Chapter 3: The Invisible Wind

Mo Yan didn’t hesitate for a second; with a movement neither graceful nor dashing, he lunged forward in a desperate dodge.

He executed the so-called “lazy donkey roll,” crashing into a heap of inexplicable medical equipment in the ward.

“Mo Yan! What do you think you’re doing? Don’t provoke him!”

An elderly man’s agitated shout burst from the earpiece. Mu Yu was, until now, their only breakthrough.

If things spun out of control because of Mo Yan’s inexplicable actions, the consequences would be incalculable.

Mo Yan’s face was cold as he crouched in the corner by the hospital bed. His tailored trench coat swept up dust along the floor, making him look anything but a master of his craft.

“Have the ward sealed off. Dispatch a combat unit here.”

“What? Mo Yan! Explain yourself! Hey! Mo Yan!”

The old man, well into his seventies, roared into the microphone. The fury in his eyes was like a raging lion, making the clerks nearby, who were writing up reports, tremble with unease.

This was no elderly man meant to enjoy his twilight years in a wheelchair, but an old lion who could leap up at any moment to tear out a prey’s throat.

Even though his face was marked with age and his hands veined and skin loose, no one could say for sure if an old lion wouldn’t suddenly rise to defend his territory.

“Professor, do you want me to report to higher-ups to revoke Captain Mo’s operational authority?” the bespectacled liaison officer asked cautiously.

The old man shot him a glance, as though examining a newfound species.

“If we revoke it, are you going to take over? Tell the investigative team to pull out of the ward, seal all hospital exits, and have the analysis team send the recent footage to headquarters at once.”

“And what about the combat unit I just requested? Are they lost on the way?”

The liaison officer was drenched in sweat, wiping his brow with his sleeve.

“They just reported they’re nearby, but without an order, they don’t dare enter.”

“Nonsense! What are those madmen afraid of? Order them in now! If anyone dares hang back, I’ll kick his butt in myself!”

“Yes, sir!”

The old man watched as the liaison officer, radio in hand, ran off into the distance. He narrowed his eyes, but the fierce glint within them lingered.

“Even that bunch of madmen sense something’s off. Mo, don’t you dare die on me.”

…

After giving a brief report, Mo Yan tore off the earpiece and tossed it onto the bed. At a time like this, any sound could disrupt his movements.

“Hey, man, are you still alive?” Mu Yu’s trembling voice came from the left, tinged with nerves.

Mo Yan’s position wedged him between the bed and the corner of the wall, so anyone approaching head-on would fall right into his line of sight.

The only problem was, with Mo Yan crouching, Mu Yu—no matter how he craned his neck—couldn’t see him at all.

“I’m alive. Did you see anything?”

His voice was as calm and steady as ever, as if an unsheathed blade, unwavering and cold.

Mo Yan’s eyes stayed fixed ahead as his left hand smoothed the hem of his trench coat.

A very obvious tear split it in two, the cut clean and straight.

Had Mo Yan hesitated for a mere instant, his body would have been cleaved in two like his coat.

…

There was indeed something in this room, invisible to Mo Yan, lurking like the shrewdest predator at his back.

Neither Mi Zixi’s departure nor Mu Yu’s awakening had fazed it; it simply kept hidden in the darkness, observing everything.

Only when Mo Yan was momentarily distracted by a message did it finally strike.

Unfortunately for the would-be killer, the “dead fish” lying in bed suddenly snapped back to awareness, or the ambush would have been inescapable.

A fine sweat broke out along Mo Yan’s back, his heartbeat thundering like a stoked furnace.

Though his tone remained even, the chilling intent to kill still made his heart race.

“I—I don’t know. I just suddenly saw a black shadow come out behind you. What the hell is that? Am I still on Earth, man?” Mu Yu babbled, panic thick in his voice. “I haven’t even married yet! You know what they say, the worst filial piety is leaving no descendants. I still want to be a good son, bring joy to my parents.”

“I swear I did nothing wrong. I just took a nap—how am I about to get killed for that?”

Sweating profusely, Mu Yu rambled on. He knew it wasn’t the time for nonsense, but if he didn’t talk, his nerves would snap.

“Don’t panic. Where is it now?”

“I have no idea, really. After it slashed at you, it darted over to the next bed. You pulled the curtain, man—I can’t see anything.”

Despite his complaints, Mu Yu was well aware that his survival depended on this tough-looking stranger pulling through, so he answered with all the effort he could muster, craning his neck toward the curtain as if wishing for four eyes to burn right through it.

Mo Yan frowned. Though he’d only barely dodged the attack, he hadn’t missed what happened behind him.

It was a standard two-bed hospital room—not large, but not small either. What kind of speed would allow someone to swing a blade with full force and then slip behind the curtain on the other side without a sound?

And why wasn’t there any sound of footsteps?

Mo Yan, whose hearing was far keener than most, was certain that all he’d heard—during the dodge and now while crouched—were his own footsteps and Mu Yu’s labored breathing.

But at this moment, Mu Yu and he were in the same boat, and Mo Yan trusted he had no reason to lie.

Mo Yan exhaled sharply. Now wasn’t the time to overthink; the more he dwelled on it, the more likely he would hesitate when it mattered.

Given the assassin’s ruthless efficiency, Mo Yan was certain he wouldn’t get a second chance.

His gaze locked on the upper part of the curtain. By sheer luck, the corner he’d rolled into now gave him a tactical advantage.

Whether the killer burst through the curtain or circled around, Mu Yu or he would spot him. Though the murderer was highly skilled, in a moment of urgency, he’d boxed himself in.

Mo Yan slipped his right hand inside his coat, his expression as serene as a meditating monk.

But his rhythmic breathing and the faint throbbing of his temples belied the seething energy beneath his calm exterior.

He couldn’t help but sigh inwardly: who would have thought a knife technique meant for fitness would be needed here?

Mo Yan had always been an advocate of overwhelming firepower.

Knife fighting was merely a compulsory close-quarters combat class, nothing more. He’d also taken fencing, dagger combat, boxing and other electives, just for credits.

Yet, in this cramped space, though his sidearm was holstered right at his waist, Mo Yan knew that if he so much as reached for it, the killer’s ghost-like speed would see him beheaded in a flash.

But the short blade hidden in his coat would leave his opponent unable to predict his angle of attack—giving him a fighting chance.

Who could have imagined, in an age so advanced in firearms, that one might still rely on a blade?

…

Damn it, shouldn’t this be a classic Western standoff, both sides taking cover behind beds and drawing pistols?

Despite his inward complaints, Mo Yan’s mind grew increasingly tranquil, as though, in the face of life and death, he was finally grasping the “no-self” state his knife-fighting instructor once stressed.

See no one, think of no one; when the blade rises, all before it is cut down!

The curtain suddenly shuddered. The killer finally lost patience—he must have heard Mo Yan’s call for help transmitted earlier.

If they kept at this stalemate, a squad of rifle-wielding soldiers would soon kick the door open and fill him full of holes.

So the killer had to strike first, trusting his speed to behead Mo Yan in a split second.

Mo Yan gritted his teeth, his very soul nearly crushed by the assassin’s murderous intent, yet he drew his blade in a single, explosive motion.

The short knife, drawn from beneath his coat, whistled through the air in a graceful arc, sharp as an antelope’s horn.

He was a genius—that’s how he’d become group leader of Fengzhou in just a few years.

Every aspect of a genius should be peerless, surpassing all others. Though knife-fighting was just a side class for credits, in all of Fengzhou, his knife skills were second to none.

Mo Yan finally understood why his instructor would always shout with every strike.

For a knifeman, every slash is a life-or-death struggle—each one might be the last.

The final brilliance of one’s life, without the drums of war, always feels lacking.

In that instant, the once-gentle young man became a raging beast, bellowing as he swung his blade.

Restraint and composure burned away in his bloodshot eyes.

He’d spent four years learning one move—this move, called “Draw and Cut.”

No matter who—man, ghost, or mountain—Mo Yan believed he could cleave them apart with this stroke.

But the expected impact didn’t come. That blade, sharp enough to slice steel, struck only empty air.

The humanoid shadow collapsed midair, falling stiffly to the ground.

Its ashen face, turned to the side, seemed to hold a trace of mockery.

A faint breeze whispered from above, so light and elusive it was almost imperceptible. Who could believe a slash brimming with such killing intent would carry the gentleness of spring wind?

Mo Yan’s heart sank. The full-force slash had thrown his balance forward.

Forget defending—he didn’t even have time to dodge further. This predator’s every strike clutched the beast’s throat.

Even a tiger could only submit to such a deathblow.

A worthy and terrifying foe.

He strained to turn, desperate to glimpse his opponent’s face. Not knowing who killed you would be too tragic a fate.

“Huh!?”

Mo Yan’s pupils widened involuntarily, more than when his attack missed.

Above him, where the blade had just whistled through the air—

There was nothing at all.