Volume One: The Carefree Journey Amid Indistinguishable Paper Leaves Chapter Twenty-Five: Seizing the Path

The Bat Man's eyes gleamed with chilling light. The elder in the brown robe held a long package in one hand. The two stood face to face, neither daring to make a move. The wind whipped up the rain, which poured relentlessly, drenching everyone beneath its assault.

Yang Ning knew this was not a place to linger. He stepped lightly toward the horses. Though the Bat Man had killed another fine steed, two horses still remained, lively and restless. Yang Ning crept toward them, determined to take one.

By now, the two guards beside the escort carriage had also been slain. In their last moments, they managed to kill one of the black-clad assailants, but the remaining ones closed in, sabers in hand, standing behind the Bat Man.

"You’re mistaken," the Bat Man finally spoke. "If tonight’s task succeeds, the name of Flying Cicada will not fade, but grow stronger still." With a sinister laugh, he suddenly twisted his wrist, drawing a black ribbon from his waist. Amidst the storm, he struck.

He crouched, knees bent, then launched forward like a bolt from a crossbow, appearing before the elder in an instant.

"Go!" the brown-robed elder barked, dragging the young man with him as he retreated several paces.

If the Bat Man was a sharp arrow, the brown-robed elder was a drifting breeze.

The arrow missed, the Bat Man paused and sank, his body nearly swallowed by the earth, then burst forward again—this time, faster, fiercer, more deadly.

This was his signature move. The pause was to gather strength; after three such bursts, he believed the elder could not evade even if he were lightning itself.

But this time, the elder did not retreat. He seemed to know that after the Bat Man’s third charge, escape would be impossible. Instead, he pressed forward, thrusting the package straight at the Bat Man.

A cold glint flashed in the Bat Man’s unnaturally bright eyes. He unfurled the black ribbon, but instead of advancing, he retreated, then let out a sharp cry and swung the ribbon.

The black ribbon was a blade—a soft blade, pliant as silk, yet hard as steel.

He gained ground by retreating, opening space to best wield the soft blade, then struck with lightning speed.

The blade’s gleam was inky, lethal and cold.

At that moment, a horse neighed behind him. Several black-clad men turned to look, seeing someone already mounted, turning the horse to leave.

Naturally, it was Yang Ning. He had snuck to the horses, used an icy blade to cut the reins, silently mounted, turned the horse’s head, and galloped away.

The black-clad men rushed after him, arms flicking as they launched a flurry of hidden weapons at the horse. Just then, the brown-robed elder’s forward attack abruptly stopped, switching from offense to retreat. His movement had seemed as unstoppable as a released arrow, with no room to withdraw, but suddenly he pulled back, dissolving like smoke.

Yet even smoke seemed unable to escape the Bat Man’s inky blade.

The elder showed no intention of parrying the soft blade. Instead, his package swept out, transforming into a blur of light, and with a crackling sound, he blocked the hidden weapons aimed at Yang Ning and the horse. Grabbing the young man behind him, he shouted fiercely, and with a lift of his arm, the youth was sent soaring lightly toward Yang Ning’s horse.

Yang Ning was about to spur the horse onward when he felt a sudden jolt behind him—someone had landed on the horse’s back. Startled, he gripped his blade, ready to strike, but heard the elder’s commanding voice: "Take him with you!"

Lightning flashed, and the inky soft blade struck the elder’s shoulder.

The elder’s package swept aside, parrying the blade just as it bit into flesh, but his face paled, blood stained his shoulder, and his robe was torn.

He had not managed to avoid the Bat Man’s blade; his clothes were shredded, his shoulder sliced, though not deeply. It was the first time that night he’d suffered a setback.

To block the hidden weapons, he had taken a blow from the Bat Man.

As Yang Ning glanced back, he caught sight of the youth who had landed behind him. Hearing the elder’s urgent command, he wasted no time, spurring the horse forward. The steed whinnied and dashed into the night rain.

The black-clad men gave chase without hesitation, but at that moment, a clear ringing sound was heard. The elder’s package shattered, splintering apart to reveal a dark sword scabbard. With a horizontal pull, a beam of cold light burst forth, accompanied by a low, thunderous dragon’s cry.

Within the package had been an ancient, treasured sword, now drawn!

The sword’s brilliance flashed, cleaving the lead assailant in two. The other black-clad men recoiled in terror, while the Bat Man soared through the air like his namesake, once again attacking the elder with the soft blade.

Meanwhile, several more black-clad figures rushed from the tavern, surrounding the elder.

"After them!" the Bat Man shrieked, and several men dashed into the rain, pursuing Yang Ning’s disappearing direction.

Yang Ning frantically shook the reins; the horse was fast, but not fast enough for his liking. Rain and wind lashed his face, so he could barely keep his eyes open, and he had no idea where the horse was headed.

Worse still, the youth behind him, clinging to Yang Ning’s tattered clothes for stability as the horse galloped, only made the rips worse. Yang Ning thought bitterly that if this kept up, he’d soon be exposed to the world in nothing but his skin.

The horse ran who knew how long when the youth suddenly shouted, "Stop! Stop!"

Yang Ning thought something must be wrong. After this wild run, surely those pursuers would be left behind. He pulled the reins; the horse reared with a loud neigh. Yang Ning’s riding skills were far from expert—he lost his balance, failed to grip the horse’s sides, and with a cry, tumbled to the ground along with the youth.

"What are you shouting for?" Yang Ning scrambled up, thankfully not badly hurt, and pointed at the youth still lying on the ground. "At this speed, suddenly stopping is bound to cause trouble!"

He knew the blame lay with himself; had he not abruptly halted, they wouldn’t have fallen.

The youth sat up, soaked and muddy, glared at Yang Ning, his face smeared with filth, and retorted angrily, "Your riding is terrible, and you blame me?"

"Oh, so you’re not satisfied?" Yang Ning, unafraid, snapped, "Then tell me, why did you suddenly shout to stop? What are you after?"

"We can’t just leave like this," the youth said, rising, covered in mud. "We must go back and rescue him. We can’t abandon him."

"Rescue who?" Yang Ning sneered. "That old man? Spare me. You really think he can be saved? Did you see how many there were? You’re lucky to have escaped—are you thinking of going back?"

The youth insisted, "I must return. Give me the horse. I don’t need you, I’ll go save him myself." His gaze was resolute, not to be argued with.

Yang Ning thought the youth reckless, but admired his loyalty. The youth had spoken up for him in the tavern, so Yang Ning did not dislike him. He softened his tone, shook his head: "This horse is mine. I brought you out, because you spoke up for me—I gave you face. Now we’re even. Go where you will, but if you want the horse, forget it. I still need it."

He had to catch up with the escort carrying Xiaodie—only with the horse was there a sliver of hope.

The youth protested angrily, "No, you must give it to me. It was mine to begin with." He reached out: "Hand it over!"

Yang Ning laughed, "You want to take it by force? Young man, you miscalculated. I fear many things, but not force. If you have the skill, try and take it."

The youth, about fifteen or sixteen, was about Yang Ning’s apparent age, though Yang Ning’s mind was far older. His words were full of mature arrogance, making the youth seem younger still.

The youth clenched his fists, suddenly stepped forward, and punched at Yang Ning. Yang Ning retreated, ready to grab the youth’s wrist, but the youth turned his punch into a claw, countering Yang Ning’s move.

"Well, your skills aren’t bad," Yang Ning thought. Despite the youth’s delicate looks, his hands showed real skill. Yang Ning withdrew, then swept his leg at the youth’s lower body.

The youth raised a leg to meet Yang Ning’s sweep, kicking at Yang Ning’s knee with practiced speed.

Yang Ning was skilled in fighting, thinking he could easily subdue the youth, but the youth’s grappling was unexpectedly proficient. They traded blows for a dozen rounds, evenly matched.

Suddenly, the youth stumbled; Yang Ning swept his leg again, catching the youth’s leg and sending him stumbling. Yang Ning was triumphant, but felt his own leg caught—the youth hooked his leg behind Yang Ning’s knee and pulled hard, toppling them both into the mud.

If Yang Ning used his full mastery, the youth would not be his equal. However, under these circumstances, even his thick skin couldn’t justify cheating. So, both ended up sprawled side by side, muddy from head to toe, their faces smeared.

"You do have some skill," the youth said, sitting up and pointing at Yang Ning. "What’s your name, anyway?"

----------------------------------
PS: Last two days of the month, a good chance to stay in the top twenty for monthly votes. Please keep supporting, thank you!