Chapter 89: The Divine Constable

Lingtchi paid no attention to the chaos on the streets. With the Thunder Pearl pulsing in his grasp, he regarded even passing constables and the agents of the Peace Bureau as his prey.

In a flash, Lingtchi darted forward, snapping the neck of a constable with a single hand. His short blade flew like a javelin, piercing another constable’s skull; the force of pure yang surged through the man’s body, burning him to ash from the inside out.

Dozens of threads of thunderous spiritual energy surged back into Lingtchi, who exhaled a heavy breath. Who would have thought there were so many connections within the provincial city? Had he known, he would have come to reap them long ago.

He quickly moved on to search for his next target.

He had entered the city that morning and had been killing until dusk was nearly upon him. Yet not a trace of fatigue showed on Lingtchi’s face—his eyes were bright, his vigor undiminished.

A patrol squad passed by him, their voices weary as they conversed among themselves.

“Commander Cao has issued a death order—we must apprehend this band of ghost cult fiends roaming the city.”

“Indeed, but that’s the Ghost Cult we’re talking about. They’re a great sect, infamous for razing whole cities in the south. How could we hope to challenge them?”

“If we really run into them, we’d be lucky just to escape with our lives.”

“Enough complaining—pull yourselves together. Shift change is coming soon. When we get back, keep your mouths shut. If your loose tongues land me in trouble, you’ll regret it.”

The squad leader was no less exhausted than his men. Should they fail in their task, the blame would fall on him first.

As Lingtchi watched the patrol disappear down the street, his eyes narrowed. So, Cao Huba was finally making his move. The busier things got, the more opportunities he would have to slip into the prison and slaughter that wretch Li Changyuan.

This was the sixth patrol Lingtchi had encountered that day, and it was the very reason he raced through the city, sowing chaos. It was nothing more than a diversion—a standard tactic for an assassin or covert operative.

As night fell, Lingtchi became a living shadow, silently reaping the lives of the wicked throughout the city.

He killed from east to west, from the southern wards to the northern gates.

The thunderous spiritual energy continued to surge within him, finally reaching a critical point. He was on the verge of a breakthrough.

He dared not attempt it within the city—it would cause too much commotion and draw the attention of the city’s masters.

Finding a gap in the patrols, Lingtchi darted out of the city, unleashed his Lightning Step, and sped away at a hundred yards a breath.

He found a wild and desolate mountain, sat down to meditate, and regulated his breath, circulating his cultivation technique.

The spiritual energy of heaven and earth gathered around him, the sea of thunder roared and tossed, and thick currents of thunderous essence brimmed with boundless power.

The thunder energy he had reaped fused swiftly within that sea.

Within his body, the forces of thunder and pure yang flowed side by side—distinct, yet harmonious.

Suddenly, his body trembled. An invisible shockwave erupted from him, spreading outward in all directions.

He had broken through to the Fifth Level of the Sea of Qi.

Drawing a deep breath, Lingtchi melted into the wilderness.

Better safe than sorry. If he were unlucky enough to run into a passing master, he might be exposed.

He did not return to the city at once, but instead slipped into a field of tall green reeds and sat in meditation, growing accustomed to his newly attained realm.

Despite a day spent in slaughter, his heart remained tranquil.

To him, the wicked were no longer people, nor were his enemies. He cultivated the thunder law—the most righteous and unyielding force between heaven and earth—yet walked a path unrestrained, a demonic way.

Perhaps that was why the Thunder Pearl had chosen him: to cleanse the world of filth with peerless slaughter, and in doing so, preserve himself.

Leaving the reeds, he slipped back into the provincial city.

The day’s carnage had done little to dampen the city’s bustle. Even under curfew, officials and nobles strode the empty streets, surrounded by their retainers.

Nearby, brothels and taverns still blazed with light, peals of laughter and merriment drifting out as if from another world entirely.

A sudden tremor from the Thunder Pearl snapped his attention back. He extended his consciousness in the direction it indicated.

In a pavilion at the street corner, a group of constables in official garb sat feasting and drinking. Seated among them, gaunt and sallow-faced, was the very man the Thunder Pearl had sensed.

“Thunder Chief Lei, your recent mission was a triumph. Capturing the notorious Du An has brought you great renown.”

“That villain Du An ambushed our city’s officials countless times—Thunder Chief Lei, your actions have delighted everyone.”

“Indeed! Even today, Ghost Cult fiends ran amok in the city, but since your return, all has grown quiet. It seems even the Ghost Cult fears your might.”

The constables vied with one another to flatter him.

The sallow man, Lei Hu, nearly spat out his wine. He was but a humble chief constable of Yingzhou—how could the Ghost Cult possibly fear him? If he encountered them, he’d be the first to flee.

“Enough of that talk. The city’s peace is due to Prefect He’s efforts, not mine. Such divisive words only make us a laughingstock if they get out.”

Lei Hu hurriedly reined in his subordinates’ nonsense. If the Ghost Cult caught wind, they might come knocking for his head. He was only at the fourth level of the Sea of Qi—how could he contend with such a monstrous power?

The others just laughed, thinking Lei Hu modest, and crowded around to toast him.

The Thunder Pearl vibrated more violently than ever—at least six hundred threads of thunderous energy, by Lingtchi’s estimate. He grew excited.

Any target that made the Thunder Pearl quiver like this would not escape him.

His black robes billowed without wind as Lingtchi’s figure materialized in the tavern.

“Well, well, so you’re Lei Hu? A fine dog you are! Do you truly think my Holy Sect would fear the likes of you?”

A leaf between his lips, Lingtchi’s voice was hoarse, his tone brimming with rage and murderous intent.

At the same instant, a cold gleam of steel flashed into existence.

The blade swept toward the lackeys first—Lingtchi couldn’t risk them escaping. It had become his habit to bear the brunt of the strongest foe’s attack while first dispatching the weaker ones, unwilling to let even a single target slip away, no matter how minor.

But no, he must not let such habits take root. Well-worn patterns led to exposure. Lingtchi resolved then and there to break this bad habit next time.

Tonight, however, he paid it no mind—none present posed a threat to him.

Lei Hu was struck dumb with terror. What sort of organization was this Ghost Cult? They had barely finished boasting before this killer had come knocking.

Lingtchi always fought with his full strength, even against the weakest foe. The lackey constables fell beneath his blade before they could react.

The blade flicked, and dozens of slashes rained down on Lei Hu in a heartbeat.

Lei Hu could only summon his baleful energy, forming a red glow to shield himself as the blades struck and hissed.

Lingtchi pressed the attack relentlessly. The blades grew denser, and within moments, Lei Hu’s protective aura shattered.

Lingtchi paused not a second, pouring every stroke into Lei Hu’s body. In the space of a few breaths, Lei Hu was hacked hundreds of times and died instantly.

It wasn’t until the final moment, on the threshold of death, that Lei Hu realized—the mysterious assailant before him was no cultist, but a master of the blade.

With the last of his strength, Lei Hu raised a trembling hand, trying to speak, but Lingtchi swept his saber, severing the hand, and with another stroke, sent the head rolling.

“No need for thanks,” Lingtchi remarked, taking the dying man’s gesture for a token of gratitude.

With brisk efficiency, he disposed of the bodies, looting what he found, then unleashed the power of pure yang to incinerate the remains.

More than eight hundred threads of thunderous energy surged into him. So you called yourself the Thunder Chief, did you? How many wrongful cases did you engineer, you wretched dog?

Lingtchi melted into the darkness and vanished from sight.