The conspicuous white stripe across the abdomen of the Zhumi immediately had a portion torn off, leaving behind a ghastly cavity. Viscera of green and yellow erupted outward, pouring through the air like rain.
This grave wound, though grievous, had yet to be fatal. Zhumi possessed an extraordinary endurance of life—a being that could regrow entire abdominal sections if entirely severed. However just now, Qianye had fired a preloaded physical round deliberately infused with his Blood Qi. Once the potent crimson vapors coursed into the wound under the allure of boundless Dark Origin energy, they began to feast relentlessly. The Zhumi flailed several times before ultimately losing all mobility.
Remaining utterly calm, Qianye relocated swiftly in a measured sprint.
The mounted machinegun atop the truck began to spit flames and wildly unleashed bullets everywhere like falling rain. Watching unimpressed, Qianye slightly hunched his shoulders in disdain. At such mediocre range, the rounds meant absolutely nothing. Excepting the Vampires, sniper marksmanship exceeding five-hundred meters remained scarce among the other Darkblood species—and clearly, this mixed legion of Lycans and Zhumi was no exception. And now the stage finally belonged to Qianye.
Qianye reached the next concealed vantage for sniper elimination—a perfect location from which he tracked a large, ugly Zhumi that attempted to crawl straight from beneath another armored freight hauler via his scoped EagleShot sights. At less than half a kilometer away, that hulk Zhumi formed an easily distinguishable stationary target.
Eliminating that foul spider would finally leave Lycan fighter Bent—alone in being, and standing—as the sole remaining level-five warrior among the hostile ranks.
While quite numerous, the mid and low-tier combatants—level-three and four Werewolves, massive Saber Wolves and deadly armed Blade-Zhumis—remained an issue. Fortunately, this battleground provided an expanse vast yet devoid, quiet within remoteness, unbroken solitude offering Qianye generous time and distance to systematically dismantle enemy forces.
As foreseen, it unfolded exactly, and the Zhumi collapsed to EagleShot’s upgrade-fueled firestorm. Its abdomen completely blew away and vanished without a trace, reduced only to a half-bodied corpse twitching more weakly with each breath it took—until life inevitably departed.
Thus, Qianye fixed intent upon Bent next.
The towering werewolf at last perceived in standing rooted immobile at post would merely brand him living target to be picked clean. Atop the truck hull, Bent pounded his chest, issued a long and savage howl—and then dove downward, bending low for a bolt like lightning, directly surging forth toward Qianye’s concealed sniper position amidst terrain’s edge.
In pursuit of the beast, every Lycan rushed headlong with bold ferocity—across hundreds meters, closing instantly within mere heartbeats. One by one they burst through underbrush in frantic jumps, darting zigzag in paths. Yet in so doing, not a single pace decelerated their rapid approach.
Among the dark-blooded species, human snipers have always posed as persistent dangers. The fundamental racial makeup restricted mastery with Origin-imbued weapons except for the Day-Dwellers. Yet despite their restrictions, from long millennia of border conflict the darkkin developed methods to engage—countering precisely the threat of elite marksmen. Werewolves charged with blistering bursts of agility, closing the distance to strike hand to claw amidst rapid evasive movement. The blood-drinker clans combined firepower bursts with swift冲锋 assaults and suppression barrages. Spiderkin spat webs with venom-tipped threads, enshrouding shooting positions under net blankets—slowly pressurizing escape paths of the human until they, themselves transformed into tasty morsel entrapped within a cocooned prison by smaller, ravenous Blade Zhumi scuttling near the ambush zone.
But this time—they faced something altogether more terrifying than a human sniper.
Qianye easily fixed lock onto Bent—a monstrous fur-covered giant cloaked in chestnuts of brindled wolf mane—as he squeezed off a shot from his Origin rifle. Another whiplike howl sounded across air—a bullet that struck at a point forward-left, just as the werewolf’s instinctive sidestepping dodge completed. Instead—into that deadly course had his body now crashed, impaling mid-flight like prey ensnared within Origin’s deadly net.
Half of the towering beast vanished in instants—the remnants sent twirling through air before crashing down into red-bloody earth, hard and heavy. The defiant giant still stirred, and let loose a defiant and thunder-roaring bellow…yet even with the iron spirit, this time even the werewolf lacked the strength to rise.
But the fall had made the rest hesitate—for only moments.
A hundred meters away—down dropped Qianye’s rifle EagleShot to instead draw Twin-Flower, and he casually raised the pair, holding them with an ease, perhaps even indifferent grace. When those ghostly, phantom flowers bloomed amid flight, two Lycan lives vanished—leaving not sound, only two corpses falling lifeless upon darkened soil.
These twin blasts—each perfectly unleashed with its full strength and precision, had proven fatal against four-ranked werewolves.
Just past two gun shots, the remaining wolves closed into an encircling vise—ten surrounding with closing teeth. Following further beyond, Saber Wolves and Blade Zhumis approached in waves, their footsteps heralded in a growing cacophony.
In wolf eyes burned a ravenous hunger and brutality of carnivores—this isolated rifleman stood before them the delicacy dish brimming with Origin-rich meat. In close range, all knew, a marksman—no matter rank—stood out famously helpless against beasts of the battlefield, lacking armor or martial prowess in tight corridors or amidst blood-fueled ambushes.
They failed, however, to spot—or recognize—theway Qianye viewed them back…his gazed, no less hungry than theirs…his vision calculating the way a true predator sized its prey.
Yet now Qianye stowed TwinBlossom at the holster on each side, his opposite hand drawing out Glowing Fang. Into the blade flowed both Origin energy and crimson Blood Qi at once—one last rekindling of its slumbered patterns and enchantments insid eitself, one whose last full awakening belonged to nobiliary-level vampires. Yet this time, from blade-edge it exuded something wholly, dread-fully crimson.
From behind came suddenly whistling a brutal wind—foul of breath, keen in strike. Yet before that predatory gust could meet his back, Qianye twisted, crouched, returned a flat arc of gleaming crimson edge outward—a flash, a bloom of deathlike blood-stain.
The lunge passed, and the Lycan soared. However he never landed—he simply spun violently instead, tumbling, severed: head flung wide left, forelimb torn rightward—and with it a second torn away, the cuts pristine, impossibly clean.
Staring in surprise at his own blade, Qianye realized this cut was but an horizontal swing of minimal impact, yet with it severed head cleanly along dual paws, mid-flight of a pounce?
Glowing Tooth’s sheer, terrible keenness had stunned even himself.
For this blade—crafted for a vampire noble, its full force could truly blossom only if wielded by a battlefield commander of the Nightside. That it was now in his control meant this was no mere weapon meant to slay mortal warriors.
In the span of the moment that followed, the fight turned from a clash of steel into a massacre. Each cut, each gleam across the blade heralded yet again another torn-off limb in mid-leap howls. Coarse wolfhide armor? Unyielding teeth or claws? None of it stood a shred against steel honed for battle-lords. The werewolves dropped as one after the next—torn limb from bone until none stood before him but a darting form, a skittering figure—one more blade-legged Zhumi now lunged with serrating mandibles.
In but few swings more, it, too, lay cleaved, its legs first, then final death from one piercing thrust to its disproportionately tiny and bulbous cephalic sphere—and that done, at last he paused mid-strike to recollect, that he, here, was not bounty-hunting, nor hunting trophy—he needed not their remains, nor the need collect proof of each demise for payment.
The two remaining werewolves, though alive and in formation moments earlier, no longer bore the heart to press on against the blood-soaked field. They slowly withdrew—before one turned suddenly for escape in terror. The pair bolted as fast as their paws would allow—legs running with all instinctual fear that urged flee to save life from slaughter. The second made after the first just the same. Not so much as looking back, no thought left for any past allegiance.
Unmoving to pursue the fleeing weren, Qianye merely stood with low chuckle in tone: “Fools, all. Dare try pulling the wool on me? Don’t you even understand what you are?” His tone did not boom—it barely raised in intensity. Yet he felt certain these werewolves’ acute hearing must’ve caught and understood the full meaning of those words thrown their way like a final barbed spear.
This was, after all, no coincidence. His trail of fabricated Blood Qi signs and subtle markers—planted since first recon of this trade depot—served an intent beyond mere camouflage against discovery. When swinging Glowing Fang, catching from wolf-glances glimmers that bore distrust and hate, his mind had instantly seized upon adding those words to the false evidence—a garnish of spice to feed confusion and chaos after their return home.
Whatever followed then—the panic, betrayals, in-fighting within darkblood circles—it no longer was anything with which concern Qianye himself. Nor had any illusions he harbored expected grand consequences from any single barbed remark. Subterfuge was not what Qianye embraced. It was the sword he welcomed—open battle where he’d rather have met foes, face to deadly face.
Mopup duties remained for beasts of burden and arachnid horrors, those still squirming among ruined cargo bay remains. As final act to this battlefield of crimson aftermath came, Qianye methodically moved about—executing final blows on those whose breath had stilled but lived on. Only when every living enemy perished did he turn from carnage to finally attend to examining this secret trade’s forbidden cargo.
Approaching one truck’s massive hauler trailer, Qianye crushed through chain-bound padlock links in one hand, pulling open heavy latching doors as though tearing through brittle bark.
The inside shocked even seasoned eyes momentarily blank.
Within square, steel prison of cargo hold crammed tightly stood several dozen figures—precisely, youthful men and women. Though their forms languished under hunger, their vitality, their very aura surpassed even the ordinary humans’.
Even more shocking? A few possessed wrist shackle bonds crafted from Origin-Steel—meaning these captives might have included among them awakening soldiers trained in Origin powers themselves!
He commanded with firm clarity: “Descend, stand near the truck’s flank, remain still.” Nothing elevated was the tone nor volume of that order, spoken quiet even in urgency, but without exception every prisoner obeyed with near-perfect synchrony—jumping down with military discipline, arranging in formation like a practiced legion. Their movements lacked hesitation, hesitation of instinctive dread or defiance. They had moved not as civilians—definitely no civilian’s hesitant confusion or resistance after captivity in darkness. These individuals, without fail, responded with practiced reflexes akin to regulars born battle-fit under command hierarchy.
Qinanye grew uneasy—frowning as sudden suspicion sparked in heart.
Swiftly intercepting the passage of an especially large male prisoner, he gripped the man’s arm in single brutal gesture, tearing from flesh sleeve cloth of uniform fabric. The shoulder area revealed a massive, bulging deltoid—yet beneath muscle rested tattoo art unmistakably forged of dagger and grenade, iron helmet etched, surrounded by coiled cobra.
That symbol—no stranger was Qianye to such sigil. The man nodded grimly. “Former—Yes. At least we were. Just now we only merchandise on route.”
Confirming silently with a slow inclination of head, Qianye strode between two other sealed freighters—one at a time—unlocking and releasing the confined youth and maiden within.
Children ranging aged eight to twelve. Others: males and females under the banner of youth no later than their early twenties. Many—perhaps a majority—bore appearances of unusual attractiveness and poise to their features.
Surprising—some he recognized.
Figures he himself had rescued directly from Vampire-controlled territory. Yet now, inexplicably, they’d been captured once more—packed into these transport cars enroute toward Darkness’ cold grasp.
“By what method?” he asked.
That younger male—clearly recalling familiarity from his redeemer—smiled bitterly upon recognition. “Passed the screening—but what is that for us?” his voice trembled slightly. “No skills—none but planting and planting. Occasionally a temporary day laborer, maybe kitchen work—but we cannot survive. People came—gangs from alley, whisper offers with honey words. Promised employment with rural outlying farming villages. One day after we left…”
The truth of fate’s betrayal struck like dull realization. Nothing unfamiliar in such fate: in Nalai Empire’s endless urban sprawl existed vast and swelling populations—dispossessed citizens with no regular work, always struggling desperately simply finding next meal. That hunger formed the core engine fueling the illegal slave trades—a shadow economy blooming unseen by eyes turned blind with willful oversight. Cities turned a blind eye, often even welcomed removal, since such were seen not a citizenry needing justice but social vermin—a drain in their orderly urban existence whose disappearances brought nothing but convenience of lessened crime, fewer hands to aid their daily management.
This youth continued: “They said a powerful Vampire nob required us all—for a feast of wrath and vengeance, supposedly prepared as the main dish for a noble of rank…perhaps a Count?”
“Rosier Count! The very name. Yes. Many times did their werewolf captives whisper it before this journey’s end.”
Tai Sui Yellow Amulet Paper FuLu Taoist Love Talisman Traditional Chinese Spiritual Charm Attracting Love Protecting Marriage