The Green-Eyed Blademaster

Chapter 5: The Gratitude of the Saved

The air in the tavern was thick with the scent of blood and disbelief.

For a long moment, no one moved. The surviving assassins stared at their five fallen comrades, then at the serene figure in white who stood before Huang Lianxue. The primary assassin, his eyes narrowing behind his mask, recognized the truth instantly. This was not a wanderer. This was a monster.

"It matters not! He is one, we are many! Kill them all! Shadow Ghost Flurry!" the leader shrieked, breaking the silence.

He moved first, his body dissolving into a series of blurred after-images, each launching a strike from a different angle. At the same time, the other assassins roared and charged forward, unleashing their own deadly techniques.

"Nether Toxin Palm!" a hulking assassin bellowed, his palm turning a venomous black as he thrust it towards Li Qingyan's chest.

"Corrosive Serpent's Coil!" another hissed, whipping a chain-like weapon that slithered through the air, attempting to entangle Li Qingyan's legs.

The tavern, already a scene of chaos, became a maelstrom of murderous intent. To the Huang Clan disciples, it was a terrifying onslaught. These were techniques from the demonic path, each one designed for a swift, agonizing kill. They watched with bated breath, expecting the man in white to be torn to pieces.

They were wrong.

Faced with the flurry of phantom strikes, Li Qingyan did not even turn his head. He simply took a slight step to the left. Every single one of the dozen phantom blows missed, striking empty air.

As the Nether Toxin Palm approached, he casually raised a hand and, with a flick of his wrist, slapped the man’s arm aside. The movement was so dismissive, so utterly contemptuous, it was like shooing away a bothersome gnat. The assassin stumbled, his own momentum throwing him off balance.

The corrosive serpent chain that snaked towards his legs was met by a simple, downward stomp of his foot. Li Qingyan's sole pinned the head of the chain to the floorboards with absolute finality, rendering the weapon useless.

He was a rock in the middle of a raging river. The deadly, frantic attacks washed over and around him, never once touching him. He moved with an impossible economy of motion, each tiny adjustment, each lazy parry, perfectly neutralizing a lethal blow that had sent the Huang Clan disciples themselves into a desperate struggle for their lives.

He was not fighting. He was merely… present.

After allowing the flurry to continue for a few more seconds, a flicker of boredom finally crossed Li Qingyan’s face. He had seen enough.

His form blurred.

He appeared before the assassin whose chain he had trapped. The man’s eyes went wide with terror. Before he could react, a pale, slender hand clamped down over his entire face, covering his mask and jaw.

CRUNCH.

The sound was sickeningly wet, like a large melon being split open. The assassin's body went limp, collapsing to the floor as Li Qingyan released his head, which was now a misshapen ruin of bone, brains, and black cloth.

He did not pause.

He took another step, appearing before the Nether Toxin Palm user. Another hand clamped down. Another sickening crunch.

There was no wasted motion. He moved from one to the next, a specter of death in white robes. He was not using any grand technique, just pure, terrifying speed and strength. Each step brought him to a new target. Each time his hand rose, a head was crushed.

CRUNCH. CRUNCH. CRUNCH.

The remaining assassins, who had been charging forward with murderous zeal just moments before, now scrambled back in abject terror. Their deadly arts, their poisons, their ruthless training—it was all a meaningless joke in front of this man. They tried to flee, but they were not fast enough.

Li Qingyan was a reaper harvesting wheat. In less than ten seconds, the slaughter was complete. The last assassin fell, his crushed head hitting the bloody floor with a dull, wet thud.

Silence descended once more.

Li Qingyan stood amidst the carnage, not a single drop of blood on his pristine white robes. He glanced at his hand, then casually wiped it on the black cloth of a nearby corpse.

The surviving Huang Clan disciples—Huang Lianxue, the pale and trembling Zhang Jie, and the two who were nursing broken bones—stared at him, their expressions a mixture of awe, relief, and profound fear.

It was Zhang Jie who broke the silence. His arrogance had been shattered, but in its place grew a different kind of clan-bred entitlement. He took a staggering step forward, pointing a trembling finger at Li Qingyan.

"You...! Why did you kill them all?" he demanded, his voice cracking. "We needed one! We needed to interrogate one to find out who sent them!"

Li Qingyan slowly turned his head. His green eyes, empty of any warmth, settled on Zhang Jie. The temperature in the room seemed to drop by several degrees. The pressure of his gaze was a physical weight, far heavier than any poison palm.

"Interrogation?" Li Qingyan's voice was flat, cold, and utterly devoid of emotion.

He took a slow step towards Zhang Jie, who flinched and instinctively took a step back.

"The rescued," Li Qingyan stated, his voice quiet but carrying an authority that drowned out all other sound, "should offer their thanks. They do not have the right to make demands of their savior."

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in, a subtle, terrifying aura pressing down on the young disciple.

"Or would you have preferred I allowed them to complete their task first?"