Chapter Thirteen: If Not You, Then Who? (1)

"Hey, kid, stop right there!"

Just as Jiang Feng was putting away that strange object and turning to leave, a grating voice rang out behind him.

But this had nothing to do with Jiang Feng; he continued to push through the dazed crowd, moving forward without looking back.

"I'm talking to you, the kid in blue! You, stop right now!" A different, coarser voice boomed in Jiang Feng's ear, thunderous as if it cracked the very earth, the sound exploding through the square and sending another wave of terror through the already numb crowd, leaving them even more rooted to the spot.

Jiang Feng glanced down at his clothes. His blue training robe was already quite soiled—it must have gotten dirty during his training in the forest. He’d only tidied up his spoils upon returning home, not having had a chance to clean himself up or wash away the bad luck of the past few days.

A faint smile played at Jiang Feng’s lips as he continued to stroll toward the edge of the crowd. His steps, though unhurried, were rhythmic and graceful—not intentionally so, but born from days of refining his Shadow-Dance Fragmented Soul Step in the forest. After such relentless training, he could already perform the fourth form of the technique with ease, making him one of the most agile fighters among his peers.

In just a few steps, Jiang Feng had slipped past the people still frozen in shock from earlier.

"Hm? You brat, you think you can just walk away? It’s not that easy!" The rough, irritable voice rang out again.

Suddenly, a rush of wind whistled past Jiang Feng’s ears, the delayed crack of air splitting behind him. In the blink of an eye, a black shadow flashed to his back—so swift that its movement left afterimages. The man’s body contorted into a strange posture, arms trailing behind as his sleeves snapped in the wind, his body leaning forward and shifting directions with dizzying speed. The residual images he left behind could make an onlooker’s head spin; the stance seemed to cut through the air, reducing resistance and allowing for incredible speed. This peculiar footwork was something none of the onlookers had ever seen.

In the town of Nine Rocks, every prominent family and martial technique was well known. Yet this shadow, as he reached Jiang Feng’s back, launched a vicious attack with his right arm twisted into an unnatural angle. The massive fist, propelled by the speed of his charge, moved with such swiftness that it seemed to suffocate the very air.

The crowd could see clearly now—his fist was aimed straight at the center of Jiang Feng’s spine, a strike designed for a single, fatal blow. If Jiang Feng survived, he would at least be crippled for life, with no hope of recovery. But Jiang Feng didn’t even know this man, let alone have any deep-seated enmity with him. Clearly, this attacker was ruthless to the core—a killer who didn’t even blink.

The attacker’s enormous fist was now less than five inches from Jiang Feng’s back, and yet Jiang Feng stood unmoving, showing no intention to defend himself.

Everyone held their breath, watching intently for the impending tragedy. No one doubted the destructive power of the man’s fist—it could shatter even a city wall.

It was a massacre with no suspense, and the crowd was already weighing their feelings: part excitement, part hope. The excitement came from the expectation of blood and violence; the hope was for Jiang Feng to somehow turn the tables and strike back.

But as the fist drew closer, that hope dimmed.

In this world ruled by strength, people’s subconscious teemed with bloodlust. They craved the thrill that came from carnage—so long as they were not the ones bleeding.

Yet everyone secretly liked to imagine themselves in comparison: when they were weak, they hoped the weak would prevail, would launch a stunning counterattack.

"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!" A chain of explosive cracks erupted as the massive fist tore through the air at breakneck speed, each blow blasting a cacophony into the crowd’s ears.

Closer and closer!

Excitement and anticipation thrummed in the hearts of the onlookers, as if a mournful dirge were already playing in the air for an impending tragedy.

Three inches to go! The middle-aged attacker’s heart pounded with excitement.

The roar of air splitting did not abate, the fist’s movement so fast it seemed to freeze in the eyes of the crowd. Some timid souls had already covered their eyes, unable to bear the coming carnage—yet peeking through their fingers all the same.

Two inches! One inch!

The fist now pressed against Jiang Feng’s robe. In that instant, the crowd could already picture the imminent eruption of blood and gore.

A thunderous crash echoed out—finally, the crowd’s expectations would be answered.

But as the onlookers emerged from their fevered imaginings, they realized the scene they had anticipated did not unfold. The attacker’s fist did indeed connect with Jiang Feng, but suddenly the man’s expression changed. As the crowd puzzled over what had happened, they saw that Jiang Feng’s figure, struck by the blow, simply faded away—disappeared without a trace. Instead, Jiang Feng’s back could now be seen three paces away.

With a heavy thud, the crowd saw the attacker sprawled on the ground, his eyes wide with a twisted look of pain on his face. His legs flailed, twitching in spasms as he struggled to rise, but he could only remain in a most undignified heap.

At this moment, Jiang Feng turned around. His steps flickered with ghostly agility—yet appeared almost simple in execution. To the crowd, the movements seemed slow, but he covered ground with astonishing speed.

One step, two steps, three steps.

In just three strides, he was standing before the next group of pursuers.

The three men pursuing him recoiled in terror at the uncanny scene.

“Damn, I’m exhausted! Why are you all standing there like wooden posts? Move, now!” A young man, accompanied by a servant, strolled over, gesturing imperiously.

“Young master, it’s him—I recognize him. He’s the one who trashed our herb garden! Give the order, young master, seize him!” a middle-aged man in a servant’s uniform panted breathlessly as he reported to the young master. His clothing was finer than that of an ordinary servant, both in material and cut—clearly a trusted retainer.

“Oh? You want to tie me up?” Jiang Feng glanced over, and at once the young master felt a prickling chill run through him, as if pierced by needles.