Chapter Twenty-Three: Like a Dream, Yet Not a Dream

As soon as Xiaoshan crested the hill, he spotted a large group of people clad in black military uniforms, their leader standing at the forefront. Narrowing his eyes, Xiaoshan realized the leader bore a striking resemblance to Lin Feng, prompting him to tentatively probe with a question.

The man at the head of the group clearly hadn’t anticipated such a scenario and offered no reply, instead glaring at Xiaoshan. Embarrassed, Xiaoshan flushed deeply, braced a hand on the ground, and sprang upright.

Lin Feng’s presence was usually restrained; in ordinary situations, he seemed no different from any other middle-aged man, exuding nothing remarkable at all. That was the mark of someone whose aura could be gathered or dispersed at will—a symptom of exceptional martial mastery.

Yet the man before him now presented an entirely different impression. Facing Xiaoshan, he radiated an irresistible force, his expression stern and unyielding—a true soldier, perhaps? The resemblance between them was uncanny, as though they were blood brothers, yet their temperaments were worlds apart.

“Who are you?” the leader demanded.

The question caught Xiaoshan off guard. He had no understanding of the situation before him and thus had no idea how to respond. Instinctively, he gripped the sword in his hand. Sometimes, silence is the best answer—especially when facing someone whose very presence threatened him, stirring a murderous intent that set him on edge.

He glanced at the sword in his grip, his gaze sharpening as a realization dawned within him. For years, there had been no disturbances, but today the air was thick with turmoil, and here he stood, holding a black, stone-like blade. Too many coincidences had converged; coincidence no longer explained it.

At that moment, Xiaoshan sensed the world around him shift. He was startled—the people before him seemed to draw closer. He tried to move his hand, only to discover his body no longer obeyed him.

His lips twitched as if to speak, but he was shocked to find he could not utter a single sound. What on earth was happening?

It was the sword’s cry! The blade in his hand began to tremble—a sword without an edge, and yet it rang out with a piercing song. This meant he was not only quick to draw, but also a master of the sword.

The soldier before him wasted no time, drawing his saber in response. The two faced each other without a word. Xiaoshan, beset by the soldier’s overwhelming pressure, found his body moving without his command.

The soldier came with his own purpose—at the mere hint of suspicion, they clashed.

Xiaoshan’s body charged forward, but in his mind echoed a saying: when faced with unanswerable questions, silence is the best reply. Attack is the best defense, and in this situation, it was the only choice. Not that he had much of a choice—his body had decided for him, and all he could do was try to comfort himself.

They closed the distance at lightning speed. Blade met sword in a simple, unadorned clash—no flowery techniques, just raw skill.

Xiaoshan could sense the changes in his body, his right arm moving at blinding speed as he attacked with his sword. When his blade met the saber, sparks flew—and only then did Xiaoshan realize his weapon truly was made of stone. Only stone could spark like that against something sharp.

The sword moved so swiftly, striking from above, from below, from all sides, yet every time he thought he’d break through, the soldier parried with ease.

Soon, Xiaoshan’s eyes grew sore—he could only see the afterimages of the sword, its speed ever increasing. The intense focus took its toll, leaving him exhausted. He was thankful he wasn’t actually fighting the man himself; he wouldn’t have lasted a single move.

Across from him, the middle-aged soldier’s composure never wavered. He received Xiaoshan’s attacks with practiced calm—this was the gap between them. Xiaoshan could barely see the sword, and even if he could, his body would never be quick enough to dodge.

The middle-aged man curled his lip, as though he’d lost patience with the test. He swung his blade casually, aiming directly for Xiaoshan’s chest.

To Xiaoshan, there was no way to avoid this strike. Until now, the man had only defended, but one move was all it took for the threat to become deadly.

Xiaoshan’s eyes widened. He put all his strength and speed into blocking the blow with his sword.

The clash resounded with a deafening noise, the shockwave rippling outward. Xiaoshan’s hearing vanished in an instant, a tremendous force reverberating from the blade to his arm. His hand trembled; he was a hair’s breadth from dropping the sword.

The saber pressed down, forcing his ankles deeper into the earth. He glanced down—the blade grazed his chest, tearing through his clothes with a harsh rip.

The force flung Xiaoshan back a full meter. He dropped to one knee, sword plunged into the ground to support his wavering body.

He could hold back no longer—a spurt of blood burst from his throat and mouth. Gripping his sword with his right hand, he wiped his bleeding lips with his left, and, bracing his ankle, tried to stand. His chest throbbed with pain; the injury was severe.

A single blow—though it hadn’t cut his flesh, its force had reached his lungs.

He couldn’t fight this man—he had to flee! Yet though Xiaoshan willed himself to run, he couldn’t make his body act.

His body nonetheless staggered upright, sword trembling in his weakening grip. He alone could sense the drastic decline in his strength; even gripping the sword felt nearly impossible.

Facing the enemy, Xiaoshan felt his isolation more keenly than ever amid the crowd. He gasped for breath, still unable to recover. Yet his body moved—sword pointed to the ground, he charged straight at the middle-aged soldier.

He lunged forward, wind whistling past. The soldier’s expression was calm as ever as he swung his saber again.

Xiaoshan’s pupils contracted—the strike was fiercer than before, the blade leaving a blur in its wake.

Strangely, Xiaoshan’s right arm did not rise. Was he simply surrendering? Anxiety gnawed at him.

As the saber neared his shoulder, Xiaoshan’s lips curled in a half-smile, half-grimace. He stamped his right foot hard, and his body suddenly pitched left as if struck by a heavy weight.

The saber missed him by a hair. Xiaoshan blinked—he was playing with fire, dancing with death itself.

“What speed!” the soldier exclaimed, clearly surprised.

He turned to see Xiaoshan darting toward the ranks of the soldiers. Frowning, he raised his blade and gave chase.

Xiaoshan felt the world around him blur past to the right—he was moving so fast he couldn’t even track his surroundings.

His heart pounded with terror, the recent events still fresh in his mind. Though his body was not his own, every sensation was vivid; the oppressive aura of the middle-aged man was almost unbearable.

He felt he should be running in the opposite direction, not charging the army with sword drawn. But his body didn’t listen; he could only feel the wild, ragged breaths in his chest, the trembling of his sword hand—slightly steadier, but only just.

He barreled straight for the soldiers.

This feeling!

Sword in hand, Xiaoshan could feel its rough surface against his palm. To his astonishment, the blunt-looking blade passed through a soldier’s chest as if through air.

“I killed someone!” The thought echoed in Xiaoshan’s mind, plunging him into chaos.

His mind faltered, but his body did not—his face twisted into a savage grin, as though relishing the sensation.

He yanked the sword free; the soldier collapsed instantly. The nearby troops reacted at once, attacking Xiaoshan. He sneered in disdain, his steps turning subtle and elusive—no one could touch him.

He vaulted from the fallen man’s body, leaped through the air, and thrust his sword down atop another soldier’s head, blood spraying wildly.

Using the corpse as a springboard, he launched himself again. Turning his head, he saw the middle-aged man had caught up, blade raised.

Xiaoshan’s grin faded. He broke off his next move, bringing his sword up horizontally across his chest, left hand bracing it—he was ready to meet the attack head-on.

Predictably, he couldn’t withstand the blow—a single strike before had nearly done him in; now, he was even weaker.

His ankles scraped the ground, leaving a furrow, his inner energy surging. At some point, his sword had begun to emit a blue glow.

This time, he was barely hurt. Spinning on his heel, he began another desperate escape. The surrounding soldiers’ faces changed, and they parted to let him pass.

Xiaoshan showed no surprise, as if he’d known they would give way.

As he was about to vanish from sight, he turned and smiled meaningfully at the middle-aged man.

“Remarkable,” the man murmured, his expression grave. In his eyes, a single strike should have been enough to kill this foe.

Yet he’d swung three times, each blow stronger than the last, and still Xiaoshan stood before him, vigorous and unbowed.

Most tellingly, as he fled, Xiaoshan had smiled at him—a smile full of meaning. This was not the end; it was only the beginning.

The soldier lowered his head, clenching his fist. In just an instant, two of their own had been slain, without even a chance to fight back.

They had no thoughts beyond self-reproach for their weakness.

~~~

“Xiaoshan!”

“Xiaoshan, where are you going?”

“Are you going to leave me behind?”

A familiar voice reached Xiaoshan’s ears, its gentle tone tinged with confusion.

“That’s Ruoxi’s voice!” Xiaoshan murmured, voicing the question in his heart as his mind slowly began to function again. The recent events had shaken him deeply—his mind had gone blank. He was no killer; never before had he experienced anything like this.

He slowly opened his eyes, astonished to see the surroundings had reverted to how they were before. Surveying the area, nothing had changed—except his position.

Ruoxi stood ahead, her wide, dewy eyes gazing at him. Even Haotian and Haopo were watching him from a distance of several hundred meters.

Xiaoshan stood alone, arms hanging by his sides, looking utterly forlorn.

“What did you just say, Ruoxi? I didn’t catch that.”

“Why did you suddenly run off just now? We couldn’t even keep up with you!” Ruoxi’s face was full of grievance—she’d come with Xiaoshan, and what would she do if he abandoned her?

“Run?” Xiaoshan scratched his head, pausing, not fully grasping her question.

He couldn’t make sense of what had just happened. It hadn’t felt like himself—more like he’d been possessed, or someone else had taken control of his body.

He hadn’t been able to command himself. Though every sensation was vivid, he had no control.

How strange—how utterly strange!