HCAW 34

Chapter 34: Spears Gather, Arrows Converge

The night was thick and murky, the mountain winds sharp and cold. The beast-like horde surged after them, relentless as shadows. The Xian Moutain officers fled at full speed, carrying Fang Jingyu in the center of their square formation. Blood poured from his wound, soaking through his dark robe in moments, leaving his face pale as bone.

Xiao Jiao, distraught, called his name again and again, as if terrified he might never wake.

Fang Jingyu shook his head slightly and forced out a hoarse whisper: “I’m fine.”

Chu Kuang said, “He took a blow to the chest. It must be treated at once. And if you’re not too proud to try, eating a bit of that meat might help heal it.”

“What meat?” Xiao Jiao demanded anxiously. But then she saw the pigskin pouch—black-blood-soaked, the same one the so-called “Great Immortal Yonghe” had forced into her hands. She recoiled with horror. “You brought that thing back?!”

Chu Kuang opened the pouch. Inside lay squirming black meat slices, writhing like worms, dreadful to behold.

“That man spoke true. This is meat carved from his own body. It can heal wounds, even grant great strength. But if the eater lacks a strong will, they’ll end up like those ‘walking meat’—driven mad.”

“How do you know all this?” Xiao Jiao pressed.

Chu Kuang remained silent.

Fang Jingyu suddenly coughed hard, spraying blood. His breath grew weaker, but he still shook his head.

“No. I won’t eat that thing.”

He looked up weakly and saw Chu Kuang’s face. To his surprise, it bore genuine worry. Just now, hearing Chu Kuang speak so indifferently, he’d assumed the man was heartless, unmoved even after Fang Jingyu took a blow for him. But now, it was clear that wasn’t the case at all.

Chu Kuang’s eyes were dazed and uneasy, his arms trembling as they supported Fang Jingyu.

“You really… care about me?” Fang Jingyu asked.

“Of course I do, Master,” Chu Kuang muttered. “You got hurt because of me. I do have a conscience—and right now, it’s thumping like crazy. Gives me a headache.”

Fang Jingyu blinked at him. Sure enough, Chu Kuang’s lips were tight and his face bloodless. His old arrow wound was flaring up again, but still his arms held Fang Jingyu tight. A mist crept into Fang Jingyu’s vision. For a moment, that worried expression seemed familiar—like his elder brother’s face, back when Fang Jingyu scraped his knees as a child.

Suddenly, the walking meat surged forward again, pounding toward them with limb-snapping force.

The one-eyed man shouted: “Spears out! Loose arrows!”

Blades and bolts rained down like a sudden storm, momentarily driving back the frenzied tide.

But from the horde burst a shadow—“Great Immortal Yonghe” himself.

No longer concealing his form, he revealed a pitch-black, grotesque body beneath the cloak, more like a lump of sludge than flesh. As he moved, octopus-like tentacles writhed beneath him, slapping the ground like snakes’ tongues.

The sight made the officers recoil.

“I have to be dreaming!” Xiao Jiao sobbed.

In a flash, Yonghe appeared before them. His tentacles whipped out like flying blades.

Chu Kuang, in desperation, yanked Fang Jingyu’s steel sabre from his waist to block—but the moment the black tentacles struck the blade, it hissed like acid, eating away at the steel.

Fang Jingyu gasped, “Don’t fight him! Run!”

Chu Kuang obeyed, flinging the broken blade at Yonghe’s face. The throw was swift and true—it struck the Immortal square in one of his eyes.

A sudden, pained howl. The blade had hit its mark.

The officers broke into a retreat, making distance—but it wasn’t long before Yonghe came after them again. Blood-black fluid streaked his face, his steps heavy with fury. Though the stabbed eye was healing, it did so slowly.

The one-eyed man growled, “His weakness is the eyes!”

Archers fired at once—but the Immortal moved like smoke, dodging them all.

At the village path, someone cried, “Captain! We’re out of arrows!”

“Use spears and blades! Hold on!” the one-eyed man barked.

Just then, Chu Kuang whistled sharply. His white-dappled horse came charging up the steps. He leapt onto its back with Fang Jingyu in his arms. The other officers scrambled onto their mounts, galloping toward the main road.

Before mounting, Xiao Jiao hastily lit a wind-lantern. In the blackness behind them, the horde and the Immortal pursued like a gaping, man-eating maw.

The headache in Chu Kuang’s skull pounded harder.

He turned to the one-eyed man. “How many arrows do you have left?”

“Six!” the man shouted into the wind.

“Give them all to me. I’ve only got one left. That Immortal has seven eyes. If I hit them all at once, we can shake him and his horde for good.”

“Impossible! A bow can only shoot three arrows at once! Even if you shoot three, he’ll heal again and catch up. And if we split the shots among seven people, there’s no guarantee we’ll hit all of them!”

“I can fire seven arrows at once,” said Chu Kuang.

They galloped through the night as the wind howled like blades, slicing their faces raw. Hearts pounded wildly in their chests, heavy with panic and fear.

Yet Chu Kuang’s voice was steady, as casual as if he were discussing the weather—sending a jolt through the one-eyed man. The other Xian Moutain officers had already exhausted their arrows; only the two of them still had a few left. Firing seven arrows in one go? It sounded like pure fantasy. The one-eyed man had only ever seen such a feat from a mounted repeating crossbow—could a mere archer with a human body really reach such heights? Even double-nocking arrows threw off aim; and this was a starless, lightless night!

The one-eyed man stared at Chu Kuang, heart thundering like a war drum. Should he gamble… or not? He glanced again at Fang Jingyu slumped on the white-and-blue horse, his blood streaming, soaking the steed’s coat red.

A horse stumbled. In an instant, the “walking meat” swarmed in, tearing a fallen officer from the saddle—limbs flying in a spray of flesh and bone. Great Immortal Yonghe’s shadow loomed ever closer. The night pulsed with menace.

The moment had come to decide.

Trust a barely-known servant with this?

The one-eyed man gritted his teeth—just as he opened his mouth, a gust of wind swept past and lifted the tangled hair from Chu Kuang’s brow. In the dim

moonlight, he glimpsed that handsome face—marked by a red, double-pupiled eye like a flame burning in the dark.

The one-eyed man froze like he’d been struck by lightning.

He remembered. He’d seen that eye before—in the Jiwei Desert, one year ago. That was no human eye. It belonged to a wraith. And it had haunted him ever since.

He fell silent.

After a long pause, he reached into his quiver, pulled out a bundle of arrows, and tossed them to Chu Kuang.

“Catch.”

“Much obliged.”

Chu Kuang snatched them from the air, untied the string, fanned the arrows out like petals, and gripped them between his fingers.

The horse jostled beneath him, the moonlight dim and mottled. If he could truly hit all of Great Immortal Yonghe’s many eyes from over twenty feet away—firing seven arrows in one burst—it could only be called divine skill.

The one-eyed man had seen only two men perform such a feat in his life. One was the Tianfu Guard—an elite of the Xian Moutain Guards—who had mastered a technique known as “Seven Stars in a Row,” capable of firing seven deadly arrows in a single breath.

The second was—King Yama.

Now the wind shrieked like ghosts. The “walking meat” surged forward, howling and snarling. Chu Kuang drew his bow, fingers taut, muscles like coiled steel—like a tiger gathering force to strike. The one-eyed man watched, breath forgotten.

Then—under a shaft of moonlight like pale snow—the moment came.

Great Immortal Yonghe’s vile, sludge-like face was bathed in light. Chu Kuang struck.

The arrows flew so fast they seemed like a single streak of silver fire—wheeling into his hands, vanishing from the string. Each shot blurred into the next, seven arrows loosed like lightning.

They struck true.

Dark blood burst from Great Immortal Yonghe’s face as if he’d been smashed mid-air by an invisible hammer.

A shriek rose—not human, not beast—shattering the air.

But just as Chu Kuang loosed his final arrow, his hand wavered. Sweat broke across his brow. The one-eyed man saw him gritting his teeth, in unbearable pain. The old arrow wound in his head was flaring again—like an iron awl gouging through his skull.

The last shot missed. It hit a “walking meat” behind the target. His bow slipped from his grip. Chu Kuang clutched his head and groaned in agony.

One eye remained.

Great Immortal Yonghe could still recover, still catch them. The attempt had nearly succeeded—but failed.

Chu Kuang struggled upright despite the pain—but with no arrows left, he was like a fish out of water.

At that moment, the one-eyed man pulled his final arrow from his quiver. His shoulder and arm tensed like drawn bowstrings. He let it fly.

It struck.

It struck Great Immortal Yonghe’s last eye—clean, direct. The monster screamed and toppled backward. Black blood pooled beneath its cloak.

And then—one by one—the “walking meat” collapsed. Their twitching limbs went still, strewn across the earth like slaughtered cattle.

Silence fell over the land.

The Xian Moutain officers sat in stunned relief. Slowly, they turned their horses back to look. All they saw was a crumpled cloak lying in the blood—no body, only bones and decaying flesh. Great Immortal Yonghe had vanished like morning mist.

Counting heads, they realized five or six had died.

Their joy at surviving mingled with grief for the fallen. Their hearts were a tangled mess.

They swarmed around the one-eyed man, all shouting:

“Not bad, Captain! Every shot a kill!”

“If you hadn’t saved us—none of us would’ve made it out today…”

The truth was, the darkness and chaos had hidden what they didn’t see: only the last arrow had come from him.

The one-eyed man just smiled faintly and said nothing. His gaze passed over the crowd—settling on the figure astride the white horse.

Chu Kuang, still clutching his head in pain, leaned close to the wounded Fang Jingyu. He didn’t join the celebration. His messy black hair covered his right eye. Without that vivid red pupil, no one would suspect this quiet youth might be the infamous King Yama.

The one-eyed man looked down at his quiver.

He had lied. He’d said there were only six arrows left—but there were seven. He’d given Chu Kuang six… and saved the last for himself.

It was meant for an emergency. A failsafe.

It was meant to kill the man he’d hunted for so long—

King Yama.