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Zong Yue had been standing quietly by the side, and upon seeing that Meng Fuyao had subdued him without doing much, a look of praise flashed across his face. Not only were her skills extraordinary, but she was also extremely witty. While she hadn’t risen to the top, the seat right at the top would eventually be hers.

Meng Fuyao proceeded to help the lady up before feeling for her child’s pulse. She nodded comfortingly, adding, “You can no longer live here. Every city in Wuji Nation has a home shelter built for the homeless and the suffering. You guys should look for the officer there and seek protection.”

The frightened pregnant woman choked, tears streaming down her face. “Thank you…”

The old man and his son half-dashed and half-stumbled toward them, their faces moist. They thanked Meng Fuyao, bowing with her hands cupped in front, inwardly glad that they had kept them in out of kindness.

Meng Fuyao waved casually before turning to Zong Yue. “You go ahead first. I’ll bring them to the shelter.”

A strange expression appeared on Zong Yue’s face, but he said nothing, simply standing still. Meng Fuyao cast a glance at him, and as she was about to leave, a gust of wind surged from behind. Without even turning her head, Meng Fuyao threw a back kick, her long leg drawing a flexible and beautiful arc before landing on the sneak attacker’s chest.

“Ah!”

Meng Fuyao’s floating kick sent him flying right out of the door and onto the ground. After releasing a sky-splitting cry and twisting about on the floor, the man stopped moving.

After some time, fresh blood poured out from his body, gradually piling up. The thick sent was nose-piercing.

“Murder!”

A shout filled the air, stalling Meng Fuyao, who was already moving away from the scene. She turned around to look at the big fellow lying in a pool of blood, before walking over and flipping his body. There was a half-penetrated blade on his abdomen. It was the same blade that she had plunged into his companion’s hand previously. That fellow must have extracted and tossed it to the ground. It seemed that she had unintentionally thrown the man right onto it and killed him.

‘Not right.’ Meng Fuyao inspected the blade, and her heart jolted. The Rong man, whose hand she had injured, had tossed it flat onto the ground. Had someone shifted the blade’s position?

She shot her head up, catching a glimpse of a suspicious figure that was forcing its way through the crowd.

Meng Fuyao sprung to her feet, ready to make chase, when more Rong men surged forward, eager to take revenge. They brandished their longswords, chanting, “Murderer! He’s killed Han Mutie.”

“Grab him! Grab him!”

Countless longswords were raised, directing the sun rays right into her eyes like water jets, drowning the youth amid the crowd.

Their voices spread outward forcefully, penetrating the houses and streets.

The citizens started becoming frantic as well. Doors started to slam shut as neighbors warned one another, “Don’t leave your house. Something big’s about to happen!”

The people who were standing close to Meng Fuyao had fled instantly, declaring loudly, “I don’t know her! I don’t know her!”

Some even smoothened their sleeves while retreating and shouting, in an attempt to please the angry Rong men, “Brothers, this fellow has killed a fellow Rong brother, violating the sanctity of Garison! We will not take it lying down. Let’s go inform the magistrate…”

The streets were clamorous, suddenly turning into a boiling pot of congee.

Meng Fuyao tossed the corpse back onto the ground and smirked. “All living things! All living things!”

Zong Yue stood motionless by her side, adding, “It’s the wrong time to lament about living things. You need to still the situation.”

He spoke simply, but Meng Fuyao’s eyes lit up.

To prevent more violent outbursts and deaths, she would have to stop the news from spreading to the rest of the Rong men within the city and do so, she would have to kill every Rong individual present.

The wind rumbled as weapons were being raised. A calamity awaited Yaocheng the moment these Rong men, who formed the biggest ethnic group within the city, started rebelling.

As Meng Fuyao imagined the outcome, her facial expression changed. A web-like blood wisp emerged from the bottom part of her eyes as she abruptly lifted her head.

A batch of Rong men whizzed forward with machetes in hand, only to see the slim youth’s eyes turn deadly. If the earlier look in her eyes was akin to a sharp, unsheathed sword, the look she was giving at that moment was like the very same sword but bloodied – one that had taken a life and become a true killer weapon.

Through her eyes, they saw determination… and death.

Meeting her gaze, the man leading the team felt his heart twitch, as he subconsciously retreated with a shout. His movement was so sudden that those behind, unable to slow down in time, slammed into him, causing a huge fuss to break out.

Before the commotion died down Meng Fuyao made a move. She flung her sleeve backward charged toward them like a missile.

Meng Fuyao moved so quickly that her body created a black arc while shooting through the air. Before those around could even register that presence, she had already entered their circle and raised her blade.

Shing!

In a flash, the blade ray spread like a white rainbow under the pale sun, pouring down onto the heads of everyone.

Thrust, jab, pierce, split.

Body reclined, elbows out, leg forward, low kick, trample.

The contact between bodies was temporary and spark-like, but each touch blossomed into a huge blood flower, one after another in different spots.

Her posture when dashing into the crowd was like a black hurricane, passing through the fort made of longswords and muscles. Wherever she passed a blood rain occurred, and the way she thrust and retracted her blade was extremely fast. To her, there seemed not to be a difference between cutting lives and cutting grass.

There was a time to be decisive and to attack, or even kill. When threatened, Meng Fuyao would not give herself time to hesitate.

This was a noiseless massacre. Every strike of her blade was targeted at their acupuncture points, preventing them from uttering a sound to alarm more citizens. The oppressive and frightening sound of the blade entering flesh echoed dully as dead bodies collapsed one after another. Such silent deaths only evoked more fear and dread. Upon the 30th death, those holding a sword put it down and retreated, those attempting to flee stood, stunned, on the same spot. Those rolling up their sleeves and getting ready to assist started to tremble, their pants evidently moist, and those who were peeping behind their doors shifted their gaze away, sticking their back against it and realizing how much cold sweat they had accumulated.

Ever since her transmigration, Meng Fuyao hadn’t killed that many people, or that kind of people. Nevertheless, she showed no mercy. As a time-traveler, she wasn’t familiar with the different ethnic groups, but she understood that soft-heartedness wasn’t meant for a chaotic time as such. Killing was at times the only way to prevent more killings. She did not mind losing some blood to halt the eruption of a blood catastrophe within the city.

Three Rong men had finally snapped out of their daze and gotten ready to flee when Meng Fuyao lifted a leg and aimed for their heads like a black cloud. She landed in front of them and seized the machete from the man closest to her, before tossing it behind.

Like a crispy twisted dough, her sword flew toward the three of them, who were fleeing in the same direction, effectively pinning them to the ground. The man furthest away was removed from the blade due to the force, and he staggered a little before collapsing into a gutter by the side of the road and dying it red with his own blood.

Not only was the gutter dyed red, but the whole stretch of the street had also turned red. Like twisting and meandering snakes, blood flowed messily across the limestone ground.

The spectators froze all over the street like statues while Meng Fuyao stood amid a large pool of blood, looking up at the sky and sighing.

Then, she rubbed her hands against her sleeves before sheathing her sword carefully. In normal cases, she used three types of weapon: the mini dagger hidden in her waist area or sleeves as it was good for a sneak attack or self-defense. The long whip that was tied around her waist, which was good for escaping from an enemy without killing him. Lastly, the sword she carried behind. She had only used it twice, for mass killings.

The sword, Destiny Rebellion, was given to her by the Old Taoist Priest, whose face was grave when he had shared that it contained a huge secret. Meng Fuyao hadn’t uncovered the secret, but the sword was indeed a high-grade weapon, as sharp as the gaze a killer gave when facing an enemy.

Layers of scale-like clouds had already overtaken the sunlight.

Yao Xun and Zong Yue’s subordinates, who were busily distracting passersby’s attention at the alley mouth behind Meng Fuyao, let out a prolonged breath. The massacre had them sweating cold buckets, and even the way they looked at Meng Fuyao had changed. The old Han couple was lying motionless and speechless on the ground.

Zong Yue, who had made no interventions but stayed close behind Meng Fuyao’s back, a vital position, was as calm as before, and he even smiled. “My turn.”

He moved forward and retrieved a small bottle, sprinkling its content all over the corpses. The wounds on those bodies instantly expanded and released a sizzling sound as the flesh gradually melted and the bones softened, eventually turning into a pile of bone fragments that were scattered into the air by a passing breeze.

An individual’s whole trace of existence in this world had vanished in a flash.

The old man dashed over, hurriedly dragging Zong Yue and Meng Fuyao away. “Leave, quick! These Rong people often wander about outside. A group of them is coming this way.”

Meng Fuyao helped the pregnant lady up, saying, “They will surely look for you when they’re unable to locate their companions. Come with me.”

Zong Yue had planned to ensure that no trace of corpses was left behind before leaving, but he suddenly knitted his brows, his face turning pale. He reached a hand to his chest, and a servant immediately rushed forward to provide support.

It was only upon the departure of the female butcher that those in the alley finally woke up from a dream-like state. They glanced left and right with faces as white as a sheet. Their eyes were full of indescribable fear. They started rubbing the blood stains off themselves and dispersing. Upon reaching their houses, they shut the doors tightly, even using heavy rocks to fortify them.