Was he planning to use an umbrella to get out and talk to those shadows? Chu Zihang was stunned for a moment, then saw clearly—it wasn’t an umbrella; it was a sword—a long Japanese sword, with a jet-black scabbard, no guard.
It was a sacred sword. Chu Zihang had read a book called The Knowledge of Japanese Swords, and in Japan, swordsmiths only made two types of swords without a guard—the worn-out swords of poor ronin, or sacred swords used to honor the gods. Sacred swords were never meant to be used for cutting, so a guard was unnecessary. And this sword, with its carefully crafted and antiquated sharkskin scabbard, was clearly an art piece.
The blade slid out of the scabbard, its edge clear like water.
Chu Zihang was dumbfounded. What was going on? Wasn’t this man just a driver? He should have been a useless chauffeur, carefully serving his boss! Yet at this moment, holding the sword, he seemed eager to fight, an aura sharp as a spear emanating from him… all for what looked like an art piece?
“The Sacred Sword, Murasame—a demonic blade destined to kill the Tokugawa clan. Heard of it?” The man rested the sword horizontally on the steering wheel. “The original was destroyed long ago. They reforged it using regenerated metal and enshrined it at Gion Shrine for ten years!”
The veins bulged on the man’s wrist. He gripped the sword in reverse and stabbed straight into the left car door. The long blade pierced through the aluminum car door, embedding itself, with half of the blade protruding outside. The man slammed the brakes. The speedometer needle plummeted, and the tires skidded on the road, teetering on the edge of control. The thick, acrid scent of blood streamed in the wind for over ten meters, washed away immediately by the pouring rain. The shadows on the left side, unable to slow down, were cut down by the protruding half-blade, not even having the time to let out a wail. Simple, pure killing—it was as if those shadows had crashed into a sharp blade at 250 kilometers per hour. Black blood splattered all over the left car window, even seeping through the gaps. Chu Zihang held his head, trembling nonstop.
The Sacred Sword, Murasame? Wasn’t that just a replica, an art piece? No! It had been forged for one purpose—killing! Its tough blade could cut through the bones of more than ten people without breaking. Killing like this… this man, and the whole world—had they all gone mad?
The man floored the accelerator again, the tires fiercely grinding against the road, producing an ear-piercing noise. This was “tire screeching”—the power had exceeded the tire’s limits, and the smell of burning rubber could be detected even through the air filter. The man jerked the steering wheel, the Maybach spinning out, its 2.7-ton body sweeping the shadows away, slamming into the roadside guardrail with a metallic crack. All four car windows were painted with black blood, only to be washed away by the rain.
It was like hell.
Amid the violent spin, the man reached out and held Chu Zihang’s head, his palm warm. Chu Zihang suddenly remembered when he was young, when the man, the woman, and he were still a family, and the man had taken him to ride the carousel at an amusement park—he had also gently held his head like this.
The car came to a stop, turning a full 180 degrees. The man stepped on the gas again, flooring it—the Maybach shot forward like a furious wild horse, charging back along the way they came. The sound of crushed bones came from beneath the wheels, and the car kept shuddering as shadow after shadow was thrown away. The man kept the accelerator pressed to the floor, his face expressionless. In his hands, the car had become a killing machine.
Chu Zihang couldn’t believe that such a useless man could suddenly turn into a ruthless killer.
“Don’t be afraid. Death Servitors… they don’t have civil rights.” The man’s voice was hoarse. “They’re not human, so the law doesn’t protect them!”
One shadow hadn’t been knocked away. He was taller and bulkier than the others, like a giant. He used both hands to hold onto the front of the car, being pushed back by the Maybach, his feet scraping against the road with a harsh screech. In the pouring rain, his golden eyes seemed to burn. It was a scene that should have appeared in a “Superman” or “Spider-Man” movie—ordinary people would have had their joints dislocated, their bones shattered by the massive force.
“Die!” the man growled. The Maybach rammed the shadow into the guardrail, the man shifting gears, reversing, then accelerating, ramming again and again until the guardrail broke, and the golden glow in the shadow’s eyes finally dimmed. Even so, he didn’t make a sound.
The man turned the car around and sped away. Chu Zihang nervously looked out the rear window, seeing those toppled shadows slowly getting up, their golden eyes flickering as they silently watched them disappear.
“Who… who are those people? C-Call 110!” Chu Zihang looked at the man in fear.
“It’s useless. Your phone probably has no signal.” The man said quietly.
“As for who they are… explaining that would take a lot of effort.” After a while, he added.
“Don’t be afraid, son. Once a dad, always a dad. Your dad is still your dad, not a monster.” The man glanced at Chu Zihang and immediately understood the terrified look in his son’s eyes.
“Relax, relax. Actually, your dad is quite capable—he just doesn’t look like it.”
It seemed the man was still the same man, at least just as talkative. But Chu Zihang could see that the man was anything but relaxed. His face was covered in sweat, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped the steering wheel, his body hunched like a shrimp, eyes fixed straight ahead.
The phone indeed had no signal. Chu Zihang turned on the radio, but there was only static. He then turned on the GPS, but it couldn’t locate any satellite signal either. Everything was beyond his comprehension—how could there be so many strange people on the elevated road? There should have been surveillance cameras all over the elevated road, and after such a serious incident, no road police had come.
It was as if they had entered an isolated space—a space where there was only the elevated road, the storm, the shadows, and this Maybach.
“Simply put, your bloodline is different from others.” After a long silence, the man offered this not-so-convincing explanation.
“Don’t act like it’s the end of the world. Having a different bloodline isn’t something to be ashamed of. Your dad’s bloodline is different too. Since you’ve inherited it, you could say it’s an advantageous bloodline.”
The man scratched his head. “Forget it, I’ll explain slowly later when there’s time… Honestly, going abroad is pretty good too, but whatever you do, don’t apply to a place called Cassell College. Everyone there is a bunch of lunatics.”
“Do you think your stepdad will leave his fortune to you? You better keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn’t have a mistress outside, or someone might fight you for the inheritance.” The man said seriously.
“Have you seen Indiana Jones? The professor and his son in there are awesome! My lifelong dream is to be like that—the dad driving in front, and the son in the back shooting with a machine gun!”