What do you mean I'm a cultivator?-Chapter 40

Jiang Cheng decided in an instant, the moment he saw the masked man's hand twitch. Clearly, he was getting impatient, or seeing that the plan to buy time was not working as well as he hoped, he would throw a knife, trying to get the upper hand.

His sword flashed as he dashed forward, the dirt beneath his feet scattering from the force of his movement, leaving a clear imprint on the ground.

The masked cultivator flicked his wrist, sending another poisoned knife whistling through the air, but Cheng tilted his head just slightly. The blade zipped past his ear, embedding itself into a tree behind him with a dull thunk.

Before the assassin could react further, Cheng was upon him, forcing the man to draw his own, mundane sword to meet him.

Their swords met in a violent clash, sparks dancing in the twilight. The masked cultivator fought desperately, but Cheng’s strikes came fast and unrelenting. The assassin backpedaled, barely keeping up as his weaker cultivation became painfully apparent. The difference in strength, skill, and weapon was undeniable.

Cheng’s blade bit deep into the man’s defenses, forcing him lower and lower. A final strike sent the assassin stumbling, his knees buckling. A flicker of fear crossed his eyes as Cheng raised his sword for the finishing blow.

It was clear that Cheng was not going all out. There were two reasons for this. Cheng had never fought with a real human wanting to kill him, causing him to be wary and hide some of his strength. The second?

He was unwilling to spend too much Qi. After all, the more Qi he spent, the more time he'd have to recuperate, instead of furthering his cultivation.

But just before he could strike, a shout rang out.

Two more figures broke from the chaos of the caravan attack, dashing towards him with their blades drawn. Reinforcements, two knives were already flying towards him.

Cheng pivoted just in time, blocking the first knife with his sword, flinging it away, and jumped back, giving him time to fling the second one away.

Cheng took a deep breath, regretting not going all out immediately. Now, it was three against one.

He saw them move in a formation, one in front, and the other two on his sides, trying to attack him from different angles.

And so, a fight broke out once more, as Cheng blocked and parried strike after strike. One on his left, aiming for his side. One on his right, aiming for his leg. The last one is aiming for his head.

And even though their strikes were weaker than his own, the sheer number of them was starting to strain his arm.

Though inwardly starting to panic, he forced himself to calm down. He was stronger by quite a bit. All he needed to do was hold on. Learn their patterns. And strike.

And so, seconds later, the first assassin, seeing an opportunity, tried to strike from behind.

Cheng anticipated it. No. He planned for it. Cheng wasn't stupid. He could see that the three of them were getting desperate. Desperate to turn the tide. They knew that he was stronger. That he'd have more Qi to use than what they had.

He knew that, just like him, they'd try to strike at the first opportunity. So, what wouldn't be better than to hand one on a silver platter for them?

And as the masked man moved his blade to cut at his shoulder, aiming to dispatch his sword weidling arm, with a sudden burst of movement, using Qi on all his body,

Cheng twisted, dodging the blade, with its sharp edge cutting some strands of his hair, and brought his sword diagonally in a brutal

upwards slash.

Cheng felt his blade meeting flesh. It's sharp edge cutting through muscles, tendons, bones, and whatever was there as the blade moved, carving a deep slash from the masked man's hip, all the way to his shoulder.

The masked cultivator gasped, biting down a scream of pain as Cheng’s blade tore through him.

Blood splattered across the dirt road as the man crumpled, the force of the strike sending him tumbling on the dirt road.

The remaining two assassins hesitated for just a moment, seeing their leader out of commission.

But before Cheng could finish off the remaining two, two more figures split off from the remnants of the battle near the carriages.

The guards were almost entirely wiped out now, their bodies littering the bloodstained dirt. These new arrivals moved with the same deadly precision as the others, their blades already drawn as they closed in on him.

Now, it was four against one. And here Cheng hoped that he'd get a break.

Cheng’s expression remained stoic, but he knew this was different. Three had been manageable. Four forced him onto his back foot.

It was not like these were untrained cultivators either. They were trained assassins, likely mercenaries, dressed as thieves and bandits. Sure, individually, Cheng had no problem taking them down.

But let alone three, four at once was most likely his limit. Even though he wanted to avoid it, if he wanted to keep his life, he'd have to spend more Qi than he liked.

The moment he tried to strike at one, another would lunge at his open side. If he tried to counter, a well placed knife would force him to retreat. The assassins weren’t just skilled individually.

They fought as a coordinated unit, weaving together relentless attacks meant to leave him with no opening to retaliate. And unlike three people, now that they were four, they could cover all of Cheng's sides. Front, back, and sides.

Cheng blocked a downward slash from one opponent, twisting his sword to deflect another strike aimed at his ribs. Before he could block at his other side, a knife whistled toward his face. He jerked back just in time, the knife barely grazing his cheek.

The second it took to reposition himself allowed one of the assassins to slash at his thigh.

The blade grazed him once again, cutting through his outer robes. Blood seeped through the fabric. A minor wound. But a reminder that he wasn’t untouchable. Not by a long shot.

It was frustrating. He knew he was stronger. But this was a show. It showed him that power wasn't all. Not when the difference was this close. It made him think. What else could I have prepared? What else could I have done?

He adjusted his stance, tightening his grip on his sword as he took a measured step back. His breathing remained steady, eyes darting between his opponents. Their confidence grew with every second he failed to counterattack. They thought they had him.

They thought they had him? He'd show them what fools they were attacking him.

The next time one of them lunged, Cheng feigned a retreat. Only to shift at the last second, slamming his foot down, leaving an imprint on the dirt ground.

His Qi flew out of his dantian like a raging river through his body, and in his blade, before he struck the assassin's own blade.

But this time, the force sent the man flying backwards, his sword broken in half, and a deep gash on his chest, much like the one gifted by Cheng to his leader.

Another knife came sailing toward Cheng’s chest. He deflected it midair, but the distraction was enough for one of the assassins to close the distance. Their blade arced toward his shoulder.

Cheng barely blocked in time. The impact reverberated up his arm, forcing him to dig his heels into the dirt to keep from being pushed back. But that block was enough for another knife to reach his side. Cheng gritted his teeth, feeling the Knife plunge into his side.

But thanks to the Qi in him, it barely lodged halfway.

Cheng narrowed his eyes, letting out a short hiss of pain. He had never faced this level of coordination before. Not like he had experience fighting in general.

Every time he shifted to attack, another strike forced him to defend, and each retreat was met with a thrown knife meant to herd him into another angle of attack. They weren’t just attacking. They were controlling his movements, dictating the pace of the fight.

And the worst part is that he could understand it, and almost do nothing about it. Annoying. Really annoying. It was getting on his nerves.

If they wanted to control the fight, he would break their rhythm.

How exactly? He'd trade another wound to take one of them out.

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This was no longer a fight in a physical sense. Cheng was damn sure the knife was poisoned. And so, he would waste Qi. Better that than his life.

He charged the nearest assassin, not giving them a chance to reposition. His sword arced low, forcing the man to leap back. Good, Cheng thought. "You can't dodge mid air idiot." he mumbled.

Cheng once again slammed his foot on the ground, His Qi raging in his body, empowering him, and he stepped forwards, leaving a imprint, his sword gleamed in the moonlight, as it came down crashing on the assassin, Cutting him in two, The blade moving from his shoulder, to exit from his groin.

The man collapsed with a strangled gasp.

Two left. This was lucky. He expected to trade a blow for this kill. Looks like he wasn't the only one who was starting to panic. What kind of idiot jumps back instead of stepping back?

Was it to throw a volley of knives? Cheng had no idea. And now, he didn't have the chance to find out.

A knife flew straight for Cheng’s face, but this time, he didn’t dodge. He leaned into it, snapping his sword upward in a sharp motion. The blade of the knife shattered against his weapon, fragments spinning off harmlessly. The assassin who had thrown it widened his eyes, just as Cheng exploded forward.

His sword struck like lightning, quick, efficient, brutal. The assassin barely got his weapon up in time, but Cheng didn’t give him space to breathe. A relentless flurry of attacks rained down, forcing the man to stumble, his footing breaking under the sheer force of Cheng’s strikes.

The other moved to help, but now, Cheng was in control.

He twisted his body at an impossible angle, bringing his sword up in a diagonal cut. The assassin’s weapon was too slow to intercept, and Cheng’s blade tore into his shoulder, cutting deep. The man crumpled, his arm flying off, and with a stomp, Cheng landed his foot on the man's ribs, hearing them crunch, blood coating his leg.

The last one immediately lunged, uncaring for his life, aiming for Cheng. It was clear that he knew he was going to die. But there were more assassins near the carriages. If he could deal a good enough blow, he would stop Cheng from reporting what happened to the sect, something that would compromise their mission.

Unfortunately for him, Cheng's next strike was brutal. His sword flew, cleaving through the man's neck. But thanks to Cheng not expecting a suicide attack, the dying man slammed another knife right into Cheng's stomach.

Cheng gritted his teeth, biting down a scream that threatened to come out of his mouth. Blood dripped from his side and lower stomach, both places where knives were sticking out. His breathing was heavy but controlled. He had won.

Jiang Cheng exhaled slowly, feeling the sting of his wounds now that the adrenaline was fading. He pressed a hand to his side, grimacing as fresh blood seeped between his fingers. Annoying.

But at least he was alive. "That was stupid of me. Really stupid." Cheng mumbled to himself, regretting not going all out immediately. If he had, by the time support had arrived to help their leader, he would at most have to take on a two on one.

He was foolish to think about conserving his Qi. And for what? If he had acted fast, he probably wouldn't have wasted as much Qi as he did now, holding the wounds closed with his Qi.

"You're a fucking idiot Cheng." he muttered, gritting his teeth as he pulled one knife out, then the other, feeling his blood leak out.

Reaching into his satchel, which somehow survived the fight unharmed, he pulled out a roll of medical bandages.

Nothing too grand. But useful. He could only thank the outer sect pavilion's supplies, to have bandages laced with some mundane herbs repacked.

Likely from some kind of deal with a merchant house.

His movements were methodical, but unfamiliar. he had never done this before.

Tearing a strip with his teeth, he wrapped it tightly around his torso, hissing as the fabric pressed against the gash, the medicine seeped into his skin, stinging.

The pain was sharp, but he welcomed it. Pain meant he was still alive.

It also reminded him of his mistakes. He should have done better. He could have done better.

He looked at the remains of the fight, and he felt nauseous. Now, with adrenaline gone, he could feel the weight of his actions. He had taken a human life. Multiple.

His stomach churned violently. The scent of blood, thick and metallic, clung to the air, mixing with the earth’s dampness. The sight of the bodies twisted, lifeless, and drenched in red made his throat tighten. He wanted to retch, to turn away, to shut his eyes and pretend he hadn't done this.

But he didn't.

Jiang Cheng forced himself to look. He had done this. His sword, still dripping, had carved through muscle and bone. His hands, trembling slightly, bore the stains of his actions. The bodies weren’t just faceless enemies anymore. They had been men. Men with lives, names, and perhaps even families waiting for them.

Sure, they were assassins, but they were humans, just like him.

And yet, he couldn’t afford to care.

He clenched his jaw, swallowing the bile that threatened to rise. "You're a fucking cultivator." he muttered under his breath, his voice harsh and raspy. "Act like one Cheng."

This was the path he had chosen, wasn't it? Sure, the sect had brought him in to be a mere working hand. To carry logs, water, clean the steps, and whatever else. A glorified servant at most.

But he had wanted to grow stronger, to stand above others, to explore this world, and all its magical sights.

Power had a price. This was part of it.

So why did his hands still shake?

Anger. That was what burned in his chest. Not at them. Not even at the fact that he had to kill. But at himself. At his weakness. His hesitation. His pathetic reaction.

What had he expected? That he could wield a sword and never stain it with blood? That he could walk this path and remain untouched by death?

He clenched his fist, willing the trembling to stop. The nausea was still there, but he forced himself to control it. He could fall apart later. Not now.

"What kind of cultivator can't control their feeling. Focus Cheng. Focus you fucking idiot." he mumbled, angry at himself.

Pushing himself upright, he wiped the blood from his blade with slow, deliberate movements before sheathing it. His body ached, his wounds pulsed, but his mind had settled.

This was his first taste of real battle. His first kill. His first human kill, to be exact. And Cheng knew, it most likely wouldn't be the last.

Still feeling nauseous and angry, he turned his attention to the battlefield. The dirt road was littered with bodies, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood. The assassins were dead or gone.

Among the corpses of the caravan’s guards, one was still breathing.

Cheng stepped closer, his boots crunching against blood soaked dirt, his wounds stinging.

The man was slumped against a fallen attacker, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. His armor was shattered, his face bruised and bloodied, but his grip was still tight around his sword. Even in near death, he refused to let go of his weapon.

The corpses of two assassins lay beside him, their wounds fresh. He had taken them down, even as his own life bled out onto the ground.

A final act of defiance. It was eye opening for Cheng. That, despite what happened to him, others had it worse. Instead of walking mostly unharmed, he could be bleeding on the ground.

Cheng crouched, his eyes sensing the guard's body. Even without Qi aiding him, his senses and sight had grown strong enough on their own to do something like this. That might be thanks to his unusually powerful perception though.

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The guard’s eyelids fluttered weakly, his gaze unfocused as he tried to make sense of who stood before him.

“Still alive.” Cheng muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

The guard’s lips moved, but no sound came. He was too weak to speak. His breathing was slowing. He wouldn’t last much longer without treatment.

Cheng considered it for a moment. It wasn’t his problem. The guard was as good as dead if he didn’t have a physician or a healer nearby. Nor did he have any kind of medicine to help.

If it was just a cut, he could have bandaged it somewhat, but the man had many of them, since he'd have to return whatever he didn't use on his mission. and one particularly gruesome one on his stomach, nearly showing his internal organs. It made Cheng feel nauseous once again, but he held it down.

Cheng stood up, leaving the man to fate. If someone from the caravan still lived, they could handle it.

He turned toward the carriages.

Most were damaged, arrows embedded in the wood, the horses restless from the lingering scent of blood. Two of them lay down on the ground, dead. The grandest of the three, however, remained relatively untouched.

Curiosity flickered through Cheng’s mind as he stepped closer. Whoever had been inside must have been important for this attack to happen in the first place.

Then, the door creaked open.

A rotund man in fine silk robes stumbled out, his face slick with sweat. His hands trembled as he straightened his clothes, attempting to regain some dignity before he faced Cheng. The moment he looked up, his expression shifted. Fear. Gratitude. Calculation.

Then, he bowed deeply.

“Revered cultivator!” His voice was high-pitched, a practiced mixture of reverence and desperation. “You have saved us! This humble merchant, no this humble servant, cannot thank you enough for your generosity!”

Cheng raised an eyebrow. Generosity? He hadn’t done it for them. Hell, if the masked man hadn't tried to attack him, likely to not leave behind any evidence, he would have gone on his merry way. Then again, if they were mortal bandits, it would have been nothing more than sweeping the sect's floors to take them out.

The man straightened, his round face still painted with nervousness. “I am Fu Ren, a humble trader. Were it not for your intervention, we would have surely perished!” His eyes flickered toward Cheng’s bloodstained robes. “Ah… you are injured. Please, allow us to repay you for your kindness!”

"Injured? The blood is not of my own." Cheng spoke, seeing no reason to appear hurt. His injuries weren't something too drastic either.

Fu Ren swallowed hard. He wasn’t just being polite. He was being careful. He knew whose territory this was, and more importantly, which sect Cheng belonged to. Even if Cheng had acted of his own accord, the man wouldn’t dare offend him.

It would be foolish not to be polite to a disciple of the very sect these territories belonged to.

So he bowed again, lower this time. “If there is anything I can offer, revered cultivator, please do not hesitate to ask.”

Cheng remained silent for a long moment before finally speaking.

“Who were they?” His voice was quiet but carried the weight of steel.

Fu Ren flinched.

Cheng already had his suspicions. This was nothing more than politics. Some kind of feud between two rival merchant houses, most likely.

Jiang Cheng’s gaze remained fixed on Fu Ren, the merchant’s nervous expression betraying more than just simple gratitude. The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken tension.

Fu Ren wiped the sweat from his brow, forcing a smile. “Ah, revered cultivator, I-I do not know! We were merely passing through when these bandits attacked! Thieves, surely! Or perhaps enemies of my humble business, jealous of my success?”

Cheng’s stare didn’t waver. The assassins had fought too precisely, too methodically to be simple bandits. And if it were business rivals, why go through the effort of disguising it as a mere caravan raid? No, there was something more here.

If mere bandits were at such a cultivation level, then the sect should be ashamed of its outer sect cultivators, since they were around that level.

Cheng exhaled through his nose. Well, whatever it was, it was sure as hell not his problem.

Cheng let the silence stretch between them again, waiting. Fu Ren broke first.

“Ahem! R-revered cultivator!” he started, clasping his hands together, his voice oily with desperation. “Perhaps we should not linger? There may be more of them nearby. And-and I would very much like to show my gratitude properly!”

Cheng studied him for a moment longer before letting out a quiet breath. He wasn’t convinced, but it really wasn't his problem.

"Suit yourself."

Fu Ren’s face lit up with visible relief. “Ah! Excellent, excellent! Then please, allow us to escort you as honored company! My caravan is at your disposal, and I shall ensure you are well cared for.”

Cheng turned, glancing at the ruined battlefield. The blood soaked ground, the bodies of assassins and guards alike. It made his stomach churn, but a bit less now. He had burned this sight in his mind. And next time, he would not hesitate to take a life.

“Lead the way.” Cheng spoke.

Fu Ren bowed again, his relief palpable. As the remaining attendants rushed to prepare what was left of the caravan, Cheng followed in silence, his mind already working through the implications of what had just happened.

At the end of the day, it really, really wasn't his business finding out the real reason behind the attack. And unless he could gain something from this, it would remain that way.