Chapter 110 — Assassination
The Sword Questions the Heavens · Page 3 of 6
All over the Mystic Fire Altar, save for the scorching air, there was dead silence.
"Creak!"
The next moment, he pushed the door open.
At the entrance to the Burning Cloud Valley, blood now ran in rivers. More than a hundred tall, powerful savages with fish heads and human bodies were shrieking furiously, wielding all manner of bizarre weapons—spears and sabers, swords and halberds—locked in ceaseless combat with the disciples of the Burning Cloud Valley around them. Blood streamed across the ground, severed limbs lay everywhere, and among the casualties were no few Burning Cloud Valley disciples, but more still were fish-men.
As for those severed limbs, they were likely all hewn off by the savage-natured fish-men.
Yet frightful as the scene was and ferocious as the fish-men were, the tide of battle was gradually being pressed back by the Burning Cloud Valley side. And it was plain the Burning Cloud Valley had deliberately held back: several dozen disciples of higher cultivation had formed a semicircle and were closing in together.
Only, these fish-men of an alien race were truly fierce, and their bodies differed greatly from human kind. Even a cultivator struck by a sword-light from a Burning Cloud Valley disciple would likely be wounded, yet these fish-men, for some unknown reason, had bodies of extreme toughness—and the Burning Cloud Valley folk seemed to have received some order and were holding back. Apart from the sword-radiance and treasures of a few masters, the other disciples' treasures, striking their bodies, at most sent the fish-men flying; blood was rarely drawn.
Still, first, the Burning Cloud Valley folk had all cultivated for many years and were of no shallow attainment; one against one, with the power of their treasures, they still surpassed these savage fish-men. Second, the fish-men had only brute strength and thick hides; the Burning Cloud Valley disciples advanced and withdrew in good order, now and then riding their swords aloft to strike down from midair, which the fish-men found endlessly troublesome. The advantage remained firmly theirs.
And among the Burning Cloud Valley disciples, an old man directed from the center—none other than Lü Shun, whom Ming Li had seen that day at the desolate mountain shrine. His brows were tightly knit now, his face exceedingly grim; plainly he was furious.
In the fiercest part of the fighting, suddenly a miserable scream rang out: a Burning Cloud Valley disciple had grown careless and exposed an opening, and a fish-man hooked his leg with a weapon like a sickle and dragged him bodily down from midair to crash upon the ground. In an instant several fish-men swarmed over him, blades flailing, and he perished on the spot, his corpse left not even whole.
In that instant the Burning Cloud Valley disciples erupted in uproar. Many could restrain themselves no longer and put their strength into their hands; treasures and flying swords shrieked through the air as they attacked in a swarm. Within moments miserable cries rang out one after another—several fish-men had been hewn dead outright by the treasures.
Yet these fish-men were savage by nature. Seeing blood flying everywhere, they showed no fear at all; instead they flung themselves into the fight with even greater frenzy, utterly reckless of death.
Lü Shun rode his sword into midair and shouted repeatedly for them to stop, but below, fish-men and Burning Cloud Valley disciples alike had killed until their eyes were red, and not one heeded his words. A still greater slaughter seemed about to unfold.
Just then, the night sky, where the lone moon had hung high, suddenly darkened. Lü Shun frowned and glanced upward. A mass of grey cloud came sweeping in. His expression changed, and he could not suppress a cold snort.