Chapter 73: The Alpha Ninja Assassins (Part Five)

The battlefield differs from the martial arena in that, upon the field of war, no matter if it be boxing or some other technique—so long as it kills, it is a good method.

In the span of mere moments, three waves of arrows, a dozen or so muskets, and eight assassins from the Wa Kingdom surged in from all directions.

A person with boxing skills honed to the bone can, by sound alone, discern the source of danger and evade arrows before they strike, unless fired by especially powerful bows. Such a person even develops a premonition of impending threat. Should one reach the Four Refinements, any hidden arrow or dart aimed their way is sensed instantly.

As for muskets, unless fired from within thirty feet, even a direct hit might not be fatal. The assassins, too, pose little threat if one avoids their initial draw-and-slash.

But when these attacks come together, their power is not simply additive but multiplied—a disciple of Zhong Quan, dodging a slashing assassin, was unlucky enough to take a stray arrow to the forehead and died on the spot.

Another boxer, skilled in White Brow Fist, perhaps emboldened by success or swept up in the heat of the fight, pressed forward with Thousand-Character Arrow Fist, Twin Ram Fists, and Whip Kick, only to fall into an ambush. Surrounded by pirates, he was gunned down by five or six muskets, his body riddled with steel balls from head to toe, not a spot spared.

Fortunately, Kou Li had warned the group in time. Seizing the moment before the pirates closed in, they dashed into the lower deck. A sword-wielding boxer tried to jam the iron bars with his blade, but a volley from a triple-barreled musket cracked loud from above, a steel ball slamming into his shoulder, eliciting a howl of pain—whether bone was broken, none could say.

"Blow up the keel!"

The keel runs along the very center of a ship's bottom; its critical joints lie beneath the deepest draft. Thus, the group made for the sunken recess at the bottom of the vessel.

Just as the situation appeared to improve, a deafening explosion thundered from above. The ship's frame groaned and creaked, overwhelmed, and a shower of sawdust and splinters rained down.

Kou Li instinctively shielded his eyes. In the cramped, dim space, the dust thickened the air, rendering everything murky and breathless.

"Has the Water Dragon Gang fought so fiercely as to storm the enemy's lair?" But Kou Li quickly dismissed the thought. The sound was wrong—these were cannon shots. Pirates, firing on their own ship?

The first boom was cannon fire, the second was the crash of something massive, and the third—another explosion—sent debris and shattered beams flying, as several figures leapt down.

The Water Dragon Gang was ruthless indeed, blowing up their own ship just to hunt them down.

The sword-wielding boxer had lingered at the rear to block the passage and so was spared the worst of the blast. Gritting his teeth, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, he stamped his foot, causing the deck to tremble. Right hand gripping his blade, the edge pointed down, his left palm pressed against the blade's back, eyes tracking its movement—man, blade, and momentum as one—he surged forward with ferocious intent.

This move, called the Stamping Bow-Step Blade Thrust, is a battlefield technique: the man becomes the horse, the blade the spear, muscles and bones taut to the utmost, pushing forward with unyielding force. It was General Hong's favorite blade form, akin to the kingly art of war—overpowering by sheer presence.

Yet the burly man before him neither dodged nor retreated. Instead, he pressed forward, belly first, and with a ripping sound, the blade's tip struck sparks against his armored gut. Though massive, the foe moved with astonishing agility—his body contracted and expanded like a whale turning, letting the blade slide harmlessly past his waist.

Beneath the torn battle robe gleamed dark, polished armor.

Realizing something was wrong, the boxer had his sword hand seized in a vice grip—fingers twice the size of a normal man's, their skin as hard as iron.

“Another greenhorn on the battlefield. Your blade is all show.” The booming voice was followed by a swing of a massive hammer, the size of a watermelon, crashing down upon him.

If you wield a spiked club, I answer with my skull.

But his head was not as hard as expected. With a dull thud, his skull caved in halfway; both eyes burst from their sockets under the force, his tongue flung from his mouth as his jaw snapped shut, landing with a wet slap on someone's shin.

From the dimness strode a giant, his eyes like bronze bells, legs like elephant pillars, wielding a golden melon hammer two feet long and weighing over a hundred pounds—a living Li Yuanba!

“I’ll hold him back. Go blow up the keel!”

Suddenly, a metallic hum rang out in the gloom, a flash of blade slicing through the air. Instinctively, the giant raised his hammer to block, but the blade twisted midair into a hook, yanking the eighty-pound hammer out of his grip.

Though gifted with superhuman strength, he’d not anticipated such a fierce hook—a technique reminiscent of anchoring a ship, where an iron anchor, several men tall and weighing a thousand pounds, once sunk, would halt even the grandest vessel.

None expected that Mo Yi’s swordplay infused hook techniques—specifically, the White Star Hook Hand, one of the secret forms of the Bodyburn Hall. Its lethality was so notorious and cruel that even Luo Yanzong had shunned its practice.

Stepping the Plum Blossom Step, both forearms now black-blue, like steel bones sheathed in skin, Mo Yi was ready to press the attack when another figure dashed ahead, shouting, “Let me take him!”

Shifting into a boxing stance, a chorus of avian cries resounded in the darkness—actually the sharp sounds of bones grinding in wrists and ankles. Guo Feng soared into the air, unleashing the Hundred Birds Flock to the Phoenix, a killing technique of the Lion-Soaring Phoenix Fist. His scapulae rolled like wings, and his descending punch, whistling with wind, truly embodied the Phoenix nodding to the flock.

“Well struck!” roared the Blood Shark flagship’s master, his fist the size of a vinegar bowl, smashing forward. The gale of his punch, mingled with bestial roars and phoenix cries, created a tempest within the confined space.

Yet this mighty clash blocked Mo Yi’s intended kill, leaving the Bodyburn Hall’s famed stoic scowling with frustration.

This is a battlefield, not a tournament!

“Go blow up the keel.”

“I’ll help hold him off,” Guo Feng declared, blood pounding with excitement. From the start, he had hardly fought; now, facing a worthy foe, his fists itched with anticipation.

Mo Yi was not one for pleasantries. Without a word, he spun his blade, fingers snapping and cracking, releasing bursts of blade force that swept over both combatants in a rolling tide of steel.

“What are you doing!?”

Chaos reigned behind, but Kou Li pressed on through the darkness. The lower hold was already dim, and now, in the confusion, it was pitch black—a chaotic mess. He had to be cautious; the firepot in his hand was his only one, and with such ancient gunpowder, he had little faith in its reliability. This had to be placed with precision, at the steel core.

Keel, centerline, beast bone, deep-sea leviathan...

Kou Li lifted a damaged plank, revealing a segment of white bone—smooth and lustrous as fine jade, unmistakably the bone of some great beast.

If the entire length was intact, it would stretch almost a hundred yards. Not even a whale shark could match this size. How had the Water Dragon Gang ever managed to hunt such a colossus?

“Hm?” Kou Li started. As his hand touched the bone, the special sense of the Wordless Diagram was triggered; his awareness extended along the bone, which grew increasingly translucent. A faint yellow line appeared, sometimes thick, sometimes thin, with the thickest part glowing faintly. Instinctively, Kou Li knew: this was the keystone of the entire keel.

With a crack, he pried up the plank at that node. To his surprise, the bone bore a pattern resembling a map—precisely at the brightest point.

“A map on the bone—?”

What could it mean? Did each dragon bone on the ten Shark Ships hold a map fragment, and if combined, what would it reveal?

Pirates, dragon bones—a treasure map?

That was his first thought.

Committing the pattern to memory, Kou Li pulled out his firepot and tinderbox, preparing to act, when a sudden sense of danger overtook him. His back muscles tensed; he rolled instinctively aside just as a muffled stab struck the spot where he had just been crouching.