"Master, are you sure about this?" Chen Liang's voice trembled slightly. His tone was filled with worry, and his eyes darted toward the darkness that surrounded them.
Wei Ji didn't answer right away. He stared into the forest, his gaze calm but sharp, as if measuring the air itself. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Yes. I can handle this. Just do your job."
Chen Liang hesitated for a moment. His lips moved as if he wanted to argue, but seeing the firmness in Wei Ji's eyes, he swallowed his words. "Yes, Master," he said finally, then vanished into the mist like a shadow melting into another shadow.
Wei Ji clenched his fist, and green vapor began to rise from his palm. The air vibrated faintly, humming like a bowstring being pulled. His Qi pulsed outward in waves, and the ground beneath his feet cracked softly. The energy was denser than before. This wasn't the faint, steady pressure of a cultivator in the third stage. No, this was far beyond that—closer to the seventh stage of Qi Infusion. The shift was unnatural, almost as if the world itself didn't recognize what he had become.
"Let's begin," Wei Ji murmured.
He raised his hand, and in that moment, the plants around him responded. Roots trembled. Leaves twitched. The grass grew in surges, whispering as if it was alive. Trees groaned as their bark thickened, branches reaching toward him like arms seeking command. The forest breathed with him, alive under his will.
…
Deep within the forest, five figures raced through the night—three women and two men, their forms fluid and silent. Their movements were precise, trained. Each wore a black mask, their aura sharp and cold. They were the assassins of Lu Shaohua.
"Something's wrong," whispered one of the women as they paused briefly on a branch, eyes narrowing toward the glow in the distance.
Another man nodded. "He's close."
The leader gestured, and the five split apart instantly, dashing through different routes. Their goal wasn't to fight—it was to reach their madam before whoever killed the Shen Flame soldiers earlier did. They had no time to waste. Lu Shaohua's identity as a princess of Shen Flame Kingdom couldn't be revealed through a scandal like this. If she died within the Han Family's walls, it wouldn't just be tragedy—it would be war.
They darted like ghosts, blending into the darkness. But soon, they stopped.
There—amid the mist—stood a man.
They couldn't see his face clearly, but his presence was like a mountain. His clothes were simple, his body still, yet his Qi rolled around him like waves on a stormy sea. He was only at the fifth stage by their senses, weaker than them. But the way he stood made them hesitate.
"Kill him," the leader ordered.
At once, black blades and thin wires glimmered through the air. Throwing knives, hidden darts, blades made from condensed Qi—each one deadly, precise, meant to pierce the throat or heart.
But Wei Ji didn't even move his feet. He only tilted his head slightly, and the weapons cut through empty air. They clattered against the ground harmlessly.
"So weak," Wei Ji said calmly. His tone carried no anger, just pity. "Your throwing technique wastes half your Qi. You'd kill more if you shut your eyes and prayed."
The assassins stiffened.
"Again!" one shouted.
They attacked once more, moving in perfect coordination. Shadows blurred as they circled him, every step silent. Their blades flashed with black flame, slicing through the air with sharp hisses.
Wei Ji raised a hand lazily. The moment he did, wet vines burst from the ground, twisting upward like serpents. Leaves shimmered with dew that gleamed faintly green under the moonlight. The first blade struck a vine—and stopped, the flame sputtering out as if drowned.
"What the—?" one assassin gasped.
Wei Ji smirked. "You rely too much on your tricks. Pretty lights don't make up for weak hearts."
They attacked harder. Black flames rained down like a storm, and the night filled with explosions. The assassins grunted as they moved, their breathing growing heavy. Wei Ji stepped back, weaving through their blades as if he were walking through a crowd.
Each swing missed by an inch. Each stab met only air. He was toying with them, his calm voice cutting deeper than their blades.
"Your coordination's sloppy," he said as one assassin slashed from behind. He caught the blade between his fingers and flicked it away. "Your footwork—predictable. You're wasting spiritual energy on every breath."
One of the women growled. "Shut up!"
But before she could finish, vines erupted again, blocking their view. The air grew humid, and a faint green mist drifted down from above. The assassins began to cough.
"What's this?" another coughed out, clutching his throat.
They looked around and realized the mist wasn't fog—it was spores. Tiny glowing particles danced in the air like fireflies, harmless at first glance. But when they breathed, the effect began. Their Qi trembled. Their movements slowed. Panic spread.
"Don't breathe it in!" shouted the leader, too late.
Their strength dropped rapidly. Their steps wavered. Two of them stumbled, falling to one knee as the world spun around them.
Wei Ji sighed, shaking his head. "Enough. Time to feed the newborns."
He pressed his palms together, and the earth cracked open behind him.
From the soil, five saplings rose—twisted, pulsing with a sickly red glow. Each was shaped like a beast, roots forming into legs, bark splitting into mouths filled with rows of sharp, jagged teeth. Their movements were jerky, wet sounds echoing as they stretched for the first time.
The assassins' eyes widened in horror.
"What are those!?"
Wei Ji smiled faintly. "Bloodborne saps. They need nourishment."
He pointed toward them. "Feed."
The saplings screeched—a horrible sound, half plant, half beast—and lunged forward. The assassins scattered, their instincts kicking in. Each of them drew their blades, cutting through vines and soil, but the saplings were faster than beasts. One of them snapped its jaw inches from a woman's leg, leaving a gash that sizzled with green smoke.
Another assassin spun midair and unleashed a wave of black Qi, slashing one of the monsters aside. "Stay away from them!" he yelled.
Wei Ji chuckled softly. "Not bad. At least you understand danger."
He pointed at the man who managed to wound a sapling. "You have instinct. The rest of you…" His eyes moved to the woman who was desperately parrying another vine. "You're just wasting your breath."
The woman gritted her teeth and swung her blade again. But her Qi flickered. She was running out of strength.
"Too slow," Wei Ji said coldly.
The sapling wrapped around her legs. Its bark split open like lips, revealing hundreds of tiny teeth. She screamed as it bit down, the sound echoing through the forest. The others tried to help, but they were too far. The creature climbed higher, devouring her inch by inch, until only her cries remained.
"Stop it!" one assassin shouted. He threw a knife, but it bounced off harmlessly.
Wei Ji made a small gesture with his fingers. "Crush."
The vine tightened around her waist—and then, silence.
The other assassins froze. Their eyes were wide. Fear had replaced discipline. They could see the madness in Wei Ji's calm face.
Then, just as Wei Ji was about to crush the rest, he suddenly stopped.
His eyes flicked to the side.
Clang!
Several streaks of light flashed through the air—sharp, fast, precise. They weren't arrows or daggers but flying swords, each one wrapped in white aura. They struck the saplings mid-movement, cutting through the vines cleanly.
Wei Ji's eyes narrowed.
The swords glowed faintly as they hovered in midair, humming with power. One, two, three, four—no, more than a dozen, circling him like a storm of steel.
Wei Ji stepped back slightly, raising his hand. "Huh, who?" he murmured in confusion.
A voice echoed from the forest ahead. Cold, controlled, filled with authority.
"Don't go too far!"
The air was still. The forest went silent.
Wei Ji's lips curved into a faint smile. "Interesting," he said softly, his eyes gleaming in the dark.