66: Chapter 66 Attack

"Master, there's one more thing." The Disciple continued his report. "The Axe Gang has made a move. Tiger Wang sent Ghost Foot Seven to deliver an invitation, asking Chen Mo to attend a banquet at the Spring Breeze Pavilion tomorrow."

"Oh?"

Tieshan stopped walking, a hint of a playful smile appearing on his face. "That smiling tiger Tiger Wang, trying courtesy before force. What did Chen Mo say?"

"He accepted."

The Disciple's expression turned odd. "I heard it's because Chen Mo owed Tiger Wang a favor from before. But..."

"But what?"

"But after accepting the invitation, Chen Mo immediately had his men beat up Ghost Foot Seven, knocking out two of his teeth."

"Hahahaha!"

Tieshan erupted into loud laughter, shaking dust from the rafters. "Interesting! That kid has some guts! Accepting the invitation but still slapping them in the face—that's both repaying a debt and refusing to back down. That old bastard Tiger Wang must be hopping mad right now."

"What about us..."

"We stay put."

Tieshan sat back down on the meditation cushion, continuing to rotate the iron balls in his hand. "Since someone is willing to be the first bird out of the bush, let the Axe Gang test the waters first. We run a martial arts school; we emphasize winning people over with virtue, not brawling like those thugs."

He paused, a flicker of cunning in his eyes—the glint of a predator.

"However, we can't show no reaction at all. Since this kid dares to investigate us, we need to teach him a lesson, let him know how high the threshold of the Inner City is."

"What does Master mean?"

"Go, send that Chen Mo a gift."

Tieshan sneered. "Send him one of our school's 'Observation Invitations.' The first day of next month is our school's 'Martial Arts Demonstration.' Say that I, Tieshan, have long admired Lord Chen's formidable reputation and specially invite him to observe, and perhaps... offer some pointers to our less-than-promising Disciples."

The Disciple's eyes lit up. "Master, brilliant! That's killing with praise! Putting him on the hot seat!"

If he accepts, he has to come to the school. Then, on the demonstration stage, we just have a Disciple 'spar' with him. Fists and feet have no eyes. Breaking a few of his bones would just mean his skills are inferior; no one could say a word against it.

If he refuses, then he's a coward. How could he continue to operate in the West City after that? If he doesn't even dare to attend a martial arts school's observation, how can he talk about restoring order?

"Go on."

Tieshan waved his hand and closed his eyes.

"This stagnant pond called West City hasn't been this lively in a long time. I hope this kid's bones are hard enough, and Tiger Wang doesn't chew him up in two bites. Otherwise, I'll have nothing fun to play with."

...

Night hung over Qingyang City like a tattered rag soaked in ink.

When Chen Mo left the West City precinct, the streets were already mostly empty. Only a few stray dogs were rummaging through garbage piles; seeing someone approach, they tucked their tails and whimpered, disappearing into the darkness.

He didn't take the main road.

Although the main road was wide, it was too bright, making him an easy target. He chose a shortcut home, a dead-end alley called 'Coffin Lane,' usually only used by night-soil collectors.

The alley reeked of a fermented, sour stench.

Chen Mo walked steadily, his right hand habitually resting on the saber hilt, his thumb rubbing the cold guard. It was a habit he'd developed these past few days, like an old smoker needing a pipe in hand. Not touching something metallic made him uneasy.

Reaching the middle of the alley, Chen Mo suddenly stopped.

The path ahead was blocked by a half-collapsed earthen wall. Usually, two stray cats would be curled up at its base, but today they were gone.

It was too quiet.

Not even the sound of wind rustling through torn window paper.

Chen Mo sighed.

"Come out," he said to the empty alley, his voice not loud, as if greeting an old friend. "Aren't you afraid of freezing on a night like this?"

As soon as he finished speaking, over a dozen figures emerged from the shadows at both ends of the alley.

All dressed in identical black short jackets, faces covered with black cloth. Their weapons weren't swords or sabers, but short clubs, iron rulers, and a few gleaming boning knives.

No words, no villainous monologue.

The leader in front, a short man, raised his hand.

"Whoosh—"

Several packets of white powder exploded in the air, like a sudden blizzard, enveloping Chen Mo head-on.

Quicklime.

The top choice among Jianghu's dirty tricks—cheap, effective, and vicious. Once it blinds you, you're meat on the chopping block.

Chen Mo closed his eyes and held his breath the moment the man raised his hand.

Turtle Breathing Technique.

His heartbeat instantly slowed, his hearing amplified infinitely in that moment.

The soft rustle of powder settling, the swish of fabric rubbing, and the suppressed breathing of over a dozen men painted a clear, dynamic picture in his mind.

"Get him! Cripple him!"

The short man growled.

A foul wind rushed at his face.

Chen Mo didn't retreat.

Retreat meant death; there were people behind him too.

He took a sudden, massive step forward, like a black bear crashing into a tree, charging straight into the still-dispersing cloud of quicklime.

"Clang—"

The wild goose feather saber left its sheath.

The saber's gleam drew a pale arc in the darkness, fast as lightning.

"Thud."

A dull sound—the sound of a sharp blade cutting into flesh.

The short man charging at the front felt a sudden chill on his neck. He tried to speak but found his windpipe leaking air, only able to make a gurgling sound before clutching his throat and collapsing.

But these men were clearly desperadoes; seeing blood only made them fiercer.

"Thwack!"

A datewood club as thick as a forearm slammed hard into Chen Mo's back.

The sneak attacker's face twisted into a ferocious grin. With a blow like that, even a man of iron would go down.

But the next second, his grin froze.

The feeling was wrong.

It didn't feel like hitting flesh, more like hitting a thick layer of old cowhide. There was even a rebounding force traveling back up the club, numbing the base of his thumb.

Chen Mo's body only swayed slightly.

It hurt, of course it hurt.

But no bones or tendons were damaged.

The 'Returning Origin Strength' within his body instinctively surged to his back the moment he was struck. His skin tightened, muscles knotted, forcefully withstanding the blow.

This was the difference between a Martial Artist and an ordinary person.

This was the confidence brought by the solid 'Returning Origin Strength (Entry Level 7%)' on his data panel.

Chen Mo spun around abruptly, his left hand shooting out like an iron clamp, seizing the club.

"Too weak. Didn't eat enough?"

He opened his eyes. Though a bit of lime stung the corners, the cold light in his pupils was sharper than the saber.

The sneak attacker was scared Soul Flying Away and Spirit Scattering. He tried to pull the club back but found it immovable.

Chen Mo flicked his wrist. A strange force traveled down the club, yanking the man off balance.

Then came a slash.

Simple, direct, without any flourish.

The saber blade swept upward diagonally from the man's ribs, opening a gash deep enough to see bone.

Blood gushed out, splattering Chen Mo's face.

He didn't wipe it, didn't even blink.

"Kill!"

The remaining dozen or so men finally reacted, swarming forward.

The alley was narrow; too many people hindered their movements.

Chen Mo stood like an unyielding rock, unmoving amidst the tide of men.