Tian Hao’s gaze softened, his earlier playful demeanor replaced by a fierce determination. He stepped forward, placing himself between Lin Mei and the Iron Talon disciples.
“You think fear is a weapon, Qian Zhi? You think threats can break bonds forged in something stronger than mere obedience?” He chuckled, a low, humorless sound that echoed through the alley. “You mistake silence for weakness, compliance for consent.”
His hand reached out, resting gently on Lin Mei’s shoulder, his touch a silent reassurance, a promise of support that transcended words.
“Lin Mei,” he said, his voice soft yet firm, “you are not alone. Not now, not ever. You did what you had to, to protect those you cared for. There’s no shame in that.” He turned to face Qian Zhi. “And you,” he continued, his voice hardening, “you think you can just waltz in here and threaten my friends? You think your sect’s reputation gives you the right to play with people’s lives? You're no better than a bully hiding behind a fancy title.”
Lin Mei, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and gratitude, looked at Tian Hao, his words a soothing balm to her wounded spirit. His unwavering support, even in the face of such danger, was something she hadn’t dared to hope for. She had expected him to turn away, to cast her aside once the truth was revealed. But he hadn’t. He stood by her, a shield against the darkness that threatened to consume her. A sob caught in her throat as she realized she hadn't lost everything, not yet.
Qian Zhi, however, merely laughed, his voice dripping with disdain. “Friendship? Loyalty? Such naive notions. They are fleeting, ephemeral. Power, however, is eternal. And your friend,” he gestured towards Lin Mei with a dismissive flick of his wrist, “has chosen the losing side.”
He turned to his disciples, his eyes gleaming with predatory anticipation. “Teach this Skyward Lotus fool a lesson. Show him the price of defiance. But be careful not to kill him—yet. We wouldn’t want to attract the attention of the sects before we’ve secured what we came for.”
The Iron Talon disciples, their faces contorted into cruel grins, advanced, their movements swift and silent, like predators stalking their prey.
Tian Hao, fueled by a desperate need to protect Lin Mei and prove himself, tried to activate Wine-Fueled Fury. He reached for his flask, his fingers fumbling with the familiar shape, but before he could take a swig, a palm strike slammed into his wrist, sending the flask tumbling from his grasp. It clattered against the cobblestones, the sound sharp and final in the tense silence. The other attacker, quick as a viper, seized the opportunity, delivering a swift kick to Tian Hao's chest.
The force of the blow sent him sprawling, his body hitting the ground with a jarring thud that knocked the wind from his lungs. Pain radiated through his chest, each breath a struggle as he gasped for air. He tried to rise, to regain his footing, but the disciples were relentless, their attacks now fueled by the scent of his vulnerability. They pressed their advantage, their movements swift and brutal, giving him no chance to recover.
One of them lashed out, his foot connecting with Tian Hao’s side, the impact echoing in the narrow alleyway. He grunted in pain, his body twisting under the force of the blow, his ribs screaming in protest. Another kick landed on his shoulder, the sharp pain making his vision swim. He could taste blood, the coppery tang filling his mouth as his cheek was now pressed against the cold, unforgiving ground.
Lin Mei’s heart hammered in her chest as Tian Hao hit the ground, the sickening thud echoing in her ears. She froze for a moment, her breath catching, the weight of her guilt pressing down on her. The faces of her family flashed in her mind, her mother’s quiet strength, her brother’s laughter—the very people she had betrayed herself for. But then she saw Tian Hao sprawled on the ground, his body trembling as the disciples closed in, and something within her shifted.
“No more,” she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible but resolute. Her grip tightened around the glaive’s hilt, the worn leather grounding her. “I won’t let him suffer because of me.” Her hands trembled, but she took a step forward, the fear in her heart giving way to a sharp, desperate clarity.
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She’d made promises to her family, but hadn’t she also made a promise to herself? To fight for what she had found here—the camaraderie, the sense of belonging she’d thought she’d never feel again. This wasn’t just about her mistakes; this was about protecting someone who had given her hope.
Taking a deep breath, Lin Mei drew her glaive. The blade caught the dim light of the alley, reflecting her determination. “This ends now,” she murmured, the words meant as much for herself as for the enemy before her.
The silver blade of her glaive caught the light, its polished surface reflecting the desperation in her eyes. It was a desperate gamble, a choice made in the heat of the moment.
With a cry, she charged, her glaive held high, a silver arc slicing through the air, her movements fueled by a surge of adrenaline. Her target—the closest Iron Talon disciple, the one whose kick had sent him sprawling.
The disciple, startled by her sudden attack, barely had time to react. Lin Mei’s glaive connected with his shoulder, the sharp blade biting deep into his flesh. He let out a howl of pain, stumbling backward, his eyes wide with shock and agony as blood welled up, staining his dark robes a deeper crimson.
But her attack, though fierce, had left her exposed. The other disciple, seeing his comrade falter, seized the opportunity. He lunged at Lin Mei, his hand aimed at her exposed side, a cruel grin twisting his lips.
The disciple’s palm struck Lin Mei’s side with a glancing blow, the force staggering her for a moment. She gritted her teeth, pivoting sharply to bring her glaive up in a defensive arc. The disciple lunged again, his strikes fluid and relentless, but Lin Mei matched him blow for blow, her weapon flashing as it deflected his rapid palms.
Each strike reverberated through her arms, her movements precise but increasingly desperate as she searched for an opening. The alley seemed to shrink around them, every exchange a clash of will and skill, her breath coming in sharp bursts as she fought to hold her ground.
Tian Hao, his body screaming in protest, his head throbbing, forced himself to move, the image of Lin Mei, vulnerable yet defiant, burned into his mind. He rolled, his movements clumsy, fueled by desperation.
Tian Hao felt another kick to his ribs, the force of the blow driving the air from his lungs. He gasped, pain radiating through his body, his vision blurring at the edges. The Iron Talon disciple, emboldened by Tian Hao’s weakened state, pressed his attack, his movements swift and brutal.
Tian Hao's gaze shifted, searching for his fallen flask, his mind latching onto it as a lifeline, his desperation to reach it almost overwhelming.
He rolled again, his body screaming in protest, narrowly avoiding another kick aimed at his head. The ground scraped against his cheek as he scrambled, his hand brushing against something familiar—the smooth, cool surface of his wine flask.
With a desperate surge of strength, he snatched the flask, fumbling with the stopper, his fingers trembling. He managed to get it open, tilting it back and gulping down all of its contents, the fiery liquid burning a path down his throat.
The Wine-Fueled Fury surged through him, a chaotic energy that momentarily masked the pain, that briefly sharpened his senses. He felt the familiar rush, the reckless abandon that came with the technique, but this time it was more desperate, more uncontrolled.
His movements were erratic, fueled by a potent mix of alcohol, adrenaline, and sheer desperation.
Tian Hao rolled to the side, barely avoiding the stomp aimed for his shoulder. The impact shook the ground beside him, the narrow miss sending a shock of cold sweat down his back. He twisted, his momentum carrying him away as the disciple lashed out again, his foot striking only empty cobblestones.
The Iron Talon disciple snarled and pressed forward, his kicks coming faster, harder. A sharp heel grazed Tian Hao's arm, and he hissed in pain, but the sting only spurred him to move. He arched his back, rolling into a clumsy tumble, dodging a stomp that cracked the stone where his head had been moments before.
Using the alley's uneven ground to his advantage, Tian Hao pushed himself into a half-sitting position, swaying drunkenly. The disciple hesitated, confused by the erratic swaying, and launched another kick. Tian Hao, mimicking the lurch of a drunkard, leaned back just enough for the foot to whistle past his face.
He twisted to the side, grabbing a loose piece of rubble and hurling it at the disciple’s legs. The clumsy throw forced the man to shift his weight, momentarily unbalancing him. Tian Hao took the opening, rolling forward in a desperate scramble. Another stomp missed him by inches, the air pressure alone making his ears ring.
Each dodge seemed more chaotic than the last, yet there was a strange rhythm to it, a fluid unpredictability that left the Iron Talon disciple gritting his teeth.
“What kind of technique is this?” he growled, frustration leaking into his voice as his strikes continued to meet nothing but air and broken stone.