Tian Hao, fueled by Wine-Fueled Fury and Heavenly Feast Reinforcement, fought with a reckless abandon that surprised even himself.
His earlier hesitation, the lingering fear he’d carried, was gone now, replaced by the raw thrill of the fight. Each gulp of wine was like fire in his veins. The meat and spices settled within him, becoming not just nourishment but fuel for the growing flames of power he now wielded.
His movements lacked the disciplined precision of a seasoned warrior, yet they carried an unpredictable rhythm, a dance born of chaos. He swayed like a drunken monkey, weaving between strikes with effortless unpredictability, his steps erratic yet deliberate.
A dagger sliced toward his ribs—Tian Hao twisted, letting the blade graze past harmlessly, the momentum carrying him into a staggered spin. From this disjointed motion, he lashed out, his fist crashing into the wiry disciple’s chin, snapping the man’s head back with a grunt of pain.
The brute with the mace roared, bringing the weapon down in a savage arc. Tian Hao barely shifted in time, the head of the mace slamming into the cobblestones where he had been standing a heartbeat before. Using the opening, Tian Hao dropped low, his body tilting dangerously as if he might fall—only to spring up at an unexpected angle, his elbow ramming into the brute’s ribs with enough force to make the man stumble.
A dagger lashed out again, but Tian Hao was already gone, his body twisting unnaturally as if slipping through the gaps in reality itself. His foot shot out, catching the disciple's knee and sending him sprawling. Before the man could recover, Tian Hao delivered a solid punch to his sternum, not enough to break bones, but enough to leave him gasping for breath.
As the brute lunged again, Tian Hao grinned, taking another swig from his flask mid-motion. "You hit hard, but you aim like a blindfolded ox," he taunted, his stance loose, swaying like he might collapse at any moment—but his eyes remained sharp, calculating.
Just as the brute swung again, Tian Hao shifted—just enough to let the force of the attack carry the man past him, off-balance and exposed. With a casual flick of his wrist, Tian Hao delivered a backhanded slap—not a powerful strike, but humiliating enough to send the brute reeling, his balance undone by his own aggression.
"You see," Tian Hao said, tilting his head as he dodged another wild swing, "it's not about being stronger. It's about knowing when to move—and when to let fools like you defeat themselves."
Even after having used this technique a number of times now, Tian Hao still found it odd how his movements seemed to have a will of their own. It was as if his body knew something his mind did not, reacting before he could consciously think. His feet found solid ground in the chaos, his strikes landed with instinctual precision, his dodges perfectly timed, all without effort.
He had never trained in any formal martial arts, yet when the heat of combat surrounded him, his body flowed like water, unpredictable yet precise. Was it the wine? The technique? Or something else entirely?
The thought sent a shiver down his spine, but there was no time for hesitation. The fight wasn’t over, and whatever force guided his movements, he would trust it—for now.
The two disciples, armed and determined, struggled to keep up with his erratic, unpredictable style. It was as if the very air itself shifted to guide his steps or disarm his foes.
He ducked under a blow from the mace, the heavy weapon whistling past his ear, its force enough to make the air pulse. Tian Hao spun, using the momentum to deliver a swift kick to the wiry disciple's chest. The man flew backward, clutching his sternum, gasping for air.
"Is that all you've got? I've seen market stall vendors handle a sack of rice with more strength!" he yelled.
The scarred brute roared, his rage building, the strength of his cultivation amplified now by his fury and frustration at being matched so effectively by an 'unskilled', seemingly untrained young master. Tian Hao's casual disrespect not just for the strength of the Iron Talon Sect, but for the teachings of all those who knew what it took to reach a high body refining cultivation.
He charged again.
“Let’s see if your silks hold against this!" he roared, the blow aimed at Tian Hao’s head, his swing wide as he put the very weight of his frustration behind it, "You insolent whelp!"
The world seemed to slow down as his vision narrowed. Time became not a river but a series of frozen moments, a fragmented narrative filled with sharp echoes.
Tian Hao felt BSS’s voice in his mind, clear and strong as a thunderclap against the chaos of the alleyway. “Now, Little Hao! Fortune’s Favor!”
His earlier doubt resurfaced, gnawing at him as he struggled to decide whether to use the technique. Was he truly ready for this, or was he just a puppet, dancing to Big Sister System's tune? The hesitation gripped him, the fear of what this power might cost gnawed at his resolve. But then, desperation took hold—a yearning for something beyond the dull ache in his arms and shoulders and knees, something more potent than the fiery haze of the wine still swirling in his veins.
With a deep breath, he channeled his internal Qi, his focus intense, unwavering. He was no longer just dodging, deflecting, not just surviving but embracing what had always frightened him—the unpredictable nature of the fight now his weapon.
The moment the brute’s mace reached its apex, Tian Hao felt a shift within him, the universe itself seemingly bending as though some other hand was guiding them all in this shadowed alley. The world itself tilting, not to the force of the blow he knew would soon crash into him, but something more like fate's own amusement at this dance, like some trickster god’s playful nudge—a gentle tap against reality.
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The heavy mace missed entirely, as though guided away from his head by an invisible, unseen hand, the strength that would have shattered his skull now flung forward harmlessly, the brute’s footing becoming somehow uneven. The coblestone, slick with rain, spilled wine, and a puddle of previously unnoticed vomit left by some poor drunken soul earlier in the night, offered less grip than he'd expected. His balance shifted. Then, as though in slow motion, his eyes widening in disbelief, he fell, his back hitting the ground in an awkward, momentum-breaking sprawl.
The world slowed as though reality itself was adjusting. Tian Hao twisted, his earlier Wine-Fueled stumbles now replaced by something more fluid, his momentum carrying him towards the exposed body.
With a suddenness that surprised both himself and his attacker, Tian Hao pressed inward.
His fist lashed down, not towards the brute's jaw, but lower, straight at his throat. The blow connected with a sickening crunch. The brute's eyes widened in shock, his mouth gaping as he struggled to draw in air.
Tian Hao felt the cartilage give way beneath his knuckles, the windpipe collapsing under the force of his strike. The sensation of the crushed cartilage sent a jolt up his arm, only barely dulled by the wine coursing through his veins.
The brute, released his mace, his hands instinctively reaching for his ruined throat, a strangled gurgle escaping his lips. He tried to scream, but only a wet, rasping noise emerged, his eyes bulging as panic set in.
Blood sprayed from his mouth, his face contorted in agony. Tian Hao's stomach churned, and for a moment, he felt as though he might be sick. But he forced himself to remain steady, fighting against the rising bile and the fear that he was becoming someone he never wanted to be. He watched as the life drained from the man's eyes, the once imposing figure now reduced to a pitiful, gasping heap.
The brute slumped back, his head hitting the ground with a dull thud. Silence followed.
The brute's last wheezing gurgle broke the stillness before his eyes rolled back, and his body went still. A heavy silence settled over the alley, thick and sufocating. For a moment, the world seemed to pause, the sounds of distant city life muted against the weight of what had just transpired. Tian Hao’s breath came in uneven gasps, his fists still clenched, the lingering tremor in his fingers betraying the surge of adrenaline that had not yet faded.
Jiuwei, watching from her perch, flicked her tail. "The strong move forward," she murmured, "but only fools think there's no cost."
The wiry disciple, scrambling to his feet, clutched his daggers and lunged at Tian Hao, his eyes wide with anger. His face twisted, sweat dripping down his forehead, his teeth clenched in a grimace of determination. He knew this was his last chance, his final gambit in a fight that was already slipping through his fingers. His attack was wild, reckless—a last attempt to strike Tian Hao down.
Tian Hao reacted instantly, his movements fluid and precise. He sidestepped the lunge, his eyes cold as he grabbed the disciple's wrist, twisting it sharply. The bones snapped with an audible crack, the dagger falling uselessly from his grasp.
The disciple let out a pained scream, but Tian Hao wasn't finished. He drove his knee into the man's gut, forcing the air from his lungs in a wheezing gasp. The disciple doubled over, his face contorted in agony.
Tian Hao brought his elbow down onto the back of the disciple's neck, forcing him to the ground. The wiry man struggled, coughing up blood, but Tian Hao's fist was already moving—straight to the back of the head.
The impact was brutal. Tian Hao's fist connected with the back of the disciple's head with a sickening crunch. The man's skull cracking under the force, the sharp jolt reverberating through Tian Hao's arm.
Blood trickled from his mouth as he gasped, his body convulsing, his hands clawing at the air in a desperate, futile attempt to stay conscious.
A hollow, wet sound escaped his lips as his eyes rolled back, his body shuddering before collapsing completely to the ground. The once defiant figure was now nothing more than a lifeless heap in the bloodstained alley.
Tian Hao turned then, towards Lin Mei, his earlier wine and adrenalin fueled focus now replaced by the nauseating realization of what he had just done—the lives he had taken, the blood now staining the cobblestones a reminder of his own journey's twisted path.
Lin Mei stood panting, her glaive slick with blood. At her feet lay the Iron Fang disciples lifeless body, the dark robes now more crimson, cut to ribbons.
“I… I killed them,” he stammered, the words a choked whisper that echoed the way his past shame now made even this victory taste of ashes. “Mei Mei, I…”
Lin Mei’s gaze met his, her expression a mixture of exhaustion and something else—an almost predatory glint in her eyes, her fury from earlier slowly returning to a steely, quiet confidence that calmed the tension simmering within him.
“They were Iron Talons, Tian Hao. Enemies of our sect—enemies of all sects. They would have killed you without hesitation,” she said, her voice layered with weariness and fierce protectiveness. “This is our world, not some teahouse reverie. These are the rules of cultivation we have all, from the lowest disciple to the highest Master sworn to uphold and serve, our very oaths are of fire and fury, of blood and blades—our every lesson a whisper of their inevitability, of their cost, even should the Heavens one day bless us with ascension.”
Stepping towards him, she placed a hand on his shoulder, the weight of it a reassuring affirmation of their shared experience—her touch a reminder not of shame or guilt but power, as if they both, here in this shadowed, violent alleyway, had now earned the right to even call themselves warriors, true cultivators who understood the price of the paths they were carving for themselves.
She lowered her voice. “You protected me, Tian Hao, this is the cost of doing so,” she added. Her words carried a weight that transcended the violence, the horror, of what they had just done. They were bound now by something deeper than shared secrets.
Jiuwei, resuming her perch on Tian Hao's shoulder, nuzzled his cheek, her soft fur a comfort. Tian Hao let out a slow breath, her gesture grounding him, offering a strange sense of solace amidst the chaos. His knuckles still ached from the blows he had landed, the metallic scent of blood thick in the air. His heartbeat, once a frantic drum, was settling into a slow, heavy rhythm. He hadn't wanted to kill, hadn't intended to go that far. Yet, here he stood, bodies cooling around him, the weight of his choices pressing against his chest like an iron vice.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, pushing past the nausea, past the shock. 'No time for regrets,' he told himself. 'Only the living can afford those.'
For a moment, the warmth of her fur seemed to counterbalance the chill of what he had just done. “Sentience is messy,” she whispered, as though this too were a lesson. “Sometimes... violence and death are a part of it, whether we like it or not. In this world, only the strong survive. To protect those we care about, and to forge a path forward, there are sacrifices to be made. Blood will stain our paws, and that is the cost of survival—the cost of power. But in that mess, there is also growth, strength, and the chance to become something greater.” Her golden eyes twinkled in the dim light, a silent acknowledgment of his bravery.
“She has a way with words, our little fox, doesn’t she,” Lin Mei muttered quietly.