The Pain of the Weak Is to Cry, the Pain of the Strong Is to Kill

Everyone immediately knew who was being accused, and in the next instant, a huge uproar erupted. That noise snapped Jack Young out of his special state. As he looked up, the voices in the crowd were shouting nonstop: "Confess, murderer!" "The killer should take his own life!" A few more voices chimed in: "That guy makes sense! He's way too suspicious. Sword Saint, you'd better arrest him now!"

"You bastards—" Fiona Fang gnashed her teeth in anger, wishing she could drag those sneaky troublemakers out and give them a beating, but she couldn't tell who was actually speaking. The crowd around her was noisy and chaotic; plenty of people were quick to accuse Jack Young. Those who had witnessed the carnage at the plaza were too scared to speak up directly, but they still dared to quietly join in. As the saying goes, when everyone talks, even gold melts—soon, all the blame was pointed at Jack Young.

The Phantom Sword Saint was so angry he could barely speak. Just as he was about to say something, Jack Young drifted past him and walked to the entrance of the courtyard. Jack patted his fuming disciple on the shoulder, then stood at the doorway, facing the wind. He swept his gaze over the crowd without a word, exuding a cold killing intent that stabbed at everyone like a drawn sword.

Fiona Fang sensed that something was off about Jack Young, and couldn't help but say, "Master, you..."

Jack Young didn't answer. He bent down and picked up a few stones from the ground, tossing them lightly in his hand while locking his gaze on a target. Whoosh—a sharp whistling sound split the air as Jack hurled a stone with incredible force into the crowd. Like a bullet, it exploded in a burst of blood before anyone could react. A man now had a bloody hole in his forehead, his skull blown out from behind. Red and white splattered everywhere, screams erupted, and the man fell backward to the ground, stunned and unbelieving.

"Ah—!" Panic screamed through the crowd. Someone, hiding among the people, shouted in the chaos: "The killer's at it again! Everyone, charge him! Quick, kill him!"

Whoosh—another sharp whistle, and with a bang, the loudmouth's head exploded, sending him spinning through the air. Jack Young's face stayed cold as ever; his hand never stopped. One stone after another flew into the crowd, sparing none of the noisy, scheming, or troublemaking ones.

"You fiend! You think no one here can stop you?" With a furious shout, blades of light rose from the crowd. A burly man brandished a huge broadsword and slashed down at Jack Young. But just as the blade was about to hit, the man saw a flash—Jack had vanished. Suddenly, pain shot through his stomach, and he was sent flying. Dizzy and aching all over, he crashed to the ground. The man was terrified; in just one move, he hadn't even managed to block before being defeated!

He shook his head and looked up to see the crowd had cleared a wide space. In the middle, Jack Young was gripping someone by the top of the head—a sect leader from one of the Eight Major Sects. The burly man froze, then looked closer and realized all the dead were disciples from the Eight Major Sects. His mind raced; clearly, there was more to this than just a killer running wild.

Jack Young held one man in his grip, then swept his gaze around, pausing on several leaders of the Eight Major Sects. His voice was calm and steady: "Don't mistake tolerance for weakness."