The military ships did not retreat.102Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1AxD5tuove
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For a moment, after the purple shockwave, they had hesitated. Their masts had swayed. Their crews had shouted in confusion. But now, under the cold gaze of their commanders, they formed a new line.
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Five ships became seven. Seven became ten. The emperor had not sent only five. He had sent a fleet.
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General Feng Jian stood at the railing, counting. "Twelve ships," he whispered. "Twelve warships, fully armed."
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Behind him, Liang Wei lay on the bloody deck, his left arm limp, his chest stained red. His right hand still gripped the sword the general had given him. His eyes were closed, but his lips moved.
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"General."
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Feng Jian spun. "Master. You should not speak. Save your strength."
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"They will not stop," Liang Wei said, his voice quiet but steady. "The emperor wants me dead. He will sink this ship with everyone aboard. You, the servants, the crew – all of it swept away so no witnesses remain."
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"Then what do we do?"
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Liang Wei opened his eyes. They were tired, but they burned.
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"We fight."
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He rose.
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His body screamed. The arrow in his chest ground against bone. The arrow in his back pulled at muscle and he ached with every breath. But he rose.
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He stood on the deck, sword in hand, facing the twelve warships.
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"Everyone below deck," he said. "Now."
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"But Master—"
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"Now!"
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The servants scrambled for the hatch. The crew followed. Only General Feng Jian remained.
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"I stay," the general said. "I fight beside you."
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Liang Wei did not argue. There was no time.
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The first cannon fired.
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A ball of iron, trailing smoke, flew straight for the junk's mast. Liang Wei's sword moved. It became a blur – not a single blade, but a hundred, a thousand. The Phoenix Wings technique: endless slashes, each one cutting the air, each one deflecting death.
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The cannonball struck the sword's invisible wall and split in two. The halves flew past the junk, splashing into the sea on either side.
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Two more cannons fired. Liang Wei's sword danced. The balls split. The junk rocked but held.
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Four more cannons. Six. Eight.
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The Phoenix Wings could not cover everything.
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A cannonball struck the railing, splintering wood. Another tore through the sail. A third hit the mast – not breaking it, but cracking it deep.
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Liang Wei moved faster. His sword became a golden blur. Sweat mixed with blood. His left arm hung useless, but his right arm never stopped.
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The ships were closer now. He could see the crews loading cannons, lighting fuses, aiming.
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Another volley. Twelve balls at once.
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The Phoenix Wings met them. Eleven split. The twelfth slipped through.
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It struck Liang Wei in the chest.
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The impact lifted him off his feet. He flew backward, slammed into the mast, and fell to his knees. The sword clattered from his hand.
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"Master!" General Feng Jian ran to him.
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Liang Wei looked down. The cannonball had not pierced his skin – his cultivated body was too tough for that. But the dent was deep, pressing against his sternum. Every breath was agony.
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He looked up. More ships were arriving. Fifteen now. Twenty.
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He knew then. He could not win. He could not save the junk. He could not save the crew.
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But he could give them a chance.
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He grabbed the rope.
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It was thick – the main rope that ran from the mast to the bow. He wrapped it around his right hand, once, twice, three times. Then he pushed off the deck.
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He did not jump. He launched.
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His body flew into the air, trailing the rope behind him. Up he went, higher than the mast, higher than the clouds of smoke from the cannons. The rope pulled taut. The junk lurched forward.
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At the apex of his arc, he looked down.
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Twenty warships. Fifty cannons. A hundred archers with purple flames.
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He let go of the rope.
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He fell.
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Not toward the junk. Toward the sea between the junk and the fleet.
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He hit the water like a meteor.
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The impact was not a splash. It was an explosion. A wave rose – not a ripple, not a swell, but a wall of water fifty feet high. It surged outward, away from Liang Wei's body, pushing against the fleet.
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The warships were tossed like toys. They spun, they crashed into each other, they lost their masts and their anchors. The wave rolled over them, dousing their cannons, washing their crews overboard.
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And the wave pushed the junk.
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The junk shot forward, riding the crest, skimming across the water faster than any sail could carry it. The crew held onto anything they could. The servants screamed. General Feng Jian grabbed the railing and held on.
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The wave carried them a mile. Two miles. Three.
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Then it subsided.
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The junk slowed. The sea grew calm.
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Behind them, the fleet was a scattered mess of broken ships and drowning men.
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Aboard the junk, the crew rose shakily to their feet. The servants crawled out of the hold. General Feng Jian ran to the railing and looked over the side.
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Liang Wei was hanging onto the rope.
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He had pulled himself up, hand over hand, despite the dent in his chest, despite the arrows in his flesh. He climbed the rope slowly, painfully, until he reached the railing.
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The general reached down and hauled him aboard.
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Liang Wei collapsed on the deck.
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His robe was soaked red and blue – blood and seawater. Arrow shafts stuck out of his chest and back. A deep purple bruise spread across his ribs where the cannonball had struck. His face was burned – blackened by the purple flames, raw and blistered.
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He was not breathing.
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No – he was breathing. Shallow. Slow. But breathing.
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"Master," the general whispered. "Master, can you hear me?"
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Liang Wei's eyes fluttered. He tried to speak, but only blood came out.
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The servants gathered around, weeping. The crew stood in a circle, their heads bowed. The young woman who had first seen the purple flames knelt beside Liang Wei and pressed a cloth to his wounds.
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"He saved us," she said. "He saved all of us."
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General Feng Jian looked at the empty horizon. The fleet was gone. The purple flames were gone. Only the sea remained.
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He turned back to Liang Wei.
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"Master, you fool," he said softly. "You absolute fool. You could have run. You could have saved yourself."
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Liang Wei's lips moved.
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The general leaned close.
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"…not a fool," Liang Wei whispered. "A teacher. Teachers do not run."
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Then his eyes closed.
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His chest rose. Fell. Rose. Fell.
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The general sat beside him, his sword across his knees.
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"We will protect you now, Master," he said. "As you protected us. Rest."
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The sun set over the water.102Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7DvWnu4stb
and then Add to home screen.