Chapter 166: You Die Now

“Stop!”

At that very last moment, Styx’s thin silver Jian finally arrived. Its tip vibrated at blinding speed, like a drill, tearing through the air with a shrill screech as it aimed at Zuo Zhicheng’s spine.

To onlookers, the strike appeared incredibly fast and sharp. It was almost nothing but a shimmer of silver light yet carried a piercing intensity that somehow stung like a blade grazing someone’s cheek.

Heart, mind, intent, spirit aura, and personal momentum—all converged into that single blow. By force and by speed, this Jian strike represented Styx’s absolute limit. Styx felt sure that even if he were facing a solid steel plate, he could pierce right through it.

Against Styx’s all-out attack, Zuo Zhicheng finally, for the first time, halted in his tracks. He spun around lightly. A combat Dagger, impossible to tell where it materialized from, appeared in his hand. The blades met in a fierce clash. Sparks scattered, erupting from between the two combatants in bursts of fiery Mars, as the crisp sounds of shattering glass filled the air—a rapid series of crisp cracking sounds.

Zuo Zhicheng was certainly capable of facing the armed Styx barehanded. But in his mind, there existed no notion of holding back or mercy.

An instant later, Styx’s slender Jian shattered. Thrown backward bodily through the air, his body was already bursting with multiple sprays of crimson blood before he hit the ground.

He tumbled to a halt, half-kneeling, his face twisted in horror. In that split-second exchange, he’d felt like he was walking a tightrope over a bottomless pit. The slightest careless move, and he would have been killed instantly. The crushing pressure, the sheer threat of death—even his master, the Crimson Sun Monk, had never made him feel such dread.

Styx’s desperate strike had bought a single second of delay for Zuo Zhicheng. As his Jian shattered and he reeled back, Zuo Zhicheng simply took one large stride forward and reappeared directly before A Hai.

A Hai had just scrambled to a half-standing position. And then he saw it—a fist descending upon him like Mount Tai itself collapsing. It felt as if the vast sky itself was blotted out by this mountain-like force. An overwhelming feeling of despair gripped him. The fist hadn’t even landed yet, but the sheer force of the winds preceding it buffeted his skin so fiercely it hurt with a visceral sting.

“Ahhh—”

A Hai opened his mouth, bellowing a roar, wanting to desperately counter Zuo Zhicheng. But his furious cry was instantly stifled as Zuo Zhicheng closed the distance, the sheer force of his punch shoving the voice back down A Hai’s throat.

There was no time to think. A Hai’s hands shot forward. Veins and muscles bulged unnaturally, turning his hands into crimson, blood-drenched claws. He tore viciously at Zuo Zhicheng’s stomach.

This was his signature martial skill—the Blood Tiger Claws, part of his deadly style known as Blood Rain Tiger Demon Slayer. Practitioners trained daily, wrestling and killing adult tigers barehanded, gutting them with their claws, bathing their hands in tiger blood. This grisly regimen strengthened and sharpened the claws. With concentrated breath and blood surging through his hands, A Hai possessed the raw power to rip beasts apart. Countless in the underworld had died before these lethal tiger claws.

Yet now, facing this man who felt like a demon god, A Hai felt no confidence at all. Instead of blocking the fist aimed at his head, A Hai chose to attack the stomach. His hope was that Zuo Zhicheng, fearing injury, would pull back the punch to dodge, buying precious seconds for his allies to rescue him.

He could not have been more wrong.

Zuo Zhicheng’s fist didn’t shift in the slightest. It was as if he didn’t even see the deadly claws raking towards his stomach. The colossal fist continued on its inevitable arc, plummeting towards A Hai’s skull.

The blood-red claws struck Zuo Zhicheng’s stomach without resistance. Normally, with just a slight exertion from A Hai, his opponent’s belly would have split open instantly, intestines, stomach, and blood vessels ripped clean out.

But this time, A Hai felt like he’d slammed his paws against unyielding boilerplate steel. Not only did his claws fail to pierce, but a ferocious rebounding force blasted back along his fingers. His wrists, his entire frame, vibrated violently, shooting with intense pain and sudden numbness.

‘Yama Golden Body?’

Stunned terror flashed across A Hai’s eyes. In the next instant, an almost oceanic force detonated inside his skull. He didn’t even register pain. His head shattered utterly, spraying out a messy mixture of red and white matter. Some even splattered onto Zuo Zhicheng’s clothing.

But as his Yama Golden Body activated, Zuo Zhicheng’s skin seemed enveloped by an unseen Force Field. The splashes of red and white hit an invisible barrier and were instantly flicked away.

Off to the side, Yuwen Gege, Yuwen Didi, White Wraith, and the injured Styx watched the scene unfold. Their faces twisted as they stared at the headless corpse still twitching violently on the ground. Dread warred with fury as their expressions changed wildly.

From the instant Zuo Zhicheng suddenly launched his attack, to the moment A Hai was struck dead by that single punch, less than ten seconds had elapsed. A Hai, the second strongest among them, was gone.

If Zuo Zhicheng wills you dead, you die. It made no difference how many protected you, guarded you—your death was certain. An aura of boundless, overwhelming dominance radiated from Zuo Zhicheng. Its target wasn’t just Styx and his group; even the nearby martial artists and apprentices stood frozen, utterly terrified.

He Minghai gaped wide, his jaw hanging loose, unable to close. His brain struggled to accept what had just happened before his eyes. ‘What just happened? How is this possible? Why is Zuo Zhicheng this powerful? How can he possibly be this strong?’

Recalling how easily he’d once considered bringing Zuo Zhicheng under his control, an absurd sense of incredulity flooded through him.

On the other side, A Fei and his companions, who knew Zuo Zhicheng was skilled, were stunned beyond measure. They’d never fathomed the depths of his strength.

But perhaps the most complex swirl of emotions belonged to Qin Wu. As a fellow martial hall leader who favored Xiao Jingyang, he’d always secretly hoped Zuo Zhicheng would vanish or meet failure. Now, witnessing Zuo Zhicheng turn the tide single-handedly annihilating the Dìyù Gate attackers, Qin Wu felt both relief and a stubborn, clinging resentment—a deep-seated envy and disgust that refused to leave him.

For Qingyue Qiu and the others near her, it was entirely different thought.

Zuo Zhicheng’s power seemed to belong to an entirely different dimension. A discarded suspicion suddenly flared back to life in their hearts.

‘Is it possible… that this man… Zuo Zhicheng… is the Ghost Fist?’

This wasn’t the time for pondering. Almost the very instant Zuo Zhicheng’s fist obliterated A Hai, Qingyue Qiu and her allies snapped into high alert.

“Get ready!” Qingyue Qiu’s command cut through the stunned silence.

“Disperse the crowd!” Another voice rang out, urgent.

“Signal NOW!”

A piercing shriek tore through the air the moment Qingyue Qiu shouted “Signal NOW!” A bright signal flare zipped skywards. Soldiers waiting just streets away burst from hiding and charged en masse toward the martial hall.

The next instant, an intolerable, searing heat slammed down onto the entire martial hall courtyard like an invisible blanket. Everyone present instantly felt their mouths parch, their throats tighten.

Zuo Zhicheng raised his head. Perched high up on the bordering courtyard wall stood a monk clad in deep crimson robes. The man’s eyes shone with an unsettling, hellish light, flickering like dancing flames.

The monk brought his palms together before his chest in a solemn gesture. Behind him, a searing radiance bloomed—intense, blinding, utterly overwhelming—as if an enormous, malevolent red sun had suddenly ignited just above the walls. Everyone felt like they’d been forcibly dragged from the middle of winter to the peak of the hottest, most oppressive, sweltering summer day imaginable beneath a merciless Sun. Sweat instantly beaded on brows.