The strategist let out a miserable scream as a dart sliced off his right index finger!

“You son of a... Who dares to ambush me?”

Although the strategist usually acted refined, he was nothing more than a bandit who had read a few military books. Now, disheveled and furious from the pain, he began to curse out loud.

Hidden in the shadows, Zhang Qiming smirked coldly.

“So, it really is a Zhang family weapon—works like a charm!”

The dart he had just shot was incredibly sharp, the same one that Zhang Nian had previously used! A group of low-ranking bandits scurried around the camp, looking everywhere, but they found nothing.

“Boss! You’ve got to avenge me! It hurts like hell!”

Blood gushed from the strategist’s severed finger, and his face grew increasingly pale. The old man stared in shock, watching the strategist scream in agony. He muttered in bewilderment,

“Has Heaven shown a miracle?”

But now, with dark clouds covering the moon, it seemed Heaven was asleep. Otherwise, how else would the strategist have lost his finger? Could it truly be that spirits haunt this forest?

In the old man’s arms, his innocent grandson noticed that the dart, which had sliced off the strategist’s finger, had fallen nearby. The child’s sharp eyes caught a tiny character engraved on it—“Zhang.”

“Grandpa, look, there’s a word on it.”

Although the old man couldn’t read, he recognized the shape; it looked like the symbols on the drawings those young men had shown him earlier. His eyes narrowed, and he quickly covered his grandson’s mouth.

“Shh... that’s a sign from the gods. We mustn’t speak of it, you understand?”

The child nodded obediently, trusting his grandfather.

“You useless idiot! You can’t even handle an old man!”

Bang!

Annoyed by the strategist’s incessant wailing, the bandit chief shot him on the spot. These men were deserters, not true bandits. They had no code of honor whatsoever. Spitting on the ground, the chief snarled,

“Go find him, now! I don’t believe it. Is this forest really haunted? If there’s a ghost, then I’ll be the King of Hell!”

The bandit chief’s arrogance spurred his men into the forest, scattering in all directions. There were close to a hundred men in the camp. Watching them disperse, Zhang Qiming’s lips curled into a sinister smile—just as he had hoped.

He hadn’t stormed in to rescue anyone directly, choosing instead to fire the dart to lure them out, as he was still getting used to his newly awakened Qilin bloodline. Though his Eight-Step Cicada speed was swift, it couldn’t withstand a hundred guns. Now that the bandits had split up in the forest, they no longer held their advantage in numbers.

With the strategist dead, the camp had lost its brain. To Zhang Qiming, these disorganized deserters were nothing more than fish on a chopping board.

Maybe the sight of the old man’s distress had stirred something in him, as his original motive of just taking their valuables had changed. Now, he intended to eliminate these bandits to protect the nearby villagers.

Activating the Eight-Step Cicada, Zhang Qiming became a shadow in the darkness, darting through the forest.

Two bandits were searching the woods.

“Old Tortoise, that strategist was a real bastard, threatening that poor kid,” one of them complained.

“Old Melon, have you forgotten who you are? You’re a deserter. Nobody cares about us.”

The bandit called Old Melon thought of the old man they’d just seen and felt sick to his stomach. He sat down, refusing to continue searching.

“Hell, I just think that strategist was heartless. Reading a few books turned him into a monster.”

Old Tortoise chuckled. “You think you’re a saint? Remember last time at Zhao Family Village when you... you know, did that to the woman?”

Old Melon smirked, his eyes narrowing as he made grasping motions in the air. “Heh, she was asking for it, with a chest bigger than bread buns.”

Old Tortoise fell silent, thinking of his own wife, who was far away.

“Damn, this world’s gone to hell.”

“Enough. Stop daydreaming. Boss will whip us if we don’t find this guy tonight. We won’t be able to mess with any women for a while.”

Old Tortoise tried to get Old Melon to keep searching, but he suddenly noticed that Old Melon wasn’t breathing. His chest had a massive hole in it.

“Old Melon! You…”

He didn’t get to finish. He felt a sudden weakness, as though his soul had been drained. Looking down, he saw a wooden stick sticking out from his own chest.

Zhang Qiming had killed them both in the dark before they even saw him. This was Zhang Qiming’s first time taking a life, yet he didn’t feel sick or nervous. He moved swiftly and smoothly, as naturally as breathing. He attributed it to his Qilin bloodline and his sense of justice.

Zhang Qiming had been using a wooden stick, having picked it up on the way since he hadn’t brought any weapons from Zhang Haike. But in this forest, using a gun would give away his position.

Swinging the stick, he wished for a better weapon. Though he was strong enough to pierce flesh with the stick, he felt odd, like the Monkey King with his staff. Luckily, Old Tortoise had a knife. Zhang Qiming tossed the stick aside, grabbed the knife, and muttered to the corpse,

“Your brothers are lucky—they won’t get a hole from a stick. At least they’ll have an intact corpse.”

With a proper weapon, Zhang Qiming became a shadow of death in the forest once again.

Using a blade proved more efficient. However, as it was still his first time killing, he sometimes struck too hard, sometimes too soft. By the time he had killed fifty or sixty bandits, none were left whole.

With his Qilin bloodline, Zhang Qiming’s strength felt endless. His body was covered in blood, making him look like a demon himself.

He no longer bothered to hide; the remaining bandits were no threat.

The forest echoed with terrified screams as a blood-red figure harvested their lives like the King of Hell himself.

Unnoticed, dawn began to break.

Zhang Qiming took a breath—not out of exhaustion, but exhilaration. His knife was dull, but he couldn’t stop.

Zhang Qiming was killing with abandon!