Amidst a heap of broken rubble, the old ape's ears twitched at the faintest sound. He bared his teeth in a grin, bent down to pick up a shard of tile, weighed it briefly, then straightened and hurled it with a thunderous force. The tile sliced through the wall and rooftop as effortlessly as a knife through tofu, tearing through the air with a sound like rolling thunder, flying straight toward the origin of the noise.
Yet, the old ape caught no glimpse of the boy. With a single tap of his toe, his massive frame surged upward, landing deftly on a decaying roof beam. Using the recoil, he launched himself through the roof's opening and alighted on the rooftop ridge. In the far distance, the boy stood at the upturned edge of another rooftop, a wooden bow slung across his back, his gaze grim as he stared toward the white-robed old ape.
The old ape realized his misstep—his earlier throw had made too much noise, alerting the mud-legged brat from Clay Bottle Alley and spoiling any chance of exploiting the boy's limited range with a bow. Spreading his hands with a smile to show he held nothing, the old ape crooked a finger at the boy, inviting him to continue with whatever tricks he had left. He was more than willing to entertain him a while longer, to stretch his old limbs.
To accuse the old ape of trickery would be unjust. As the guardian ape of Mount Zhengyang, refined over a thousand years into a body of immense might, his mastery of movement was no less than legendary. In the early days of the sect's founding, when the fledgling mountain gate was besieged on all sides and their founding ancestor fell in battle, the old ape had faced countless life-or-death struggles. Compared to those earthshaking wars, this rooftop skirmish was a mere echo of the past. Back then, powerful cultivators and grandmasters of Qi would use long-range treasures to pin him down, never daring to face him head-on—just like the swift light cavalry of the northern steppes who would never clash directly with the heavily armored Dali infantry, preferring to cut away at their iron formation little by little.
Now, aside from Prince Song Changjing, the old ape was likely the most heavily suppressed being under this heaven's law. The military grandmaster with the tiger talisman, due to his special status, was somewhat favored by the world, so though powerful, his suppression was less apparent.
Yet at this moment, facing a nimble youth unlike the ordinary townsfolk, the old ape rediscovered a sliver of that old, bloody thrill. He admitted—the boy had surprised him again and again: shrewd, calculating, adept at setting traps and exploiting terrain. Most importantly, the boy had guts.
The old ape glanced skyward. The sun was setting, twilight descending—soon, visibility would wane. He was utterly unfamiliar with the town's geography; this, no doubt, was one of the boy's advantages—barely enough to serve as a protective talisman.
Then the old ape took off, charging like a galloping beast, each stride covering more than ten feet, a terrifying sight. The moment he moved, the boy turned and fled—not north along the winding alleys and rooftops, for that direction led to Fulu Street and Taoye Alley, domains of the powerful, where hidden dragons lurked. If anyone came to the old ape's aid, Chen Ping'an knew he'd have no hope of escaping the net.
So he ran west. The south was too open, with its covered bridges and unbroken sightlines—he'd be exposed. Judging by their respective speeds, once he lost the cover of obstacles, the boy knew the ape would hunt him down with ease.
West of the town lay deep mountains and dense forests, lush with undergrowth. Along many hidden trails, hunters had set traps. The terrain was difficult—stray from the worn paths, and the going became arduous. No one knew this better than Chen Ping'an.
His judgment wasn't wrong—only, he had underestimated the old ape. As the guardian spirit of Zhengyang Mountain, the ape's grasp of mountainous terrain was far more profound.
As the boy leapt from the final rooftop, landing with bent knees to soften the force, he cast a quick glance over his shoulder before hunching low and darting forward. Somewhere during the sprint, both bow and quiver had vanished—dead weight in a frantic escape through tangled forest where the ancestral paths were no longer an option.
Just as the boy was about to slip away like a loach into water, the old ape grew irritated, casting a glance back at the Li family estate on Fulu Street. Once they entered the mountains, he might not hold the terrain advantage, but at least he wouldn't be chasing the brat in endless circles around the town.
Resolving himself, he weighed the pros and cons in an instant and drew a deep breath of the "fresh air." No more, no less—just enough to kill.
A strange violet-green ripple coursed across the old ape's face. With no warning, his massive frame shot skyward. The house beneath him crumbled underfoot. Fortunately, it stood in the town's impoverished western quarter—unlike the grand homes of Fulu Street, these dwellings were shoddy, their beams thin and brittle. By sheer luck, the family of four who lived there were not inside.
The old ape soared in a massive arc, landing squarely beside the boy. The impact left twin craters in the earth, soft spring mud flying in all directions. He struck out with a fist aimed directly at the boy's back.
The human back houses the Yang meridians—all vital organs are linked through it. Especially the spot behind the heart—scarcely a hand's breadth away—most vulnerable of all.
At the razor's edge of death, the boy, reacting to the sound, burst forth with sudden speed—faster even than when he had lured the ape onto the rotten rooftop earlier. That meant he had been holding back all along.
The old ape's punch didn't pierce the boy's back or shatter his heart. It merely grazed an inch below it. Even so, the impact sent the boy flying, like a hammer striking a bell, feet lifting from the ground.
And then came the breathtaking display of agility. The straw-sandaled youth, blood at the corner of his lips, flipped midair. What should have been a brutal face-first crash turned into a graceful recovery—his hands hit the ground, elbows bent, and with a push, he twisted in the air, landed on his feet, and kept running without losing momentum.
Even the battle-hardened mountain-moving ape felt a twinge in his teeth at the sight of such tenacity.
Raising a hand, the old ape saw blood smeared across its back. A trifling wound. He chuckled and dismissed it—but his killing intent grew only fiercer.
The cause of the injury wasn't hard to divine. In the lingering chill of spring, the alley-born youth—usually clad in little—had clearly layered up. Besides his own clothes, he wore a large, old coat once belonging to the tall boy, Liu Xianyang. Between the two layers, he had concealed something clever.
The boy had crafted a crude armor of "wood and porcelain." Six strips of seasoned wood, pierced and laced with cord—three across his chest, three on his back—and embedded with countless tiny shards of porcelain.
At this moment, the old ape felt as though a dignified noble had stepped in dung—disgusted, and unable to shake it off.
Clenching his fists, the old ape stilled his breath and stood firm, forcibly suppressing the raging tides within his body. The ripples across his face shifted from violet-blue to a regal gold. In a flash...