The first volley was fifty arrows. The second was fifty more. The third was fifty again.58Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPI1pFEovbJ
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One hundred and fifty purple flames, falling like a curse from heaven.
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Liang Wei looked up. His hands moved before his mind could catch up. He drew a circle in the air – left hand tracing yin, right hand tracing yang. The two halves met, merged, and expanded outward into a shimmering disc of silver and gold light.
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A sigil shield. The same technique he had used to stop Tao Zhongwen's fireballs.
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He had never known it to fail.
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The first arrow struck the shield.
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And passed through it.
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Liang Wei's eyes widened. The shield rippled like water, then dissolved. The purple flame did not care about yin and yang. It did not care about cultivation. It sought souls – and a shield had no soul.
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The arrow flew straight for his left eye.
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He caught it.
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His fingers closed around the shaft an inch from his pupil. The purple flame licked at his knuckles, hungry, but his skin did not burn. He had been touched by dragon fire before. This was nothing.
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The second arrow took him in the chest.
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It punched through his robe, through his skin, through the muscle beneath. He felt it stop against his rib. Warm blood began to soak his clothes.
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He did not cry out.
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The third arrow came for his throat. He snatched it from the air. The fourth arrow struck his shoulder. The fifth grazed his ear.
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Behind him, the sails caught fire. The purple flames spread quickly, eating through the canvas like locusts through wheat. The crew screamed. The servants wept.
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Liang Wei took a breath.
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One.
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And another.
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Two.
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And another.
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Three.
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The world slowed.
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He had learned this technique from a monk in the mountains, fifty years ago. It was not magic. It was breath. It was focus. It was the ability to stretch a single heartbeat into an hour.
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The arrows no longer streaked. They crawled. He could see each one – the grain of the wood, the twist of the feathers, the purple flame pulsing like a living heart.
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He stepped left. An arrow passed where his head had been.
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It turned.
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In mid‑air, the arrow curved. It changed direction, as if pulled by an invisible string. It was still seeking him. They all were.
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He caught it. Snapped it. The pieces fell into the sea.
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Another arrow. Another catch. Another snap.
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But there were too many. His chest burned. His shoulder throbbed. The sails were fully ablaze now, the fire spreading to the rigging.
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He took another breath.
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The world slowed further.
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He looked at the arrows still falling. Fifty-three of them. He counted in the space between heartbeats.
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He could not catch them all.
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He turned to the sails. The fire had already consumed half the canvas. If the ship burned, everyone drowned. The crew. The servants. The general.
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He had to choose.
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He opened his mouth and blew.
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Not a normal breath. A cultivated breath – years of qi condensed into a single exhalation. The wind that left his lungs was not air. It was a wall.
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The fifty-three arrows paused in mid‑flight. They trembled, pushed back by the force of his breath. But they did not fall. They did not retreat. They turned, slowly, and began to crawl toward him again.
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Magnets. They were magnets, and he was iron.
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Another arrow struck his back.
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He fell to one knee.
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The purple flame from the arrowhead spread across his robe, seeking his heart. He slapped it out with his palm, leaving a scorch mark on his skin.
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"Master!"
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General Feng Jian burst from the hatch, sword drawn. He had seen enough. He could not stay below while his teacher bled.
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"No – get back inside—" Liang Wei started.
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The general was already moving.
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His sword flashed. Not one slash. Not ten. One hundred slashes in a single breath – a technique Liang Wei had taught him years ago, when the general was still a young officer with something to prove.
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The blade moved so fast it seemed to multiply. Steel became a silver net. Half of the incoming arrows – twenty‑seven of them – were cut from the sky. Their shafts fell to the deck. Their purple flames sputtered and died.
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The general turned to face the remaining arrows.
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He saw the ship's tiller – a thick wooden beam used to steer the junk in rough seas. It was heavy, longer than a man, and solid as a tree trunk.
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He grabbed it.
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He swung.
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The beam moved through the air like a giant's club. The remaining arrows shattered against it – wood splintering, flames scattering. The general spun the beam twice more, clearing the deck, then dropped it with a crash.
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He turned to Liang Wei. "Master, are you—"
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Liang Wei's head snapped up. His eyes were wide.
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"Another volley," he said.
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The general looked up. The sky was dark with purple stars.
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He grabbed the general by the collar and threw him.58Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ066S5HS6N3
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Not gently. Not carefully. He threw him like a sack of rice, straight at the open hatch. The general flew through the air, crashed into the doorframe, and tumbled down the stairs into the cargo hold.
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He landed on a pile of rice sacks, stunned but alive.
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Above him, the hatch slammed shut.
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The general scrambled to his feet, reached for the ladder – and stopped.
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Through the wooden planks, he heard Liang Wei's voice. Not speaking. Chanting.
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And then he felt the wind.
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***
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On the deck, Liang Wei stood alone.
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His robe was soaked with blood – his own blood, from the arrow in his chest, the arrow in his back, the arrow in his shoulder. But he stood.
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He raised his hands.
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He turned them slowly, palms facing each other, fingers spread wide. Then he began to rotate them – left hand clockwise, right hand counterclockwise. Faster. Faster. The air between his palms grew thick. It swirled. It spun.
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A small tornado formed between his hands, no larger than a child's top.
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The arrows were a few seconds away.
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He spun his hands faster. The tornado grew. It became a column of spinning air, tall as the mast, wide as the deck. It howled.
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The arrows entered the tornado.
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They spun with it, caught in the current, unable to break free. Purple flames whirled in a circle, lighting up the deck like a thousand fireflies.
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Liang Wei knew he could not release them. If he let the tornado go, the arrows would simply change direction and come for him again. They would never stop. Not until he was dead.
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He had to destroy them.
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He reversed his hands.
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Clockwise became counterclockwise. Counterclockwise became clockwise. The two currents clashed. The tornado shuddered. The arrows inside began to compress – squeezed by opposing forces, crushed by invisible pressure.
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Wood groaned. Metal bent. The purple flames flickered.
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Liang Wei spun his hands faster than he had ever spun anything in his life. His arms ached. His shoulders screamed. The wounds in his chest and back wept fresh blood.
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The tornado contracted.
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It became a sphere – a whirling ball of purple fire and shattered wood, no larger than a barrel. Liang Wei clapped his hands together.
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The sphere imploded.
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A shockwave blasted outward, knocking over barrels, tearing ropes, splintering the railing. The arrows – all of them – were crushed into fragments. Tiny pieces of wood and metal rained down on the deck like black snow.
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The purple flames went out.
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Liang Wei staggered. He caught himself on the mast. His chest heaved. His vision blurred.
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He looked up.
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The third volley was already in the sky.
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Fifty arrows. Burning purple. Falling toward him.
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And in the distance, beyond the arrows, he saw them.
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Five military ships. Their cannons were already aimed at the junk.
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He could not stop both. He could not save the ship and survive the arrows and sink the warships.
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He made his choice.
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He sprang into the air.
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Not a jump. A launch. His legs pushed against the deck so hard the wood cracked. He flew upward, toward the falling arrows, his body a missile of flesh and bone.
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He landed on the water.
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Not on the surface – on the water. His feet touched the waves and did not sink. He was running now, sprinting across the sea, leaving a trail of ripples behind him.
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The arrows followed.
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He raised his hands and slashed at the water. A wave rose – a wall of seawater, twenty feet high. He pushed it with his qi, sent it flying toward the arrows.
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The water struck five of them. Their purple flames hissed and died. The arrows fell into the sea.
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Forty‑five remained.
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Liang Wei kept running. If he stopped, he would sink. His feet pounded the waves. His wounds leaked blood into the ocean. Sharks would come later. For now, only the arrows mattered.
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He leaped again.
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This time, he did not try to block. He twisted in the air, turned his body, changed direction. The arrows followed. They curved after him like obedient hounds.
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He smiled.
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He dove.
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Into the water he went, deep as a fish, his body cutting through the waves. The arrows followed – purple flames burning even underwater, hissing but not extinguishing.
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He swam deeper. The arrows swam with him.
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He burst upward, broke the surface, and flew into the air. The arrows burst upward behind him.
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He looked toward the military ships. Five of them. Cannons aimed at the junk.
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He could not reach them in time. He could not stop the arrows and sink the ships.
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He had to choose the arrows.
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He stopped running.
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He stood on the water, facing the volley. Forty‑five purple flames, streaking toward his heart.
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He channeled all his energy into his left arm.
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Every drop of qi. Every breath of cultivation. Every year of training. He poured it into his fist.
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The air around his hand began to distort. Purple light – not the arrows' light, but his own – crackled around his knuckles.
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He punched.
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The punch did not strike any arrow. It struck the air between them.
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A shockwave erupted from his fist – purple and gold, expanding outward like a second sun. The sound was not thunder. Thunder was too small. It was the sound of heaven tearing.
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The shockwave met the arrows.
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The arrows did not shatter. They did not burn. They ceased. Wood and metal and purple flame – all of it turned to dust, then to nothing.
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The shockwave continued. It rolled across the water, toward the five military ships. Their cannons fired – too late. The wave struck them. The ships rocked violently. Two of them lost their masts. All five were pushed back.
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Then the shockwave faded.
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And Liang Wei fell.
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He fell from the sky like a broken bird. His left arm hung limp at his side. His chest was soaked red. His eyes were closed.
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He hit the deck of the junk with a sickening thud.
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General Feng Jian burst from the hatch. He had felt the shockwave through the wooden planks. He had heard the silence that followed.
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Now he saw his teacher lying in a pool of blood.
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"Master!"
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He ran to Liang Wei's side. He knelt. He pressed his fingers to the old man's neck. A pulse. Weak, but there.
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"Master, don't die on us. Please. Don't die."
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The servants emerged from the hold, weeping. The guards stood in a circle, their faces gray with fear. The crew stared at the distant military ships, waiting for the next attack.
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Liang Wei's eyes did not open.
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But his lips moved.
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"Give me your sword, general."58Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQOajYUBnW0
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