Grace Hamilton, this thirteen-year-old girl, actually managed to force back and injure the high-level Spirit Disciple David Foster.

“At only thirteen, she already possesses such strength. In a few more years, who can even guess what terrifying heights she might reach? No matter the cost today, she must be killed. Otherwise, once this girl completes her cultivation, people like us will have no way out. Besides, she’s already injured—this is the perfect opportunity.”

The wounded David Foster’s face was so dark it seemed water could drip from it, his eyes full of violence as he waved his hand, signaling everyone to attack together.

So what if she’s a genius? As the saying goes, two fists can’t beat four hands. He didn’t believe she could withstand a pack of wolves.

“Wu’er, be careful!”

Henry Brooks, sitting in a wheelchair, anxiously called out, his gaze both furious and agitated. As a grown man, he could only sit here, protected by his youngest sister. His ten fingers clenched tightly, nails digging deep into his flesh, blood streaming down.

A breeze swept across her forehead as Grace Hamilton quickly spun to dodge the attack, her light figure tilting slightly. Her jade palm struck out, sending a lackey flying backward.

As time passed, Grace Hamilton’s delicate face grew even paler. The mysterious energy within her was already nearly depleted, and the number of people besieging her kept increasing, making it extremely difficult. Her starry eyes, clear as autumn water, looked up at her worried older brother and mother not far away. A warm current surged in her heart. She gritted her teeth, and the force in her hands grew stronger. With a delicate shout, she forced several people back.

At some point, a thin layer of flame, like misty rain, began to float around her fiery red clothes, radiating intense heat that made it hard for others to approach.

David Foster couldn’t help but frown. This girl was clearly only a mid-level Spirit Disciple, yet her flame energy was so pure and strange. She was already seriously injured—how could she still hold on for so long?

To prevent any mishaps, this had to end quickly. He immediately grabbed two lackeys beside him and whispered a few words.

The two lackeys withdrew from the attacking group and headed straight for Henry Brooks. They punched directly at the wheelchair, which instantly shattered into pieces. Henry Brooks, ignoring his own safety and fearing for his mother, rolled to her side in a swift motion.

“Haha, watching a cripple crawl up is really amusing…” jeers rang out as they watched the crippled man roll about in embarrassment, toying and mocking him, tossing him back and forth.

Apparently not satisfied, they all raised their feet, kicking the broken wooden pieces of the wheelchair at Henry Brooks, showering him with debris. On Henry Brooks’s handsome face, anger mixed with urgency, but there was a hint of resilience. He lunged forward, shielding his mother with his chest, letting the wooden shards rain down like little hammers, pounding his back and tearing his shirt.

His back throbbed with pain, turning bruised and purple. Henry Brooks gritted his teeth and endured it; physical pain was nothing.

What hurt more was his heart. The wheelchair had been designed by his second brother Mark Brooks and built by hand together with Grace Hamilton. Both of them had worn their fingers raw making it. Now it was destroyed—what a pity.

The two lackeys were annoyed. Seeing Henry Brooks remain silent and unyielding, not begging for mercy at all, they thought he was far too tough. It was no fun.

“What a tough nut to crack.” The one with a sharp, monkey-like face shot a sinister look at his companion.

The other understood, grinning wickedly. Each took a side, forcefully prying open Henry Brooks’s arms and pressing his palms flat against the ground. One of them stomped down hard, channeling mysterious energy, grinding his hand into the earth.

Ten fingers are connected to the heart—the piercing pain was like a thousand needles stabbing at once. Who could endure it? Henry Brooks let out a muffled groan, his face turning purple-red, lips tightly sealed, refusing to make a sound. He couldn’t add to his sister’s burden; she was already struggling to hold off the enemy.

“Ah.” Linda Hughes cried out in alarm, her hair disheveled, heartbroken. She raised her frail fists and struck out in anger.

Grace Hamilton suddenly turned her head, letting out a piercing cry: “Let go of my big brother!”

As soon as she spoke, a palm wrapped in blazing flames shot forward. Her red clothes flared like a blooming lotus, dazzling and beautiful.

She tried her best, gave it her all.

But even a fierce tiger can’t fight off a pack of wolves.

The villains led by David Foster swarmed around Grace Hamilton like persistent flies, blocking and besieging her, restricting her movements.

Especially David Foster, whose gaze was sinister and predatory, circling like a hungry wolf, patiently waiting for Grace Hamilton to show a weakness so he could strike and kill the troublesome girl.

The sharp-faced lackey, seeing this, became even more excited, grinding his foot harder, showing off with great pride.

Grace Hamilton bit her lip hard, recklessly gathering the last of her mysterious energy, forcing it into her palms.

With a sweeping strike, she drove back several lackeys in front of her, taking another step toward Henry Brooks.

But the lackeys, like bloodsucking flies, swarmed again, patiently wearing down her energy, using pack tactics without confronting her head-on.

A few steps’ distance now felt like a thousand mountains and valleys—every inch was a struggle.