Chapter 6: Yan Chuan (3)

Having shattered the great formation, the young man, though drained of strength, stood calmly at the entrance of the bamboo lodge, his composure unbroken by his imperial will from a previous life. His gaze was cold as he surveyed the chaotic scene.

From afar, the frantic cries of the Royal Guards could be heard, and the black-armored troops outside the lodge were instantly thrown into disarray. Though there had been casualties earlier, they were within acceptable limits; but now, with the arrival of the Royal Guards’ main force, escape was impossible.

At once, some of the black-armored soldiers faltered, shifting their stances as if preparing to flee.

The commander of the black-armored troops sensed the danger.

“We’re surrounded by the Royal Guards; no one can escape. Our only chance is to capture that wretch—either we die, or we seize him!” the commander bellowed.

His shout reignited the fading morale of his men, and their fighting spirit blazed anew as they all turned their eyes toward the young man.

“We swear to protect His Highness!” Huo Guang’s anxious voice rang out.

The silver-armored soldiers let out a unified roar.

With reinforcements arrived, their fighting spirit burned bright.

“To arms!” “Strike!” The battle reached its most frenzied pitch. Amid flashing blades and thrusting spears, blood sprayed, brains burst, entrails flew; the carnage was unspeakable.

The servants were too frightened to watch, and even the middle-aged eunuch shuddered, turning his gaze to the young man.

But the youth’s eyes betrayed no panic; even as entrails flew near him, his expression remained cold and unmoved.

At the moment of defeat, the black-armored commander unleashed his full strength, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the youth as he charged forward.

He leapt out of Huo Guang’s combat circle, paying for it with his right arm run through by Huo Guang’s spear.

Yet with his left arm still intact, the commander ignored his maimed right, gripped his blade, and launched himself at the youth.

“Despicable cur, you won’t escape!” Huo Guang shouted, but six black-armored soldiers surrounded him; however skilled his spearwork, he could not slay them all at once.

In an instant, the black-armored commander reached the youth, his face twisted in fury. He swung his great blade down with murderous intent, a bloody glare running along its edge.

The strike was aimed at the youth’s arm—not meant to kill, but to cow all witnesses.

“Your Highness!” the middle-aged eunuch cried out, but it was far too late to help.

All eyes turned to the scene—some gleeful, some horrified—as the blade descended.

It’s over. It’s over. His Highness is finished! The boy had lived here for seven years; while few dared inquire closely, most knew his cultivation was weak, utterly insufficient to block such a blow.

Yet as the blade swept toward him, the youth’s expression remained as cold as ever, not a trace of fear upon his face.

He did not flee; instead, he stepped forward.

Though the step seemed casual, any true expert would recognize that to advance upon a falling blade required more than mere courage; it demanded something beyond what courage alone could accomplish. In the face of mortal danger, instinct compels retreat—a reflex impossible to ignore.

But the youth’s will subdued his instincts. To step forward in that moment required immense confidence.

With that step, he narrowly avoided the fatal strike.

The black-armored commander stared in disbelief at his failed attack.

How could this be? He was a master of the sixth rank of strength! How had a frail youth eluded him?

Was this truly a frail youth?

The next instant, the commander met the youth’s gaze.

Cold—cold to the core—the youth’s eyes bore into him as if regarding a corpse.