Chapter 2510: Burning the Tower (23)

Xu Tong crept backward about fifty meters, moving with the careful, silent gait of a stalking cat. Bits of vegetation clung to his body as camouflage—not too much, just enough to break up his silhouette without hindering his movement. Camouflage was useless if it slowed you down.

He scattered the dead branches from his left hand along the path ahead, covering them loosely with soil and fallen leaves. Then he found his position: a patch of roadside shadow where the ground was hard-packed mud, the grass soft and green. He lowered himself slowly into the vegetation. Dry grass and stiff weeds rustled when disturbed, but tender green growth yielded in near silence. His soft-soled shoes made no sound against the damp earth. In concealment, sound was everything.

He had barely settled when the pursuers arrived. They moved cautiously, trying to avoid suspicious leaves and stones. But when they reached the scattered branches, a dry twig snapped beneath someone's foot. Wei Mingchen thought nothing of it—the mountain forest was littered with years of accumulated deadfall. Even seasoned hunters couldn't avoid startling prey with the occasional misstep.

The footprints disappeared here. Wei Mingchen crouched to examine the ground, searching for clues. The target had been moving slowly. If they'd also taken time to hide their tracks, they'd be caught even sooner. Unless that was the point. Perhaps they were hiding. Or waiting in ambush. He opened his mouth: "Search this area. See if there are—"

Another swordsman passed him, and another branch cracked underfoot. Wei Mingchen's instincts flared. Two snaps in quick succession, in an area with this much deadfall—it meant only one thing. Early warning. He started to shout, but a scream pierced the air first.

Xu Tong held absolutely still. Through the grass, he could barely make out the wild path ahead—visibility poor, images blurred. He remained silent, waiting. The first snap of a branch told him where the enemy's lead man was. As shadows flickered past his narrow field of vision, he counted: eight pursuers, moving in pairs, roughly a meter and a half between groups.

He arched his body slightly, hands and feet braced against the ground, the short knife clenched between his teeth. He was a spring compressed to its limit. His gaze tracked each blurred figure as they passed. When the second branch cracked, he finally spotted the last man in the column.

The instant that final pursuer turned his head away, Xu Tong launched himself from the grass. No hesitation. The target was utterly unprepared. Two savage thrusts to the left ribs, then immediate disengagement. In a heartbeat, he'd covered two or three meters. He didn't look back, didn't waste thought on whether his victim would live or die. A stab meant one less threat—that was all that mattered.

Short arrows hissed past him from hand crossbows. Pitiful weapons, those—only dangerous against unarmored targets at close range, accuracy falling apart beyond a few paces. The meters Xu Tong had gained were enough. That slim margin was his survival.

He kept low, gripping the makeshift spear fashioned from a tree trunk, sprinting toward his planned destination. There, lashed to a waist-high stump, waited the last bamboo tube. He'd already pried open the seal at its base, leaving a length of string exposed. As he passed, his left hand yanked the cord hard. White smoke poured from the tube. A red signal flare shot skyward, trailing fire through the canopy. At its peak, a small parachute deployed with a snap and began its lazy descent. Xu Tong spared it a single backward glance. This was about drawing attention, not staying hidden. He could only hope someone would see it.

With the flare launched, Xu Tong changed direction and ran for his life. The unbroken fighting had drained him badly; he could feel his speed flagging. He forced himself to breathe properly—in through the nose, out through the mouth—trying to wring out his last reserves of strength, to keep his mind steady.

Behind him rose a chaos of shouts and exclamations. But these weren't like the Daoist assembly bandits. These men were harder. They didn't panic at the ambush or stop to tend their fallen comrade. Instead, they split into three groups to cut him off. Two pairs angled toward the flanks, seeking routes to get ahead and force him to change course. The three-man group behind closed in fast, driving straight toward him.

Pressure from both flanks forced Xu Tong to constantly shift direction. His speed dropped further. His breath came in ragged gasps. The sounds behind him grew closer. He scanned the terrain quickly—though the flanking groups had sealed off his direct route and retreat, the jungle's dense undergrowth limited their movement too. Their distance wasn't shrinking; if anything, it was growing.

Xu Tong drew a deep breath and made his choice. He would gamble.

He wheeled around and charged straight at the three-man group on his tail.

Prey in flight, visible and cornered, was supposed to act like a mouse—give up, flee in blind panic, expose its fragile back to the killing stroke. The pursuers had their encirclement. They'd watched Xu Tong's obvious exhaustion. All of this had built in them the predator's unconscious complacency: just catch up, stab him in the back, and it would be over.

Xu Tong intended to shatter that assumption, catch them off guard, break their psychological advantage, and seize the momentum.

The three pursuers hadn't expected him to turn and fight. His sudden charge caught them mid-sprint, strung out in a single file rather than a proper line. The lead swordsman thrust with a Qi Family saber—right foot sliding forward, left following, hands twisting inward with practiced force, contracting his core, extending his arms, driving the point at Xu Tong's throat.

Xu Tong adjusted instantly. Left foot forward, left hand gripping the front of his short spear, right hand driving it ahead in a straight thrust at his opponent's chest. At the moment steel crossed wood, Xu Tong angled the spear slightly left, deflecting the saber's tip, seized the center line, and drove his weapon into the swordsman's left chest.

The percussion cap inside the booby trap fired on impact. Point-blank, large-caliber. The bamboo tube and the spear's front end exploded together, spraying fragments in all directions. The eleven-millimeter lead bullet tore through the swordsman's chest, carving a cavity, tumbling and deforming as it shredded organs. What remained of the bullet punched out through his back, its trajectory warped, grazing the second swordsman's cheek as it flew.

The lead swordsman dropped in an instant. The two behind him recoiled, stunned by the explosion and the ricochet, each retreating a step. Bamboo splinters had scratched Xu Tong's face, but he felt nothing. He discarded the smoking, shattered remnant of the spear, snatched up the fallen man's Qi Family saber, and advanced with both hands on the grip, pressing straight toward the second swordsman and his Japanese blade.

They raised their weapons simultaneously, both hands over their heads, each sliding a right foot forward. Same starting stance. Same arc of steel. Both twisted their blades inward, drawing gleaming curves over their heads to the right, then slashing down at forty-five degrees—right to left, each driving toward the other's left side.

The two blades met in midair with a ringing clang, biting against each other with a teeth-grinding shriek of metal on metal. For an instant, they strained against each other—then both blade tips snapped at once.

Clean cuts, violent swings. Where the steel fell, blood followed. The two men crossed in a spray of crimson mist. The broken blade tips spun away in opposite directions—one thudding into a nearby tree trunk, the other burying itself in the mud.

The swordsman stood with his back to Xu Tong. The hand holding his weapon dropped slowly. He sank to his knees. A deep, slanting wound ran from his left neck to his thoracic vertebrae. Artery and collarbone both severed cleanly, blood pulsing out in jets. He opened his mouth, coughed a froth of crimson, and pitched forward into the dirt.

Xu Tong lowered his broken, bloodied blade and fixed his cold gaze on the third swordsman. The man stared back, visibly shaken—two of his companions killed in heartbeats, each death more brutal than the last. He retreated step by step, looking at Xu Tong as though he were facing a demon. Finally, the pressure broke him. He turned and fled.

Xu Tong allowed himself a quiet breath of relief. Only he knew the truth: the relentless fighting and running since noon had emptied him completely. His hands trembled, barely able to grip the saber's hilt.

Run. Run now. This brief window would vanish the moment the remaining enemies regrouped. A single man against four hands was doomed—and he still faced seven or eight.

Xu Tong dragged his exhausted body back in the direction he'd come. He didn't know how long he ran. Too tired. Sweat stung his eyes, blurring his vision. Every part of him wanted to close his eyes, collapse, and sleep. But will alone kept them open, kept his legs moving.

At last, his body reached its limit. Willpower wasn't enough anymore. He felt consciousness slipping away. Xu Tong stumbled to a halt. He couldn't run. He truly couldn't run anymore.

Does it end here?

He let the broken saber fall, leaned his back against a large tree, and slid down the trunk until he sat propped against its roots. With arms that felt like deadweight, he drew his dagger and gripped it tightly.

After a while, through sweat-blurred eyes, he made out several approaching figures. One of them grabbed the fleeing swordsman and berated him loudly—a leader, probably. Then five shapes advanced toward him, weapons in hand, moving slowly and warily.

Xu Tong grinned. These men weren't bad. They hadn't broken under consecutive blows. Building that kind of resolve took time.

The enemies stopped less than ten meters away, still cautious. They drew hand crossbows and loosed several bolts in rapid succession. One grazed Xu Tong's left shoulder.

He felt nothing.

(End of Chapter)