The autumn wind was bleak, the long street grim with killing intent, flames beginning to rise. Figures closed in, and figures were sent flying back out like cannonballs, crashing to the ground, blood spilling forth. The seven carriages, crooked and askew, blocked the street front and back; pedestrians fled in panic, watching from the distant taverns and teahouses.

Seven carriages—even with fairly large compartments—could hold at most eight or nine people each. When these martial artists of varied dress and weaponry appeared, at first glance it looked no different from the sort of gang clashes that happened daily on the streets of Hangzhou these days. But the single name “Bao Daoyi” meant that what was unfolding here was no ordinary brawl. Near and far, those who understood the weight of that name, upon looking back on the scene, would realize that the one who had intercepted this entire convoy was, remarkably, just a young man in his twenties.

As Ning Yi pushed his cart back, Chen Fan, shaft in hand, was already walking toward Bao Daoyi, kicking away anyone who rushed at him. The battle that took place on Pingchang Street that afternoon had, from the very start, involved little in the way of fancy technique.

Chen Fan was no fool, but at least in combat, he had no need for elaborate strategy. And though Bao Daoyi had come in person this time, dealing with a group of children hardly required bringing out his best. But even so, those under Bao Daoyi capable of participating at this level were no mediocre hands—all of them were sect leaders of small and mid-sized martial factions, or bandits who killed and robbed for a living, men with genuine skill who had killed many, capable ordinarily of holding off three to five soldiers single-handed. It was only when the men from two nearby carriages closed in together, blades and swords drawn, that they truly began to sense just how astonishing the skill of this solitary young man named Chen Fan, who had charged so brazenly, truly was.

Among those who had come with Bao Daoyi this time, perhaps few knew that Chen Fan was the disciple of the Buddha Marshal, and even those who did probably wouldn’t have felt much apprehension toward the young man before them. They were all men of established reputation in their thirties and forties, who had lived by the blade’s edge for years—some of whom might once have been reduced to performing on street corners for lack of respect as martial artists—but they had real skill in their hands, and when it came to fighting, they feared nothing. In their eyes, this young man now charging the convoy single-handedly might have some skill, but a lone man doing such a thing was either mad or desperate, blood having rushed to his head.

What they hadn’t expected was that this young man, gifted from childhood, had later become a disciple of Fang Qifo, training in every manner of martial arts, participating in the entire course of the rebellion, fighting his way out of the fiercest points of every battle and surviving. Within Fang La’s military ranks, the only one who could ordinarily spar with him on equal footing was a freak of talent like Liu Xigua.

After the fall of Hangzhou, he had grown languid, his mood relaxed. Later, though he had taken on the post of law enforcement officer for a time, seemingly resolving everything with his fists and acting unreasonably, in truth it was merely his attitude toward handling internal disputes. But right now, he had already assumed the posture of a man in the thick of battle, ready to stake his life on the fight!

The first to close in were the eight or nine men who had come down from the third carriage. Seeing the driver’s long whip torn apart in an instant and the man pulled off and flipped over, they drew their weapons and charged straight in without further delay—already, this could hardly be called underestimating the enemy. But the shaft spun in Chen Fan’s hands, and the leader among them was still kicked squarely in the chest, sent flying. This man was the head of a southern martial faction called the Divine Fist Sect, his body hardened through rigorous training, his stance solid—yet a single kick sent blood spraying from his mouth, and he tumbled across the ground like a rolling gourd.

No one paid any attention to the man who’d been kicked away, as the surrounding attacks had already converged all at once. To the left, a man’s pair of hawk-claw hands struck directly at Chen Fan’s shoulder, neck, and pulse points—this was Tang Zhenchuan, known as the “Sichuan-Quelling Iron Claw.” Coming in alongside this attack were blade, sword, and spear; killing intent loomed just as fiercely from the right and behind. But in the next instant, they were all swept into a whirlwind!

Tang Zhenchuan had honed his signature hawk-claw technique for over thirty years. In that instant, Chen Fan exchanged blows with him twice in succession—the first a casual elbow strike, and then, changing his hand, Tang Zhenchuan saw the young man’s grappling hand already reaching for him. In that flash, he only caught a glimpse of Chen Fan’s grip, resembling both a hawk’s talon and a tiger’s claw, yet seemingly random and without any discernible technique—the thought flashed through his mind that this was an amateur—and then their two hands were already locked together. A moment later, the sound of bone shattering rang in his ears; just as always before, he had directly torn apart his opponent’s bones. But this time, his own vision spun wildly out of control.

The shaft swung through a great arc, roaring like a tiger! Chen Fan gripped Tang Zhenchuan and dragged him straight into the heart of the crowd. A monk wielding an iron staff clashed with the shaft, his entire body staggering back as if struck by lightning, countless wood splinters bursting into the air. Tang Zhenchuan’s body, spun and nearly sent flying by the sudden twist, blocked a blade attack coming from the left. Chen Fan’s body dipped low as he charged forward, seeming to press against Tang Zhenchuan’s back—but to the several men ahead, this young man looked like a tiger pouncing forward!

Several of them instinctively took a step back. Tang Zhenchuan’s body hit the ground, unable to steady itself—in fact there was no chance to steady himself at all, one might rather say he hadn’t even fully fallen yet—when agonizing pain shot up from his arm. Grapple against grapple, his forearm was broken, and Chen Fan was still behind him, the shaft whirling twice in his hands, forcing back the surrounding crowd before being raised high overhead.

Splitting Mount Hua with all one’s strength!

Wood splinters and flesh and blood burst into the sky. Tang Zhenchuan, nearly with his back to Chen Fan, took this ferocious swing full on the back of his head, utterly unguarded. His corpse, together with the man charging in from the side, was sent flying together, and in that same instant, Chen Fan had already pounced forward again like a leopard. Ahead of him now stood a pair of lovers who fought with blade and sword, weaving a net of light between them in an instant. They had been so shaken by Chen Fan’s ferocity in that single exchange that they instinctively took a step back.

A moment ago the crowd had swarmed in all at once, but in that short span, their encirclement had already been torn apart. Yet from the sides and rear, experienced fighters still pursued closely. Chen Fan rolled on the ground and charged straight at the sword-and-blade-wielding man and woman ahead. This pair looked to be in their twenties or thirties—the man handsome, the woman also striking in beauty—and their blade and sword worked together with considerable ferocity. But Chen Fan, from the very start, seemed to be fighting a low, ground-level style; earlier, when he’d grabbed Tang Zhenchuan, he had bent low to charge; now he still rolled and dove low, attacking straight at the man’s lower body, throwing his opponent into a flustered scramble.

Men of the martial underworld cared about face, after all—ground-fighting styles focused entirely on the lower body weren’t unheard of, but they were hard to make fashionable, since whether in sparring or in vendettas, targeting an opponent’s legs and lower body seemed rather unseemly to both sides—especially for this loving couple, who surely hadn’t studied counters to such attacks. But Chen Fan was a man who had survived actual battlefields; when truly scattered amid enemy forces on the field, with foes on every side, ground-fighting blade techniques were often the surest way to survive. His own martial skill was already formidable, approaching a state of returning to simplicity, and now that he had unleashed his killing intent without mercy, this man and woman knew at once they couldn’t match him by force. Seeing him charge the man, the woman beside him shifted her footing and swung her blade to help—only for her calf to be seized by Chen Fan the next moment, her body flying up into the air.

This woman, weighing well over a hundred pounds, was seized by Chen Fan and swung around like a sack, forcing back those who had closed in around them. One man, unable to check his blade in time, slashed a bloody gash across the woman’s shoulder. The sword-wielding man let out a great roar and reached out to embrace his wife’s body, but her right foot was still caught in Chen Fan’s grip. Humiliated and furious before the eyes of all, she kicked out hard with her left foot toward Chen Fan’s head.

At that moment, Chen Fan, holding the woman’s leg with one hand as he swung her in a circle—her upper body embraced by her husband—reached out with his other hand to seize her other leg as well, and with both hands he tore, kicking hard toward her lower body.

For anything else, Chen Fan had no patience to think about it now, but the woman’s scream still carried across the entire street. From the side someone bellowed, “How dare you, you brat!” The husband, holding his wife, was sent flying several meters away. Chen Fan showed no mercy—for the woman, this single kick had likely ruined her for life. Without even glancing at his wife, the husband snatched up his sword and charged forward again: “I’ll kill you!”

Chen Fan’s feet barely paused. He swept aside the man’s sword arm and struck directly at his shoulder and neck with the edge of his palm. A rapid crackling sound rang out continuously as Chen Fan advanced five steps, the man retreating the whole way, taking uncounted blows to the head, face, and neck, each one drawing blood.

“Only your woman counts as human!?”

With this shout, Chen Fan delivered a stele-smashing palm strike straight to the man’s face, sending him flying several meters through the air—clearly dead. By now Chen Fan’s body had already passed the woman lying on the ground behind him. Seeing her husband dead, she let out a furious, grief-stricken cry, snatched up her blade, and leapt up to strike. Chen Fan rolled on the ground and kicked upward into the woman’s stomach; as her body fell, Chen Fan had already risen to his feet, and with a step forward and a fist raised high, he brought it down in one savage blow, smashing the woman’s head and body against the ground, mangling her beyond recognition.

He stepped over the corpses. The man who had earlier shouted “How dare you” now charged forward as well—a Daoist priest in his fifties—only to be struck by a devastating headbutt from Chen Fan straight to his skull, sending blood spraying into the air. The priest staggered backward and collapsed to the ground.

“None of you count, as far as I’m concerned.”

The battle had lasted only a short while, and his footsteps hadn’t stopped—he passed the third carriage and walked toward Bao Daoyi. His head was already covered in blood from that headbutt; he wiped at it with his hand, but there was even more blood on his hand, and this smear made his expression all the more ferocious.

Bao Daoyi had by now gotten down from his carriage, his face already contorted with fury. With a boom, he slammed his palm against the carriage beside him, shaking the whole body and startling the horses into panic.

“Chen Fan! Do you think I really can’t kill you!”

“Bao Daoyi! Do you think I really can’t kill you!”

“Heh heh… hahaha…” Bao Daoyi laughed in extreme fury, and after a moment let out a great roar, hair and beard bristling, his voice ringing like thunder across the long street. “Chen Fan! When a tiger doesn’t show its might, you think it’s a sick cat! Even if the Buddha Marshal himself were here today, you’d still be dead!”

“Heh heh.” Chen Fan laughed too, though amid his blood-covered face, the smile looked truly bizarre. “This tiger of yours won’t show its might—I’ll just treat you as terminally ill then… how about it—” That last shout rang out across the street just as loudly.

The atmosphere froze for an instant, and in the next, Bao Daoyi spun his whisk, paused, then charged forward with a boom!

Seeing Bao Daoyi suddenly attack, every martial artist along the entire street rushed forward at the same time—

Chen Fan raised his head, his eyes holding a contempt that looked down on everything.

The dark figures swarmed like ants, in this deep-autumn afternoon, blotting out the sky.