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The silence after the bandit leader's sneer shattered under the villagers' frantic cries. Brother Tian raised his blacksmith's hammer, but his grip trembled. Elder Huan tried to shield his people, his frail body barely standing. Wu Ken felt a surge of raw adrenaline. His mind raced—panic, not calculation. He had to act.
"Fools! Don't make this harder than it needs to be!" the bandit leader barked, his voice laced with cruel authority. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed a handful of dark pellets into the air.
A fine, grey powder spread swiftly, carried by the forest breeze. The villagers inhaled before they could react. Eyes glazed. Movements slowed. One by one, they collapsed into unconsciousness. Brother Tian's hammer clattered to the ground. Auntie Mei crumpled, her breath soft and shallow.
Wu Ken held his breath, but his chest burned. He staggered, barely keeping upright. The sight of his people falling around him ignited something deeper than fear. It was fury. Protective. Unyielding.
He didn't know how strong the bandits were. He couldn't sense their power, couldn't measure their cultivation. All he knew was that they were dangerous—and they were hurting his people.
"Looks like this one has some spirit," the leader chuckled, locking eyes with Wu Ken. "Or perhaps just foolishness. Brat."
Wu Ken didn't answer. He charged.
His movements were clumsy, untrained. He swung wildly at the nearest bandit, fist connecting with a shoulder instead of the face. The man grunted, more surprised than hurt. Another bandit lunged—Wu Ken tried to dodge but stumbled, taking a blow to the back. He cried out, then lashed out with an elbow, striking ribs by sheer luck.
A third bandit came from behind. Wu Ken spun too late, the strike grazing his side. He flailed, sweeping his leg awkwardly, and managed to trip the man. He moved like a storm—but a storm without direction, raw and desperate.
But they kept coming.
A fourth slammed into him. Wu Ken staggered, tried to punch, but his fist was slow. A fifth slashed at him—he ducked too late, the blade grazing his arm. He hissed in pain, then shoved forward with his shoulder, knocking the man back.
His breath came in gasps. His vision blurred. His body screamed at him to stop.
The sixth bandit rammed him, sending him sprawling. Wu Ken roared, tackled blindly, and the two crashed to the ground. The seventh and eighth struck together—he blocked one clumsily, hit the other with a wild swing, but took a blow to the ribs that dropped him to one knee.
The leader stepped forward, amused. "You really don't know when to quit, brat."
Wu Ken looked up, blood on his lip, defiance in his eyes. "I… don't need to."
The leader moved. A blur. A crushing blow to the chest.
Wu Ken flew backward, pain exploding through his ribs. He hit the ground hard, vision swimming. His limbs refused to move. His breath rattled. Darkness crept in.
Then—light.
A dull glow pulsed from the ring on his left hand. And through the haze, a voice. Rugged, yet strangely sweet. It echoed in his mind, ancient and amused.
"Such a chaotic little brat," the voice murmured. "Always rushing headlong. Very well… let's stir this slumbering spark."
A wave of warmth surged from the ring, flooding his broken body. It spread through his limbs, his chest, his spine—every fiber ignited with a sensation of raw, untamed power. Qi roared inside him, not his own, but something deeper. Older. Wilder.
The pain dulled. The darkness retreated.
But the damage was done. His body couldn't hold on. Even as the warmth enveloped him, Wu Ken's vision dimmed. The forest faded. The last thing he heard was that mysterious voice, echoing like a distant bell.
And then—silence.
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