Soho and Hao sprinted toward the city center, desperate to reach the shelters. Inside, panic reigned — people shoved each other, children screamed, and old men tried to calm trembling women while guards barked orders that barely carried over the noise.
"So," Soho panted as they ran, "do you really think we can take on a thousand martial artists by ourselves? It's a normal question — no matter how skilled you are, you can't fight a thousand people. Even if they're only at the Body Tempering Realm, that's impossible."
Hao didn't break stride. "I know what you're getting at. But if I can stop them even for a second — give someone a chance to run — then my life will be worth it."
Soho gave a hard nod, the determination in his eyes matching Hao's.
After running for several minutes, Hao and Soho finally neared the city center. But before they could even get close, they froze.
Dozens of city guards lay dead on the cobblestone streets, their armor cracked and blood pooling beneath them. And at the entrance to the inner gate stood figures in red cloaks, their faces hidden beneath hoods.
From beyond the gate came the chilling sound of screams—the civilians inside the shelter.
Hao's heart dropped. "No…" He clenched his fists and bolted forward, running even faster.
But before he could reach the gate, a figure appeared before them, stepping out of the shadows. His presence alone made the air feel heavy.
"It's unfortunate," the man said calmly, his voice low and cold. "You already know what we're doing here… but not for long."
Then, without warning, he lunged toward them—his red cloak flaring like fire in the wind.
Hao and Soho barely managed to dodge the man's first strike — his blade slicing through the air with a sharp hiss. The red-cloaked figure grinned beneath his hood and drew his sword fully, the metal glinting dark crimson in the light.
"Blood Flower Petal," he whispered.
Instantly, his sword slashed through the air, releasing countless petals made of blood and Qi. They shimmered like red glass, spinning and flying toward Hao and Soho in a deadly storm.
Realizing they couldn't outrun it, Hao planted his feet and brought his hands together. Golden Qi flared around his palms, forming the shape of a radiant lotus.
"First Hand Art — Golden Palm!"
He thrust both palms forward, the golden energy clashing against the crimson petals. The explosion of Qi shook the street, scattering dust and sparks everywhere.
Soho tried to leap aside, using his agility to avoid the attack, but the blood petals were too many and too fast. One sliced across his arm, tearing through his sleeve. Blood splattered onto the ground, and he winced in pain, gripping his wounded arm tightly.
After just two clashes, both Hao and Soho understood one thing — their opponent was strong, easily at the Body Realm.
But Hao was no ordinary fighter either. He met the man's strikes head-on, matching him blow for blow. The air around them rippled from the force of their Qi.
For Soho, however, it was different. Still at the Peak Martial Artist Realm, he struggled to endure the pressure of the battle. Every clash sent waves of pain through his body, and his bleeding arm made it even worse.
Before they could even plan their next move, shadows flickered around them. One by one, a hundred red-cloaked figures emerged from the alleys and rooftops, silently surrounding them.
Hao's breath grew heavier. Despair pressed against his chest, but instead of fear, his gaze hardened. His eyes burned with fierce determination as he looked toward the shelters in the distance — where the screams of civilians still echoed.
He whispered under his breath, "Even if I fall here… I'll reach them."
Hao took a few deep breaths, sweat and dust clinging to his face. He glanced at Soho, who was still panting and clutching his wounded arm tightly.
"Hey, Soho," Hao said, his voice calm but heavy.
Soho turned toward him. "What is it?"
"I'll make a path for you," Hao said. "Go and save as many people as you can. Escape. I can use this move only once—so we have only one chance."
Soho's eyes widened. "You're telling me to run away? Hao, I—"
Before he could finish, Hao slammed his palms together. The air trembled. Golden Qi began to swirl around him, so intense it distorted the ground beneath his feet. His expression turned serene, almost divine.
A cold voice echoed through the battlefield.
"Now… Hundred Hands of Buddha!"
From the sky, countless golden arms burst into existence — a hundred radiant hands descending like a storm. They fell upon the red-cloaked assassins like rain, crushing everything beneath them.
The air roared. The earth shattered. Every impact sent shockwaves that flattened the streets. The red-cloaked figures screamed as they were obliterated, one after another. Even their leader, the Blood Flower warrior, sensed the immense power and shouted, "Retreat!" — but it was too late.
The hands kept falling, relentless and divine, until the battlefield was silent. In mere moments, over a hundred enemies lay dead, their crimson cloaks torn and scattered like petals in the wind.
When the golden light faded, the area around Hao had turned into a massive crater of flat, scorched earth. He stood in the center, his breath shallow, his Qi completely drained.
Soho stood frozen in awe. That power… how could a human create something like that?
Then, seeing Hao swaying on his feet, Soho clenched his jaw. Without another word, he turned and sprinted toward the shelter.
Soho finally reached the edge of the shelter. He was just about to go inside when instinct made him turn back.
His heart froze.
In the distance, he saw Hao—standing weakly in the middle of the flattened ground. Behind him, a red-cloaked figure had appeared, the same one who had survived the Buddha's attack. A gleaming blade burst through Hao's stomach.
"Hao!" Soho screamed, his voice breaking.
The world around him seemed to blur. Hao turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting Soho's. There was no fear in them—only a faint, peaceful smile. His expression said everything: Live.
Soho trembled, tears streaming down his face. His body wanted to run toward Hao, to help him, to fight—but his legs refused. He knew what Hao's eyes meant.
Gritting his teeth, Soho turned away. "I won't let your life be in vain," he whispered.
Even though they had met only a week ago, in that short time, Hao had become more than a comrade—he had become a brother. And that brother had given his life to buy him a chance to live.