The Strategist fixed his gaze on Li Yan—now sprawled on the ground and having turned around to stare back at him—and let out a cold, mirthless laugh. "Heh, do you really think you can escape? No matter what you do, this is your fate."
For a long, tense moment, Li Yan said nothing, his eyes icy and indifferent. After a beat of silence, the Strategist continued, "I only don't understand: how did you discover my intention to move against you? And how is it that you managed to evade Hong Linying's clutches?"
Li Yan looked at him, dragging one injured leg—the wound now gushing blood so profusely that, in mere moments, his trousers had been stained red all over. With great effort, he pressed himself up against a nearby tree trunk. Even the tattered hem of his black robe bore streaks of dark blood. A wry, grim smile broke across his face as he bared his teeth. "Hehe, of course it was the traces left by my senior brother. Why else would Marshal Hong let me be? His aim was always you—not me!"
For an instant, the Strategist was taken aback, unable to fully grasp Li Yan's words. There was something off about his meaning—even as he tried to decipher it, he found himself puzzled, unaware of the true source of the error in his assumptions.
In that very moment of distraction, Li Yan suddenly pounded the tree he was leaning on. A low roar erupted from his throat: "Then let us die together!"
Still mired in the meaning of Li Yan's previous remark, the Strategist barely had time to register a sudden change on Li Yan's face. His features had contorted into something fierce and animalistic. Without warning, Li Yan's hand struck the trunk, and before the Strategist could even fathom what was coming, a sense of foreboding swept over him—an icy wind whipped at the back of his mind as he silently cursed his poor luck. Never in his wildest imaginings had he expected that Li Yan would have prepared yet another trap here, especially when the very spot was nearly a full li away from the previous setting. It was something he had never dared anticipate.
There was no time to turn; in an instant, a burst of brilliant spiritual light flared over his body. His hands whipped behind him in a series of rapid motions. Almost at once, he heard a tumultuous clatter—"swish, thud"—followed by a muffled groan. The commotion was enough to send the birds, which had only just resettled in the treetops, scattering desperately into the dark sky.
After slapping his palm against the tree trunk for momentum, Li Yan rolled to one side. Amid a chaotic clamor and the sound of a heavy, guttural groan, when he finally turned over and raised his head, he beheld a sight that sent a chill coursing through him.
The Strategist now looked a pitiable sight indeed—utterly disheveled and, dare one say, almost tragic. His black robes were lacerated in over a dozen places. Two sharp wooden spikes, about as thick as a human finger, had impaled his left arm, their jagged tips adorned with twisted, ink-black remnants—the sinews of a human body. And yet, to Li Yan's dismay, the Strategist was still very much alive. His chest heaved steadily as he fixed on Li Yan a gaze that could well have devoured a man alive. His face, dark and glistening with a purple sheen, twitched intermittently as he inched forward, step by step.
"Truly—you are something else," the Strategist rasped as he advanced, each word deliberate and measured. "I never thought a mere half-grown child could be so cunning, so adept at laying trap after trap. To think you've managed to outfox me two, even three times in succession… you've truly underestimated your own potential."
As he walked, his elbow leaked blood in thin, steady streams, splattering like water lines, while a carpet of shattered wood and broken branches lay scattered behind him. The dense array of wooden spikes—those seven or eight rows strapped together that had once surged toward him—had been fragmented by the wind blade he had just unleashed. Yet, not all of them were dispelled; two jagged spikes managed to pierce his left arm in a single instant, drawing out blue, pulsating veins. Whether bone was harmed remained uncertain, but it was clear that for now, his left arm was rendered nearly useless.
This was the fabled "wooden spike trap" familiar to hunters. Such a trap was assembled by whittling sturdy branches into a series of spikes—each with a finger-width base tapering to a razor-sharp tip resembling a cone. These spikes were then fixed into a thick log, forming a crude, wolf-tooth-like mace. Several of these maces—usually seven or eight—were bundled onto a large wooden frame and hung between two trees. One end was tethered tightly to a tree trunk with rope, while the other end had a quick-release fastener. When an external force jostled the rope, the fastener would release in an instant, launching the wooden spikes in a fierce, whistling rush. With their large surface area, formidable force, and strong momentum, the trap could strike anything within a range of two or three zhang. However, there was a drawback: to ensure that it did not impede progress along the path, its inertia was deliberately increased so that the spikes hung half a foot or so above the ground. Consequently, a small, slender creature might simply be bypassed, the trap roaring harmlessly overhead.
Yet the Strategist had never expected such complications. First, he had been momentarily misled by Li Yan's words, unsure of their meaning; second, having spent years wandering the deep mountains in search of immortality, he was unaccustomed to dealing with mortal hunters—here, where only demonic beasts and fellow cultivators roamed, a mortal hunter would have been devoured long before setting up any trap. Third, his spiritual perception was utterly useless in detecting purely physical contraptions. And fourth, he had never imagined that Li Yan could manage to set such consecutive traps in different locations. It was a bitter irony—a worldly martial artist, a fledgling cultivator who had just stepped into the immortal realm, ensnared by his own cunning.
Using his elbow for leverage, Li Yan slowly pushed himself upright, half-reclining as he remarked with a faint, bitter laugh, "Heh, what a pity indeed."
"Who would have thought," the Strategist sneered as he closed the distance until he stood but two or three steps in front of Li Yan, "that a half-grown child could employ so many devious stratagems. Show me your true skill, then." At that moment, he quickly raised his right hand and tapped sharply on his left elbow and upper arm a few times, and with that, the bleeding ceased immediately.
"Now, it's all done," Li Yan murmured while half-supporting himself against the ground. His breathing had steadied, and to his own surprise, a light laugh escaped him.
The Strategist glanced around, carefully scanning the immediate vicinity around Li Yan. As he scrutinized every shadowed corner of the forest, he found no further traps. Satisfied, he cast one final look at the immobilized Li Yan—now confident that the young man could not yet flee—and then melted away like a shadow, making his way toward the plateau on the mid-mountain.
Within a few measured breaths, he arrived at the plateau where Li Yan's traps had been set moments before. The enormous boulder that had occupied the ground was entirely gone, leaving behind only a hollow depression, several water bags, two small stone pillars roughly the girth of an infant's arm, and a short segment of demonic beast sinew. The Strategist picked up the sinew and inspected it briefly before grabbing a few water bags and giving them a shake. He then stood rooted in place for a moment, lost in thought. Afterward, he hastened to the precipice behind a giant pine and peered downwards. In the depths of the night, the abyss below stretched out in impenetrable darkness, like the gaping maw of a monster bristling with fangs—an image that made his heart quiver. His own mortal body, though somewhat sturdier than that of an ordinary man, was still merely flesh encased in a mortal shell. Should he fall from such a height, he would surely be reduced to a heap of shredded meat or impaled by jagged boulders at the cliff's base.
Having taken in the scene, the Strategist slowly pieced together how Li Yan had set the trap. Though he was no mountain hunter, he had just found himself ensnared in one, so by retracing the process and studying the remnants, his considerable experience in the martial circles allowed him to form a rough idea of the mechanism at work.
After a few swift, elusive moves, he vanished from the plateau and melted into the dense woodland at the base of the mountain.
Not long after, the Strategist arrived near where Li Yan lay on his back. Suddenly, pain flickered across his face and dark blood began to trickle from the corner of his mouth. Hastily, he sat down cross-legged and rummaged in his robes to produce a half-transparent crystal. Closing his eyes slowly, he gripped the crystal tightly and began to regulate his breathing, drawing in and exhaling spiritual energy. He had not rested for several days, and coupled with the heavy injuries he had sustained just moments earlier, his condition was critical.
Over the span of more than an hour, the Strategist gradually opened his eyes. By then, his internal spiritual energy had recovered to roughly seventy or eighty percent of its former state. He gazed at the once half-transparent, now murky crystal in his hand, and a grimace of pain played across his features.
This place was utterly devoid of ambient spiritual qi, leaving him no recourse but to rely on the crystal for recovery. This special stone had been bestowed upon him by the previous patriarch of the "Xunxian Clan" in his lineage, with the promise that "if you ever walk the immortal path, this crystal will serve as a vital aid." For countless years he had trodden the path of cultivation, yet he had always been reluctant to use this treasured resource—until now, when the circumstances left him no alternative.
Indeed, in the world of cultivation the stone was a precious spiritual artifact, imbued with ambient qi to bolster refinement. His sect's elders had often spoken of it; within their ranks, that very crystal had been passed down for over a dozen generations.
Under different circumstances, he could have returned to the secluded valley of the Military Strategist's manor, where the spiritual energy emanating from a nearby pool would have aided his recovery. But his spiritual reserves had already been nearly halved—an unfortunate consequence of forcibly employing the Wind Blade technique. In his current state, he might still have been able to unleash eleven or twelve Wind Blade strikes at full power. However, just now, to deal with Li Yan he had expended six such techniques—cutting through the giant boulder on his foot and dismantling the wooden spike trap in the process. Had he attempted to lug Li Yan along an eighty-li trek afterward, it would have been utterly impossible. As he made his way back down the cliff, the fire poison within him had already begun to flare. Without sufficient energy to suppress it, the toxin would have claimed Li Yan before him. With only half his spiritual energy left to counter the fire poison, he had been forced, in dire urgency, to employ this treasured artifact of his sect.
Fixated on the cloudy crystal in his palm, he stared blankly for a while before tucking it securely back into his robes.
Raising his right hand, he pressed hard against his left elbow and upper arm. Two soft "chi chi" sounds rang out as a muffled groan followed. In that instant, two wooden spikes—each about the thickness of a finger—were suddenly expelled from his flesh, shooting out far into the distance and drawing forth a cascade of blood droplets. Swiftly, his right hand tapped repeatedly at the wounds, stanching the flow of blood. As he looked at his left arm, where several dark veins lay slack or were even broken and drooping out, his brow furrowed in troubled thought.
Then he rose to his feet, his movements fluid and lightning-fast as he darted through the forest. In the span of half a breath, his form flickered and he reappeared at his original spot. Fixing his eyes on the closed form of Li Yan on the ground, the Strategist raised his right hand and extended a single finger. A sharp gust of wind—almost like a piercing spear of air—soared forth and struck Li Yan's head.
"I know you weren't asleep," he said coolly. "And I have no desire to learn how you discovered my intent. After all, the result is the same. I never imagined that you—a mere fifteen or sixteen-year-old child—could be so vicious, employing such devious tactics with every move. You have truly made a mockery of your master's expectations."
Li Yan's eyes flickered momentarily with a strange glint. It was true—when the Strategist had once inspected the plateau's trap, he could discern many details about how it was set. Yet to deduce that Li Yan had deliberately kicked over the water bags repeatedly had caught him off guard.
A trace of amused admiration shone in Li Yan's gaze as he replied coolly, "Oh, so you noticed that too? Truly, my teacher is formidable." Inwardly, however, he mused that the old man still had not detected yet another crucial point.