Ch. 363 - Not Enough Hate

“Nah, you’re just too weak,” Fang Xiu said, standing solo at the courtyard’s only exit, staring down Lu Ziming and his crew.

The Scalpel shone cold in his hand. Behind him, the Shadow Killers crept closer, their slow steps unstoppable.

One guy, two Specters—one ahead, two behind—pinning everyone in the courtyard like cornered rats.

Yang Ming and the others? Fang Xiu had let them slip by, out of the danger zone.

“Fang Xiu! What the hell are you doing?!” someone shouted. “You trying to kill us all?”

“You jerk! If you want to die, don’t take us with you!”

Panic and anger exploded. No one saw this coming—Fang Xiu going off the deep end like this.

With Specters closing in, he wasn’t just refusing to run; he was blocking their only shot at getting out.

“Everybody, rush him!” Wen Jinglong yelled, throwing his arm up.

The group swarmed Fang Xiu in a wild, desperate rush.

They didn’t have the nerve to take on the shadow-jumping freaks straight-up, but him? Him they thought they could handle.

Big miscalculation. They figured that out fast.

Fang Xiu’s body was on another level.

The first two guys came in swinging, fists flying.

He didn’t even look—just threw a casual kick that sent them tumbling like knocked-over pins.

Another guy charged, and Fang Xiu stepped in with a clean uppercut.

The guy’s face crumpled, twisting like dough as the hit lifted him off the ground. He spun a full circle in the air before slamming down hard.

Wen Jinglong roared, rushing from the side with a wild punch that cut through the air—a fifth-tier psychic putting everything into it.

Fang Xiu slid aside, smooth as butter, dodging it.

Wen stumbled forward, off-balance, and Fang Xiu jumped—grabbing his arm, twisting it into a textbook joint lock, and pinning him with a shoulder shove.

Then his knee crashed into Wen’s stomach.

“Guh!” Wen choked, puking up bile, eyes rolling back.

Fang Xiu wasn’t finished. With a grunt, he hauled Wen up by one arm like a bat and started swinging.

Bodies flew as he plowed through the crowd, a human wrecking ball.

A glint of steel flashed through the mess—Lu Ziming, sword out, aiming for Fang Xiu’s neck.

Fang Xiu ducked low, slipping under the blade, then snapped his leg up in a vicious scorpion kick.

His heel smashed Lu Ziming’s jaw, sending him flying in a perfect curve before he hit the ground.

When it all cleared, Fang Xiu stood alone.

The moves were basic—stuff he’d learned training with Greenvine’s Investigation Bureau. Simple, yeah, but with his insane strength, no one here could touch him.

Still, he didn’t kill them. They were his cattle, after all.

TAP-TAP-TAP…

The footsteps got closer. One Shadow Killer hovered over a guy on the ground, its shoe dangling above his shadow.

The poor guy screamed, rolling away in a clumsy tumble just in time.

By now, the fight had drained out of them. They stumbled to their feet, hopping and dodging like crazy, playing a grim game of keep-away with the Shadow Killers around the courtyard.

“Fang Xiu!” Lu Ziming shouted, ducking a shadow mid-move. “You haven’t used the Scalpel once—obviously you’re not here to kill us. So why are you trapping us like this?!”

Fang Xiu watched their frantic dance, his voice as flat as ever. “Easy. I want you to hate me.”

“Hate you?!” Lu Ziming’s mind nearly fried. What kind of nutjob wants people to hate him?

“Your Spiritual Energy’s mine—my fuel,” Fang Xiu said, calm and distant. “But before I dig in, it needs some work. Spiritual Energy soaked in pain and hate? That’s the best stuff—the tastiest.”

His words landed like a bucket of ice water, leaving them stunned.

It wasn’t just how straight-up he was, laying out his plan with zero guilt. It was the sheer insanity of it—pain-and-hate-flavored Spiritual Energy being “tasty”?

He wasn’t just taking it; he was enjoying it.

This wasn’t human—it was Specter-level weird. Even Specters didn’t season their food first.

To them, it felt like they were slabs of meat on the chopping block, and Fang Xiu was the cook, pounding them tender for the big meal.

“You’re not human—you’re the real Specter!” Lu Ziming yelled, his eyes burning with hate and fear.

Out of nowhere, Fang Xiu smirked. “That’s the vibe I’m after. Keep hating me. Fear me.”

“You jerk—I’ll end you!” Lu Ziming’s eyes bugged out, veins bulging as he swung his sword at Fang Xiu in a wild, angry slash.

The blade was almost there when Fang Xiu finally moved. His right hand blurred, snatching Lu Ziming’s wrist mid-swing like it was no big deal.

Lu Ziming stopped dead, his arm caught in a grip like steel—locked tight, like a clamp had snapped shut.

He glared at Fang Xiu, half-furious, half-spooked, and their eyes met.

What he saw in Fang Xiu’s stare froze him—a deep, dark void, something wild and huge lurking just under the surface, ready to bust out.

That wasn’t a human look. No chance.

“Why so weak?” Fang Xiu asked, his voice creepily calm. “Not enough hate yet?”

With a quick flick of his leg, he sent Lu Ziming flying like a swatted bug.

He glanced at the rest of the crew, darting around the courtyard like panicked mice, and said, “Want to live? Simple. Just do what you’re good at.”

The words dangled there, weird and unclear. Everyone blinked, thrown off—except Tong Yang. He got it quick, rushing Fang Xiu like a football player, then sliding in like a soccer guy hamming up a big win.

He skidded to a halt at Fang Xiu’s feet and—WHAM!—smashed his forehead into the ground.

“Mr. Fang, let me live!” he begged loud.

The slickness of it—straight out of a cheesy comedy—left everyone stunned.

Fang Xiu nodded, satisfied. “Get lost.”

With the go-ahead, Tong Yang ditched his pride and didn’t just walk—he rolled, tumbling into the passageway like a human pinball.

The others caught the hint fast.

Survival beat ego any day.

One by one, they hit their knees, smacking their heads on the stone and pleading for a break.

Fang Xiu stuck to his word, letting them pass.

One guy even got a freebie—mid-bow, a Shadow Killer popped in, and Fang Xiu kicked him out of the kill zone, saving his pathetic skin.

In the end, only Lu Ziming was left standing. His face was a wild mix—shame, fear, panic, hate—all mashed up like he was auditioning for an Oscar.

Now it was just him and Fang Xiu, and the Shadow Killers honed in, their focus sharpening.

Fang Xiu, though? He dodged like it was a casual walk. The trick was timing—when a Shadow Killer jumped, there’d be a flicker, a shadow in the air, before it fully showed up.

Only when it locked in could those goofy shoes hit the kill rule by stepping on your shadow.

That gap was small, but with Fang Xiu’s beefed-up reflexes, it was more than enough. 

He could slip every move without even trying.

If he wanted, he could waltz around those creeps all night.

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