The wind and snow grew tighter; on the open ground behind the cafeteria, the accumulated snow was stained mottled by fresh blood.
The short man had his heart meridians shattered by a punch from the mountain-guarding elder; he flew backward like a withered log, crashing heavily into a snowdrift. He twitched twice, then fell silent. The remaining three—the middle-aged village woman, the shepherd, and the man in green—all wore grave expressions. The calculations they had been making seemed to have their rhythm disrupted by that single punch.
The mountain-guarding elder did not press his advantage. Instead, he slowly retracted his fist, his gaze passing over the three to land on the shepherd, who sat paralyzed on the ground nearby.
The shepherd was clutching his chest, a thread of black blood spilling from the corner of his mouth, clearly suffering from severe internal injuries. He had tried to struggle to his feet, but under the elder's gaze, which was like Yuan Ting Yue Zhi (a metaphor for a demeanor as deep as an abyss and as majestic as a mountain), he felt as though all his strength had been drained away, leaving him limp and powerless in the snow.
The mountain-guarding elder took a step forward. The snow beneath his feet let out a soft "crunch," sounding particularly jarring in this deathly silent night.
"I never imagined that even the Bagua Boxing Sect (a martial arts school specializing in Bagua (Eight Trigrams) boxing) would produce such scum."
The elder’s voice was not loud, but it carried a bone-piercing chill, as if it were colder than the wind and snow filling the sky.
Hearing this, the shepherd trembled slightly. He raised his head, a bitter smile appearing on his wrinkled face. He did not refute, nor did he beg for mercy; he simply turned his head slowly to gaze at the pitch-black mountain forest in the distance. There was only endless darkness and the whistling wind, mirroring his own gray and desolate state of mind.
After a long while, the shepherd rasped in a low voice, "Thank you!"
These two words were spoken very lightly, almost instantly swallowed by the wind and snow, but the mountain-guarding elder heard them clearly.
The elder's eyes flickered slightly, his tone remaining indifferent, devoid of any worldly emotion: "You are polite."
Before the sound of his voice had faded, the elder moved. He kicked out seemingly at random, yet the strike carried matchless power.
"Thud!"
With a dull thud, the shepherd's head drooped powerlessly, his breath gone. This martial artist, who had betrayed his sect and met a miserable end, thus concluded his sinful life.
Once the dust had settled, the mountain-guarding elder turned around to look at the youth who had fainted in the snow.
Chen Mo was leaning against a disorderly pile of firewood, his consciousness blurred. The intense battle and exhaustion from earlier had left him without the strength to even move a finger. In his daze, he felt a gentle yet unquestionable voice drill into his ears.
"Kid, live your ordinary life well."
The voice seemed to come from a great distance, yet also whispered in his ear, carrying the vicissitudes and clarity of one who has seen through the ways of the world.
"Do not easily use the techniques I passed to you; if you use them, leave no one alive. We shall meet... perhaps never again."
As the last word fell, Chen Mo felt his eyelids grow increasingly heavy. That figure gradually blurred in the wind and snow, finally merging completely into the boundless night.