Chapter Forty-Four: Severed Arm

Torrential rain battered Zhou Xiaoxiao’s face, trickling through his stubbled jaw and seeping into the collar of his faded Azurewood Sect robe. His left hand held a bone scythe, its blade resting in the mud, streaked with dark purple blood that the rain washed into pale red threads. The words “Brother, it’s time to go” hung suspended in the storm, a rusty knife wedged between their throats.

Lin Mo did not move. His ashen pupils penetrated the curtain of rain, locking onto Zhou Xiaoxiao. Blood welled from the hole in his left palm, mingling with gray-green mucus and dripping into the mire. The Seed of Chaos throbbed deep within his flesh, each beat stirring the vortex gnawing at his core. The sword pattern on his right arm lay dormant, but the starlight between his brows flickered—a sudden leap triggered by the fresh wound at Zhou Xiaoxiao’s neck where his arm had been severed. Muscles knotted at the stump, the jagged edges bore the marks of being torn, not cut. It looked as if something had ripped his limb away by brute force.

“Year of the Water Pig, seventy-nine—disobey and die!” The huntsman to the right barked, shattering the silence. His blade of ghostly blue hummed again. Another circled silently to Lin Mo’s flank, tip lowered, blocking any escape. Rain struck their dark blue-scaled armor, raising a fine mist of cold.

Zhou Xiaoxiao raised his hand—slowly, as if exhausted to the marrow. “His life—Heaven’s Edict demands I deliver it myself.” His voice was a rasp, scraping rust from iron. The bone scythe lifted, its blade slicing through the rain, trailing a viscous, dark red shadow—his own blood, seeping into the bone’s grain.

He pointed the scythe at Lin Mo’s chest. There was no killing intent, only a heavy, suffocating weariness. “Before you go, I’ll give you something.” He tugged at the corner of his mouth, a grimace halfway between laughter and tears. “The Tomb of Immortal Burial owes you.”

Before his words faded, chaos erupted!

“Argh—!” The huntsman on the left screamed in agony. The sleeve of his sword arm shredded soundlessly, and beneath the skin, several black patterns writhed—identical to the sword pattern on Lin Mo’s right arm! Like living serpents, the marks instantly bound his entire arm.

“Sword corruption backlash? He has remnants of the No-Return Sword inside him!” The one-eyed leader’s voice cracked with fury. “Zhou Xiaoxiao! You knew—”

Too late.

A sickening rip!

The huntsman’s right arm exploded from within. Black sword energy, mingled with shards of secret blue power, sprayed outward. The man was hurled back as if struck by a hammer, crashing into scorched rock, his breastplate dented, blood speckled with ice.

Almost simultaneously, Zhou Xiaoxiao moved!

The bone scythe did not strike Lin Mo, but transformed into a blood-shadow tearing through the rain, slashing ferociously at the remaining huntsman on the right! Even before the blade arrived, the ferocity of Tomb of Immortal Burial’s death aura froze his adversary’s blood.

“Traitor!” The huntsman’s eyes bulged with rage, his blue blade raised in desperate defense.

Clang—!!!

The clash of metal reverberated, sending rain flying backward. The scythe’s dark red glow surged, overwhelming the blue blade’s light. The blade twisted, sliding along the sword’s edge like a viper, lunging for the throat!

At the brink of death, the huntsman abandoned his sword and leapt away!

Splat!

The scythe grazed his neck, tearing away flesh deep enough to expose bone. Blood sprayed forth.

Zhou Xiaoxiao didn’t look back. The scythe spun, and the rusted handle’s end abruptly jabbed into his own left shoulder!

Crunch!

A tooth-grinding fracture. He grunted, his face ghostly pale, left arm hanging limp—he had dislocated the joint himself. From the hollow in the scythe’s handle, a shard of dark gold sword tip sprang forth—barely three inches long, mottled with rust, yet it radiated the cold of severed fate.

The remnant of the No-Return Sword!

“Take the sword!” Zhou Xiaoxiao roared, hurling the blood-stained handle with the sword tip toward Lin Mo, like a javelin.

Its target—Lin Mo’s mangled left hand!

Lin Mo’s ashen pupils contracted sharply. The collapsing vortex in his core spun wildly in reverse. The Seed of Chaos thundered. Instinct, stronger than will, drove him to raise his ruined left hand, fingers spread, to meet the flying shard of dark gold.

Thud!

The sword tip pierced precisely into the blood hole of his palm, nailing itself to the Seed of Chaos buried deep within.

“Ah—!!”

An indescribable agony tore through his soul. Within the Seed, Su Li’s remnant soul shrieked, the fragments of the reverse seed howled with malice, the remnants of the Void Sutra mourned, the annihilating intent of the No-Return Sword chilled everything—all these powers were brutally pinned together by the sword tip.

Gray, gold, and green light erupted from Lin Mo’s left palm. Within the radiance, an illusory sword shadow rapidly coalesced—its blade narrow and ancient, pitch black, intricate dark patterns swirling at the guard, unmistakably the No-Return Sword, though miniaturized. The shadow’s tip was deeply embedded in the Seed of Chaos, like a sword plunged into a heart.

“To feed a sword with soul… You’re mad!” The wounded leader coughed blood, his single eye wide with terror.

Zhou Xiaoxiao staggered, the empty sleeve of his right arm soaked by rain. He looked at the demonic sword shadow in Lin Mo’s left hand, born of seed and sword remnants, and at last a ripple stirred in his tired gaze: “The Tomb of Immortal Burial took half your life… I’m giving you a blade to survive.” He whipped his head around and bellowed toward the scorched rocks, “Yiyi! Take him away!”

From the shadows behind the rocks, a frail figure trembled and stood. Chen Yiyi’s face was as pale as death; she clutched a long wooden box wrapped in blue cloth to her chest. She looked at the two men in the rain, both like blood-soaked spirits, her lips bitten until they bled.

“Go!” Zhou Xiaoxiao turned, raising the bone scythe with his lone arm, its rusted blade aimed at the two huntsmen struggling to rise—and at the distant, indistinct figures of more coldly armored foes emerging from the rain. “Dogs of the Skywatch Bureau!” He bared his teeth, rain and blood mingling in his mouth. “Grandpa’s life… just got pricier!”

The scythe’s dark red glow soared skyward like a tattered war banner, planted upon this scorched earth where immortals and demons were buried. The shriek of its blade splitting the rain was his final war drum.