Chapter Twenty-Five: The Thirteen Courts of Clan Guardians

At that very moment, several shadows darted out from the darkness, instantly surrounding Leng Bingyan in a tight circle.

"You all...?" Bingyan was startled by this sudden turn of events, instinctively taking half a step back as he spoke.

Thirteen men, all clad in black from head to toe, each wielding a longsword. From their faces, Leng Bingyan saw only menace and cruelty.

"What do you want from me?"

"What do we want? Ha ha..." One of them, evidently the leader, threw his head back in wild laughter at the question, then his expression hardened: "We are here on the family head's orders—to take your life."

Bingyan was momentarily stunned, then seemed to realize something and asked in a voice tinged with disbelief, "Are you from the Thirteen Guardians of the clan?"

"You actually know about us," the leader exclaimed, surprised, then smiled coldly. "Although I'm astonished that you know such a secret, it doesn't matter. You're about to die anyway, so you won't have a chance to reveal it."

Leng Bingyan's heart sank. The Thirteen Guardians—an absolute secret within the Han family, known to very few. He had only learned a little by chance. If the Han family's strength were only what they showed to the outside world, they would never have been revered as the descendants of gods. In truth, the family's true power rested with the Thirteen Guardians. Anyone in the family who reached the Heavenly Realm could potentially be recruited into one of the Thirteen Guardians’ courts.

There were thirteen courts, each with its own head, all answering directly to the family patriarch. In terms of strength, few in the martial world ever reached the Heavenly level; innate masters were even rarer. Yet every member of the Han family's Thirteen Guardians was a Heavenly-grade expert, and the court heads were said to be close to the innate level. As for the family head, Han Liang, his power had long surpassed the Heavenly grade and entered the realm of the innate.

And now, those who had come to kill Bingyan were from the Thirteen Guardians—thirteen of them at once. Thirteen Heavenly-grade experts could sweep the entire martial world; what chance did a twelve-year-old child with no martial skills have?

"Grandmother, no... why must that old woman see me dead? Has she truly forgotten all family ties?" Bingyan thought bitterly. He knew his fate was sealed; not a single soul could escape the hands of thirteen Heavenly masters, and he could already feel his strength waning in the freezing air, his body stiffening.

Yet despite the dire odds, Bingyan would not cower before these thirteen men. If death awaited him, so be it—perhaps a miracle would occur. Besides, would these thirteen masters really take pride in attacking a defenseless child?

His unyielding gaze sent a chill through the heart of the black-clad leader. He couldn't understand why this child inspired such fear in him—a feeling he could not allow, for how could a master be intimidated by a child? With a roar, he shook off all hesitation, strode forward, and thrust his sword straight at Leng Bingyan with blinding speed, sword energy crackling with lethal force.

As the deadly blade drew near, a strange light flickered in Bingyan's eyes—though he himself did not notice. Instinctively, he crossed his arms to shield his head; there was no time for any other response.

Danger! Bingyan's heart clenched, but he was utterly powerless.

Just as the sword was about to strike him, a sudden coolness surged through his chest. Streaks of violet light enveloped his body. With a thunderous crash, the leader felt a violent shock run through his sword arm—what power! Before he could react, he was hurled aside by the force and crashed to the ground.

He struggled to his feet, spat out a mouthful of blood, and stared at Bingyan in disbelief. "Isn't he supposed to be powerless? How...?" He was a Heavenly-level master, yet in that strike he’d gained no advantage.

Bingyan, too, stared at his own hands in astonishment, as if unable to believe what had just happened. Had he truly blocked that keen blade with his bare arms? Judging by the leader's struggle to stand, it seemed so.

The other twelve black-clad men were equally stunned, momentarily frozen by the unexpected turn. After a moment, the leader recovered, realizing how thoroughly he'd lost face. "Brothers, attack together! We must not let this boy escape—what face would the Thirteen Guardians have before the family head if we fail?"

The words roused murderous intent in all present. Yes—the Thirteen Guardians had always stood above all others, their strength allowing them lives of ease. When had they ever failed in action? Now, with one of them already shamed, they could not bear further disgrace. The twelve who had hesitated now joined the fray, vowing that this boy would not leave alive.

Faced with thirteen murderous experts, Bingyan felt none of his earlier fear. He did not know how he'd survived that deadly blow, but believed that if he could escape once, why not again?

Sure enough, as the thirteen attacked in unison, that same coolness welled up in his chest, and this time Bingyan did not close his eyes. He clearly saw a thin violet barrier form at the moment of contact, shielding him from the lethal sword energy. The barrier was beyond his control, as if it had arisen of its own accord. Bingyan rejoiced inwardly, feeling a surge of pride—though he knew the defense was not his own doing, it offered some comfort.

Their attacks were both strange and exquisite, coming in an endless barrage, while Bingyan could only rely on the violet barrier for defense, with no means to counterattack.

The black-clad men seethed with frustration. As members of the Thirteen Guardians, attacking together, they could not lose to a mere boy. With decades of cultivation behind them, they refused to believe that this child could withstand them. They resolved to wear down the barrier’s energy with steady, relentless strikes.

Yet soon they realized their error. After a long assault, the barrier showed no sign of weakening. Each collision left their arms numb, their blood surging, forcing them back three steps, nearly coughing blood—yet still they pressed the attack, aghast, unable to fathom how to break through.

Within the barrier, Bingyan was hardly unscathed. The force of the sword winds stung his face; inside, he too suffered. His chest felt as if it had been battered again and again. Unable to catch his breath, he coughed up a mouthful of blood and his whole body sagged, drained.

Seeing Bingyan spit blood within the barrier, the thirteen assailants realized their attacks were having some effect. Yet the thought that thirteen Heavenly masters had resorted to such a war of attrition filled them with shame, and whatever satisfaction they felt quickly faded.