Chapter Five: Brushing Past Death Seeking Red Votes and Favorites

The man in the black, tight-fitting T-shirt immediately halted his movements. Even without meeting the gaze of the man in camouflage, he knew that with only himself left, and without the man in camouflage to serve as a hostage for Liang Jing, his fate was sealed—death was the only outcome. Now, he could only follow his boss’s plan and stall for time. All he had to do was wait... Heh...

At that moment, seeing his opponent pause, Liang Jing seized the opportunity. He grabbed the man in camouflage and ruthlessly threw him toward the man in black, his legs propelling him forward in pursuit.

Bang—

A scream echoed.

Bang! Bang!

But while these men harbored hope, Liang Jing had no such ambiguity. Killing one or killing them all made no difference; leaving either alive would only bring further trouble. Liang Jing even contemplated dispatching the mother and child off to the side, for—

Neither man imagined that Liang Jing had no intention of sparing them, nor did he care to extract information from their lips. All he wanted was to kill everyone and leave this place swiftly. He dashed forward, delivering a punch and a kick to the two men—one in camouflage, the other in black—killing them both and eliminating all immediate threats.

Though it felt like time had slowed, the entire sequence lasted less than ten seconds. Gazing at the bodies sprawled on the ground, slain by his own hands, Liang Jing savored the raw, visceral satisfaction of each blow. There was no hint of guilt—only a deep-seated thrill.

A scream, shrill and piercing.

Another, full of terror.

Only now did the mother and child react, their cries erupting as they stared at the corpses with shattered skulls, blood and brain matter splattered across the floor. In the past two days, they had seen their share of the dead, but never in such a brutal, nauseating state. The urge to vomit rose within them.

A succession of life essence—radiant white spiritual light—flowed into Liang Jing’s body, filling him with an overwhelming sense of vitality and pleasure. He paid no heed to the mother and child’s screaming; he planned to deal with them soon enough. But just then, a sudden chill shot down his spine. Every hair on his body stood on end, and a razor-sharp pain seared across his back, as if a blade were slicing straight through his heart.

Danger!

He tried to react—

At that same instant, a cold gleam flashed behind him, materializing out of thin air and striking toward his back.

From the east, the sun was slowly rising, casting two fiery orbs across the sky. The lingering cold of night was rapidly dispelled by the golden rays of dawn.

In the glowing light of the early morning, a blade of icy light appeared behind Liang Jing—sudden and swift. Even before the attack landed, Liang Jing could feel its lethal edge, the chill biting into his skin, goosebumps rippling across his arms.

The strike was too abrupt, too close, and too fast—there had been no sign, no warning, no sound. It appeared at his side instantly, leaving no time to think or dodge. Even with Liang Jing’s current strength, it was impossible to avoid injury.

As the cold light took form, Dai Wu, clad in black, felt a surge of pride. Ever since his awakening and evolution, his innate abilities had made his assassination techniques even more unpredictable and deadly. He had slain many masters, even those reputedly stronger than himself, with his short blade. Before the world mutated, he had been among the top three assassins—not in the official rankings, perhaps, but in real strength, indisputably among the elite. The ranking system was based on accumulated points from killing various targets, not on true skill. Assassins, after all, had differing motives: some killed for money, others for the act itself, and some simply to grow stronger. Not all were driven to complete every mission at all costs.

Moreover, assassins rarely fought each other directly. Victory was never about brute strength—only a single moment of carelessness, a tiny flaw, and death would come silently. Open combat was never their way. Even the strongest could be undone by constant hidden threats and the relentless psychological pressure of being hunted, which is why many assassins kept their true identities buried deep.

The ranking itself was an informal arrangement among assassins—participants used only code names, never revealing their identities, hunting each other within a designated territory, stopping short of death. The last one standing every three years was the winner.

This time, faced with his own sudden, close-range, lightning-fast assault, Dai Wu knew that anyone weaker would be killed outright, and even the strong, if they managed to evade death, would be injured and lose the initiative—eventually falling to his relentless pursuit.

If he had arrived a little earlier, Dai Wu might have saved the last two men—the one in black and the one in camouflage—but he had recognized that Liang Jing was also an awakened one. Not knowing the extent of his opponent’s abilities, he had chosen not to act rashly. In this regard, the two men’s strategy had succeeded, but their fate remained tragic: they had waited and waited for a savior, only to find that the rescuer had no intention of intervening.

As one of the top three killers in the world before the mutation, Dai Wu’s strength lay in a combination of physical prowess and lethal technique. Even before awakening, his body was formidable: standing 1.75 meters tall, weighing 78 kilograms, bench-pressing 118 kilograms, squatting 530 kilograms. With the agility typical of his race, honed by years of deadly training, his physique rivaled that of a black-market boxing champion. To become one of the top three assassins, specialization alone was never enough.

No matter how skilled, a weak body was a shackle; without strength, even the best technique was useless, like a scholar with encyclopedic knowledge who is never recognized and can never advance, or a clever housewife without rice to cook.

Seeing Liang Jing’s exceptional prowess, Dai Wu had no intention of saving the remaining two men. Instead, he waited for the perfect opportunity to strike from the shadows. Now, after the battle, with Liang Jing’s guard down and the mother and child’s screams masking his approach, the moment was perfect. Dai Wu’s heart swelled with triumph as his blade was about to find its mark.

This attack—sudden, blindingly fast, at point-blank range, catching his target off guard—made Dai Wu’s confidence well-founded. Escape was impossible; even in the best-case scenario, Liang Jing would be wounded and unable to avoid death at the hands of Dai Wu’s blade. Dai Wu even mused that next time he should poison his short blade, though it would be a bit troublesome...

However!

Liang Jing’s next move left Dai Wu utterly astonished.

Faced with mortal danger, Liang Jing’s instincts sensed the deadly threat, knowing full well that even his warrior’s hide would offer no protection. His eyes blazed with determination, and his features hardened. With a powerful twist of his waist and hips, he spun his torso, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the attack, buying a precious split-second. At the same moment, he channeled strength from his spine through his right shoulder and elbow, launching his right elbow backward in a savage strike.

In essence, he twisted his body, pivoted his waist, and drove his right elbow back, disregarding the lethal attack altogether. It was a contest to see who would die first, whose luck would hold, who was more reckless.

This was a strategy of mutual destruction—no doubt about it. Liang Jing had already steeled himself for injury. Perhaps, for him, this was the best possible choice, in line with the brutal, domineering fighting style he so admired. With numerous backup resources, he could afford to take hits. Come, then—he still had the life essence of several tough men within him. Let’s see who can endure more, who can survive the other’s assault!

A guttural roar erupted from deep within him, the sound raw and desperate—a suicide blow, wild and ferocious, like a flurry of wild punches felling a master. That was exactly the effect Liang Jing wanted. He had never trained formally, never undergone specialized instruction; he simply relied on his natural advantages and his utter fearlessness.

Seeing Liang Jing’s furious counterattack, Dai Wu’s expression remained icy, though a flicker of surprise passed through his eyes. He hadn’t expected his opponent to be so reckless. He couldn’t afford to match this recklessness; with Liang Jing’s immense strength, Dai Wu would be at a disadvantage. Instinctively, he retreated, shifting his grip on the short blade. It was too late to redirect the blade toward Liang Jing’s right hand, so instead, he blocked with his weapon-wielding right hand, angling the blade upward in a slashing motion. At the same time, he flicked his mouth, spitting out a needle as fine and black as a strand of ox hair, aiming it at Liang Jing’s throat.

Bang!

Crack!

Whish! Whish!...