Cries of alarm rip through the night, and the Min family bursts from their rooms, blades in hand, striking back at the masked intruders flooding their courtyards.
Min Zhentao storms out with his long spear, his spirit sense sweeping across the estate. His face twists with rage as he sees his kin beset on all sides, the glow of a hidden formation sealing the grounds, cutting them off from the outside world.
He leaps skyward, landing on a roof tile with a thunderous crack, killing intent rolling from him like a storm tide. The enemies below falter under the pressure, but Zhentao's eyes narrow—this is no random raid, it is a calculated slaughter.
He thrusts his qi outward, preparing to cut down the masked attackers—but a sudden glint flashes at his flank. His instincts flare, and he twists back just as a knife whistles past, slicing through where his head had been a heartbeat ago.
Turning, he finds a lone figure in black, aura thick with water attribute qi. Though only at the initial realm of the master stage, the assassin radiates lethal intent.
Zhentao's anger ignites, his spear thrumming with golden light as he channels his metal attribute true qi. With a roar, he lunges forward, his strike like a streak of molten lightning.
The masked master meets him head-on, sword flashing as water qi surges in a crashing wave to smother Zhentao's blazing spear.
The clash rattles the roof tiles beneath their feet, spear and sword ringing with violent sparks. Zhentao's golden qi crashes down like a storm of blades, shredding through the watery curtain the masked master conjures.
Each thrust of his spear grows heavier, sharper, his killing intent pressing down until the assassin staggers, boots skidding across broken tiles. The golden light of metal qi pierces through the water qi like sunlight through mist, forcing the man into a desperate defence.
Zhentao's eyes blaze as his spear thrust arcs straight for the man's chest—this blow would cripple, if not kill.
But before it can land, a second killing intent surges in from the shadows. Another masked figure leaps forward, blade gleaming with the same water qi, and slashes across Zhentao's strike. The impact sends a shockwave through the air, tiles bursting apart as the old master is forced to withdraw his spear and twist into defense.
Two blades now press against him, both wielding the same style, flowing and relentless, each stroke like a crashing wave against his golden tide.
Zhentao grits his teeth, his chest aching from the half-healed wound of that ruin battle months ago, when his younger brother and uncle had fallen. The pain claws at him, but he roars and unleashes more of his qi, golden light flooding the rooftop like a dawn.
The two masked assassins fight with perfect rhythm, water qi intertwining, each sword stroke echoing the other's. Yet, though they are fierce, they are only initial realm masters, while Zhentao stands firm at the late stage.
Step by step, he forces them back, his spear carving arcs of brilliance, shattering their watery defenses. The assassins bleed from shallow cuts already, their breathing ragged, but their eyes remain cold, disciplined, determined to grind him down through numbers.
Even injured, Min Zhentao's dominance is clear—he fights like a roaring lion refusing to bow, his spear always pressing, always breaking, always one breath from overwhelming them both.
A third shadow drops onto the rooftop, blade already drawn, water qi flowing like a river at flood. The sword arcs in from behind, and Zhentao barely twists in time, his spear ringing against the strike as sparks and spray scatter into the night.
Now three blades circle him, their water qi surging together into a tide that pushes back even his golden brilliance. Their movements are practiced, unified, as though they trained under the same master—three streams weaving into one river, their rhythm so tight it feels less like three opponents and more like one monstrous entity with six arms.
Zhentao's face hardens, sweat beading on his brow as his spear lashes in wide arcs, striking sparks from their blades, breaking the flow where he can. Yet his advantage wanes; every opening he creates is sealed by another stroke, every thrust of his spear swallowed by their tide.
His mind races even as his arms move on instinct. Who could send three masters with identical qi and sword technique? Not the Li family, not the Zhao, not even the Tide Whale gang—they have no such force in Qinhe Town. He's seen every master within these walls, weighed their strengths, but these assassins are strangers.
Another blade slashes across his guard, forcing him back a step. His chest throbs from the old ruin wound, the weakness threatening to slow him further. Below, screams rise and fade—his clan, his blood, cut down one by one. He feels their deaths as keenly as the sting of steel.
His gaze sharpens, burning with fury and grief. Enough. If his family must fall tonight, he will carve a mountain of corpses first. Determination hardens in his eyes, and golden qi roars from his spear like a bursting sun, vowing death to anyone who dares step closer.
Zhentao bites down hard, teeth grinding as his spear trembles under the pressure of three blades. His veins bulge, and with a low growl he forces his own blood to ignite. Golden qi floods out of his pores, but now it is stained red, searing the air with a metallic tang. His aura surges like a storm breaking free of its dam, blasting the three back a step.
The forbidden blood burning technique tears through his meridians, pain like molten iron coursing through his body, yet with it comes strength—strength enough to crush mountains. His eyes glow crimson-gold, and every thrust of his spear now carries a weight that shakes the rooftop tiles loose, shattering blades of water qi with sheer force.
The three attackers tighten their formation, swords crossing as they weave a net of water, ripples fusing together into a whirlpool that seeks to trap and drown his strikes. Their movements are disciplined, flawless, honed by years of training under the same style.
But still, Zhentao breaks through. His spear drives forward like a thunderbolt, tearing open their whirlpool with raw power, each clash sending one of them staggering. Sparks and droplets scatter in the night, glowing in the bloody light of his qi.
His body screams in protest, bones creaking, lungs burning as the forbidden art eats away at his life. Yet he does not falter. Every swing carries the weight of his oath, every thrust the fury of a man watching his clan slaughtered.
One of the black figures blocks too slow—Zhentao's spear smashes through his sword guard, splitting the man's chest open in a spray of blood. The other two roar, pressing harder, weaving their blades together to cover the gap.
Zhentao plants his feet, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. His qi flares again, even heavier, even wilder. Against their formation, against their unity, he rises like a raging sun—burning his own life away for a final chance to slaughter his enemies.
Min Zhentao's spear flashes like molten metal and at last his strength finds a gap in the attackers' formation, two of the black-clad masters stagger and bleed, one collapsing with a gurgle while the second reels, chest split and eyes going dull.
He presses forward, intent to finish two and snare the third alive for questioning, every strike driven like a judge's gavel—swift, merciless, absolute.
A moment before his spear would pierce the remaining enemy, a brutal blow cracks against the back of his head; he stumbles, momentum broken, and slides from the roof in a spray of broken tiles and dust.
Pain explodes along old wounds; the ruin scar across his ribs shivers and tears open again as the blow reopens every ache he had tried to bury.
He forces himself upright, chest heaving, face set like flint, and looks up into the night to find the fourth figure standing at the roof's edge—Chu Longwei, calm as a lord, hands folded, eyes cold.
"You are behind this," Min Zhentao says, throat tight with anger and puzzlement.
Chu Longwei's smile is a blade. "Did you think I would leave the Min family as an ally? Power is taken, not begged."
Confusion and rage war in Zhentao's mind—why strike now after terms were agreed, where did he find three masters with the same water-sword skill, and how deep does the Tide Whale Gang's reach truly run?
The answer hardens like iron: the Tide Whale Gang is no mere pirate band; it hides forces and connections that make it dangerous beyond simple numbers.
The battle surges anew, spear against sword, metal and water clashing under moonlight, each man fighting for blood, for vengeance, for the last rag of dignity left to them.
Inside the estate, panic smells like smoke and iron; servants cry, wounded groan, and in a quiet room the violence takes a different form—Chu Hong stands over a trail of small, bloody bodies, a servant's lifeblood still wet on his blade.
His eyes glitter with a fevered hunger as he advances on Min Xueyao, who backs away until the bed meets her calves and she stumbles, collapsing onto the sheets with tears burning down her face.
"No use running, Xue'er," Chu Hong hisses, voice low and cruel, "your Min family ends tonight."
She curls into herself on the bed, breath trembling, and the room narrows to the noise of her own heart and the scrape of a bloody sword outside the door.
Chu Hong snarls, throws his sword aside, and leaps on Min Xueyao, his hands clamping down on her wrists like iron shackles.
She thrashes beneath him, but the more she struggles the weaker she feels, as if her strength is draining with every breath.
Tears streak her face, despair rising cold in her chest, and at last she closes her eyes, ready to surrender to fate.
In the next instant, warmth splashes across her cheek—hot, metallic, and sudden.
Her eyes snap open just in time to see Chu Hong's head roll from his shoulders, thudding onto the bed beside her, his face still twisted in lustful hunger.
The headless corpse slumps forward, pinning her for a heartbeat before she shoves it away with a sob.
Her gaze jerks upward—and there, framed in the doorway, stands a woman in flowing robes, a flying sword drifting at her side like a hunting hawk.
Recognition crashes into her like a wave, and her eyes widen with relief and shock.
"Sister!" Min Xueyao cries, surging off the bed and throwing herself into the woman's arms, clinging with all the fear and grief she can no longer hold back.
Outside, the night sky splits as a deafening roar echoes—the formation hemming in the estate shatters, lines of light cracking apart.
Through the breach descend figures riding colossal eagles, their silhouettes lit by moon and flame.
Spells arc from their hands, bolts of fire, ice, and lightning raining down, while flying swords wheel through the night like blades of judgment.
They fall upon the intruders with overwhelming force, scattering masked killers and tearing open the siege, as the Min family at last see hope blaze into their despair.