Chapter Eight: A Thunderous Strike!

With a single swift, precise, and ruthless strike, Chen Qingzhi took down a Japanese soldier cleanly and without pause, immediately pressing forward to attack the next enemy. Every move he made was executed with deadly force, each blow claiming another life. As a king of soldiers, Chen Qingzhi had mastered all the killing techniques honed by countless years of military evolution; his close-combat skills were the most ferocious and effective, designed to eliminate enemies swiftly and efficiently with minimal risk—a true embodiment of the art of bayonet fighting in the military.

Among his former comrades, Chen Qingzhi’s prowess with the bayonet had been second to none. Now, even though these Japanese soldiers were not unskilled themselves, they were simply no match for him; they could not withstand even a single exchange. He surged left and right, his bayonet flashing as it clashed and thrust, leaving a trail of fallen foes in his wake. Wherever he passed, Japanese soldiers fell with screams, blood spattering and chaos erupting, and beleaguered allied soldiers found themselves freed from desperate straits. The morale of his comrades soared in his wake.

Such dazzling slaughter could not escape the notice of the Japanese officers. One of them quickly dispatched troops to focus their fire on Chen Qingzhi. “Baka! That Chinaman has slain so many of our imperial warriors! Quick, finish him off!” a Japanese captain roared, his voice carrying over the tumult. At his command, several soldiers shifted their attention to Chen Qingzhi.

“Baka! Die, Chinaman!” they shouted.

In the midst of the melee, Chen Qingzhi suddenly saw five Japanese soldiers converging, rifles at the ready, charging straight at him with savage grins. They advanced as one, bayonets glinting, thrusting toward his vital points from all directions, leaving him seemingly no avenue of escape.

“Commander, watch out!” Huzi had just dispatched an enemy in front of him when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the impending attack. His voice was hoarse with urgency as he shouted a warning, panic etched across his face, yet he was too far to intervene in time.

The five attackers moved as a unit, their bayonets closing in on Chen Qingzhi from all sides, enveloping all his vital points so completely that evasion seemed impossible. Yet Chen Qingzhi stood as if frozen, seemingly oblivious to the danger. Huzi was seized by despair at the sight, a murderous rage welling up within him. “Damn it, you bastards! I’ll take you down with me!” he howled, driven half-mad by the belief that his commander would fall to the enemy’s coordinated assault.

Chen Qingzhi remained motionless, staring at the advancing soldiers, their rifles and bayonets looming ever closer, so close he could feel the chill as steel sliced through the air. He could see the triumphant, confident grins on their faces. But while others believed he was paralyzed by fear, only Chen Qingzhi knew the truth.

Just as the bayonets were about to pierce his flesh—just as blood was about to spill in the blink of an eye—Chen Qingzhi suddenly moved. His bayonet shot forth like lightning, a venomous snake striking with deadly precision.

A series of sounds rang out—first, the metallic clash of steel, then a muffled thud as blade met flesh. As the two sides collided, Huzi, overcome with despair, closed his eyes, unable to witness what he believed would be a tragic end.

But when he opened them again, he was dumbstruck. Then, joy burst across his face. “Commander!” he cried, his excitement uncontained.

In Huzi’s gaze, Chen Qingzhi still stood where he had been, while the five Japanese soldiers stood motionless, as though frozen in time. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to stand still.

Then, with a series of crisp clatters, their rifles slipped from limp hands and tumbled to the ground. As Huzi’s eyes moved upward, he saw that each of the five enemies bore a thin, bloody line across their throats. In the next instant, those wounds opened wide, spurting blood in a crimson arc.

The five soldiers clutched desperately at their necks, trying in vain to stem the tide of blood. No matter how they pressed, the flow would not cease. Their arteries had been severed—there was no stopping such a wound. Terror and disbelief filled their eyes as they collapsed, lifeless, to the ground. Even in death, their eyes stared wide, brimming with unwillingness and confusion. They died without ever understanding how they had been struck down, how their collective assault could have been so thoroughly defeated in an instant.

Their bewilderment was shared by those around them. None of the allied soldiers or the remaining Japanese could comprehend what had just transpired; none had seen how Chen Qingzhi had struck. Yet even in their confusion, a sense of awe crept into the eyes of all who beheld him.

It was common knowledge that the Japanese were famed for their bayonet fighting, their skills renowned the world over. In the Russo-Japanese War, even with inferior weapons, they had terrified Russian soldiers with their indomitable spirit and close-combat prowess. On the battlefields of the Republic, a single Japanese soldier could often hold off three or five Chinese soldiers without faltering.

That was why, when Chen Qingzhi faced five Japanese alone, everyone believed he was doomed. Yet, in the blink of an eye, he had slain all five as if by a miracle. Such martial prowess was nothing short of astonishing.

After delivering his lightning strike, Chen Qingzhi remained standing, proud and unyielding, regarding the Japanese soldiers around him with a look of disdain. Though they surrounded him, bayonets poised, none dared make the first move. Clearly, his earlier display had left them thoroughly intimidated.