Chapter 157: Purchasing Life

Qian Ye walked slowly toward Lu Sha’s corpse. Suddenly, he swung his sword and beheaded the still-wide-eyed corpse.

Seeing Lu Sha’s head soaring into the air, Kong Fangyuan couldn’t help but let slip a cry, for though the scion of the Kong family and seasoned from time to time in field experience, he had rarely seen such merciless and thorough methods of killing.

At once after that panicked outcry, a searing burning sensation flared through Kong Fangyuan’s chest—as unbearably hot and stifling as if he were held submerged under water without breath. Only when he had forced out a coarse breath, followed by a deep inhalation, did he begin to feel a little better.

Originally, the moment the Primal Pike unexpectedly appeared, Kong Fangyuan had unconsciously halted his breath. As a noble-born with considerable ability, the stronger one becomes, the more one could directly sense the pike’s destructive might and absolute devastation within it. The dread from it was so overwhelming that he finally came back to himself only moments ago.

Behind Kong Fangyuan, it was not until after this brief spell of recovery that the remaining Kong warriors snapped back as well, their gazes upon Qian Ye now filled with dread and fear.

The space among the woods suddenly fell into oppressive silence, nearly suffocating with tension.

Instinctually, the surviving Kong fighters gathered around Kong Fangyuan and formed a protective ring. After all, the ones previously beside Lu Sha had been under Kong’s employment, and now were all lying lifeless at Qian Ye’s hand. The soldiers had no idea whether Qian Ye might, next, view them all as accomplices and eradicate them as well. Just now, although none of the Kongs had joined in the attacks on him during his fight, neither had they offered assistance—it had all played out with cold observation from them in silence.

Not so much as glancing at the remaining Kong warriors, Qian Ye withdrew from his pocket a restorative injection, applying it carefully over the wound on his side. Following this, he produced from another pocket a stimulant syringe, jabbed it sharply into his neck and drained it fully. Only after he had treated his injuries and braced back to minimal condition with these treatments did he raise his eyes and turn his gaze squarely to face Kong Fangyuan.

Seeing no emotions at all behind Qian Ye’s gaze, Kong Fangyuan felt a shiver within him before murmuring weakly, “Misunderstanding—It was all mere misunderstanding!”

“Misunderstanding?” Qian Ye echoed tonelessly, continuing to stare unblinking and expressionlessly at Kong Fangyuan.

Perspiration broke out more profusely upon Kong Fangyuan’s brow. One large bead rolled steadily to his cheeks. Amazingly, at the very moment, he managed a warm—if strained—smile with his eyes, maintaining control so his pitch hardly trembled, “Surely only misunderstanding, and we, the Kong family, certainly bear no ill will toward You, Great General.”

A young warrior behind Kong’s position, clearly unwilling to submit completely before the confrontation, stepped boldly into the fore, raising his voice and calling out defiantly, “What our Young Master says must be the truth! And be mindful that the Kong family is not one easily provoked.”

Before the young guard could finish his outburst, an older veteran rushed immediately from behind and forcibly covered the youth’s mouth, dragging him aside. The grizzled soldier leaned in closely by his ears and delivered something in clear, sharp words accompanied by harsh tone and angry expression. The young man’s face was completely flushed a reddish hue, clearly disgruntled under his anger and resentment, and yet, with a command that explicit and stern, he could find neither room nor voice for reply.

With that tension diffused somewhat, Kong Fangyuan exhaled an eased breath at last. Although he had played himself quite submissive before the great soldier just now, a small flame of resistance flared in his heart as well. Yet one cold look around at the sight—all either slain or gravely maimed, with those capable for yet another fight numbering scarcely—brought him fully down to Earth once again: For none stood any real power against Qian Ye. With the man’s historical ferociousness within the Mistborne Woods and the absolute lethality just manifested by this single stroke a while back, not even he, flanked now within so heavy protective guard as ever, would hope to stand unscathed amidst that death-dealing lunge that would end it all.

This was a time when the illustrious family name could serve for naught; even if Qian were to eradicate their ranks entirely, soon, all marks and evidence of this would disappear silently deep into the woods’ veiling mists—without witnesses left to point back. Only now did his true instincts rise unvarnished in his mind: Nothing in the world outweighs merely the wish to keep living.

Qian Ye kept silent. It wasn’t until later, after what felt an eternity in this still gloom, that he slowly spoke with a question:

“You speak of no hostility—what then of sincerity?”

“Sincerity? Ah—indeed, of sincerity indeed!” Kong Fangyuan slapped suddenly his own head and seemed in an instant to have grasped fully what Qian Ye truly desired.

With swift movement and no further prelude of speech, he took swiftly off the weapon holster strapped at his side with reverent care, holding his prized pistol with dual-handed respect toward Qian, offering it, saying:

“This personally wielded weapon of mine, known as Feng Yan Leng — the Wind & Mists Are Cold. Finely fashioned beyond most common standards, with a past full of old lineage stories—long treasured by our family until recent years when, in acknowledgment of an important mission completed and great contribution rendered in our household affairs, this piece was presented officially unto me. And yet regrettably, despite the honor of holding onto my own, my limited prowess hinders me from wielding Feng Yan Leng to its fullest ability. Earlier in your battle, seeing your own twin firearms appearing not without some limitations, it occurred suddenly—the idea of offering my gift of this Wind&Chill firearm! For treasures such as this belong with heroes, and who more fittingly than Your generalship? Thus, by its transference into your hands to enhance more fully your battlefield might, I now gift this gun. May it only strengthen your reputation’s growing grandeur in ages to battle yet unwon! At the least, should you one day stand tall upon the summit of your glory, we humbly request of great leader, do you recall still the Kong family and not forget this humble self at the very outset that made its small effort here.”

So compellingly delivered this was, heartfelt and genuine-sounding it seemed indeed—if not for the fact that Qian had been standing there to witness it with his own eyes, the narration itself could well lead one to believe in its complete sincerity. These high-nobles did possess such gifts as making even fabricated tales feel so real that even Qian’s true-seeing gaze had trouble discerning truth from artful lies in their speeches.

Feng Yan Leng’s form bore a refined archaic elegance—an archaic design crafted as a single barrel revolved only one shot at a time, but on its frame was carved into the very body of the gun an etching—a delicate misted wind so subtly carved with such mastery and artistry it seemed like curling in gentle, endless undulating waves. Truely, it radiated the hallmark signature and craftsmanship one expects purely from the hand of mastermakers.

Its visual resemblance bore a faint similarity to the Manjusha (the red daffodil). However, in design intent, while carrying a more lofty presence in its floating elegance, its real qualities ran far deeper; the Feng Yan Leng could absolutely not equal in spirit the aura surrounding the true legendary Manjusha—the latter a peak-level legendary Grade Seven weapon versus Feng Leng still standing only at a top-level Grade-Six pinnacle. Comparably, how could two so different ranks cohabitate meaningfully within same classification?

Though in the age of Origen power progression, modern firearms continued their rapid diversification into countless models and evolving complexities, even so, the archaic single-firing short-barrel pistols were anything but obsolete, and ironically held an edge. Because their mechanism is simple—making it more amenable for integrating magical Origen circuits—thus these ancient prototypes have always drawn high attention. Moreover, many ancient firearms are enhanced with uniquely powerful abilities.

Now then, Feng Yan Leng must hold its own distinct merits to become Fangyuan’s favored possession—not simply artistic brilliance, but more importantly practical strength as well. With one pulled discharge shot unleashing its energy, within the full ten-meter area round itself—violent eddies of gusty winds with whirling swirling currents burst forth. In that realm, the gunner’s posture becomes majestic and surreal as they are enveloped within dream-like floating clouds, commanding awe as a vision of an immortally ascending being.

Naturally, this wasn’t just about aesthetics. Truly effective, was the wind and smoke’s unique power suppressing other Origen sources’ strength within the area. Such properties make it an unparalleled anti-group asset—ruthlessly efficient at clearing weaker opponents en masse. Even so, the actual purpose of its design was primarily aimed for countering enemy domains, where such gun-created mist has multiplied damage impact several folds—exponentially more potent in its disrupting function.

In the course of warring domains meeting violently upon battlefield, the shooter holding Feng Yan Leng would enjoy unmatched advantage. For Fangyuan to give this up, it was indeed paying one hell of a tribute of self—literally, to ensure a safe existence.

Accept the feng shui pistol, Qian Ye took it into careful inspection. Admitted he did: indeed a fine piece—this being a top-level Grade Six weapon. Yet beyond even such martially crafted perfection was its special functional effect, perhaps even carrying higher market worth than the frame of its metallic body.

However, Qian Ye bore the vortex of the Abyss Field as his domain ability—a pressure force so overwhelming it would, with all-out exertion upon a less potent opponent, cause immediate domain collapse. Therefore, with Qian Ye’s domain alone, Feng Yan Leng’s special properties were largely a redundant effect.

Besides, his twin guns were once lovingly reforged under the precise care of Andou himself. More importantly, many unknown secrets likely slumber silently under the dual barrels within the frame housing original cores. The mere feat of safely containing the immense force emitted by the Primal’s Lance—untouched and functional afterward—was by itself evidence enough that deep study must follow. And naturally, for Qian Ye, there is no hasty change where one doesn’t see dire necessity.

He didn’t bother speaking any of the deeper reasons to Kong Fangyuan—what mattered now was that, unused himself, Feng Yan Leng might be quite the asset elsewhere. Qian Ye considered in particular Song Zi Ning—an individual particularly fond of dramatic presentation, unfurling his battle fan regardless what battle or battlefield. Not that his flair ever considered appropriate timing in battle or the immediate situation. In this fashion over recent battles, even the superior power of Seven-Prince Song has often suffered setbacks against Qian Ye simply because when Seven’s moment for stylish, dazzling performance had barely begun, he was always brought hastily and humiliatingly onto the forest floor.

He could picture it well. With One-hand wielding his fan, One-Hand holding tight to Feng Yen Lung, at that climactic instant, one round of gunfire bursts forth, wind rises and mists swirl, the entire spectacle becomes surreal, the ethereal presence of the prince rising as though soaring directly unto Heavens. With such momentary awe surrounding him as if within an unearthly clouded dream, and in accompaniment a group of gorgeous beauties at edge cheering madly, Seven may perhaps actually rise his very level by the surge force of his pride.

Mm. Adding Wei Patian into such picturesque imagination—oh that scene would be something indeed.

And with him serving as an aesthetic contrast, perhaps then Seven’s elegance can show itself more exalted in presence by contrast.

Contemplating thus, Qian thought curiously: Could this very visual contrast be one of the possible reasons behind Seventh Son dragging such an opposite personality—Wei Paitian—to always fight alongside himself?

Unaware then of Qian’s own musing thought, was Song Zining himself—at this very moment seated onboard an airborne cruiser vessel while poring over combat reports from latest warfront.

At this instance, flipping his way through the compiled pages of reports, reaching a section now on House Wei’s records — the Wei heir to be specific has lately made quite the name of himself through an accumulating string of battle achievements meriting mention in formal reports and tallies. In contrast, Qian, as a Free Fighter employed temporarily by House Lee, naturally hadn’t found many official records filed at Imperial command centers on him.

Fanning his battlefan absently in open-close rhythmic motions, deep within thought as if in contemplative debate with himself. “Hmm indeed. That brute is perhaps possessing some redeeming virtues worth recognizing. The “Thousands of Mountains” domain he commands has grown matured into a clear outer projection so near completeness. And once activated, truly makes for a powerful display. Indeed, my own Three Thousand Flowing Leaves domain is visually grand… yet a certain missing aesthetic element, such as that mountain stone piece standing proudly upon garden lakefront, makes it less full of grand completeness.” (He refers to an oriental garden aesthetic where natural stone elements accentuate the elegance and completeness of scenery)

Neither one was conscious in that precise moment of it—yet the strange hunch of battle-mind intuition by one coincided surprisingly with the actual thinking pattern in real time—yet Song, in truth, was mulling even more darkly:

“This pigskin of a brute is thick skinned with solid mass—when danger is near, he serves an ideal living shield right upon the forward front position…” such, indeed Song Zi Ning’s heart was filled with malicious amusement.

Upon the Mistforest battlefield, with Kong Fangyuan seeing clearly how Feng Yen is accepted, he breathed an immense sigh of relief, facial tenseness finally melting into softer expressions. Once the warhero accepted the offering, matters eased. His life felt secured—for now, at least.

True noble of a household, he took swift action upon reading an ease in attitude from the moment—asking directly, “Would our general now perhaps entrust some more directives before he takes final leave?

Though Qian said naught, he walked slowly over corpses of dead ones including Lusha once again and patted each searching body thoroughly—but retrieved little, certainly nothing of worth or value. Much less any proof or letter bearing names of the great power who had ordered this ambush.

Not unexpectedly—it was common knowledge such evidence rarely appears recorded on any physical medium. Qian’s inner mind contemplated deeply momentarily and soon settled on next plan.

He already knew in instinctively which hand this came from originally. Once base camp reaches again he might trace discreetly and locate some lingering evidence. Yet once such an assumption of the responsible party becomes confirmed within suspicion, the mode of retaliation is then entirely Qian Ye’s own affair—no evidence needed any further to decide action or not.

Then he pointed simply to the bodies scattered and dead on ground.

“They are yours should the son have interests.” This came in a simple sentence, question form, to Kong’s ears from Qian.

A moment startled reaction flickerd, yet within a few blinks the noble recovered himself.

“Interest in such equipment? Ah, yes, naturally interested!”

The young master caught the moment perfectly. Most of the items and firearms here he could no longer have much practical use for himself, yet he quickly realized: Qian Ye perhaps being uninterested in handling and processing such items, perhaps viewed such post-war recovery as insignificant burden. Qian was clad well already: with Qiulong battle plate and Donyue heavy frame armor as well being obviously far from inferior—his disdain of lesser-grade goods was evident even in how he accepted the Wind Cold casually rather than showing obvious admiration over Feng Yan Cold’s rarity, despite its obvious prestige factor even as Grade-Six artifact class object.

Yet what is a low interest of a master is, naturally of higher value for underling ranks still hungry for progression—especially considering those warriors who were all nomadic battle experts in independent capacities—meaning their equipment represented nearly all wealths invested entirely over lives to their arms and armor. As expected, one would be finding almost uniformly Grade 6 and 7 arms and armors across this entire collection. While grade seven items, though common, were of rather inferior class when compared even to peers of their same level.

Even so—the collection had a surprisingly significant number of top-end Grade- six artifacts equipped with unique functions and enchantments. In right situations on battlefield, such unique abilities could easily turn the tide from certain peril, giving advantage surpassing that of typical low-grade Grade 7s.

Perfect equipment to provide to trusted elite warriors under his own command—he therefore took decision swiftly and decisively with complete eagerness.

Of course another deeper factor behind his willingness—underlying the transaction—was how Feng Yan Leng alone would not be enough recompense for ensuring his mere continued survival—and that was a cold and painful truth of life Qian Ye had the ability to eliminate such bargaining pieces directly even via slaying the original possessors. However—add now this entire hoard of equipment and arms into the deal—he would be considered nearly balanced as fair life-price.

At this point, one’s safety was no luxury—it was a calculated expense.