“The monk didn’t die! He killed the guardian!” Someone shouted in the dark.

  It was hard to hear the Feng Clan’s voices when Bing Xin’s laughter filled his ears.

  Dejiu snorted. He dashed hard. In a crazed leap, he picked off someone too far outside their pitiful ring formation. He jumped so they couldn’t hear his steps approaching.

  In a shadowy trail of loose robes, he delivered a devastating Withering Palm onto the Feng Clan member. A scream sounded below his palm. Before he could finish the foe, the stubble on his head rose as he dodged a sword-like striker technique.

  But the damage was done. The Feng Clan member struck with Withering Palm already had decaying skin on his chest.

  Because of his attack, the ring shifted to their fallen member before they joined together. Dejiu circled around and let his steps echo. He ran to the woman… Feng Mie they called her? He pulled his spade out and frowned. It took several seconds, but the blade end eventually came free, a crunch of bone hinting at what had kept it stuck in there so tightly other than the fact he only hand a single hand.

  He grimaced at the sound and smell. Killing people left a bad taste.

  Don’t think so much about killing, Xue Dejiu. He told himself.

  He turned around the shaft so his bladed end showed. As a chorus of frightful sounds and gasps sounded, Dejiu struck again. This time he impaled someone using his spade’s reach. They couldn’t see it. The spade would look like it appeared from the darkness.

  He killed another Feng Clan member, this time a young man. Likely eighteen or nineteen. Dejiu could see their faces with his sight.

  He grimaced.

  Another died.

  Screams followed.

  Another died.

  This time a woman. She looked kind of pretty. Prettier than the nuns at the temple. She died with blood spilling out her mouth. Odd, did he strike her stomach, or did Withering Palm inflict more damage inside than he thought? Well, doesn’t matter — she died anyways.

  It was hopeless if they wanted to leave. Even Dejiu would be hard-pressed to find the entrance this deep inside the vast dark chamber in a few seconds.

  Dejiu ignored the mad cries of the remaining four and delivered a storm of Withering Palms as he engaged and disengaged. Then he picked up his spade again and continued to slaughter them.

  All the while Bing Xin laughed. He could barely see her even with his new sight, but her laughter rang clear as always. Could other people see her? He hadn’t even asked her that.

  Another died. This time they had enough time to curse him.

  “Wait, wait!” Feng Mu yelled. “Young monk! We apologize. We shouldn’t have come down here! We didn’t know you still lived!”

  Dejiu snorted. “And what would’ve happened when your cohort in full found me injured after slaying the guardian?”

  “We apologize! Please, let us go! We’ll ignore that this happened! I’ll forgive you! Our clan wouldn’t pursue you or the temple you hail from!”

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  “There's no guarantee you will. I’ve already decided to follow through with my decision as did you all.” Dejiu whispered. He still circled them, letting his steps echo.

  “Please! We have treasures! Treasures you can’t even imagine! My father would grant you them!” Feng Mu pleaded.

  Dejiu cackled. “Trying to bribe a monk?”

  “Urgh! Fuck you! Calling yourself a monk after this slaughter!” Feng Mu said, unleashing a storm of vicious techniques around him. Feng Mu accidentally grazed his own clansmen. He’s desperate. “I’ll fucking kill you and your temple!”

  Dejiu inhaled and stopped running. He pulled his arm back and threw his spade at one of the three. The crescent-bladed end found its mark. A thud followed by a yelp and another died. Dejiu ran for the remaining two and delivered a Withering Palm with his one hand after dodging another desperate flurry of their sword prana.

  “Kruek!” The other Feng Clan member croaked out. Dejiu slammed the cultivator down and killed him.

  Only Feng Mu remained.

  The sour scent of piss mingled with the scent of blood. Feng Mu ran out of prana, crawling toward the only remaining light source in the chamber. The ever distant daimon corpse — its light slowly fading. Did Feng Mu want to see the face of his one-handed killer?

  “Damned monk! What type of monk kills and poisons? I’ll curse you from the heavens!” Feng Mu gasped out. He waved his jian back and forth to ward away Dejiu.

  Dejiu walked towards the crawling Feng Mu. Poisons? Is the decay effect of Withering Palm that lethal?

  He looked down at Feng Mu who rested his back against the giant eye daimon’s corpse.

  “I'll remember your face at least.” Dejiu frowned.

  “Go to Hell! Fuck you—”

  Feng Mu’s head burst under Dejiu’s left palm. In a decayed mess of flesh and blood, Feng Mu died.

  And Dejiu turned into a killer as a woman laughed in his ears.

  —

  “Miss Bing Xin, did I have to kill them?”

  “Of course you did—”

  “I guess I shouldn’t have asked you. I already knew your answer.”

  “...They were bound to kill you had you not received that elixir. Had the guardian been a smidge stronger. Had the old bird turned wrathful and wounded you further. You did the right thing and defended yourself, little monk.”

  “The right thing.” Dejiu echoed.

  “They escalated it. Leave one wolf alive, and the sheep will never be safe. It's better to eradicate them and end the cycle of hatred before it begins.”

  Dejiu agreed. It pained him to, but he agreed. More than that actually, he felt annoyed at the part of him questioning his decision.

  He wore a frown as he ascended the many stairs with a dead body in tow.

  Eventually, he reached the Seventh Layer’s floor. His eyes flicked to where he stored his daimon meat and pepper. Bastards. I've already killed you all, so who do I blame for my lost peppers?

  He sighed and set the body of Feng Mu against the entrance, his face and head unrecognizable. To think this is why a monk doesn’t use a blade-ended polearm. He thought, brushing his hand against the dulled spade end.

  A monk's customary weapon is a double-ended polearm. One end a spade. The other is a crescent-shaped blade. Although both ends could be used for battle, the spade end was used if a monk came upon a corpse on the road so they could properly bury it with Buddhist rites. Cleaning the blood off his spade, he walked into the Seventh Hell.

  He’s a monk in the end. He knew the rites to speak to the dead. Even if he was the one who caused their demise.

  So he dug a burial hole for Feng Mu. It was hard to do with one hand but he got it done.

  He walked back to the entrance to drag Feng Mu beside the hole. His frown lowered further as he smelled the decaying man. Rolling Feng Mu into the hole, he buried him beneath the rocky gravel of the Seventh Hell.

  Until Feng Mu was completely covered, Dejiu brought his hand and wrist’s bloody stump together and closed his eyes. He recited some prayers and chants he had memorized under Teacher Jiansu.

  “I’m a monk of the Heavenly Snowy Temple. I have an obligation.” He whispered to himself before he continued to chant and hum.