Chapter 0093: Long Hao

In the stadium, the people of North Star Martial Hall departed in disgrace.

Zhang Xiaofan, meanwhile, was being interviewed. It was only around noon before he finally left with the Lin sisters.

"Xiaofan, you’re amazing. Teach me kung fu, okay?" On the way, Lin Sixue, seated in the back, leaned forward with her big, bright eyes blinking.

"Our school has a rule: no taking on disciples privately. And even if I were to accept one, I can’t take in someone with poor talent. That would bring shame to the school," Zhang Xiaofan said.

"Tch. I think I’m extraordinarily gifted. I’m sure you just don’t want to teach me," Lin Siyu said unhappily. "You’ve already gotten my sister, so you ought to pay some bride price, shouldn’t you? I think you should teach both me and my sister martial arts."

"I was planning to teach Siyu. She’s my wife, so of course I can teach her. But why should I teach you?" Zhang Xiaofan said.

Hearing this, Lin Siyu felt a sweet warmth in her heart, and for no other reason than those two words: my wife.

"Tch. Worst case, I’ll be your smaller wife. How about that?" Lin Siyu said, refusing to be outdone.

That nearly made Lin Siyu spit blood. Her own cousin really did say anything she pleased.

"Why aren’t you saying anything? In this society, don’t capable men all have mistresses? Or are you looking down on me?" Seeing Zhang Xiaofan remain silent, Lin Sixue puffed out her lips.

Even Zhang Xiaofan was truly stunned by her words.

Then—

A violent crash rang out.

At some point, a Volkswagen Tiguan in the rear had slammed straight into the Hummer.

Before long, the Hummer was completely surrounded.

Burly men in suits and thugs in gaudy clothes climbed out of the vehicles one after another. Each held a machete or an iron rod. There were at least a hundred of them, encircling Zhang Xiaofan as cold light flickered in their eyes.

"Don’t get out of the car," Zhang Xiaofan said sharply. He knew, without a doubt, that he was under attack again.

"Be careful. I’ll call the police right away," Lin Siyu said, her expression darkening as she picked up the phone.

She stared nervously out the window, her heart pounding hard. So many people—could that dreadful man really handle them?

Zhang Xiaofan got out and locked the door.

At that moment, a man stepped down from a limited-edition Bentley. He looked to be about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, wore plain clothes, and carried a sharp, chilly air between his brows.

As he walked, his steps were light and effortless, and in his hand he carried a sword—a traditional ancient blade, dark and lustrous.

Zhang Xiaofan’s expression sank. He could actually feel a pressure from this man—more precisely, from that sword.

"Today is the day you die," the man with the sword said gloomily, as if announcing Zhang Xiaofan’s death.

"I’m afraid you don’t have that kind of ability," Zhang Xiaofan replied, his own eyes flashing with cold light. One attack after another; he had been hunted repeatedly, and his fury was finally igniting.

Without question, these people were almost certainly Dragon Three’s men, and this young man was very likely Dragon Three’s son.

The youth gave a soft laugh, full of disdain. "Do you really think you’re the only martial cultivator?"

As he spoke, his aura rose rapidly, utterly unhidden. It was actually the strength of the early Spirit-Opening Stage, and his spiritual power was remarkably pure.

This young man was a true martial cultivator.

"Are you Dragon Three’s son?" Zhang Xiaofan asked. Early Spirit-Opening Stage did not frighten him; he had just advanced to the middle Spirit-Opening Stage. What he truly feared was the long sword in the young man’s hand.

In the world of martial cultivation, apart from training, cultivators also forged formidable weapons. Zhang Xiaofan had read about weapons in some books: the lowest tier was a treasure weapon, and even the weakest treasure weapon could sever gold and stone. More frightening still, it could amplify a martial cultivator’s spiritual power.

Even with Zhang Xiaofan’s current physical toughness, he absolutely could not withstand the strike of a treasure weapon.

And the reason the young man’s sword gave him such pressure was very likely because it was a treasure-grade blade.

"Very well. I’ll let you die with understanding. My father was Dragon Lord, and I, Long Hao, will cut off your head to honor his spirit," Long Hao said coldly. In his eyes, Zhang Xiaofan was already a dead man.

"So you’re Long Hao, then?" Zhang Xiaofan laughed. "You think you’ve got me cornered? Perfect—I was planning to come find you anyway. Since you’ve shown up at my door, I’ll send you to see your father today."

With a cold snort, he surged with spiritual power, his body shooting forward like a cannonball in an instant, straight at Long Hao.

"Middle Spirit-Opening Stage..."

Long Hao instantly sensed Zhang Xiaofan’s cultivation level, and his heart sank.

He had returned to Clear Sea and held back all this time precisely to figure out Zhang Xiaofan’s strength. Wasn’t he only at the early Spirit-Opening Stage? How had he suddenly become a middle Spirit-Opening Stage cultivator?

Even with a treasure weapon, killing Zhang Xiaofan was now much more difficult. External help was still external help; the key was always a person’s own strength.

For example, how could an ordinary person holding a treasure weapon be a match for a martial cultivator?

Still, Long Hao was not overly alarmed. He himself was also at the early Spirit-Opening Stage, and at the peak of that stage. He gripped his sword with one hand, poured spiritual power into it, and slashed down at once.

A flash of sword light swept by. For an instant, it seemed even space itself had been torn apart. In truth, the blade was simply so sharp, and the strike so fast, that it created that visual illusion.

Facing this impossibly swift strike, Zhang Xiaofan’s body reacted instantly. He leaped into the air, narrowly dodging the sword, then kicked down from above, driving five layers of hidden force into his leg.

It looked like an ordinary kick, but it concealed terrifying explosive power.

Long Hao’s sword momentum was already spent; in such a brief moment, he could not possibly force back the kick with his ancient sword. He could only throw out a punch in an instant.

Boom!

Fist and foot collided. The five layers of hidden force within Zhang Xiaofan’s kick erupted at once, sending Long Hao staggering back repeatedly. But Long Hao was, after all, already infinitely close to the middle Spirit-Opening Stage. Though he had met the blow with a hasty punch, the kick still had not injured him.

With one final retreat, he steadied himself and had to reassess Zhang Xiaofan’s strength. At this rate, it would be nearly impossible to kill him.

"Move!" Long Hao waved his hand and ordered his subordinates.

He intended to wear Zhang Xiaofan down or find an opening for a killing blow. So what if the other man was a middle Spirit-Opening Stage cultivator? He was still human. With so many men exhausting him, Long Hao refused to believe Zhang Xiaofan could remain at full strength.

Those underlings all knew how formidable Zhang Xiaofan was, but they still charged at him without regard for their lives, because Long Hao had promised them that even if they died, their families would be treated well and their descendants would live in wealth and luxury.

Those who survived would receive enormous rewards, enough to spare them a lifetime of struggle.

And so, like a death squad, they came rushing at Zhang Xiaofan with machetes and iron rods in hand.

Zhang Xiaofan’s expression grew dark. He said nothing, and he, too, understood that these men no longer feared death. In that instant, a bloodthirsty light flared in his eyes.

With one hand, he seized the arm of a man gripping a machete and yanked hard, wrenching the blade away. Without hesitation, he drove it straight into the man’s heart, then pulled it back out, sending a streak of blood shooting into the air.

After that, it was like wolves entering a herd. Blade after blade harvested lives as he moved with astonishing speed, and wherever he passed, bodies fell one after another.

Yet these men still showed no fear at all, continuing to rush him without regard for their lives.

Zhang Xiaofan could not remain unscathed under so many attacks. His back had already been struck by machetes many times, but with his physical toughness, the wounds merely broke the skin slightly, like a tiny cut from a razor along the skin, with only a little blood seeping out.

Zhang Xiaofan paid it no mind. His eyes were already blood red, a savage aura spreading from him. With every raise of his hand and drop of the blade, there was no wasted motion.

In just two minutes, more than half of the death squad had already fallen.

His clothes were soaked through with blood, and he looked like a Shura bathed in gore.