Chapter Fourteen: The Battle Unfolds

Watching Liang Jing flailing about with his exaggerated movements, the man in his thirties wearing a dress shirt felt nothing but contempt. In his mind, if not for the monster at the entrance blocking most of the attacks and Liang Jing’s sharp dagger, he would have already been killed by these vampire flies. Over the past two days, he’d learned well how deadly these monsters were—when they swarmed, there was no escape, only the miserable fate of becoming a dried corpse.

He resented Liang Jing deeply, especially since the man didn’t treat them as people at all—ready to resort to violence with any word, and had even wounded his hands. But now, beneath another’s roof, he had no choice but to bow his head, forcing a smile and stifling all complaints. Life had taught him well: without strength, one must swallow their grievances, greet injustice with a smile, and wait for the opportunity to strike back—if it ever came.

Damn it!

“I, Lü Fengsheng, have lived over thirty years in peace. Why is it that now all the bad luck in the world has found its way to me?” As the owner of the Victory Steel Shot Factory, Lü Fengsheng rarely visited the plant, preferring the company of his pleasure-seeking friends. Yet, on a whim, he’d come to inspect the factory, hoping to catch a few lazy workers and dock their pay. But before he could begin, a horde of monsters appeared. For days, food and water had run dry, and there was no sign of rescue—only this band of savage thugs who nearly cost him his life. The injustice of it all gnawed at him.

After Liang Jing’s earlier words, Lü Fengsheng dared not utter another word or plot any schemes; he feared Liang Jing might really kill him. He was no fool—a wise man avoids immediate danger. Still, compared to the others, trembling under the threat of guns and too scared to move, Lü Fengsheng held up better. He’d seen firearms before—even kept one by his bedside—so he wasn’t as pathetic as the rest, though the fear of death still gripped him tightly.

Hmm?

Just then, as Liang Jing focused on the sensations within his body—how each movement drew out the life essence from the monsters—he started to identify a few particularly effective maneuvers. Some were difficult and energy-consuming, burning through his stamina at an alarming rate, but his thoughts were interrupted by the uneven, filthy ground, which filled him with annoyance.

“You lot—yes, you! Get over here and throw out all these monster corpses and remains.” Liang Jing ordered the original office occupants to clean up the mess of dead vampire flies, viscera, and red, blood-like brain matter. Otherwise, there would never be enough room at the entrance once the killing was done.

The group, herded into a corner by Zhang Huke and the others, turned even paler. They’d spent three days witnessing these monsters’ horrors, seeing former coworkers brutally slaughtered before their eyes.

“Don’t worry, these monsters are easy to deal with now, not dangerous at all. And with me here, could they possibly harm you?” Liang Jing said impatiently. If these people didn’t comply, he wouldn’t hesitate to use force.

“Yes, yes, we’ll get right to it!” Lü Fengsheng, quick to notice Liang Jing’s sour expression, hurried to respond. He knew he was at their mercy—best to endure the hardship himself rather than wait for it to be forced upon him. Ignoring the others, he began working, thinking that a single vampire fly wasn’t all that terrifying.

Seeing Lü Fengsheng’s example, the others, watched by Zhang Huke and his men, suppressed their fear and joined in. Who knew what these men might do if they refused? Lü Fengsheng played his role as a “plant” well, earning a slightly better opinion from Liang Jing.

Hmm?

As Liang Jing watched them, frowning and tossing the remains about on the reeking, filth-strewn floor, he realized he hadn’t noticed the stench during the heat of battle. But now, the air was thick with the putrescence of rotting bodies and flies, mixed with a sour reek—clearly, the group had been using the office as their latrine for days. Worse still, the nauseating musk clinging to their bodies told Liang Jing that, even under the shadow of death, some among them had turned to each other for comfort. He couldn’t help but feel a twisted admiration—perhaps it was their way of coping with mortal terror.

Despite his disgust, Liang Jing didn’t stop moving. He kept his “combat mode” active, pushing his body to the limit, feeling his stamina drain only to be replenished by the life essence of the vampire flies. His body was like steel, being folded and refined again and again. The strengthening process was several times faster than when his body was saturated and absorbing essence passively—though not as rapid as in the first moments of killing monsters, it was still significant.

He figured that, at this rate, he’d reach a strength score of fifteen within a few days. The short dagger in his hand, however, was feeling more and more inadequate—simply too light. What use is a flimsy weapon against stronger monsters? It might well snap in two. He pinned his hopes on “Baroque’s Sorrow” and, motivated by the thought, redoubled his efforts.

Gradually, he committed the most effective high-consumption actions to memory and increased their number, but these only worked certain parts of his body; many areas saw little benefit, and his skeletal structure was barely affected at all.

Liang Jing’s current state was like that of traditional martial artists—take Tan Tui, for instance, whose main focus is the legs, with upper body movements as mere support. By contrast, arts centered on fists and palms emphasize the arms, using the legs as an auxiliary. Long-term training makes one’s main attacking limbs extraordinary—eagle claw practitioners develop talon-like hands, Tan Tui practitioners gain powerful legs, and iron palm practitioners thick, bear-like hands.

But Liang Jing was after a comprehensive enhancement, and the gap between his ambitions and current results was enormous. Though his physical growth was likely faster than others thanks to the monster essence, he craved a more thorough and efficient improvement—especially for his bones and internal organs, where he still had no clue how to begin. The challenge was immense.

Perhaps he should find some books or secret manuals on the subject and see what effect they might have. After all, with his ability to recover from any injury, he didn’t have to fear the consequences of training the “wrong” way; no matter what internal or external harm he suffered, the life essence from monsters would heal him. Others might be crippled for life after a misstep, but not him.

What’s more, he could track his body’s stats directly and compare the results of different methods, experimenting over time to determine the most effective one.

This idea filled him with excitement, though it quickly faded. In these chaotic times, where would he find authentic martial arts manuals? Pirated copies were everywhere, but genuine ones were rare. In modern China, forgeries and knock-offs abounded, the restless pace of society leaving little room for real practice, while “superstition” was repeatedly denounced. How much true knowledge had actually survived?

Could he find any? In his estimation, he might have better luck abroad—at least there, looted treasures were preserved, even if misunderstood, and eventually offered up for sale to those willing to pay.

It was a bitter irony and a profound tragedy for his countrymen.

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