“Whiz—”
The crimson bullet whizzed past the back of Luo Yang’s left ear.
The bullet flew so fast that Luo Yang didn't even have time to finish the thought “it’s over” in his mind before the fishy wind carrying distortion power grazed his ear and flew away.
The next moment, the Eerie Immortal’s hand, which should have crushed his skull, came to a dead stop.
The withered claw froze in mid-air, its palm less than three inches from the top of Luo Yang’s head. Its porcelain-like, grayish-white face dipped for a moment, as if trying to look at the new small hole in its chest.
But it didn't get the chance; the bullet detonated inside its body with a roar.
The unrestrained distortion power rippled outward along its ribs, churning a pitch-black vortex within its chest. The energy that had been saturating the hundred-meter radius was instantly thrown into chaos by this vortex.
Its joints twisted into impossible angles inch by inch—shoulders, elbows, knuckles—every part of it was collapsing. Cracks spiderwebbed across its grayish-white skin, but instead of blood, a dense, impenetrable black mist seeped out.
The mist squeezed out from every rupture in its form, scattering frantically in all directions, unable to maintain even a semblance of a shape.
The suffocating pressure looming over the ruins collapsed at the same instant the creature dissipated.
Luo Yang felt as if his consciousness had been yanked upward and then gently set back down.
The “sense of existence” that the Eerie Immortal had drained was creeping back into him, bit by bit.
By the time he could feel the rhythm of his own heartbeat, the stale air he’d been holding in his throat finally burst out.
“—Cough!”
Dark, clotted blood gushed from his nose and the corners of his mouth, splashing onto the trampled, dusty earth beneath him and forming two dark puddles.
He propped himself up with the hilt of Night Owl, dropping to one knee.
The tip of the blade was buried in the dirt, the entire weapon still trembling. It wasn't him shaking; the fourth-tier weapon was still reeling from the Eerie Immortal’s “Erasure” alongside him, and it hadn't yet recovered.
Luo Yang gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand, turning his head toward the source of the shot.
Through his blurred vision, he saw a figure standing on a small mound twenty meters away.
Long, grayish-white hair whipped about in the night wind. Dust clung to the shoulders of her black student uniform, and fresh blood stained her left sleeve. Qiu Shubai was slightly bent over, her chest heaving much faster than usual. Her right hand hung at her side, gripping a crimson revolver.
The muzzle was still venting something—countless fine, crimson particles drifted out like stardust from the barrel, scattering in the wind and vanishing within a few breaths.
She stood with her head slightly bowed, her eyes fixed solely on him.
Luo Yang looked at her face, at her hand gripping the gun, and at the fresh blood on her shoulder. For a moment, he didn't know how to feel.
Guilt, lingering fear, and a host of other complex emotions were stuck in his throat, impossible to swallow or spit out.
He wasn't good at processing things like this.
“...Thanks, Miss Chief.”
His voice was so hoarse it sounded foreign even to his own ears.
Qiu Shubai didn't respond immediately.
She jumped down from the mound, her boots landing on the loose bricks below with a dull thud. She stopped in front of him. She was half a head shorter than him, but when she looked up, her gaze was steady and level.
“Don’t always try to be a hero by yourself.”
Her tone was flat, lacking any hint of reproach or blame. It sounded more like she was reading off a checklist she had already prepared for him.
Luo Yang was stunned.
He wanted to say, “I wasn’t,” but the protest felt too hollow. He wanted to say, “It won’t happen again,” but he didn't even believe that himself.
In the end, he said nothing at all.
Qiu Shubai didn't wait for an answer. Her gaze slid from his face down to his bloodied lips, to his wrist propping up the blade, to his tattered hem, and finally back to his face, meeting his still-clouded eyes with her own, which were as deep and still as an ancient well.
Zhang Xian used both hands to help Li Jinqi up from the ground. The Old Director’s body was slumped; when he was pulled up, his legs buckled, and he nearly collapsed again.
“I... I can stand on my own.”
He raised a hand and pushed away Zhang Xian’s arm.
Zhang Xian opened his mouth to speak but said nothing, letting his hand drop.
Li Jinqi braced himself against his knees to straighten his back, his feet wobbling once more. He gritted his teeth to steady himself. The hem of his finely tailored dark suit was scorched and curled, and his wide-brimmed hat was gone. His white hair, a testament to his age, was plastered against his forehead by the wind.
Zhang Xian didn't linger on him, his gaze dropping to the ground.
A charred, blackened long ruler lay at his feet.
It seemed that when the power had finally receded, the ruler had broken.
The intricate patterns that once covered the ruler were now a chaotic mess of cracks, its original form completely unrecognizable.
Zhang Xian crouched down and gently stroked the old friend that had been by his side for over thirty years, his knuckles stiff.
Li Jinqi walked over and leaned against a concrete block that hadn't collapsed. He glanced down at the charred ruler on Zhang Xian’s lap and blinked.
“Old Zhang, stop looking at it.”
His voice was quiet.
“When we get back, I’ll get you a better one.”
Zhang Xian’s face was even paler than before, his lips tinged with blue. But when he looked up, there was a smile on his face—a loose, weak smile, but a smile nonetheless.
“Then I want one from the Capital Spirit Armament Bureau.”
Li Jinqi was taken aback by the request and let out a soft snort.
“You’re extorting me.”
“Between old friends, there’s no need for pleasantries.”
Li Jinqi didn't respond, leaning further against the concrete. His chest rose and fell more steadily now, but his complexion betrayed just how weak he truly was.
Luo Yang listened to their exchange but didn't interject.
Qiu Shubai’s gaze was still fixed on him.
He felt a bit unnerved by her stare and turned his head away, only to catch sight of the black mist ahead.
The mist that had scattered in all directions was now reconsolidating in the air about thirty meters away from the ruins. It wasn't moving fast, but with every passing breath, it grew more solid.
The grayish-white silhouette was already beginning to take shape again.
First the shoulders, then the upper arms, then the waist. Its chest remained a hollow void, but that porcelain face was already faintly emerging at the top.
It was coming back.
Luo Yang slowly exhaled.
In his Sea of Consciousness, the leaves of the golden tree were still trembling, its roots weaving through his blood vessels to repair the damage. He tried to channel a wisp of blood energy; the output was significantly stronger than before.
He lifted his blade, the body of Night Owl once again shrouded in a ghostly blue layer of blood energy. He prepared to step forward, but his left hand suddenly felt heavy.
A soft sensation brushed against him as something was pressed into his left hand.
The object was lighter than his blade, and the grip felt different. He felt the cold touch of metal against his palm, the patterns on the hilt clear against his skin.
Luo Yang looked down. A snow-white blade with faint golden lines extending along the blood grooves. Those patterns glowed softly against his palm, as if they recognized him.
He looked to his side; Qiu Shubai was now standing half a step to his left. She had just withdrawn the hand she used to hand him the sword; the crimson revolver was in her left hand. Her right hand hung at her side, not touching him, but a trace of warmth still lingered where her fingertips had brushed against the base of his thumb.
“Don’t let there be a next time.”
Her gaze swept past his shoulder, landing on the black mist that was continuing to take form. That void-like face was now complete. Its “gaze” fell upon them once more.
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