Chapter 118: The Traitor Within the Blood Sect

Before long, Yang Feng and his men crept up to the side of the warehouse. For some inexplicable reason, his left eyelid began to twitch incessantly the moment he arrived, and a faint sense of unease stirred within him. Yet, at this point, there was no turning back.

"Move in." Taking in the situation inside the warehouse and seeing only a dozen or so unsuspecting enemies, Yang Feng let out a sharp roar. In an instant, his figure blurred, leaving behind several afterimages as he lunged forward.

The ten elites of the Blood Hall were seasoned killers tempered by bloodshed. Facing a dozen ordinary foes, they were like wolves descending upon a flock of sheep. Before long, the floor was littered with over a dozen corpses, their blood pooling together. What had seemed like a thrilling, desperate struggle concluded with surprising simplicity—a one-sided slaughter.

"Brother Feng, this mission was too easy! I never expected to earn such great merit with so little effort. When we get back, the Sect Master and the Hall Master will surely reward us handsomely."

"Exactly. The men of the Heng Hall really aren't what they used to be; they're so fragile. I hadn't even worked up a sweat yet. How boring, haha."

The members of the Blood Hall seemed lost in the intoxication of their effortless victory, growing complacent. None of them noticed Yang Feng standing to the side, his face dark and somber.

"Hahaha..."

Suddenly, a triumphant and arrogant burst of laughter echoed through the air. At the same time, men dressed in white emerged from all sides. The leader was young, only in his early thirties, yet Yang Feng couldn't help but furrow his brows.

Feng Hua, the newly appointed White Paper Fan of the Heng Hall, held a status equal to the Red Flower Twin Poles and the gold-medal enforcers. His fierce Eagle Claw technique had earned him a resounding reputation and secured his position as a boss in a very short time.

"Feng Hua, it seems you had an ambush set up all along, just waiting for us to take the bait!" Yang Feng gritted his teeth. By now, even a fool would realize there was a traitor.

Watching the eleven surrounded members of the Blood Hall, Feng Hua's face beamed with unconcealed triumph. With a cold, heartless gaze—the look one might give to a dead object—he glanced at them and replied, "That’s right. There is a traitor. Without him, how could we have finished you all off today? Hahaha, since you’re about to die, I’ll let you die knowing why."

"Who is the traitor?" Yang Feng asked, his expression contorting with rage. The feeling of being betrayed was unbearable. Although a name had already surfaced in his mind, he lacked evidence, and given the person's status, his suspicions would be hard to justify to others.

Feng Hua did not answer. His eyes turned icy in an instant. "The dead don't need to know so much. Kill them all. Leave no one alive."

No sooner had the words left his lips than the warehouse doors were slammed shut. Dozens of men stood guard, effectively sealing them in like tigers in a cage.

There were over a hundred men in white. In a flash, blades and clubs danced as they charged. The Blood Hall members snapped back to reality from their short-lived triumph. Facing enemies that were both ferocious and several times their own number, they showed no fear, meeting the charge without hesitation. Sharp, flickering blade-light crisscrossed through the air.

Yang Feng was filled with a raging fire. He was a man of some standing, yet he had been betrayed by his own kind and trapped in a desperate situation. He vented his immense fury upon the men in white. Wielding a machete nearly a meter long that glinted with a chilling, oppressive light, he wove a web of blinding strikes, cutting down two men in white in an instant.

Feng Hua watched it all with cold indifference. Though he was famed for his Eagle Claw technique, he was also a master of the blade. Seeing that no one could stop Yang Feng, who was nearing the door, he snatched a machete from one of his subordinates and charged forward.

"Mountain-Cleaving Strike!"

Accompanied by a fierce roar, the sharp blade seemed to slice through space, emitting a faint, piercing whistle. Sensing the immense danger behind him, Yang Feng didn't hesitate. He channeled all his strength to dodge to the side, while simultaneously lashing out with his own blade toward his back.

"Clang!" The crisp sound of metal striking metal rang out. Yang Feng’s eyes, sharp as lightning, locked onto Feng Hua, who stood right before him. The aura of both men surged instantly.

A moment later, Yang Feng launched the first attack. Although the ten Blood Hall members had inflicted heavy damage, they had suffered greatly themselves; less than half were left. He had to find a way to escape and inform the Hall Master and Sect Master about the traitor; his brothers could not die in vain.

The General-Slaying Blade technique was said to have been created by a great general centuries ago during the height of a war between two armies. It was broad, powerful, and aggressively masculine. Yang Feng had practiced this style for a decade and had mastered it to perfection. Leaping into the air, his first move was the fierce "Unhorse the General." Whether you were a commander of thousands or an invincible warrior, this strike would force you from your mount.

Feng Hua did not underestimate him. The Mountain-Cleaving Blade style he employed was similarly aggressive and powerful—a clash of strength against strength, a stance of absolute dominance. The two men collided repeatedly, only to separate in an instant. The webbing between their thumbs, where they gripped their blades, began to bleed, yet there was no trace of pain on their faces—only a growing spirit of battle and murderous intent.

It was kill or be killed; the underworld had no room for softness or mercy.

Ten minutes later, the warehouse gradually fell silent. The ten Blood Hall members lay in pools of blood, though they had taken many more men in white with them to the grave.

Yang Feng's machete had snapped in two. His eyes were closed, his body drenched in blood, and he bore over a dozen wounds of varying severity. In his final, desperate struggle against Feng Hua, he had summoned his last ounce of strength to cut down nearly ten more men in white—a demonic display of ferocity that left onlookers trembling.

Feng Hua looked down at Yang Feng’s motionless body. Though they were enemies, he could not help but respect the man's spirit.

"You lot, find a decent place and bury him."

After this cold instruction, Feng Hua turned and left. Several wounds on his body continued to drip blood; his opponent had left him with severe injuries as well, but the god of fate had stood on his side.

Two uninjured men in white, looking displeased, dragged Yang Feng's body into the trunk of a van. They dared not show their true feelings in front of Feng Hua, but they treated the corpse with no respect at all. To them, at this point, the body was no different from a dead pig.

The men in white drove the van to a nearby desolate mountain. They dragged Yang Feng’s body out roughly. Suddenly, the little finger of the corpse, which had seemed devoid of all life, twitched. However, this subtle movement went unnoticed by anyone.