"Let them die. Just shatter it and co back to , Lin Ji’an."
***
Inside the hut, the situation was rapidly deteriorating into chaos.
"Flambé Strike!" Ji’an shouted.
She swung the Black Iron Spatula in a wide arc.
The intense, golden Yang Qi blazing along the edge of the iron ignited the ambient spiritual energy in the air, creating a massive wave of golden fire that crashed into the frontline of the ghostly horde.
Three spirits shrieked as the culinary fire incinerated their ethereal forms, purifying their corrupted Yin energy into harmless white smoke.
But for every spirit Ji’an destroyed, two more poured through the broken doorway and seeped through the rotting floorboards.
"Boss! Behind you!" Tang Bo scread.
Ji’an spun, parrying a spectral claw that was aid at Liu Liu’s throat.
The force of the impact jarred Ji’an’s wrist, the icy chill of the ghost’s touch seeping through the iron handle of the spatula and numbing her fingers.
"Zhang Min! Cover the left flank!" Ji’an barked, kicking a creeping spirit back into the firepit. "Don’t let them touch your skin! Their Qi causes instant frostbite and spiritual paralysis!"
The Class 7 disciples were fighting bravely, swinging their swords coated in their own ager Yang energy, but they were vastly outmatched.
Their strikes passed through the ghosts harmlessly more often than not, leaving them wide open to counterattacks.
In the corner of the room, Mo Wuchen stood perfectly still.
The Shadow Assassin was holding a small, silver dagger. He wasn’t helping the frontline.
Instead, whenever a spirit bypassed the periter and lunged toward him, Wuchen would execute a flawless, microscopic movent, a flick of the wrist infused with concentrated, piercing Qi that shattered the spirit’s core instantly.
He made it look like he just got this hit due to luck, and made it look like he was rely flailing in terror and accidentally hitting their weak points.
While in reality, he was watching Lin Ji’an.
Mo Wuchen saw the sweat pouring down Ji’an’s face. He saw the way Ji’an’s breathing was becoming ragged.
Ji’an’s combat style was incredibly efficient, but she was expending massive amounts of energy to cast wide, protective nets of Qi to cover the blind spots of the Class 6 disciples and Tang Bo.
’He is fighting with chains on,’ Wuchen analyzed, a strange mix of admiration and contempt warring in his chest. ’He could easily break through the horde and escape if he abandoned them. Why does he stay? They are weak and dead weight. Why burn his own life force to keep trash like this alive? He should just abandon them and run!’
"Agh!"
One of the Class 6 disciples dropped his sword, clutching his arm. A ghost had phased its hand directly through his bicep.
The guard’s skin instantly turned a sickly, necrotic black as the Yin energy invaded his ridians. He collapsed to the floor, convulsing in agony.
"Break your token!" Ji’an yelled, stepping over the disciple and swinging her spatula to cover his fallen body. "Do it now!"
The terrified disciple didn’t hesitate. He fumbled at his belt, grabbed the green jade token, and crushed it in his fist.
A brilliant, blinding beam of white light erupted from the shards, entirely banishing the ghosts in a five-foot radius.
In the blink of an eye, the light shot upward, phasing through the roof of the hut, taking the guard with it. He was gone, teleported to safety.
"See?!" Ji’an shouted, panting heavily as she deflected another wave of weeping spirits. "It works! If you are hit, if you can’t fight, just shatter the token!"
But the remaining disciples were paralyzed by the inherent sha of failure. To forfeit ant remaining the laughingstock of the sect for another three years. It ant disappointing their families.
So they stayed, and they fought poorly, forcing Ji’an to work twice as hard to keep them alive.
Sitting on the mat in the safest corner of the room, Princess Zhao Ling’er watched the carnage unfold.
Her ankle was throbbing, rendering her completely immobile.
She clutched a short ceremonial dagger in her trembling hands, but she hadn’t swung it once. She was completely useless in this fight.
She watched Lin Ji’an.
She saw the gray-robed cook move like a dancer amidst the chaos.
She saw Ji’an take a brutal, glancing blow across the ribs from a towering, headless spirit just to prevent the ghost from reaching the corner where Ling’er and Su Wan were hiding.
Ji’an stumbled, coughing violently, a patch of frost instantly forming over her gray robes where she was struck.
But Ji’an didn’t fall. She just gritted her teeth, forced the golden Yang fire back into her spatula, and roared, driving the spirits back another few feet.
Ling’er’s heart clenched. It was a physical, agonizing ache in her chest.
All her life, she had been surrounded by guards, sycophants, and people who claid they would die for her.
But they only did it because of her title, because she was the Third Princess of the Royal family. Not because she was a person, or because she is simply Zhao Ling’er, a human with flesh and blood.
Lin Ji’an didn’t care about her title. Ji’an had mocked her, threatened to drop her, and treated her like a spoiled child.
Yet, when the actual monsters ca, it was Ji’an who had carried her across a mountain.
It was Ji’an who had bandaged her leg, fed her hot stew, and was now standing between her and a horde of ancient, vengeful ghosts, literally taking hits to keep her safe.
Ling’er looked at the terrified faces of the Class 7 disciples.
She looked at Tang Bo, who was weeping openly as he swung his skillet, staying only because he didn’t want to abandon his "Boss." She looked at Su Wan, who was cowering behind her, offering no help at all.
’They are staying because of their pride,’ Ling’er realized with sudden, heartbreaking clarity. ’And their pride is going to get Senior Brother Lin killed.’
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