The Almighty Martial Arts System - Chapter 165

The moment the flying dagger left Jiang Fei’s hand, his connection with it severed abruptly. That transcendent feeling of invincibility—of holding destiny itself in his palm—vanished like a snuffed candle.

If someone handed him an ordinary throwing knife now, he’d be just another amateur with terrible aim.

But for the current situation, it was enough.

Li’s Flying Dagger hadn’t disappointed. Not only had it intercepted a bullet midair, but it had also killed the sniper with surgical precision—a perfect headshot.

Watching the gunman collapse backward, Jiang Fei felt an immense weight lift from his chest. With the sniper eliminated, he and Qiao Yiyi were safe.

As for the cold-eyed assassin? The man stood frozen, staring at his dead comrade in disbelief.

How?

Minutes ago, Jiang Fei had been utterly defenseless under their suppression. Now, with a single throw, he’d turned the tables.

A shiver ran down the assassin’s spine. His teammate was undeniably, irrevocably dead.

Decision made: Retreat.

Close combat? He’d already tested that—Jiang Fei’s Tai Chi mastery outclassed him completely. Without the sniper’s last-minute intervention earlier, he’d be the corpse on the ground.

Ranged combat? If even the gunman fell, what chance did he have?

He hadn’t clearly seen the flying dagger’s trajectory, but that burst of sparks in the night sky was evidence enough.

Jiang Fei intercepted a bullet with a blade.

And killed the sniper.

It defied logic—mythical, even.

In his career, he’d encountered countless monstrously skilled individuals. But none who could wield a cold weapon with such godlike precision.

If Jiang Fei turned and threw another dagger now, could he dodge?

Impossible.

As assassins, they lived on the knife’s edge, prepared to die. But that didn’t mean they wanted to.

Charging into certain death was for fools.

Tonight’s failure stemmed from catastrophic intel errors. Despite their meticulous planning, Jiang Fei had dismantled everything. Staying meant sharing the sniper’s fate.

In a blink, the assassin vanished into the darkness.

Jiang Fei didn’t pursue.

Wounded prey shouldn’t chase predators.

Though fury and adrenaline screamed for vengeance, reason held him back. Exiting the flying dagger’s transcendent state, the gunshot wound in his shoulder flared anew, pain whitening his vision. His combat effectiveness had plummeted; without immediate treatment, he’d be in serious trouble.

“Get my phone from the car,” he told Qiao Yiyi, wincing. “Call Ye Yuanyuan—have her send police and an ambulance. Don’t dial 911 directly. At this hour, who knows when they’d arrive.”

After scanning their surroundings for additional threats, he staggered toward the dead sniper.

The dagger was still embedded in the man’s skull.

The system classified Li’s Flying Dagger as a single-use item, but Jiang Fei clung to hope. If he could retrieve it intact, could the blade be reused?

The possibility was intoxicating.

Gritting his teeth, he approached the corpse.

Up close, the sniper was unremarkable—shorter than the cold-eyed assassin, barely 170 cm. His triangular eyes, frozen open in death, radiated venom even in demise.

The sight turned Jiang Fei’s stomach.

Though medical school had desensitized him to cadavers, this was different.

This man died by my hand.

Blood streaked from the dagger’s entry point, tracing crimson lines down the sniper’s face like macabre tears.

Steeling himself, Jiang Fei gripped the hilt and pulled.

The blade resisted—buried deep—but came free with a sickening schlick.

He averted his eyes, unwilling to meet the corpse’s vacant stare.

“My mental fortitude needs work,” he muttered.

Fictional protagonists slaughtered foes like harvesting wheat, unfazed whether it was their first kill or hundredth. Yet here he was, shaken by the corpse of someone who’d tried to murder him.

Shaking off the thought, he examined the dagger.

Despite bisecting a bullet and piercing bone, the three-inch blade remained pristine—no deformation, not even a bloodstain. Yet when he tried channeling that transcendent focus again…

Nothing.

“So the system leaves no loopholes,” Jiang Fei sighed. “Retrieved or not, it’s just an exceptionally crafted knife now.”

He stored the now-ordinary dagger in his inventory as Qiao Yiyi returned.

“Ye Yuanyuan’s sending help,” she said, supporting him. “But your wound—it’s still bleeding terribly! Can’t you… do something?”

In her eyes, the “Miracle Doctor” should surely have a solution.

Jiang Fei laughed bitterly. “Ever heard ‘physician, heal thyself’? Besides—” He gestured at his back. “How exactly am I supposed to reach this?”

Had he any system gold left, healing would’ve been trivial. But after purchasing the dagger, his coffers held a meager 42 coins.

Now we wait.

True to her word, Ye Yuanyuan mobilized responders with startling efficiency. Within ten minutes, police and ambulances converged on the scene, whisking Jiang Fei to the hospital.

…

Elsewhere

“You’ve disappointed me greatly.”

The muscular man—the same one who’d met the Poison King at Shu Palace Hotel—shook his head at the cold-eyed assassin. His voice remained that odd mix of gravelly and dull, his face deceptively simple.

“Intel was wrong,” the assassin spat, composure cracking. “Nothing mentioned his Tai Chi mastery—or that monstrous throwing skill! You think I wanted to fail? My partner died out there!”

“Wrong intel?” The muscleman chuckled. “A true killer adapts. If you can’t improvise, you deserve death.”

Veins bulged at the assassin’s temples. “You didn’t see him! His close combat eclipses mine, and that dagger—he intercepted a bullet midair! Do you comprehend how insane that is? This target’s practically unkillable!”

The muscleman just smiled.

Sucking in a breath, the assassin turned. “I’m leaving the country. Laying low in Jincheng’s too risky now—”

“No.” The muscleman blocked the door. “Your partner’s gone. Shouldn’t you join him?”

Realization dawned. Dead men tell no tales.

With a snarl, the assassin lunged—only to falter mid-strike. His power scattered, limbs leaden.

Poisoned!

His gaze snapped to the room’s corner, where a ragged, gap-toothed old man grinned.

The Poison King.

Last night, after Jiang Fei’s needle strike, he’d sought the renowned (if sadistic) healer’s aid.

“Fool.” The old man cackled. “I cure no one. Only kill.”

Panic rising, the assassin rallied his remaining strength for a desperate punch at the muscleman’s chest—

THUD.

The impact might as well have hit a steel wall. The muscleman didn’t even budge.

Before the assassin could process this, a foot snapped his shin with a crack, followed by an arm like a battering ram sending him crashing into the wall. A vise-like hand closed around his throat, hoisting him effortlessly.

The man who’d dominated Jiang Fei initially now dangled like a ragdoll.

The muscleman’s simpleton smile never wavered as he twisted—

SNAP.

The assassin’s final thought: Even at full strength… I wouldn’t last three moves against him.