Chapter Fifty-Four: Astonishing Talent and Extraordinary Brilliance

(1/3)

“The snow is really heavy today.”

Even with a thick down jacket, Ji Ning couldn’t keep any warmth in the swirling blizzard. He yawned into his communicator, eyes half-lidded, sleepy as he gazed at the distant streets.

“I told you to wear a fleece-lined sweater, but you wouldn’t listen. No matter how uncomfortable the collar, it’s better than freezing, isn’t it? When we get back, I’ll help you alter the neckline. Next time you buy clothes, remember, if you don’t like high collars, don’t buy them…” Qin Mo’s voice suddenly sounded in his earphones, and he instinctively turned up the volume, quietly listening to her ramble on like an older sister fussing over her little brother. How did she really see him? He remembered her adjusting his collar before he left, her fingers brushing the warmth of his neck—a sensation so delightful it made him a little shy.

Recalling that warmth, the swirling snow seemed to lessen.

“Katherine says the target has moved. Let’s stop here—you keep an eye on the entrance, stay safe, and don’t expose yourself.”

“Okay.” Ji Ning replied briskly. His earpiece beeped, and then a cold female voice came through. Once the channel switched to public, he couldn’t chat with Qin Mo anymore, which left him a little disappointed.

“Vladimir’s meeting is over. The communication IP is probably locked, shifting location every second—right now it’s showing Burkina Faso. We can’t crack it, but that tells us something. After today’s chaos, he shouldn’t be using encrypted calls this late unless it’s work….”

Ji Ning vaguely heard Afra muttering nearby, “Can’t bad guys have personal lives? Maybe he’s calling his mom?”

Katherine’s voice remained utterly calm, unruffled. “Most likely, he’s reporting to a superior. At this hour, based on past experience, it’s probably related to a Flesh Rite. Even if we can’t recover the statue, per Clause 22 of the Deer Academy’s assessment standards, submitting a regional C-class intelligence report on the Cult of Flesh could make up for it. At least it won’t be a zero.”

“Then I’ll follow him up there. Tell senior, and if I get caught, remember to bail me out.”

“Understood.” Zhao Tianxing’s voice was steady and strong—a reminder that he’d been on the channel the whole time, just so silent one almost forgot.

His snow boots pressed on thin ice over stone slabs—like stepping into an unexpected mishap. Before the ice could crack, he’d already taken another step.

Snowflakes settled on his shoulders, melting into dampness by his breath as he turned to look back. He’d been following Vladimir for half an hour.

The man was heading almost straight into the wilderness beyond the city. With no buildings for cover, the storm grew fiercer, every breath like a punch to the lungs. The cold sapped his strength quickly; had this been before his time at the Deer Academy, he’d be buried in some nameless snowdrift by now.

Ji Ning drank all sorts of strange concoctions as if they were water, but he believed his stamina came mainly from relentless training—technology could only enhance what the heart determined.

Even the communicator was crackling with static from the snow. When Vladimir finally stopped, Ji Ning found a sheltered spot and reestablished clear contact with Katherine.

“We’re driving out now. Don’t be stubborn and keep following—stay where you are, we’ll pick you up soon.”

Stubborn? About what? He was just following orders, wasn’t he?

“I’m not being stubborn, didn’t you say I was supposed to follow him?”

There was a pause, even from Katherine. “The last thing I said before the channel cut was, ‘Don’t follow him.’”

To take things out of context is to quote out of context.

Ji Ning was briefly annoyed, but then secretly a bit happy. He’d thought that, during missions, everyone was just an abstract part of the process. But Katherine apparently did think about the individuals involved.

As a Chinese person, Ji Ning adhered to the ancient philosophy of “Since I’m already here,” and wasn’t discouraged for long. He might as well see what Vladimir was up to, running around at this hour.

Ahead lay a mountain hollow; the rise sheltered the valley from the wind and snow. Even at a distance, the way the flakes fell told him it was much calmer there.

He bit his half-numbed tongue, the sting giving him courage—but no more; he wasn’t about to break the skin. Crawling through the snow, he gripped his hood tightly, inching toward his target.

He didn’t know how long he crawled until his hand found a frost-covered rock. He was downwind in the hollow; looking up, he could see firelight flickering in the snow not far away.

Cautiously, he felt his way forward, avoiding every stone and twig. He had no wish to be discovered by making a foolish noise; patience was the secret to longevity.

As he crept closer, he finally saw the unspeakable scene before him.

Mad, flesh-warped beings were holding a grand rite in Moscow’s killing snow. Pale moonlight glinted on snow and flesh. At the edge were SK-BIO Type 002s, naked ape-like forms with withered bodies as if soaked in formaldehyde for half a century. Their brains bloomed open like flowers under translucent pink membranes, revealing inner tissues. In the center, towering Behemoths bore an altar, their eyes glinting with a predatory red, as cold and menacing as the first winged dragon Ancalagon from the Ring. Massive exoskeletal claws wove a base in the air, and before the altar, a still-beating heart spattered crimson with each pulse—a grotesque beauty blossoming from aberration. In the ancient silence, no one dared disturb these blasphemous hominids.

Ji Ning held his breath; he no longer even had the courage to snap a photo. These desecrations of life exuded an innate, bloody terror.

Poor Ji Ning, barely out of the pen and not yet a KFC special, was no match for such guests. Better to leave them for a senior to deal with.

(2/3)

Without a word, Ji Ning began to retreat, but this time his back pressed against something. He turned carefully, meaning to move the offending rock—only to see a pair of leather shoes.

Looking up, he found a man standing there, slender and middle-aged, with the air of a teacher, who had been waiting for some time.

Ji Ning’s heart skipped a beat. Staring back at him was Vladimir, his face destroyed as if he’d taken a bomb blast at close range. The explosion had sliced away flesh, leaving raw red muscle exposed, his nose obliterated, lips gone, and sharp shark-like teeth visible as he exhaled a rank, bloody breath. “Good evening.”

The greeting was elegant, almost cheerful, but with that ghastly face, Ji Ning couldn’t bring himself to respond. Panic surged, and he instinctively swung a fist to drive that monstrous visage away, but Vladimir caught his arm with ease before the blow even landed.

“Does the Deer Academy no longer teach etiquette?”

Ji Ning couldn’t answer; the moment Vladimir gripped his arm, his humerus snapped with casual force. Agonizing pain shattered his composure.

Yet, thanks to the skills taught by Sylvia this semester, he had a muscle memory for pain. He bit his lip, focusing all his will on that pain instead of his broken arm—anything to stay conscious. He knew: he must not close his eyes.

Pain is a bloody pleasure. People unconsciously prod mouth ulcers, touch sore fingers, pop pimples—as if pain confirms they are still alive.

Yet, when sensation overwhelms, the body shuts down thought and induces unconsciousness to prevent further harm.

The Deer Academy taught how to control this instinct. Ordinary people could close their eyes, faint, and wake in a hospital. But those walking the world's shadow, if they closed their eyes on a mission, would only hear the academy’s bells tolling for them.

If you’ve been wounded before, and wounded again, and again, in time the pain fades, scabbing over, hardening. Pain became for Ji Ning the ever-present classmate at Sylvia’s lessons.

“You’re all so stubborn,” Vladimir said with a half-smile, looking down at the kneeling young man. “You could escape reality and end it all in sleep.” He felt a flicker of boredom—his last shred of pity for this insect vanished with the end of his monologue.

When the body’s limit for pain was reached, no one could force themselves awake; unconsciousness was the final refuge.

A crescent moon was sliced by night and gray snow, floating pale as a bird with broken wings. Feathers, silver as egrets, spun low in the air, chasing prey fleeing through a sea of blood.

An off-road vehicle roared across the snowy plain, its headlights like hungry eyes. Suspended above an altar, blades paused, their attention drawn by the car. The road was so rough the vehicle could go no further.

The door was kicked open. Zhao Tianxing, hood thrown back, had abandoned his scabbard; his blade hung at his waist. Whatever happened, it would not return to its sheath tonight.

He moved fast—barely had the door opened before he lunged toward the sole firelight. He listened intently to the steady breathing of his junior in the communicator. Good—an offering not yet blessed with the full rite cannot be sacrificed.

As all eyes turned to the car halted before death, Zhao Tianxing’s gaze flicked to the rear. He reminded himself to close the car door next time. He hadn’t come alone; who knew how Qin Mo had kept up.

She said nothing, but her resolve was enough to make even Zhao Tianxing falter. He understood: if someone had to turn back, perhaps it would be himself.

But since she’d matched his pace, he said no more. He’d planned to carry Ji Ning out, but with another to share the burden, he needn’t play the lone hero. Without looking back, he said calmly, “I’ll hold them off. You bring him back.”

The blade, cold as moon and snow, gleamed in his hand as he strode into this forbidden ground. Even Vladimir, an observer, sneered at his fearlessness—those without fear are merely ignorant.

Just a young Deer Academy cadet—how dare he be so arrogant? Was he planning to trade his life to save the boy?

Ridiculous. If blind courage sufficed, what was the point of the food chain? They were unmatched flesh-eaters, predators who dined on the weak. Resistance was merely an appetizer. Vladimir could almost taste the hot blood ready to spurt from his prey.

All predators hunt each other, driven by the urge to kill. At that moment, Vladimir tore away his human mask and gave himself over to the ferocity of the apex predator—he craved a hunt, craved the cleansing of blood and flesh.

Almost as Zhao Tianxing charged, the flesh-eaters, drawn by blood and life, grew restless. But as soon as Vladimir released the scent of the hunt, all agitation ceased. Instinct commanded them to still their hearts and limbs, like beasts waiting in grass for a fatal strike.

“Focus on Ji Ning’s position—run there, I’ll handle the rest.” Zhao Tianxing closed his eyes, softly instructing the love-inspired junior behind him. He almost laughed; young love, so simple and passionate, was indeed beautiful.

When he opened his eyes again, they blazed with a soul-searing fire. He thought: beauty must be preserved. After all, a damsel rescuing a hero makes for a fine drama. Let it be so—if he drew the curtain, the play must end well.

The killing clouds smothered the crescent moon. Gray snow fell thickly; fire smoldered beneath the snow.

As both sides closed at high speed, distance collapsed into mere moments. Silence shattered like a bomb under ice, frozen sounds erupting all at once.

The monstrous creations’ claws split open, baring sharp bone spurs from dark red muscle. As they ran, deep tracks scored the frozen ground, and shrill whistles echoed across the snowy wasteland.

Qin Mo obediently covered her ears as Zhao Tianxing instructed, focused solely on the path and on Ji Ning ahead. She paid no heed to anything else.

She’d heard of these blasphemies against life and seen the pictures. Brave as she considered herself, she had to admit, she was still afraid.

(3/3)

Qin Mo could no longer tell if the frenzied abominations in the distance were real or figments of her imagination. She controlled each breath, her empty heart slowly filling with something new. She thought, she couldn’t just wait—Ji Ning was risking himself, Zhao Tianxing was risking himself, Katherine and Afra were risking themselves behind her—how could she just “wait for good news”?

Ji Ning was hers—not anyone else’s.

She clenched her fists, biting her lip hard. She’d already lost her world once—she couldn’t lose it again.

Zhao Tianxing gripped his blade, letting blood drip from the tip. To the flesh-eating cult’s monsters, blood with such strong life force was the most irresistible poison. The storm still raged, but their scent for blood was keener than any shark’s. Even Vladimir fixed his gaze on Zhao Tianxing.

He ran at a right angle to Qin Mo’s path, deliberately disturbing his breathing. To the predators, he was the perfect prey—a wounded animal fleeing in fear. Even the mightiest flesh-eaters were, in that instant, ruled by instinct. Just as big cats are compelled to strike at a prey’s nape, these monsters could not help but give chase.

But the pursuit was short-lived—not because they caught him, but because, once sure that no flesh-eater would interfere with Qin Mo, Zhao Tianxing stopped.

He turned. Everyone thought him a doomed hero, buying time for others with his life. In the distant dark, Afra’s nose stung as she shouted into the radio, “Senior, don’t stop—run!”

Even the half-conscious Ji Ning was roused by her shout. As he realized his situation, he saw, in the darkness, pale, bloodthirsty Behemoths swarming toward his senior. Panic and fear warred within him—one death was enough, why add another?

Zhao Tianxing’s face wore a rare, fleeting smile as he turned to face the onrushing tide of flesh.

He’d known, as he drove here, that this was a journey to death—but not his own.

All the monsters on the plain would meet their fated end by his hand. This was a hunt—but he’d never said who the hunter would be.

In a flash, white fat split beneath the blade, blood coursing from torn muscle. The first Behemoth fell in a single stroke; Zhao Tianxing’s sword had no scabbard, but he’d mastered the art of Batto-jutsu—Northern Star One-Sword Style.

Ji Ning remembered Sylvia’s description of the style: “In an instant, mind, spirit, and strength become one.” Eyes, breath, and sword all in perfect harmony. Even the way the Behemoth charged matched the arc of the blade—the cut flawless.

Zhao Tianxing wasn’t bound by any particular school; every move served one purpose: to kill the nearest enemy with minimal effort and maximum speed.

With the first Behemoth bisected from left hip to right shoulder, the sword hovered a heartbeat above his right shoulder. In the blink of an eye, the second stroke flew, cleaving the next Behemoth in two—pale skin and metallic exoskeleton split with a single blow.

Satsuma’s Shigen-ryu, the Great Overhead Cut!

Every Satsuma swordsman practiced this strike thousands of times; the simplest move is always the most effective.

In battle, Shigen-ryu’s tactic was to raise the sword high and bring it down hard from right shoulder to left hip, ignoring the enemy’s attack. If met head-on, Shigen-ryu’s speed and power were overwhelming; if blocked, the opponent’s weapon would be beaten aside. In the Bakumatsu era, many Shogunate soldiers were defeated when their swords were knocked into their own heads by this technique. Satsuma’s style was a relentless, unstoppable charge.

Even such perfect blows left no time to rest—this was no fair duel, but a slaughterhouse. His foes were not the fallen, but the endless waves of beasts.

He withdrew, stepped back lightly and swiftly. The third Behemoth was upon him; its massive claw slashed down. He could hear the air tearing.

There was no time for a grand swing—he used only his wrist, parrying the claw and opening the monster’s centerline, then cleanly severed its head.

The German long-sword master Richard Knall’s Furious Thrust!

No amount of endless practice could teach so many sword arts; only unmatched genius could master so many techniques and choose the perfect one each time.

It was like a dazzling dance, for a true dancer’s very bones must dance.

Ji Ning was so stunned by the ferocity of it that he forgot his pain. He finally understood the worth of the Deer Academy’s “Stellar”—a peerless genius, the best of the best. He realized his senior wasn’t here to die a tragic hero’s death, but to warm up and slaughter a host of blasphemous flesh-eaters.

Three Behemoths fell in moments, as if a shackle was broken. With his warm-up over, Zhao Tianxing moved ever faster—a killing machine.

Blood was oil for his bearings, the blade the meshing gears, molten iron flowing from a vast furnace. His peerless swordsmanship burned each abomination to ash.

The solitary king, under the witness of the stars, crushed every shadow to nothing. Every strike found its mark; only those driven by animal instinct dared face this god of slaughter. He killed the hateful creations of false gods at will, wielding the power of life and death.

This was the art of slaughter—a blood-drenched dancer performing a gorgeous spectacle, the cycle of life and death perfectly rendered: those who wielded the blade lived, those who faced it perished.