Chapter Forty-One: The Tyrant’s Triple Slash

The slanting sun warmed the earth. The cries of beasts echoed through the valley. Yang Fan stood atop a peak, gazing into the marsh below, where the ruined temple had vanished without a trace.

After Master Mountain Buddha gifted him the Dragon Scale Blade, he also imparted a simple yet formidable sword technique, the Three Strikes of the Overlord. Then Yang Fan was sent out. He witnessed the air around the ruined temple twist, the marsh boil, and the temple sink into the ground, leaving him alone on the mountain crest.

"This upheaval feels like a dream," Yang Fan muttered, but it was more than a dream—it had utterly overturned his understanding of the world.

He surveyed the landscape, roughly determined his direction, and knew that heading south would lead him out of Misty Mountain. Only the distance was uncertain.

His stomach rumbled. From the fierce battle last night until now, he'd eaten nothing but a few wild fruits and drank a pouch of water; he'd had nothing else. Hunger gnawed so fiercely it felt as though his belly touched his spine.

Yang Fan descended the peak and activated his Earth Sense to scout the area. Soon, he found two rabbits. They were easily caught. Thankfully, his short sword was still strapped to his waist; otherwise, it would have been troublesome.

He drilled wood to spark a fire, built a campfire, and swiftly skinned and gutted the rabbits, skewering them on branches to roast.

Only then did Yang Fan unsheathe the Dragon Scale Blade for a closer look. The blade was immense—eighty centimeters long, three centimeters thick, with a rounded tip. Its width was fifteen centimeters, adorned with fish-scale patterns, the entire blade shimmering silver. At first glance, it was imposing and domineering, utterly unlike ordinary blades.

Too large, too heavy. Yang Fan hefted it; it weighed at least three hundred kilograms. Without his cultivation and robust physique, even lifting it would have been difficult. Using it would surely be a challenge.

"One swing could cleave a wild boar in two!" Yang Fan sheathed the blade, ears twitching as he caught faint sounds from afar—the subtle friction of footsteps on soil, the brushing of feet through grass, the gentle rustle of clothing.

"Earth Sense!" Yang Fan activated his ability.

Within thirty meters, nothing unusual. But two hundred meters away, two shapes appeared—humanoid forms, their life force unmistakable. Yang Fan immediately judged them to be people. Their strength was not great, ninth grade cultivators. He paid them little mind, merely keeping watch.

For him now, nothing mattered more than a proper meal. He was starving.

Soon, the two hidden figures emerged fifty meters away, not approaching but lurking behind trees, out of sight yet peering toward him.

His ears caught their whispered conversation.

"Clothes intact, no medicine basket, no rope, no shovel, no bow or crossbow. Likely not a herbalist or a hunter."

"Carrying a blade case, wide in style—this is no ordinary weapon. He's a martial artist."

"Yes, definitely a martial artist, yet he's here roasting meat over a fire. Poor survival skills in the wild. No pack, no special gear, yet alone in the mountains—he must be here for us."

"Would he light a fire if he were here for us?"

"Just inexperienced! Regardless, let's take him down first. If anything happens, neither of us could handle it!"

"You take his left shoulder, I'll take his right leg!"

"Agreed!"

Creaking bows were drawn, and both fired an arrow.

"Bold!" Yang Fan dodged easily, but rage flared within him. To attack without a word—clearly not decent folk.

He rose and activated Swift Step, closing the distance in a blink.

The two attackers' pupils shrank. One abandoned his bow, drew his blade, and slashed at Yang Fan—quick and ruthless. The other stepped back, fished a wooden whistle from his pocket, and blew it, sending its sound far afield. He too drew his waist blade, ready to strike, but saw his companion already sent flying, his face draining of color.

Still, he chopped down resolutely.

Yang Fan easily evaded, grabbed his wrist, twisted hard, and the man's arm twisted like a rope.

A scream rang out.

"Who are you, why did you ambush me?" Yang Fan eyed the fallen whistle, his expression dark. Clearly, there were more than just these two.

He threw the man to the ground, planted a foot on his chest, and demanded sharply.

"Who are you, why are you here?" the youth beneath his foot endured the searing pain, answering with a question.

Yang Fan stomped, shattering the man's arm.

Another scream erupted.

"Will you speak?" Yang Fan's gaze was cold as steel.

Since last night, he had truly experienced the world's cruelty, and now acted with even greater decisiveness and ferocity.

"We are mountain guests, hunting treasures in the forest," the other man struggled to rise, speaking with difficulty.

"Mountain guests? Fooling ghosts!" Yang Fan stomped again, crushing the other arm—pain so fierce the man fainted on the spot.

"How dare you!" the youth nearby roared in fury. "Do you know who you've provoked?"

Yang Fan stepped forward and killed the man beneath his foot, then strode toward the other. "He died because of you. Do you want to die too?"

"You!" The youth blanched, sweat beading on his forehead. If Yang Fan could kill his companion so easily, he knew if he failed to satisfy him, he'd die as well.

"We're hunting a rare creature here, thought you came to steal it, so we attacked," the youth gritted his teeth. "You know how dangerous the mountains are, we can't afford to be careless."

"You're lying," Yang Fan sneered. "Just now, your heartbeat quickened, your gaze flickered—obviously lying. Your actions are clean and decisive, you wear leather armor beneath your clothes, carry matching bows and blades. If I'm not mistaken, you must be—"

Yang Fan suddenly looked sharply into the distance.

He kicked the youth to death and turned away.

He glanced at the roasting rabbit—half charred but cooked enough. He grabbed it and strode off. He had no wish to invite trouble.

He ate as he walked.

Not long after, five people arrived at the scene where the two youths had died. They examined the cause of death, studied the surroundings.

Their conclusion was clear: it was a single person, swift and ruthless, leaving no room for resistance—at least an eighth-grade martial artist.

"After him!" the leader ordered.

He drew a special arrow and fired it into the sky, sending a shrill, piercing sound across the mountains.

They followed Yang Fan's trail.

The sun slid behind the peaks, mist rising between the mountains.

They were quick, but Yang Fan was quicker. He finished the rabbits, tossing the burnt bits aside.

"Finally, some comfort." Yang Fan patted his stomach, feeling satisfied.

He glanced back, frowning deeply.

He was about to pick up speed when a sound came from above.

A high, piercing cry—a white eagle circled overhead.

"To have tamed such a bird—these people's origins are extraordinary," Yang Fan's expression shifted.

He turned and approached the pursuers.

In moments, they collided.

"I don't know who you are, nor do I care," Yang Fan drew the Dragon Scale Blade. "You return the way you came, I leave this place, and we stay clear of each other. How about it?"

"You killed our men—how can that be settled?" the leader sneered coldly. "Take him!"

Two young men rushed forward, blades drawn, slashing at Yang Fan's shoulders from both sides.

The leader watched coldly, tightening his grip on his blade. The other two drew their bows.

"Kind words can't persuade the damned," Yang Fan had expected this and didn't care. He stepped back, dodged the attack, and swung his blade at the man on the left.

His strike was swift—so swift the man couldn't evade, only raise his blade to block.

The standard blade was cleaved in two, and the Dragon Scale Blade continued downward, slicing the man in half.