The bandits attacked like a swarm of locusts, their jagged blades glinting under the sun.
Ling Tian rolled to his feet, his body still aching from the fall, but the dragon's power thrummed beneath his skin, sharpening his senses. He snatched a fallen guard's sword—a crude, unbalanced thing—but it would have to do.
Qing'er moved like a ghost, her blade flickering in and out of existence. Every strike found a throat, a wrist, an eye. She fought without hesitation, as if she could see everything.
A bandit lunged at Ling Tian, his axe whistling toward his skull.
Ling Tian ducked, pivoted, and drove his sword up under the man's ribs. Hot blood sprayed his face.
First kill as a cultivator.
The taste of iron filled his mouth.
A roar split the air—a massive figure clad in wolf pelts barreled toward them. The bandit leader, his aura thick with the stench of Qi Condensation (5th Layer).
"You think you can steal from the Ghostfang and live?" the man bellowed, swinging a spiked mace.
Ling Tian barely dodged, the weapon cratering the ground where he'd stood.
Qing'er blurred past him, her sword a silver streak.
The bandit leader laughed—until her blade sank into his throat.
He gurgled, eyes wide, before collapsing like a felled tree.
Silence.
The remaining bandits faltered, then fled into the trees.
Qing'er flicked blood from her sword and turned to Ling Tian. "You fight like a farmer."
Ling Tian wiped his face. "I was a farmer."
She tossed him a small jade vial. "Spirit-replenishing pill. Don't die before you repay me."
The caravan master, a portly man with a grizzled beard, pushed forward. His eyes locked onto the shards of Ling Tian's jade pendant, still hanging from his neck.
"Where did you get that?"