4: Chapter 4: Never fought before, every move is a death sentence.

The door was kicked open.

The wooden door slammed against the wall with a clang, shaking down a layer of dust.

Moonlight poured in. Three people.

The one in the lead was the burliest, with a face full of flabby flesh, a short blade strapped to his waist, and a dagger spinning in his hand.

The two behind him were thinner; one held a single-edged sword, and the other was empty-handed, with an iron rod stuck diagonally across his back.

The flabby-faced man scanned the temple, his gaze landing on Cheng Ying in the corner, and he grinned.

"Found you! You've made us search so hard."

Cheng Ying huddled in the corner, her hands protecting her belly, staying silent.

Yang Yuan stood between the doorway and Cheng Ying, gripping a short wooden stick in his hand.

The stick had been whittled just yesterday; it was as thick as a wrist and reached his chest.

He stared at the flabby-faced man's blade.

In this life, Yang Yuan had never fought anyone.

In his past life, Yang Yuan had even less experience.

The most intense fighting he had ever done was arguing with people online.

But now was not the time to think about such things.

"You've found the wrong person." He spoke, his throat feeling tight.

The flabby-faced man tilted his head, sizing him up: "Who are you?"

"She is my wife."

The flabby-faced man laughed out loud: "Wife? Hahaha—"

He turned back and winked at his two companions, "Did you hear that? This brat says Cheng Ying is his wife."

The three of them laughed together.

Yang Yuan did not laugh.

He stared at the teeth the flabby-faced man revealed while laughing, stared at his right hand gripping the blade, and stared at his center of gravity, slightly shifted to his left foot.

His mind raced.

Three people. Three weapons. He only had a wooden stick and the Qi Cultivation Method he had been practicing for just over ten days.

He couldn't win.

But he could not retreat. Behind him was Cheng Ying.

"This is the last time." The flabby-faced man stopped laughing and twirled the dagger, "If you know what's good for you, get lost. We only want the woman. Anyone in the way—gets killed."

Yang Yuan gripped the wooden stick tightly, not moving.

The flabby-faced man's eyes turned cold as he stepped forward.

The flabby-faced man was fast.

Yang Yuan only saw the dagger flash as it thrust toward his chest. He instinctively took a half-step back; the dagger grazed his lapel, tearing a gash in the fabric.

Immediately followed by a second strike.

This strike came horizontally, aimed at his neck. Yang Yuan raised the stick to block; the wooden stick and the dagger collided, sending a numbing shock through the web of his hand, and the stick almost slipped from his grasp.

The difference in strength was too great.

The flabby-faced man kicked him in the stomach, sending Yang Yuan flying backward, his back slamming into the wall, and he groaned, sliding to the ground.

His chest felt like it had been struck by an iron hammer; he couldn't catch his breath.

"Is that all?" The flabby-faced man scoffed and walked over, dagger in hand.

Yang Yuan braced against the wall, trying to stand up, but his arms trembled and his knees felt weak.

Cheng Ying's voice came from behind: "No—"

The flabby-faced man was already upon him.

He raised the dagger and stabbed downward.

Yang Yuan stared at the cold glint.

His mind suddenly became very quiet.

A System prompt flashed before his eyes—

[Warning: The host's life is under threat. The Qi Cultivation Method can accelerate its operation to stimulate potential. Do you wish to attempt it?]

He had no choice.

Yang Yuan closed his eyes and fiercely compressed that thin, weak stream of heat inside his body into his Dantian—

It was like grabbing the tail of a fish, squeezing it tight, and then letting go.

The heat stream exploded.

It rushed out from the Dantian, surging wildly along his Meridians toward his limbs. It was like boiling water poured into a frozen river, like fire burning into the gaps of his bones.

Painful. And scorching. But that strength was real—his hands could move, his legs could support him, and the sound of his heartbeat pounded in his ears like a war drum.

The dagger descended.

Yang Yuan tilted his head, the tip of the blade grazing his cheek and leaving a white mark on the wall.

He grabbed the flabby-faced man's wrist and twisted it outward.

The flabby-faced man hadn't expected him to still have strength and was caught by surprise; his wrist was twisted against the joint, and in his pain, he cursed, the dagger slipping from his hand.

Yang Yuan picked up the wooden stick from the ground with his other hand and swung it with all his might against the man's temple.

Crack.

The wooden stick snapped. The flabby-faced man's head lolled to the side, his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed straight down.

Yang Yuan was left with only half a broken stick in his hand, the end jagged with sharp wooden splinters.

The two thin men behind him froze for a moment.

"Damn it—"

The one holding the single-edged sword reacted first, raising his blade to hack down.

Yang Yuan didn't dodge. He charged forward, using the jagged end of the broken stick to stab fiercely into the man's sword-wielding arm.

The man let out a miserable scream, and the sword fell from his hand. Yang Yuan snatched the single-edged sword and, with a backhand swipe, sliced across his throat.

Blood sprayed out, splattering onto Yang Yuan's face.

It was hot.

The third person had already turned and run.

He didn't even pull out his iron rod, but bolted toward the outside of the temple, shouting as he ran: "Someone! There's someone in the ruined temple—"

Yang Yuan didn't chase him.

He stood in place, gasping for breath, clutching the single-edged sword.

Blood dripped from the blade, landing drop by drop on the ground, mixing with the mud and rainwater.

The surging heat stream inside his body was slowly ebbing. Like a flood that had passed, leaving only a thin, weak stream flowing faintly through his Meridians.

His whole body was drained of strength, and his knees were trembling.

He leaned against the wall and slowly crouched down.

The temple was quiet.

Cheng Ying walked over, leaning against the wall, and crouched before him.

She didn't speak. She only reached out and wiped the blood from his face. Her fingers were trembling.

"It's okay." Yang Yuan said. His voice was terribly hoarse.

Cheng Ying didn't respond. She glanced at the two corpses on the ground, then looked out into the pitch-black night outside the door.

"We have to go." Yang Yuan stood up, his legs still a bit weak, "The one who ran away will bring people back."

He bent down to search the flabby-faced man's corpse.

A few taels of broken silver. A package of dry rations. A short sword.

The sword was not long, a foot and a half, with a black-lacquered scabbard that felt cold to the touch. He drew it out to take a look—

The blade was bluish, and a mark was carved into the hilt.

Three bent lines formed an irregular circle, looking like some kind of totem, or perhaps the emblem of a School.

Yang Yuan stared at the mark for two seconds.

Familiar.

It was like a place he had visited in a dream, like characters he had read in his past life, vague and elusive.

He frowned, slid the short sword back into its scabbard, and tucked it into his clothes.

"Pack your things. We leave before dawn."

Cheng Ying nodded, not asking further questions.

She turned to pack the bundle, her movements efficient—a few old clothes, half a bag of rice, and that broken clay pot.

Yang Yuan leaned against the wall, listening to the wind outside the temple.

The one who ran away would pass the news back by dawn at the latest. Li Mochou's people would come again. Not just three, but maybe ten, thirty.

He looked down at his own hands. Blood was smeared between his fingers, and dark red, dried blood was under his fingernails.

Tonight, he had killed two people.

In his past life, he hadn't even killed a chicken.

But he didn't feel panicked. Nor did he feel nauseous. There was only a heavy sensation pressing on his chest and weighing down his stomach.

He looked up at Cheng Ying's back.

She was bending over to tie the bundle, her hand resting on her belly; her movements paused for a moment before she continued tying it.

Yang Yuan withdrew his gaze.

He tucked the short sword deeper into his clothes.