The bronze gong sounded like the crack of an iron skull.
CLANGGG.
The echo was still shaking through the granite barrier pylons when Senior Brother Geng’s right wrist flicked.
There was no preliminary magic chant. No dramatic flourish of silk sleeves. The Iron Needle Sect didn’t fight for glory. They fought for razor-sharp execution contracts.
Three black-iron Soul-Piercing Needles vanished from the air.
SKREEEEEE.
The sound was not a whistle. It was a faster-than-sound tear in the air, a high-pitched, needle-thin shriek that displaced the air pressure across the ring. Three razor-sharp sonic cones exploded in Geng’s wake as the projectiles broke the sound barrier. It traveled eighty feet in less than twenty split seconds.
Their target: Meng Shan’s left subclavicular notch, the heart-artery arch, and the central Danzhong gate.
