CHAPTER 32
FUGITIVE
Mark rode into a small, sleepy village just as the sun sank below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. The day’s light was fading fast, and the air was thick with the smell of burning wood from scattered chimneys. It had been nearly a month since his daring escape from Zhongdao, and he was still deep in the lands of Archon Hanying, where his name was at the top of every wanted list. He pressed southward, toward the domain of Archon Vlad, hoping to cross the border before his dwindling coins ran out. Once there, he could look for mercenary work without every sword in the realm aimed at his back.
For now, though, survival came first. His horse’s hooves clattered along the dirt road before stopping in front of the village’s sole inn. It was a shabby, weathered building, the kind you’d expect in a place home to just a few dozen souls. Mark dismounted, giving his weary horse a pat on the neck, and stepped inside.
The inn’s common room was small and dimly lit, with the low murmur of voices filling the air. At one table, a group of old farmers sipped wine and shared stories. At another, younger villagers laughed and cursed as they tossed dice. Mark headed to the counter, where a middle-aged man with a scruffy beard stood polishing a cup.
“I’ll take some wine and a meal,” Mark said. “Something cheap but decent.”
The innkeeper nodded and disappeared into the back. Moments later, he returned with a plate of pork and rice and a cup of wine. Mark dug in, devouring the meal like a starving wolf and downing the wine in quick gulps. The food was plain, but after days on the road, it might as well have been a feast.
His moment of peace didn’t last long. The door to the inn swung open with a bang, and four men strode in. The leader was middle-aged with a thick, bristling mustache, while the other three were younger, their faces set with cocky determination. All of them wore long, flowing purple silk robes.
“Mark!” the mustached man barked, pointing a finger at him. “The fugitive! We are from the Monkey Sword Sect, here to bring you to justice. Your crimes are unforgivable!”
Mark looked up from his plate, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and let out a dry laugh. “Justice? Spare me the righteous talk. You’re here for the bounty, not some noble cause. Han Fen wasn’t exactly a saint, you know. Hypocrites, the lot of you.”
“Silence, you scum!” one of the younger men snarled, his hand flying to his sword. “The Monkey Sword Sect stands for justice and order. We’re nothing like a mercenary dog like you!” The others drew their swords in unison, the steel glinting in the dim light. “Prepare yourself, fugitive. You won’t leave this village alive.”
Mark smirked, slowly standing up and cracking his neck. “You boys want a fight? Fine by me.”
The villagers bolted from the inn, tripping over each other in their rush to escape the brewing fight. The three disciples charged at Mark together, their swords flashing as they aimed for him in unison. Mark rolled to his left, narrowly dodging their attacks. One of the disciples was quicker than the others, rushing at him again with his sword raised.
Thinking fast, Mark grabbed a chair and hurled it at the charging disciple. The man sliced the chair clean in half with his sword, but by then Mark was already upon him. In one swift motion, Mark unsheathed his blade and slashed the man’s left leg. Blood spattered the floor as the disciple let out a howl of pain, stumbling back to create space between them.
Before Mark could press the advantage, the other two disciples lunged at him, their swords coming at him from different angles. With a sharp clang, Mark parried both blades with a precise flick of his own. The disciples kept up their relentless assault—one slash missed his face by mere inches, grazing his forehead and drawing a thin line of blood. Another strike hit his chest, the force jolting him, but his chainmail absorbed the blow, leaving him sore but unscathed.
As the third disciple joined the fray, Mark retreated, stepping back to gain some breathing room. Spotting a table nearby, he heaved it into the air and threw it at the three men. Two of them dove aside, but the third wasn’t fast enough and took the full brunt of the table, crashing to the ground with a groan.
Mark seized the moment. He darted forward, leaping high, and drove his blade downward into the fallen man’s chest. The disciple let out a final gasp as the sword pierced through him. Mark wrenched his blood-soaked blade free and backed up just in time as the remaining two disciples came at him again.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
One disciple sprinted at him recklessly. Mark sidestepped at the last second, letting the man barrel past him. In a fluid motion, Mark twisted his body and thrust his blade backward, sinking it deep into the disciple’s back. The sword emerged from his chest, and the man crumpled to the ground in a spreading pool of blood.
Only one disciple remained. He lunged at Mark, slashing for his face. Mark caught the strike with his sword, their blades ringing out as they clashed again and again. Mark feinted with a thrust toward the man’s chest. Predictably, the disciple moved to block it, but Mark was already stepping back, shifting his aim downward. With a sharp thrust, his blade sank deep into the man’s groin. The disciple screamed, his voice echoing through the shattered inn. Mark wasted no time, slashing the man’s throat in one swift motion. Blood sprayed out, and the man collapsed to the floor, choking on his final breath.
Now, only the middle-aged man remained. He calmly drew his sword, his expression cold and confident. "Unlike my disciples," he said, tapping the blade with his finger, "I’ve mastered Qi cultivation."
Mark said nothing. He sheathed his regular sword and drew his spirit sword instead. Its green glow bathed the room in an otherworldly light.
For a moment, the two men stood still, their eyes locked, the tension thick enough to cut. Then, without warning, the man surged forward with blinding speed. Mark barely managed to sidestep as the man’s sword crashed into the wooden counter. The impact was so powerful that the counter shattered into splinters, as if a battering ram had smashed through it.
Mark muttered a spell from Vivian’s grimoire under his breath. “Tempus moratus, motus tardus, vis iners.” The air shimmered briefly, and when the man charged again, his movements had slowed to something closer to human speed. Even so, his strikes were fast, and the raw power of his Qi-enhanced sword was overwhelming.
The man swung again, and Mark raised his spirit sword just in time to block. The force of the clash rattled his arms; a normal sword would have shattered instantly. Another strike followed—a diagonal slash that sliced through Mark’s chainmail, sending sparks flying and leaving a bleeding wound across his chest.
The next attack was an upward swing. Mark parried it, but the sheer strength of the blow sent him stumbling backward, struggling to keep his footing. His chest burned, and blood dripped down his armor.
Mark gritted his teeth. This was much harder than he had expected.
The man came at Mark again, his sword slicing through the air. Mark rolled to the right, dodging the blade and letting the attacker stumble past. Without missing a beat, Mark surged forward and slashed his sword across the man’s back. The blade bit deep, drawing blood and shredding the purple silk of his gown.
The man spun around with a growl and swung his sword. Mark parried, but the sheer force of the blow sent him staggering backward. He quickly shifted direction, leaping to put space between them. His eyes landed on one of the abandoned tables, where farmers had been drinking before chaos broke loose. Mark grabbed a cup still full of wine.
Just as the man charged again, Mark hurled the wine into his face. The man instinctively shut his eyes, and Mark took the opening. He lunged forward, driving his blade deep into the man’s left shoulder.
Before Mark could pull his sword free, the man let out a roar and kicked him hard in the chest. The impact sent Mark flying backward, crashing into a table and smashing it to pieces. Dazed but determined, Mark scrambled to his feet just as the man approached, his movements slower now, his face twisted in pain from the sword still embedded in his shoulder.
Mark drew his regular sword, knowing full well it couldn’t stand up to the Qi-infused blade in a direct clash. He had to be smart.
The man gritted his teeth and advanced. Mark spotted a jagged shard of broken wood from the table nearby. Without hesitation, he grabbed it and hurled it like a spear. The man swung his blade to block the makeshift projectile. That was the moment Mark needed.
As the man’s sword deflected the wood, Mark lunged. His blade plunged deep into the man’s chest, slipping between his ribs. The man’s sword, in a downward motion, had nearly grazed Mark’s neck, but Mark was faster. His strike landed first, the man gasping as blood bubbled from his lips.
Mark yanked his sword free, and the man stumbled backward, struggling to stay upright. Without wasting a second, Mark closed the distance, grabbed the spirit sword still lodged in the man’s shoulder, and pulled it out. Now armed with both blades, he moved swiftly.
In a single, decisive motion, Mark slashed with both swords. The man’s head flew from his shoulders, spinning through the air before landing with a sickening thud on the blood-soaked floor.
Mark planted a boot against the lifeless body’s chest and kicked it over. The corpse collapsed, adding to the growing pool of blood spreading across the ruined inn.
The inn’s middle-aged owner, who had been hiding in one of the rooms during the chaos, finally crept out. He took one look at the wreckage—broken tables, blood-soaked floors, and splintered wood everywhere—and let out a loud, frustrated scream. “Damn it! My inn is ruined!”
Mark, calmly sheathing his swords, glanced around at the mess. “So, uh… can I still rent a room?” he asked. “It’s late, and I’d rather not be on the road after dark.”
The owner threw his arms in the air. “Are you kidding me? Look at this place! It’s a disaster!”
Mark held up his hands apologetically. “Hey, I get it. You have every right to be angry. But let’s be real—it was those Monkey-Sect-whatever guys who started all this. I just finished it. And look, I’ll pay you for the room. Easy cash, right?”
The man glared at him, sighed heavily, and eventually gave a defeated nod. “Fine,” he muttered.
Mark stayed the night in what remained of the inn. At dawn, he saddled his horse and rode out, heading south toward the lands of Archon Vlad. Such was the life of a wandering swordsman—always on the road.