Chapter 51: Roaming the World at Will

Ji Ning had once heard that in ancient times, swordsmen never parted with their swords when traveling the martial world—they wore them at their waists while eating, cradled them while sleeping, slew cicadas on the road in summer with a stroke, and sliced falling snow in winter. Only by making the sword an extension of their own body could they move through the land with pride, wandering wherever they pleased.

It was said that when swordsmanship reached its pinnacle, the sword moved with the heart, as naturally as an arm or finger. In combat, one was no longer constrained by set forms or techniques; every move flowed from instinct, and with nothing extraneous upon the body, all things became swords.

As for how he knew such things, it was because Ji Ning too had once stayed up late under the covers, reading Jin Yong, Gu Long, and Liang Yusheng by flashlight. He too had dreamed of the flashing blades of heroes. But as the seasons passed, those novels grew yellowed in the cabinet, and the bamboo weapon he’d spent an afternoon crafting became his mother’s clothesline.

So the so-called martial world gradually became, in his eyes, little more than organized brawling. After carefully reading the regulations on controlled knives, he no longer believed anyone could leave their homeland with just a sword, or travel far from their kin, nor did he believe in one sword chilling nineteen provinces, or a hall full of drunken guests beneath blossoms. This, perhaps, was the fate of most Chinese boys; one price of growing up was the loss of fantasy.

But when Zhao Tianxing seized that tactical knife, the past surged back into Ji Ning's mind. It was clearly a knife, but anyone could see that in his hands, it was not wielded as a knife, but as a shortened sword.

Zhao Tianxing placed his left hand behind his back and gripped the hilt with his right. For a heartbeat, time itself seemed to freeze—then a flash of light pierced the stillness. No flashy sword-drawing technique, no complicated moves; he simply thrust the blade forward. The nearest Hunter Black House member’s blood gushed like Iguazu Falls. Creation is a privilege held by the gods, but death is the dazzling art of the few. An artist cannot stop before his work is complete. Though the cramped basement could only hold a few dozen people, there was enough paint to craft a masterpiece.

A Buddhist scripture says, “In a snap of the fingers, sixty instants pass; in an instant, nine hundred cycles of birth and death.” When speed defies comprehension, time loses all fairness before the sword.

Heavy bodies, pulled by gravity, thudded to the floor. Crimson blood sprayed into the air as pressure found release. Zhao Tianxing calmly sheathed his blade. Ji Ning stared dumbly at his tranquil back, as the world's disparity was laid bare before him.

Vladimir leapt to his feet. The once-gentle, urbane pianist instantly became the ruthless leader of the Hunter Black House. Years of scheming had made Arthur hypersensitive to his environment. He began to wonder what had happened to so unsettle the always-confident Vladimir.

“Blood is flowing,” Vladimir muttered, sensing Arthur’s look, and quietly walked toward the corridor, his footsteps as silent as blood slipping into shadow.

But as his hand touched the ornately carved wooden door, he hesitated and withdrew. Three seconds later, a sword blade, blazing like fire, pierced the door from top to bottom, slicing through it like butter. Zhao Tianxing kicked the door down with a crash. Ji Ning shouted arrogantly, “You’re already surrounded!”

Vladimir’s eyes swept over his opponents: two Asian men in their twenties, dark-haired and dark-eyed. He judged his true adversary was the one holding the knife in reverse grip. As for the other, a glance at his stance was enough—he would need just three steps: greet him, strike, and toss the remains into the Moscow River for the fish.

Vladimir adjusted his glasses, extended a hand, and spoke gently, “Would you two prefer to die now, or after this song ends?”

Ji Ning, emboldened by his companion, retorted, “What nonsense are you spouting? Can’t you see the situation? I suggest you surrender politely, return our money, and keep your life—a happy outcome, isn’t it?”

He edged a few steps closer behind Zhao Tianxing, puffing up his courage. “Senior, take him down!”

Vladimir chuckled softly. “Since you won’t choose at fate’s crossroads, I’ll answer for you.”

Zhao Tianxing paid him no heed. Communication was irrelevant; from the moment he broke down the door, he had confirmed Vladimir’s identity—a normal person would never reek so heavily of blood. Language meant little, but Vladimir’s cold, predatory gaze never lied.

Zhao Tianxing wasn’t here for pleasantries. Bearing all his weak junior’s hopes, he did not disappoint; without a wasted word, he thrust his blade straight at Vladimir’s throat—a swift, ruthless attack that would fell most foes. But Vladimir was anything but ordinary.

With a clang, Vladimir caught the knife single-handedly. Zhao Tianxing never styled himself a swordsman; to him, the sword was merely a tool for victory. He abandoned the weapon and launched a side kick. The forceful blow made Vladimir’s spine crack; his body bent at a grotesque angle, like a cornstalk snapped but not yet broken in two.

Unfazed, Vladimir tossed the knife before Zhao Tianxing, then placed his hands at his sides. With the grating sound of bones shifting, he straightened himself again.

Zhao Tianxing did not retrieve the knife. Against such an opponent, any unnecessary movement would be a fatal opening. In a cold voice he remarked, “So you’re a high-ranking madman of the Cult of Flesh.”

Vladimir shook his head and replied quietly, “In facing me, you should show proper reverence.”

He snapped his fingers. The blood on the floor, as if awakened, wove itself into a thousand fine nets—living, writhing under his command, surging toward Zhao Tianxing and Ji Ning. The frenzied blood-thorns posed no threat to Zhao Tianxing; he slipped past them with ease. But for Ji Ning, this was more than enough to put an end to his Deer Academy days.

Ji Ning was caught off guard—too far from Zhao Tianxing, too close to the heap of corpses, the attack descending on him was faster, broader, overwhelming. As the blood-net swept over him, his heart nearly stopped. All he managed was a desperate roll to the side, but with a body only just trained for a few months, dodging Vladimir’s assault was a fool’s dream. In truth, as soon as he saw that bloody curtain, his mind signaled for his life to flash before his eyes.

But a cold gleam shattered that final vision. A dagger wreathed in ghostly blue flame pinned itself into the white wall. Ji Ning couldn’t dodge, but that didn’t mean Zhao Tianxing was too late. With a kick, he sent the dagger flying into the blood-thorn net. The instant blade met blood, the blue fire—its source unknown—consumed the net entirely.

Virtually at the same moment, Vladimir matched Zhao Tianxing’s movements. This elegant, cruel gentleman never missed an opening in combat. The muscle beneath his Canali suit exploded with force, the air crackling with a minor sonic boom. He delivered a side kick as powerful as an avalanche—not at Zhao Tianxing, but at Ji Ning.

Ji Ning could barely react. In a rush, Zhao Tianxing darted forward, placing himself between Vladimir and Ji Ning. The thunderous kick landed on Zhao Tianxing’s defending elbow like a cannonball.

A surprise move can decide the outcome. Zhao Tianxing managed only a muffled grunt before being hurled into the wall by a force that could have punched through steel. Ji Ning, hearing the crash, felt a chill—no ordinary sledgehammer could make such a sound striking a wall.

He’d thought the fight would be a breeze, but within a minute, Zhao Tianxing was forced onto the defensive because of his drag-along junior. Slammed into the corridor floor, Zhao Tianxing’s gaze sharpened. Vladimir’s blow was still within his calculations, but what surprised him was this corridor, crowded now—not with the living, but with SK-BIO-007, reanimated by Vladimir. These Hunter Black House members, biologically dead, now shuffled forward with mindless hunger for anything alive.

They posed no real threat to Zhao Tianxing, but swatting flies takes time. However brief, any time spent was an eternity for Ji Ning, left alone in a room with Vladimir.

“655,” Ji Ning murmured, watching Vladimir approach at a measured pace, clinging to his last hope.

“I’m here.” SCP-CN-655’s voice was, as ever, calm—cool as if just out of the fridge, no matter the crisis.

SCP-CN-655’s composure was Ji Ning’s anchor. In its eyes, nothing seemed worth panic.

“What now?” Ji Ning, recalling past experience, decided to let SCP-CN-655 choose. Maybe it could find a clever way out.

“Run,” 655 replied, as if discussing dessert.

Ji Ning, frustrated, muttered, “We’re ready to die fighting—why surrender so soon?”

655 ignored him, long since used to Ji Ning’s odd mutterings.

“I could liquefy and cover your skin as before,” it explained, “but this person is not the same as the last. The previous one only had tough skin; his flesh was otherwise normal. But this man—his entire body far exceeds human limits. With your strength, you can’t harm him.”

“Is the weather in Russia so different from Siberia? Last time you managed a good ice sculpture,” Ji Ning asked, hopeful.

“Last time, I stored cold in the snow. But since we arrived in Russia, you’ve stayed in air-conditioned rooms. I can’t transfer temperature.”

Ji Ning fumed, “Why didn’t you say so sooner? Next mission, I’ll spend three days in a freezer first.”

655’s tone remained utterly flat. “You never asked.”

Ji Ning had no time for banter; Vladimir was now before him. Desperate to maintain his composure, Ji Ning shouted the name of a move—“Super Slime!”

The outburst made Vladimir a touch more cautious. In the Cult of Flesh and other global anomalous arts, some rituals required incantations for activation.

Language carries divine power.

At Ji Ning’s cry, Vladimir was genuinely startled. Perhaps it was a human instinct encoded in DNA—even a circus boasting ‘Great Transformation’ on its posters sold more tickets than others.

No matter how strong or unique the body, when you see a man melt into liquid before your eyes, it shakes you.

“So this is your ability?” Vladimir circled Ji Ning warily. He couldn’t determine the nature of the puddle—it might be harmless, it might be deadly. He’d survived not through brute force, but by caution.

As Vladimir and Ji Ning faced off, a sudden explosion changed everything. Vladimir’s expression darkened; his confidence shaken, he shot Ji Ning a furious glare, then vanished from sight with terrifying speed, heading downstairs.

The instant Vladimir disappeared, Ji Ning re-formed and dashed down the corridor to hide behind Zhao Tianxing. Zhao Tianxing made no move to intercept Vladimir; he cared nothing for the mission’s completion—his only responsibility was his team’s safety.

Hearing the explosion, Zhao Tianxing quickly deduced that Catherine and the others had come to help. He glanced out the window; sure enough, a Lada SUV screeched to a stop before Ji Ning. The front window rolled down; Afra, sunglasses on, whistled, “Get in.”

Zhao Tianxing relaxed—Vladimir hadn’t gone after them. That was enough. He grabbed Ji Ning by the shoulder and, before he could react, leapt with him from the second-story window.

No sooner had they boarded than Qin Mo gave Ji Ning a thorough once-over, only settling when she saw he was merely dusty. Ji Ning took the communicator she offered, nodding. “I’m fine, but Senior got hurt saving me.”

Catherine’s voice crackled over the line. “Return to the Kremlin Milos Hotel. I’ve booked rooms there.”

Ji Ning glanced back at the passing police cars, struck by the absurdity of it all—he was living the life of a movie spy, walking the knife’s edge alongside death. “Where did you get the explosives?”

The moment he asked, Qin Mo—injecting medicine into Zhao Tianxing—and Catherine—running down the corridor with her backpack—both froze. Even Afra adjusted her rearview mirror.

“You mean that explosion wasn’t yours?” Catherine’s voice sharpened with urgency.

Vladimir glared at the wrecked lobby. Flames devoured the crocodile-leather sofa, smoke and ash thick in the air. He strode carelessly over the howling SK-BIO-007 bodies, inspecting the hidden Yan shrine in the hall. Thankfully, it was untouched by the blast. Vladimir sneered up at the floor above; the distraction was crude—a tiger drawn from its lair. He suspected more traps were set on the way up, so he stopped, took the shrine, and left.

A wise man never keeps anything in a safe—thieves will always try to open it.