Plundering Worlds: I Have a Shotgun in a Fantasy World-Chapter 64: Severance

[Riverbank - Night]

Kael landed twenty paces from the wall. The ground received the force—impact dispersing the moment his feet touched earth, drawn inward, absorbed into a circulation already in motion. Qi moved before muscle engaged. The force folded into him and flowed through the completed circuit, and the landing settled cleanly into his stance.

Baihe stood fifty paces ahead, near the water’s edge. The river moved slow and dark behind him, moonlight catching the surface in broken silver lines.

"There you are. I was wondering how long you’d take to follow."

The black blade angled forward in Kael’s hand.

Baihe tilted his head. "You’re something of a prodigy, aren’t you? Straight into Xiantian. Clean transition." He studied Kael for a moment. "When I broke through, I wasn’t nearly that calm."

"When did you break through?"

"Long enough ago."

If he’d broken through at eighteen, that meant he’d spent years fighting at this level. Years learning how power behaved when pushed too far. Years recovering from mistakes Kael hadn’t even imagined yet.

Kael had just arrived. Baihe had lived here.

Baihe watched the calculation flicker across his face and smiled. "Sixteen. I’ve lived in this realm longer than you’ve held a steady stance in it. You’re still learning how to breathe here."

He drew his sword—silver-white, longer than Kael’s, the edge catching moonlight like captured stars. "You’re thinking of ways to stall. Ways to talk, negotiate, buy time—maybe I’ll get bored, maybe something will happen to save you. I used to do that too. It never worked." He pointed his blade at Kael. "No more talking. You’re not going to win. The only question is whether you make this interesting before I kill you."

Kael settled into his stance—Reversal Steps, weight forward, sword low.

"Ready?" Baihe’s smile widened. "Begin."

He closed the distance in a single step, fifty paces bridged at once, the movement so precise the air parted smoothly around him. His blade came from the side and Kael’s sword rose to meet it. The impact jarred through him—not just heavier, but denser, as if Baihe’s strike carried years of weight behind it. His feet skidded back three paces before the Reversal Steps caught and redirected.

*Still the same. Xiantian changed nothing.*

Baihe was already moving. His second strike came high; Kael ducked under it and thrust forward, blade driving toward Baihe’s right shoulder. The silver blade turned it aside with effortless precision. Kael pressed—his third strike carved toward the same point, a hair’s breadth lower, cutting for the joint where arm met torso. Baihe shifted cleanly out of line.

"Predictable."

The fourth strike, same target, same angle adjusted for Baihe’s new position. This time Baihe blocked it fully, their blades meeting with a sharp crack that echoed across the water. "Every strike. Same target."

"You’re going after my sword arm." The smile faded as he studied Kael.

Kael didn’t answer. His fifth strike came faster—Qi flooded into his legs, into his arms, the Returning Yang True Art cycling with perfect efficiency. Baihe blocked it, then attacked—three strikes in rapid succession, each one forcing Kael back. Kael gave ground. Twenty-five years of ingrained motion steadied his defense, tempered by months of real combat, but Baihe was faster and stronger, and every exchange made that clear.

When the opening came, Kael took it—thrust forward, aimed at—

"Right shoulder again." Baihe parried, almost disappointed. "You’re smarter than this."

Kael struck for the same joint.

Baihe blocked—and this time he didn’t smile. "Interesting."

They separated, twenty paces between them, both breathing steady. Kael’s right arm ached from the repeated impacts, his sword heavier than it had been at the start—not the blade itself, but the accumulated weight of blocking someone who outmatched him in every measurable way.

Baihe began circling slowly. "You’re establishing a pattern. Every strike to the same place, over and over—you want me comfortable defending that one angle, and then you switch. Go for the throat, or the heart, or the legs." He stopped, his right side opening slightly, the exposure deliberate. "It’s clever. If you were fighting someone at your level, it might even work. But I’ve seen this trick a hundred times. I’ve used it a hundred times." His smile turned cold. "So when you finally switch—when you commit to that one real strike—I’ll kill you."

"Maybe."

"Not maybe." His stance opened further. "Come on. I’ll wait."

Kael moved. Qi surged, the black blade swept forward in a clean arc, targeting—

Baihe’s right shoulder.

Their swords met. The impact drove Kael back two steps, and something shifted in Baihe’s tone. "You’re not even pretending to set it up properly. You’re just doing it."

Kael attacked again, same target, faster.

Baihe blocked—but this time the edge bit a fraction closer to the joint than before, close enough that his sleeve split along the seam. His eyes sharpened. The casual ease was gone. "No feints. No false openings."

Kael came again.

Baihe’s parry was precise, but he had to turn his wrist harder than before, then he laughed, short and sharp. "Oh. That’s bold."

Kael pressed forward. Another strike, same angle.

"You’re not setting up a switch at all," Baihe said. "You’re training me to think you are—so that when you finally go for something real, I’ll see it as the feint I’ve been waiting for. I’ll hesitate, just long enough, because I’ll be too busy feeling clever." He lowered his guard deliberately, his right side completely open. "But here’s the problem. I’m still faster than you."

His blade moved—a blur of silver. The tip scored a line across Kael’s ribs, not deep, just enough to draw blood. "Even if I hesitate, I’m still fast enough to adjust mid-strike. You don’t have the speed that comes from years at this level." He attacked properly for the first time—three strikes in rapid succession, each aimed to kill. Kael blocked two and barely dodged the third, the silver blade passing close enough to his neck to cut a few strands of hair. "So go ahead. Make me doubt myself." His smile turned predatory. "I’ll still kill you."

Blood seeped from the cut on Kael’s ribs, staining his robe dark, but his eyes were calm.

"Your turn," Baihe said, spreading his arms wide, sword loose in his right hand. "Show me what you’ve got."

Kael moved. He drove forward, abandoning the right side entirely, the blade cutting straight for a new line—one he hadn’t touched before. The black blade swept toward Baihe’s heart, fast and clean and committed.

Baihe’s expression lit up. "THERE IT IS!"

His sword came around with impossible speed, a direct counter that met Kael’s thrust, turned it aside, and flowed through in a single seamless motion toward Kael’s chest. His counter came clean and immediate, already aligned with the angle of Kael’s thrust, as if he had been waiting for it.

Kael twisted. Reversal Steps, the first technique he’d learned, the foundation of everything. His body shifted, the angle of Baihe’s strike changing from center mass to—

Not enough. Not fast enough.

Baihe adjusted mid-strike, reading the movement, his blade tracking Kael’s motion with terrible precision. The silver sword punched through Kael’s chest. Straight through the heart. The impact drove Kael backward, feet skidding on the dirt, his body going rigid, the black sword starting to slip from his fingers.

Baihe’s smile was radiant. "Perfect! Finally—"

Kael’s left hand shot out and locked around Baihe’s right wrist. His fingers clamped down with every last thread of strength, Qi flooding into his grip, locking the joint in place. Blood filled his mouth. His vision tunneled. But his grip held.

Kael’s right hand came up—empty now, the black sword fallen into the dirt. Palm open. Edge of the hand like a blade. Qi condensed, everything he had left, every scrap of circulation compressed into a single point.

The strike fell.

A breaking blow. An impact that drove through bone and tendon and flesh in a single unstoppable line. Baihe’s hand separated from his wrist. Clean. Final. It fell still gripping the silver sword, still lodged in Kael’s chest.

Baihe staggered back, staring at the stump as blood poured from the wound—thick, dark, steady.

For a heartbeat his breath failed him. The pain arrived late and violent, flaring up his arm and into his shoulder before he crushed it down with a pulse of qi. The bleeding slowed.

Only then did he look at Kael.

"Got you."

His voice barely made a sound. Then he fell forward.

Baihe stood very still. He looked at his stump, then at Kael’s body, then he started laughing—short sharp bursts, his shoulders shaking, one hand pressed to his face as if steadying himself, breath hitching between the sounds.

"You clever little—" The laughter choked off. "You staked your heart."

He walked forward and crouched beside the body. "Five years since someone made me bleed like this." He flexed the stump once, testing what remained, reached down and pulled the silver sword free; the severed hand came with it, still locked in its death grip, and he pried the fingers open one by one and let it fall into the dirt. Then he picked up the black sword and held it to the moonlight. Without qi to awaken it the steel remained dark, its surface refusing to shine.

"You won’t need this anymore. But I’ll keep it." He stood and sheathed the black sword at his hip alongside his own. "Next time I meet someone like you—" His smile was small, almost sad. "I’ll remember. I’ll expect the impossible."

He turned and walked away. Behind him, Kael’s body lay still in the dirt, blood pooling dark beneath him.

Footsteps. Running.

Lianghong burst through the grass, stumbling, breath ragged. He’d been too far behind—hadn’t seen most of it, just flashes of steel and the final moment when everything went still. He saw Kael first, face-down in the dirt, blood everywhere, and dropped beside the body without thinking. Two fingers to the neck, searching for a pulse. The skin was still warm. Nothing. He tried the wrist. Still nothing. "Come on—" He rolled the body over and found the wound—straight through the chest, clean and terrible—and Kael’s eyes were open and empty and Lianghong’s fingers slipped in the blood.

He sat back on his heels. Blood covered his palms, already cooling in the night air, and he stayed there just long enough to understand what he was seeing. Then he moved. Straightened the limbs, brushed the dirt from Kael’s face, tried to smooth the robe where blood had soaked through and gave up when his hands left more stains. Someone had to make him presentable.

His fingers caught on something hard beneath the fabric. He reached into the inner pocket and pulled out a jade token—square, heavy, carved with characters he recognized even in the dark.

Buyan Sect. Chief Disciple.

He’d heard the name before. Lu Zhihuan.

But standing there now, holding the token, he realized he’d never asked who that man had been before this road. Never asked where he’d come from. Who had taught him. Who had expected him to return.

The token was proof that someone had.

And he had died here, by a river no one from his home would ever see.

Lianghong closed his fist around the token and started digging. The ground was hard and rocky; he had no shovel, just his hands and a flat stone he found by the water, and he dug until his fingers bled and the hole was deep enough that animals wouldn’t reach it.

By dawn, the grave was ready. He lowered the body in carefully, the way you handle something that matters—folded the arms across the chest, left the token in Kael’s hand—then covered it. Dirt first, packed down. Then stones, heavy enough to mark the place, to say someone had been here.

When it was done he sat beside it for a long time. The sun rose. The river flowed. The world continued, and somewhere in the distance birds were singing.

He pulled out his journal. His hands were still shaking and ink spilled across the page, but he didn’t care.

Lu Zhihuan died at the riverbank. He traded his life for Baihe’s right hand. The cut was clean. Baihe did not scream. He only stared. Zhihuan smiled once, as if in relief.

The brush paused. Lianghong looked at the cairn.

He smiled at the end.

He closed the journal and sat there, beside the grave, as the morning light spread across the water.

[Buyan Sect - Training Courtyard - Some Time Later]

The morning was clear and cool, autumn air carrying the scent of pine and dry leaves. Yun Shu and Yun Juan stood in the center of the courtyard, both breathing hard, swords lowered.

"Again," Yun Shu said.

"Your timing is still off—"

"My timing is fine. You’re too slow on the reversal."

"I’m not slow, you’re—"

"Both of you are slow."

They turned. Master Yun stood at the edge of the courtyard, arms crossed, expression unreadable as always. "If your senior brother saw that combination, he’d have stopped it three moves in."

Yun Juan wiped sweat from her face. "That’s why we’re practicing. We want to surprise him when he gets back."

"Show him we’ve improved," Yun Shu added, grinning. "Maybe even give him a real fight this time."

"Ambitious." Master Yun’s expression softened slightly—almost a smile. "When do you think he’ll return?" Yun Juan asked. "It’s been months." "Hard to say. He said he was heading west when he left. Knowing him, he’s probably gotten distracted and forgotten the way home."

The twins laughed.

Near the edge of the courtyard, a small figure sat cross-legged on a flat stone. Shitou—the newest disciple, barely eight years old—held a wooden sword in his lap, not practicing with it, just holding it, running his fingers over the carved grip the way children hold precious things.

"Shitou! Want to join us?"

The boy looked up and shook his head.

"You’ve been sitting there all morning," Yun Juan said. "Come on. We’ll go easy on you."

"I’m waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"For big brother to come back."

The twins exchanged a glance. "He’ll be back soon," Yun Shu said. "He always comes back."

Shitou looked down at the wooden sword, his fingers tracing the grain where Lu Zhihuan—where Kael—had carved it months ago. Simple, sturdy, made for a child’s hands. "He promised to teach me the sword," he said quietly. "He promised."

Master Yun paused at the entrance to the main hall and looked back. "He’ll keep his promise. Your senior brother doesn’t break his word."

"When will he come back?"

"When he’s ready. Could be next week. Could be next year. Cultivators don’t keep to schedules."

Shitou hesitated. "Master... is he fighting bad guys?"

Yun Shu and Yun Juan exchanged another look. Master Yun let out a short breath through his nose. "Him? He could be drinking somewhere. Or spending money in a brothel." He stepped into the hall, voice dry. "Whatever he’s doing, don’t grow up to be like him."

Shitou lowered his head and his fingers tightened around the wooden sword. "He promised," he said.

The courtyard fell quiet. Yun Shu and Yun Juan resumed their practice—the clash of wooden swords, the rhythm of footwork, the steady breathing of training. Shitou sat on his stone and waited. The sun climbed higher, shadows shortening beneath the pine trees, and far to the west, by a river he had never seen, the man who had carved that sword lay beneath a cairn of river stones.

The training continued. The disciples laughed. Master Yun prepared tea in the hall. The ginkgo tree at the courtyard’s edge shed its leaves, one by one, the way it did every autumn.