Chapter Forty-Two: The Prince of Tianhe, Purple Gold

This strike sliced through the opponent’s horizontal blade with ease, cleaving the man himself in two. Yang Fan was taken aback. The other four men were equally stunned. To cut through a weapon was no small feat, let alone splitting a man in half—especially one with the tempered flesh and bone of a martial artist. Such a clean split from head to toe would require a gap of at least two minor realms.

“Shoot!” the middle-aged leader barked, his face twisting in alarm after his initial shock. He had thought Yang Fan was just a youth—maybe the one who’d killed his two men—and at most, a martial artist of the eighth rank. But this strike sent his heart plummeting.

“Intimidation!” At the same moment, Yang Fan unleashed his supernatural power.

A tremor pulsed through the air, striking directly at the soul. The four remaining men stiffened, their eyes rolling back, bodies shuddering, cold sweat beading on their brows. Three nearly fainted, dropping to one knee involuntarily. Only the middle-aged man barely remained standing.

“My supernatural power has grown this strong?” Yang Fan marveled. The awakening of the Mountain Patrol Mission had silently reached thirty percent, greatly boosting his power.

He stepped forward and dislocated all four men’s joints. “Answer my questions. Who are you people?” Yang Fan looked down at the leader.

The man clenched his teeth, fear still flickering in his eyes, but he refused to speak.

With a flick of his blade, Yang Fan sliced off the man’s left arm, not bothering with further threats.

He turned to the young man beside him. “Who are you?” The Dragon Scale Blade gleamed high in his hand, a silent warning that refusal meant death.

“I—I’ll tell you!” The young man’s will had been utterly broken; now was his most vulnerable moment, and he stammered out his confession.

“Young Marquis, how dare you!” the older man roared.

Yang Fan, without hesitation, slashed off his head. It rolled twice on the ground, his eyes still wide with disbelief.

“We’re the Guard Corps of the Marquis of Tianshui!” The youth no longer hesitated.

“Tianshui Marquis?” Yang Fan’s heart skipped a beat as he pressed for details.

The youth knew little. Five years ago, the Marquis sent them deep into Misty Mountain to train, battling wild beasts and fierce monsters, with many dying each month—only to be replaced by new recruits. The constant fighting and ever-present danger forced them to unlock their potential, and with plenty of meat to eat, their progress was rapid.

He’d entered the mountains in the second year, and by the start of this year, he’d stepped into the martial path, becoming a ninth-rank martial artist. There were over a hundred like him.

“Over a hundred martial artists, all promoted within these five years!” Even Yang Fan couldn’t help but be shocked.

Above, the white eagle circled, crying out. Yang Fan continued his interrogation. He learned that two years ago, during their training, they’d stumbled upon a purple gold mine, which was now being excavated.

“A purple gold mine?” Yang Fan drew a sharp breath. He’d heard Nangong Wentian mention that purple gold was incredibly valuable—an ounce worth ten ounces of gold.

He glanced into the distance. He sensed that powerful figures were already moving in his direction.

Quickly, he asked more questions: What was the cultivation level of their strongest? None of the three knew. But the Guard Corps now numbered over a thousand, led by a commander of immense strength. The purple gold mine lay just two peaks away.

Yang Fan knew he could not linger. In three swift flashes of the blade, he dispatched the three men. Sheathing the Dragon Scale Blade, he looked up, narrowed his eyes, and leapt onto a nearby tree branch, ascending rapidly.

Soon he was near the treetop, the boughs swaying. The white eagle still circled, its sharp eyes locked on him, almost taunting: “You can’t reach me, no matter how you try.”

“But thirty meters is enough,” Yang Fan calculated. As the eagle swept overhead again, he unleashed Intimidation.

The bird froze mid-flight and plummeted to the ground.

Yang Fan looked back the way he’d come. Hundreds of meters away, he noticed unnatural movement—vines quivering and branches swaying out of sync with the forest, all in a line heading toward him. Wisps of dust rose in their wake.

If not for his heightened vision, he might not have noticed.

“They’re fast!” Yang Fan climbed down swiftly, glanced at the unconscious eagle, and stomped it into pulp, leaving no clues about how it had died.

“Earth Sense!” He probed the path ahead, then dashed off.

“Swift Step!” His speed surged, arrowing away from the pursuit.

He soon crossed over a peak and vanished into the woods.

Elsewhere, another five-man squad approached, searching the corpses and gathering clues. Eventually, they concluded: there had been only one enemy, yet their comrades hadn’t managed even a token resistance before being interrogated.

“At least a seventh-rank martial artist—could it be the troublemaker from days ago?” the captain frowned. “No, that man is already being hunted by the deputy commander himself—he shouldn’t have survived.”

“Captain, the deputy commander is involved?” someone gasped.

The captain nearly slapped himself—he’d let that slip.

“Silence!” he hissed.

“Understood, Captain. But what now? Liu Qiang’s team was wiped out effortlessly. If we pursue, he might spot us with that keen sense or vision—just like he did the eagle. If we’re discovered, our lives are nothing, but if we jeopardize the greater mission, we’ll be blamed even in death. Shouldn’t we report back instead?”

“You’re just afraid to die!” the captain snorted. “The enemy is cunning—killing the eagle cut off our trail. If we search in vain, the only thing left is to report back at once.”

They gathered the corpses and withdrew along their original path.

The sun set, and dusk deepened.

Yang Fan reached a mountain valley and decided not to continue. He was deep in the mountains now; traveling at night would be far more dangerous, as most fierce beasts and venomous insects hunted after dark. The mountains were ten times more perilous at night.

Beneath a rock wall, he found a cave two or three meters deep—clean enough after a quick sweep. He crawled inside. In his arms, he still had seven or eight red cherry fruits, each the size of a chicken egg, sweet and tart—a fine wild fruit.

To avoid trouble, he had no intention of making a fire. He’d make do with the fruit for now.

The night air grew chill, the cold deepening. Exhausted, Yang Fan sealed the cave and fell into a deep sleep, only to be startled awake by the roar of a beast. Stepping out to relieve himself, he realized it was already midnight.

A sky full of stars made the wilds seem even more tranquil.

No longer sleepy, he began to study the Overlord’s Triple Slash.

Three strikes in all—deceptively simple.

The first was called “Mountain Cleaver.” The blade fell from the sky, with the power to split a mountain. It sounded easy, but the body contained myriad subtleties—feet rooted, power rising from the ground, muscles writhing, bones vibrating, blood surging, energy pulsing.

The key was the explosive force of one’s blood energy—requiring terrifying control. Minute precision was only the entry point.

“If I master this strike, my attack power might double!” he thought.

But what of the second and third strikes? Yang Fan grew eager, practicing with the Dragon Scale Blade, but found himself making little progress for now. He wasn’t worried; without a master’s guidance and with a shallow foundation, it was natural to advance slowly.

He then considered the Wind-chasing Steps.

“My ‘Swift Step’ supernatural power lets me match the speed of a sixth-rank martial artist like Xiang Yangkai. If I master Wind-chasing Steps, combining both, my speed should surpass that.”

The thought excited him. Greater speed meant a better chance of survival.

He began to cultivate it.

Rumbling thunder sounded in the distance, followed by rocks tumbling down. Beasts roared, birds scattered.

“What’s this?” Yang Fan frowned. “Sounds like a fierce battle.”

The noise approached rapidly—far too quickly for comfort. A bad feeling swept over him. Hastily, he strapped on the blade case and hid deep in the cave.

In the next moment, two figures burst into the valley. One landed atop a stone pillar three or four meters high, smashing it to powder with a single stomp.