Chapter 227

Chapter 227: The Broken Sword (3)

An aroma never utters a falsehood.

Human beings can fabricate expressions, alter their tone, and mimic different strides to deceive those around them.

Yet, a person’s scent remains entirely impossible to conceal.

The odor of blood is unmistakable, and the stench of terror is distinct.

Fury carries a bitter note, grief possesses a sour edge, and deceit feels freezing cold.

Scent Wolf had navigated his entire existence relying solely on his olfactory senses.

Ever since he welcomed the essence of a wolf into his being, the Central Plains transformed into a realm interpreted not through melodies and imagery, but through the rich vocabulary of odors and the nose.

With a simple gust of wind, he could analyze a battlefield raging dozens of li away, and by pressing his feet to the soil, he could identify tracks left behind forty-eight hours prior.

His nose served as his vision.

His nose provided the ultimate reality.

Strolling amid the towering pine trees lining both sides of the elevated trail, Scent Wolf perpetually twitched his nostrils.

To any onlooker, he appeared to be an ordinary youngster trekking along a elevated pass, but the acute senses beneath his amber pupils were indefatigably decoding the environment.

Blood.

The metallic tang of blood, aged yet potent.

This did not belong to a mere handful of individuals.

Tens upon tens—no, the lifeblood of at least a hundred individuals hung intertwined in the breeze.

The distinct aroma of medicinal flora was also present.

Sanqi and Bletilla, plants utilized for stemming blood loss.

The lingering scent of hurriedly performed battlefield triage remained vivid in the air.

‘A band of wounded individuals navigated this trail.’

Exceeding a hundred men.

Given that the severity and categorization of the trauma varied wildly, this was no organized execution or ambush.

These were the shattered pieces of a military regiment retreating from a theater of war.

They could only be the routed troops belonging to the Vast Heaven Infinite Sword Sect.

Scent Wolf paid little heed to this particular trail of odor, as it bore no relevance to his primary objective.

The fleeing remnants of the Vast Heaven Sect were bound to reach their final salvation eventually, regardless of where they sought refuge.

Even so.

He had to bear in mind that a specific presence awaited at the destination of these routed troops.

The crisp aroma of water.

A body of water.

Nestled deep within the elevated terrain lay a considerably expansive lake.

Drifting around it were the fragrances of hearth fire smoke, the shaping of iron, and the sculpting of timber.

It was a settlement where a community coexisted.

A pair of Scent Followers moved stealthily and mutely in his wake.

Speech was superfluous among the trio.

Should Scent Wolf pivot in a new direction, they duplicated his movement; should Scent Wolf halt, they froze instantly.

“South.”

A solitary utterance.

The two Scent Followers offered a synchronized nod.

Scent Wolf accelerated his stride, yet he never ceased utilizing his olfactory capabilities.

There remained absolutely no sign of the Patrol Sword Corps.

The trail of odor that had vanished abruptly at a location two hundred li north of the River Capital had failed to manifest, even upon this elevated terrain.

An event where thirty-one living souls had seemingly dissolved into nothingness.

A site devoid of remains, lacking the stench of gore, and bearing no enduring trace of weaponry.

The Great Venerate himself had issued the mandate.

To reconstruct the path beginning precisely where the trail had vanished.

Scent Wolf analyzed and re-analyzed the surroundings.

He scrutinized the breeze and the dirt; he investigated and reinvestigated even the microscopic traces clinging to the moss and foliage.

Following a ten-day hunt conducted in this meticulous manner, he had arrived at this elevated terrain.

The path the Patrol Sword Corps had been pursuing.

The River Capital.

Southward, a short distance from the River Capital, the collective scent of humanity converged upon this peak.

Perhaps a breakthrough awaited them here.

Right at that moment.

Scent Wolf’s strides ground to a halt.

The tip of his nose quivered.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

His eyebrows knit together.

Puzzling… It occurred roughly halfway up the elevated terrain.

A zone where the heavy tang of the routed troops’ gore still hung powerfully in the air.

A spot where the aromas of moisture and hearth fire drifted upon the wind.

In the midst of those combined fragrances, an absolute void existed.

A location entirely stripped of odor.

As though an entity had vacuumed away the atmosphere itself, a spherical region was boring a gap directly into his sensory map.

‘What could this possibly be…?’

An icy tremor cascaded down Scent Wolf’s spine.

This was no ordinary human reaction.

It was the precise instinctual dread a wolf experiences when wandering into the hunting grounds of a far grander apex predator, causing the fur along its spine to bristle.

Could it be a tactical formation?

Negative. Defensive formations possess an odor.

Whenever Qi shifts, an enduring fragrance of Qi inevitably lingers behind.

The constructs of the Mountain Formation Division smell of a blend of iron and soil, while the arrays of the Thunder Formation Division bear a pungent aroma reminiscent of air incinerated by lightning bolts.

Regardless of the variety of formation, so long as it functions via Qi, it cannot escape possessing a scent.

Yet this phenomenon was entirely distinct.

It wasn’t a mere absence of odor, but rather that the scent itself was actively being erased from existence.

At the threshold of that perimeter, all sensory data ceased entirely.

And it wasn’t limited to odor.

Even the trajectory of the breeze was subtly warping around its edges.

The atmosphere coursed gently around the perimeter, akin to a current yielding to an imperceptible boulder resting within it.

Furthermore, that entire perimeter was currently in motion.

Heading this way.

Scent Wolf hoisted his right arm.

The pair of Scent Followers instantly paralyzed their movements.

“Re—.”

Prior to that single syllable finding utterance.

Swish-.

The vibration originated from the rear.

No. There was a total absence of sound.

Merely the perception of the atmosphere tearing apart grazed the fur on his spine.

Thud.

A solitary Scent Follower was propelled violently into a tree trunk without uttering a cry.

His frame recoiled once, then collapsed completely inert.

He had not drifted into unconsciousness; his vital meridians had been sealed before he could lose awareness.

Shwwiik-.

The instant the remaining Scent Follower instinctively attempted to unsheathe his blade, several cords of a Formation Qi Rope erupted from the vacant atmosphere, binding his arms and legs securely.

Immobilization.

The tethers of the tactical array, tightening with the rigidity of iron bands, instantly slammed his frame down against the soil.

An exacting and ruthless neutralization.

This was the signature handicraft of a Formation Master.

Scent Wolf dropped his center of gravity.

Adopting a posture nearly on all fours, he instinctively bounded backward.

The sheer velocity of a wolf trained in the arts of combat.

The primitive impulses of a wild creature exploded from within a human shell.

Papat-!

His fingernails elongated in an instant, gripping a bough to alter his course through the air, and utilizing a sequence of weightless maneuvers, his feet bounded off bark, leaping across three trees in rapid succession.

Yet.

The moment he propelled himself off the third trunk to make landfall.

The atmosphere shifted dramatically.

Weight.

The instant his soles connected with the earth, what engulfed his entire frame was a profound atmospheric drag.

His lungs grew burdened as though he had plunged deep into a body of water, and an imperceptible weight pressed uniformly against his skin.

And then.

His nose ceased to function.

His olfactory capability, which a mere heartbeat ago could scan dozens of li, was utterly severed.

The aroma of the breeze, the fragrance of the flora, the scent of the dirt—he could no longer even perceive his own biological odor.

‘…!’

The environment flattened and collapsed inward.

Perspective, orientation, proximity.

Deprived of his nose, he was incapable of interpreting anything.

The primary faculty he had trusted his entire existence had been pulled out by its roots.

This experience mirrored absolute sightlessness.

His chest thudded violently.

It marked the absolute first time since absorbing the vitality of the Path of Beasts that he endured such unadulterated, primal dread.

A beast comprehends.

When trapped within a superior hunter’s domain, one must pinpoint the adversary’s location prior to attempting an escape.

Scent Wolf lifted his gaze.

His vision remained functional.

His auditory senses did as well.

Yet they represented a mere fraction of his necessary awareness.

Within that compromised field of view, a gentleman stood waiting.

Roughly ten strides forward.

An item of weaponry slung casually over his shoulder.

Appearing as unbothered as though he had occupied that spot since the dawn of time.

A young man appearing to be in his mid-twenties.

A visage displaying a hollow look, completely stripped of any readable sentiment.

And radiating from this individual.

Emanated absolutely no odor whatsoever.

As though it would remain impossible to detect him even if his olfactory senses were fully operational.

There existed no circulation of Qi.

No pulsing of inner strength, no warmth of vitality and blood, not even the faint residual aroma of existence that every living human being must naturally emit.

A void.

The absolute void of odor.

“…”

Scent Wolf’s predatory teeth forced their way past his gums.

His fingernails extended to their maximum capacity.

The anatomy of a wild creature bleeding outward from the human skeletal structure, a partial metemorphosis exclusive to an adept of the Path of Beasts.

Even so, within this bizarre Qi Field, even the circulation of inner energy within his physical frame was experiencing severe disruption.

Whenever the vitality of the Path of Beasts attempted to surge outward, an imperceptible wall neutralized it in real-time.

The transformation sputtered.

Akin to attempting to ignite a sodden piece of flint.

The gentleman parted his lips.

“This elevated terrain comprises the domain of our Hero’s Sect. Temporarily, at any rate.”

The opening remarks carried a freezing edge, yet they swiftly transitioned into a gentle cadence.

An inflection that rendered it entirely impossible to decipher his internal motivations.

“An uninvited arrival has intruded beneath the cover of night, hence as the proprietor, I ventured forth to investigate—.”

The gentleman’s weapon resting upon his shoulder remained motionless.

He had not yet shifted its position.

It appeared as though he had not yet made the motion to draw it.

“A pack of mongrels appears to be roaming recklessly, I gather?”

Yet Scent Wolf comprehended the reality.

This individual was perilous.

So profoundly dangerous that measuring his capability was an impossibility.

An odorless adversary represents the ultimate nightmare for a wolf.

Because they defy analysis.

Because their subsequent strike cannot be anticipated.

Rustle.

The crisp snap of a hand fan deploying echoed from the space behind him.

“You have made your appearance, visitor.”

An unhurried and meditative vocalization.

Not the individual who had incapacitated the Scent Follower, but a separate entity entirely.

To his flank, True Qi rippled across the soil like a spinning web.

True Qi possessing the identical property that had shackled the Scent Follower’s limbs moments before.

However, its concentration was fivefold greater.

This was no mere gathering of fibers intended to snare an object in a vacant space, but a concentration capable of constructing a barrier.

“Ah, are these the interloping degenerates? They do not even qualify as human offspring.”

This voice matched the sharp and piercing tone from earlier.

He was surrounded on three flanks.

The vanguard.

The odorless gentleman.

The left flank.

The Formation Master.

The rear.

The individual wielding the hand fan.

Every path of retreat was sealed.

Scent Wolf did not attempt to flee.

A cornered predator displays its teeth.

Such is the code of the wild.

He anchored his four limbs firmly against the dirt, lowering his center of gravity until his frame nearly brushed the soil.

A redistribution of physical weight unachievable by an ordinary human.

A shallow breath slipped past his predatory teeth.

The gentleman cocked his head slightly.

“Most assuredly not of human origin.”

Scent Wolf’s pupils shrank to pinpricks.

While it was Scent Wolf who sought to analyze, it was simultaneously Scent Wolf who found himself completely laid bare.

And the man comprehended him flawlessly, even without the aid of smell.

Devoid of aroma or Qi Perception, this gentleman deciphered the latent vitality of the Path of Beasts residing inside his physical frame.

This distorting zone was no mere defensive measure.

It functioned simultaneously as a tracking mechanism.

A looking glass that exposed the core truth of anything stepping inside its boundaries.

Just as a wild creature that has plunged into deep water cannot conceal the ripples regardless of its thrashing, does even concealed vitality manifest of its own accord inside this gentleman’s zone?

The corners of the gentleman’s lips curved upward marginally.

“This proves quite advantageous.”

A solitary glimmer of a grin emerging from a completely blank expression.

It offered no comfort.

It was an expression far closer to biting frost than radiant sunshine.

“I possessed a handful of inquiries to pose.”

Scent Wolf’s thoughts spun rapidly.

The zone radiating outward from beneath this individual’s soles.

That was the root cause that neutralized his nose, gridlocked his Qi, and even deflected the path of the breeze.

This was neither standard inner energy nor a conventional tactical array, but a manifestation of a completely separate order of reality.

If an individual wielding such an attribute was present at the coordinates two hundred li north of the River Capital.

Could it be that the thirty-one practitioners of the Patrol Sword Corps vanished without leaving a fragment of evidence behind….

The total lack of remains.

The complete absence of the stench of gore.

Perhaps no remnants could ever endure within the vicinity of this individual from the very beginning.

Scent Wolf’s amber eyes narrowed to the point of tearing.

‘…Did this individual liquidate the Patrol Sword Corps, along with that Sang Gwanhwi?’

It was no confirmed fact.

Merely pure intuition.

Because if this gentleman had been present at the location where the trail vanished, every puzzle piece fell perfectly into place.

Scent Wolf’s olfactory sense had never committed an error throughout his entire existence.

Where a void of odor exists, there is invariably an entity that wiped the scent away.

And presently, the gentleman standing directly before his eyes loomed as the most plausible suspect.

I must convey this intelligence to the Great Venerate.

I must preserve my life.

The lingering reserves of the Path of Beasts vitality remaining within Scent Wolf’s physical frame converged into a singular point.

The gentleman’s bizarre zone was actively suppressing it, but for one fleeting instant, it would fail to contain the cataclysmic eruption a wild creature unleashes when wagering its survival.

I shall gamble everything on this singular maneuver.

Scent Wolf launched himself from the dirt.

Not targeting any of the three occupied flanks, but choosing the fourth option.

Heavenward.

Kwaat-!

Branches splintered to pieces as Scent Wolf’s frame propelled itself vertically into the air.

This was no ordinary human technique of lightness.

It was the explosive bound of an arboreal beast.

Kaang!

A flashing blade ascended to meet him.

The gentleman’s weapon.

A lateral sweep delivered without a whisper of sound or wind grazed Scent Wolf’s left flank.

It was the flat of the steel, rather than the sharpened edge, yet the agonizing sensation of multiple ribs fracturing vibrated through his entire body.

‘…Kkht!’

He clenched his jaw.

He refused to falter.

He seized a bough, twisting his momentum, and executed a secondary leap.

A tertiary leap.

He could perceive the physical sensation of puncturing through the bizarre perimeter.

At the very tip of his nostrils, ever so faintly, the crisp aroma of pine trees began to manifest once more.

Just a fraction further.

Rustle.

The distinct snap of the hand fan.

The fan belonging to the individual in his rear deployed in mid-air, and the surrounding climate instantaneously warped.

Thunderous energy.

Blinding metallic sparks crackled through the sky.

Static current contorted and twisted every muscle group throughout his physical frame.

‘…Kk-eut!’

His muscular tissue contracted violently, and his skeletal joints locked solid.

His neural pathways misfired, and his arms and legs thrashed completely out of control.

A Zone-type Tactical Array.

The arc of his vertical leap shattered entirely.

The fingers that were poised to anchor onto a bough grasped nothing but empty air, and Scent Wolf’s frame fell precipitously back toward the soil.

Kuuung-.

His back absorbed the impact with the earth first.

As his field of vision temporarily washed out into total whiteness and then stabilized, he managed with great difficulty to unseal his eyelids.

The gentleman’s blade rested directly against his throat.

One chi.

A proximity of precisely one chi.

No freezing energy radiated from the tip of the weapon.

This individual’s blade projected neither murderous intent nor active Qi.

Merely the raw physical reality of forged steel was chillingly pressing against the flesh of his neck.

That reality felt somehow vastly more horrifying.

“An answer is not required of you.”

The gentleman’s words descended from above.

“Be that as it may.”

The weapon shifted a fraction of an inch nearer.

“You must expunge every single memory of what you perceived via smell on this elevated terrain prior to your departure. Is that not accurate?”

Expunge.

Scent Wolf offered no verbal response.

A wild beast never simulates capitulation.

Yet his constricted amber eyes were indelibly etching the gentleman’s facial features into his mind.

This specific visage.

The face belonging to this completely odorless man.

I shall deliver this image to the Great Venerate.

Whether I remain among the living or the dead.

Right at that split second.

The ground vibrated.

A subtle yet rhythmic tremor.

The cadence of numerous boots impacting the soil in perfect synchronization.

It was a highly ordered advance, characteristic of a military legion on the march.

Scent Wolf’s olfactory sense remained completely non-functional.

Inside this gentleman’s zone, he was impotent to smell a thing.

However, his auditory facilities remained active.

A wolf’s hearing possessed the capability to interpret the trajectory and magnitude of the tremor.

The eastern base of the elevated terrain.

Not a mere handful.

Exceeding a hundred individuals were ascending the slopes.

And then.

Na—mu—A—mi—ta—bul.

The resonance of a low, resonant invocation, drifting upon the breeze.

Scent Wolf’s eyes widened in realization.

There existed absolutely no scenario where he would fail to recognize this invocation.

Had he not spent his entire existence bowed in submission beneath that very chant?

The Rakshasa Monk Corps.

It represented the elite vanguard that had been systematically eliminating the surviving factions of the Vast Heaven Sect under the direct leadership of the Blood Rakshasa.

No minor spiritual gathering, but seasoned front-line battalions.

They had tracked the pungent aroma of the routed troops’ blood slick all the way to this location.

An army numbering in the hundreds was advancing up this elevated terrain.

The gentleman’s gaze pivoted toward the east.

It lasted for a mere heartbeat, yet Scent Wolf witnessed it.

His vacant expression remained unbroken.

However, the weapon resting upon his shoulder shifted ever so slightly, a truly microscopic adjustment.

“It grows turbulent.”

The individual wielding the hand fan grumbled from the rear.

“Sect Leader.”

The woman positioned on the left flank called out to the man.

For the primary time, her inflection was laced with a trace of apprehension.

“They have arrived. A considerable force.”

That individual, Dong Bongsu, refrained from glancing backward.

The steel slowly disengaged from Scent Wolf’s neck.

One chi widened to one ja, and one ja transitioned into a single stride.

Even during that transition, Scent Wolf did not attempt to flee.

Because the necessity for flight had dissolved entirely.

Na—mu—A—mi—ta—bul.

The chanting grew increasingly distinct.

The melody of an immensely merciful and sympathetic blade, where hundreds of vocal paths merged into a singular harmony.

Dong Bongsu lowered the blade from his shoulder, gripping it firmly in his right hand.

It marked the absolute first instance of him doing so.

“This promises to be an entertaining evening.”

Upon hearing those syllables, Scent Wolf felt absolute certainty.

…That even when confronted by the massive vanguard of the Dark Rakshasa Way, he experienced no dread, but rather anticipation.

A profound shiver coursed down Scent Wolf’s spine.

What a wild creature fears above all else is not an apex predator more powerful than its own kind.

It is the specific predator that continues to hunt even when its hunger has been entirely satiated.

And.

This gentleman epitomized that exact breed of predator.

A fiend… whose true boundaries he could never hope to perceive.