to a mere shadow of battle, his primal instincts for combat burned just as fiercely as his cultivation drive.

His body and mind harmonized instantly—with a subtle regulation of breath and a tightening of muscle—his grip on the saber deepened, awakening the fierce how! echoing in his soul. Memories of countless battles surged, as vivid as old scars. This was second nature.

He vaulted back, both feet pushing off solid ground, flexing knees to sink just enough, creating barely a foot of space. To some, thirty-six inches might seem negligible, but mid-leap he leaned forward, aligning his knees for further flexion, his eyes widening to drink in every detail around him.

The armored figure's charge was relentless, two blazing orbs locked on a target meant to be eliminated. Wei Wuyin adjusted his stance, low and balanced, subtly twisting feet to claim the earth with assured footing.

Four words crystallized in his mind:

“Fear. Left. Grip. Neck.’

As these fragments formed, the clash began.

The armored man closed to three feet, fueled by panic. Wei Wuyin's form was lean, bruised, and his rusted, incomplete armor offered scant defense—especially his bare head, lacking a helmet.

With the ease of swatting a pest, the tall figure raised the axe, aiming a single devastating slice to sever Wei Wuyin's upper body from the lower. The blade, still dripping with gore, promised fresh carnage.

"ARROW!" Wei Wuyin shouted sharply, glancing just right of the soldier.

A flicker of confusion sparked fear in the armored man's mind, but stopping wasn't an option—momentum bore them onward. Adapting swiftly, they widened their swing—not just to strike, but to buy space for a dodge, committing more force and arc than usual. WHOOSH!

The heavy blade sliced the air.

Yet, instead of a lifeless form, Wei Wuyin leapt forward, closing within a foot. With a deft twist, his left arm braced firmly against the overswinging axe, turning the weapon's momentum to his advantage. His foot caught the ground and pushed off, shifting from steady to springing, defying the logic of size and armor.

Pressing with three fingers on the helm's lower edge, he levered his body upward, mounting the robust warrior with a graceful agility that defied expectations.

The armored figure staggered, losing balance for the first time, surprise flashing in their fierce gaze. With just one arm, reacting in time was nearly impossible.

Without hesitation, Wei Wuyin aimed the chipped edge of his saber through the narrow gap revealed at the neck.

SPLUSH!

Hot blood sprayed outward, pouring through gaps in armor and helmet.

DOOSH!!

The disciplined roar of life extinguishing echoed as the giant fell onto his stump side. Wei Wuyin plunged in deeper—slicing flesh, fracturing bone, severing arteries—to ensure the lethal strike was irreversible. Only then did the tide of blood gush violently, darkening the earth.

But Wei Wuyin did not pause. Extracting his weapon, he shifted his intense gaze to the four pursuing figures. They faltered momentarily in shock, overwhelmed by the swiftness of the Kill.

The entire sequence—jumping forward, using momentum to parry, mount, strike, and Kill —unfolded in the blink of an eye.

For the others, all they saw was the fleeting slit in the helm, a violent collapse, and a fountain of blood unleashed. It was a scene of ruthless precision and brutal efficiency. His bloodied saber dripped heavily to the ground—crimson beads marking death's trail. An unspoken hunger for violence hung thickly around him.

The four pursuers’ pulses quickened. This was no novice to killing, no mere soldier—this man was a harbinger of slaughter, a predator forged in merciless conflict.

Wei Wuyin's mind raced. Testing his body's flexibility, feeling the subtle shifts and strengths, he surged forward confidently.

These four were no greenhorns, nor naive youths untouched by death's brutality. Hardened warriors all, their every motion radiated battle-hardened survival.

Instantly responding with silent understanding, they formed a tight defensive formation: the two swordsmen flanking left and right, the spearman charging center, their postures ready for evasive strikes.

Wei Wuyin noted every flicker, every faint breath. When he neared ten feet from the spear wielder, a gentle twang pierced the air.

The spearman planted a firm step and leaned left. Wei Wuyin plunged down low, scraping the ground as he slithered forward between legs.

Suddenly, an arrow shot forward, flying straight for where his throat would have been. At near point-blank range, Wei Wuyin closed with the spearman, saber flashing. The swordsmen flanked swiftly, converging like shadowy wolves.

Though taken aback, the spearman countered fiercely—thrusting to stagger or wound. Wei Wuyin met the attack with forward pressure, leaning slightly to adjust balance.

The spear wielding enemy's eyes widened in mounting dread—this reckless foe intended to meet spear with saber, exchanging lives in cold calculation. On the battlefield, such madness sometimes meant survival.

The spearman braced to strike deep—then retreat at a moment's notice.

PIERCE!

The spear gouged through Wei Wuyin. Yet his momentum refused to yield.

In a shocking reversal, with a deft swing of his chipped blade, Wei Wuyin struck the spearman’s neck.

'How—2!" was the last thought before life fled.

Simultaneously, the spear that should have arrested his advance twisted sideways, flying—piercing a swordsman’s left eye with chilling accuracy.

A strangled grunt escaped that fallen fighter.

The remaining swordsman lunged, but the blade missed Wei Wuyin's torso by mere inches.

Before death even touched the spearman, they glimpsed the other swordsman grappled and overpowered.

A flash of blood caught the eye.

A surprised shout rang out.

The severed head's fading gaze caught the archer crouched nearby, a chipped saber buried deep in their neck, slicing into the carotid artery. Panic twisted the archers grimace as blood erupted, arcing wildly through the air.

Darkness swallowed the skull's vision, and the burning question whispered one last time: “How—2'

Wei Wuyin's final motion was a vicious kick to the second swordsman'’s temple, knocking him out cold as he pinned him swiftly. Sweat and blood—mostly not his own—covered his brow.

“Ouch,” he muttered, raising his arm to find fresh cuts along his abdomen and arm, bleeding steadily. “Needs work,” he admitted with a half-grimace, as he carefully double-checked the fallen foes with his blood-streaked saber—making sure.

He exhaled deeply, eyes lifting toward the dusk-stained sky veined with golden clouds. “Where am 12" he whispered softly.

[Author's reflection: This arc really channels the raw intensity of the early chapters and battlefield struggles—I'm loving every moment of itt]