Chapter 27: The Law Has No Fixed Form

Inside the cave, the pungent stench of blood hung thick in the air. Time slipped by; no one knew how long had passed before two figures emerged from the darkness. They were the third chief, Zhao Meng, who was famed for his iron fists, and Qian Wen. Yet, compared to Zhao Meng, Qian Wen was in far more dire straits—his body bore multiple wounds where the rats had gnawed at him.

As for the remaining six, they had all been left behind within the cave. In such a strange and perilous environment, faced with those monstrous rats, ordinary men simply could not last for long.

“We’re finally out,” Qian Wen breathed, his heart surging with joy at having survived. But just then, he noticed Zhao Meng, who was walking ahead, come to a sudden halt. Following his gaze, Qian Wen saw a lone figure blocking their path, standing straight as a pine, emerging from the darkness.

“Jiang Wan…” Qian Wen’s heart trembled as he stared at the silhouette. After what had just transpired, Jiang Wan seemed to him more inscrutable than ever. He no longer believed Jiang Wan was merely an obsessed martial artist. It was at that very moment that Zhao Meng, wearing his shifting sands mask, made his move.

“Die!” The intent to kill surged forth in his heart. With no hesitation, Zhao Meng struck at the figure barring their way. His five fingers clenched into a fist, channeling his strength to its utmost. The instant Jiang Chen appeared, Zhao Meng had resolved to kill him.

Yet, Jiang Chen met the blow with a single palm.

A low hum filled the air as fist and palm collided, blood and energy clashing. Jiang Chen’s form drifted back like willow fluff, while Zhao Meng staggered three steps in retreat.

In that instant, Zhao Meng’s expression beneath the mask changed at last.

“First-rank… You’ve already advanced to the first-rank realm?” Zhao Meng’s narrow eyes flickered with shock and doubt as he looked upon Jiang Chen. Their brief exchange confirmed it—Jiang Chen had indeed broken through and was now his equal in strength.

“A first-rank fighter, and you’ve mastered a sigil technique to command rats as well. You’re good at hiding your true strength. But all the more reason you cannot be allowed to live,” Zhao Meng snarled.

“Seven Wounds Fist!” His murderous intent blazed. To ensure Jiang Chen’s death, Zhao Meng held nothing back and unleashed his signature martial art. In an instant, his fist force surged by thirty percent.

The Seven Wounds Fist harmed its wielder before it harmed others. Though fraught with dire consequences, its explosive power was unmatched—a formidable advantage in battle.

Witnessing this, Jiang Chen remained unmoved. He was not surprised to find Zhao Meng here. The affair of Golden Sands Valley was no trivial matter. For the sake of caution, it was only natural that Zhao Meng would come in person. As a member of the Shifting Sands bandits, Zhao Meng could hardly trust his fellows when gold was at stake; only by acting himself could he be certain.

“Die!” Zhao Meng stomped the ground and shot forward like a cannonball, locking onto Jiang Chen and unleashing his strongest punch.

Jiang Chen’s expression did not change. His gaze was cold, looking at Zhao Meng as if at a dead man. In that instant, Zhao Meng let out a wretched scream, his internal organs burning as if aflame, wisps of fire seeming to spout from his seven orifices.

In a heartbeat, his fierce momentum collapsed, and his body curled up like a boiled shrimp, writhing on the ground.

Seeing this, Qian Wen, who had intended to strike from behind and ambush Jiang Chen, was terrified. Zhao Meng’s sudden collapse was completely unforeseen.

“It’s a sigil technique… You’re no mere martial artist. You’re a cultivator…” Zhao Meng, his blood surging as if set ablaze, turned his pain-filled gaze on Jiang Chen and understood.

As a member of the Shifting Sands, Zhao Meng had some knowledge of cultivators, had even dabbled in cultivation himself. When he saw Jiang Chen command rats, he had only thought it a special sigil technique—he had never imagined a true cultivator would lurk so long among water bandits, bowing his head and serving under him for so long. Most cultivators were too proud to stoop to the company of martial artists.

“So what if you’re a cultivator? My fate is…” Zhao Meng’s eyes bulged, his face twisted as he fought against the agony, struggling to throw one last punch. But in the next moment, the demonic bloodflame consumed the entirety of his blood and energy, turning him into a blazing torch.

At that point, all that was left of Zhao Meng’s vaunted will was a hollow shell.

A shrill, heartrending scream echoed through the night. Under the searing bloodflame, Zhao Meng’s features contorted as his body withered at a speed visible to the naked eye.

Witnessing this, Jiang Chen’s gaze flickered ever so slightly.

“The Bloodflame Art alone is formidable against creatures of flesh, but it’s too rigid. Living beings possess intelligence—if they respond wisely, they can contain its effects, such as cutting away flesh to survive,” he mused.

“But by blending bloodflame with one’s own vital energy and striking it into another’s body, the method becomes far more concealed. Although it acts more slowly, once it erupts, ordinary means cannot stop it.”

Jiang Chen let Zhao Meng be reduced to ashes by the bloodflame as these thoughts flashed through his mind.

In their first exchange, he had already transformed bloodflame into vital energy and delivered it into Zhao Meng’s body through his palm. He could do this because his soul was strong and his mastery of sigil arts far exceeded the ordinary. Moreover, his recent research into vital energy allowed him to merge bloodflame with his own blood and energy, then erase his own will from it, bypassing Zhao Meng’s resistance and allowing it to infiltrate him undetected.

In Jiang Chen’s hands, the Bloodflame Art was already shedding its old shackles, revealing new possibilities. The law is without fixed form; it is never unchanging.

Qian Wen, who had watched it all, was petrified. He had no more thought of opposing Jiang Chen. He wanted nothing more than to avoid Zhao Meng’s fate—utter annihilation. He had considered fleeing, but as soon as he moved, an inexplicable sense of imminent doom enveloped him. He was certain that if he tried to run, he would die.

“Fourth Chief Jiang, I’m useful! I know where Zhao Meng hid the gold sand. I’ll help you find every last grain. Please, spare my miserable life…” Qian Wen groveled, kowtowing desperately, pleading for mercy.

Jiang Chen paid him no heed. He walked up to Zhao Meng’s remains. Though Zhao Meng’s body had been utterly consumed by the bloodflame, his mask, black robe, and other possessions were untouched.

“This mask is rather special—it holds a trace of spiritual resonance. It seems the Shifting Sands bandits have gained something from their years of seeking immortality,” Jiang Chen mused as he picked up Zhao Meng’s mask. He had sensed something earlier on the southern slope, and now it was confirmed. Still, the spiritual resonance within the mask was faint—barely more than a lingering aura, certainly nothing extraordinary.

“Soul Reflection!” Jiang Chen’s mystical ability activated. Having claimed the mask, he captured Zhao Meng’s yet-unscattered soul in his grasp. In that moment, a multitude of secrets surged into his mind, among them the location where Zhao Meng had hidden the gold sand.