Grand General Cheng Wujie had been on his way out of the city to the camp when he spotted a crowd attacking two carriages ahead on the road. His fury ignited at once.

This was Great Ning’s imperial capital, and it was broad daylight — as Grand General, how could he stand by?

At this moment, on the road, Fang Xidao, the Censorate’s Senior Officer, was already struggling to hold on. He hadn’t expected that so close to Chang’an, someone would dare to intercept him in the open — and those few who had moved against him were formidable.

One man used a broad-bladed sabre with sharp, lethal technique. Fang Xidao, seasoned in the world of fighters, could see at once that the style was Chu’s garrison infantry blade form.

The other three were also troublesome. One used a wolf-tooth mace in one hand and a round shield in the other — also Chu garrison forms. The remaining two employed jianghu martial arts: one used a sword, his style light and fluid in a way that didn’t feel Northern; the other used a chain-spear, a weapon few could master, but lethal in the hands of someone who had.

Though Fang Xidao had brought many subordinates, his Censorate men were clearly outmatched by these four. And because he had to protect the carriage holding Guan Mo, he was doubly disadvantaged — he’d already taken several hits, blood running from his shoulder.

He now understood clearly that he’d been watched from the start. There might even be a leak inside the Censorate itself — why else would they have tracked him so precisely?

Guan Mo had been in custody for over two months. The fact that they made their move the very day he was taken out of the city suggested they had known ahead of time exactly who was escorting the convoy. They had confirmed only a Senior Officer was present, and so struck brazenly.

Fang Xidao’s skills placed him among the top Senior Officers in the Censorate — but the world was vast and the ranks of fighters numberless, especially those who had once served the Chu court. Among the garrison troops’ finest, formidable men abounded. Many had simply sought other fortunes when Chu crumbled.

Among the fighters recruited into the Mountain River Seal had been large numbers of military masters — deployed not only as killers, but to train the Seal’s forces.

In its time, Chu had seconded a batch of elite garrison soldiers, all fighters of note, on a covert mission beyond the passes to assassinate the South Garden Grand General of the Black Wolf. Before the attempt was made, those eighty-six men had barely cleared the passes when a traitor gave them away. The South Garden Grand General mobilized troops to surround and eliminate them. Those eighty-six fought a running battle through the frontier, retreating while striking back.

In the end, all eighty-six died — but not before killing at least seven or eight hundred Black Wolf soldiers, four fifth-rank generals, and one fourth-rank general. The Black Wolf were consumed with hatred; they ground the eighty-six warriors’ bones to ash. The affair was brutal in the extreme, yet it spoke clearly to how many truly formidable men had once stood within Chu’s garrison ranks.

Now Fang Xidao was holding off four opponents alone, darting left and right, blocking front and back. Before long he had taken another strike — fresh blood pouring from his shoulder — and then the man with the wolf-tooth mace pressed forward and landed a blow on his abdomen.

The spikes of the mace left several gashes.

Fang Xidao backed two steps and braced himself against the carriage. Inside, Guan Mo continued to cry out, his voice beginning to grate.

“You said you’d protect me — you can all die but I can’t!”

A flicker of disgust crossed Fang Xidao’s eyes.

But as Senior Officer, his duty bound him — much as he loathed Guan Mo, he had no choice but to fight to the end.

The man with the broad sabre swept it in a horizontal arc. Fang Xidao ducked his head; the blade sliced a gash in the carriage wall.

The sound frightened Guan Mo into yelping without pause — likely scaring the courage clean out of him.

Fang Xidao had barely dodged that blow when the wolf-tooth mace man drove his knee forward in a savage thrust. Fang Xidao raised one forearm in front of his face as a shield — the knee hit his arm, his arm hit his face.

The impact was enough to send Fang Xidao reeling backward, his head cracking against the carriage wall.

Had he not been protecting Guan Mo, Fang Xidao’s own skill was more than enough to escape if not to win. But he would not retreat no matter what — and so the four assailants deliberately pulled at him from all directions, making it impossible for him to cover both front and rear.

The broad sabre fell again, driving straight at Fang Xidao’s neck.

*Slap.* Cheng Wujie’s hand caught the blade in mid-air. The assailant yanked back — but the sabre, gripped in Cheng Wujie’s fist, might as well have been clamped in a vice. He couldn’t free it.

“Outrageous!”

Cheng Wujie roared and drove his fist straight at the assailant’s face.

The man saw Cheng Wujie’s ferocious bearing and felt a jolt of fear — unable to retrieve his own blade and sensing in Cheng Wujie the kind of man who had seemingly limitless strength, he let go and abandoned the sabre.

Cheng Wujie’s martial skill, in truth…

He was renowned for his savage, overpowering style on the battlefield. But the techniques he actually knew were not many.

Only that — years of fighting across campaigns had built in him a certain ferocity; once it was released, who could dare take him lightly?

The former sabre-wielder drew back. The mace-wielder stepped up, driving his weapon toward Cheng Wujie’s chest.

Cheng Wujie kicked out. The assailant caught it on his round shield, but the force was extraordinary — he was kicked backward several steps.

“Take him together — we can’t afford more delay!”

The disarmed man shouted, and the others converged.

Cheng Wujie in full possession of his hammers was a warrior of the age — few in ten thousand armies could match him. But Cheng Wujie without a weapon was something else altogether. His unarmed fighting was, frankly, thoroughly ordinary.

Four against one in a sustained assault, and what had started with Cheng Wujie’s momentum holding them at bay was beginning to show strain.

“Damn it all!” Cheng Wujie felt the frustration deeply — no weapon in hand, and it felt like trying to fight with both hands tied.

Then the wolf-tooth mace came again. Cheng Wujie gritted his teeth and took it on his shoulder — spikes tore through and blood spattered out — but in that split second of the assailant’s hesitation, he seized the top of the mace shaft with both hands and wrenched with all his strength.

His grip was on the spiked end; the barbs punched holes in his palm and blood streamed freely — yet he tore the mace free with feral force.

The assailant’s heart lurched; he tried instinctively to fall back. Did Cheng Wujie give him the chance? Gripping the spiked head, he swung the mace shaft down and smashed the man over the skull — using the handle to bludgeon him.

“Unwieldy as it is — it’s enough to kill you!”

Cheng Wujie bellowed, reversed the mace in his grip, and drove the remaining assailants back with each swing.

Just then a chain-spear shot toward him. Cheng Wujie instinctively knocked it aside with the mace — but the spear wrapped itself around the shaft.

He’d noticed only now that it was a chain-spear. The man yanked the chain to pull back; Cheng Wujie absolutely refused to let go.

While they strained against each other, the swordsman circled behind him and thrust at Cheng Wujie’s exposed neck.

Fang Xidao was gravely wounded. Seeing Cheng Wujie completely unguarded, he clenched his teeth and lunged sideways into the swordsman.

The swordsman, seeing Fang Xidao could still move, went cold with irritation. He pulled the sword back and drove it toward Fang Xidao’s throat.

Fang Xidao was throwing himself forward; there was no time to dodge.

In the space of a spark, something flew through the air — *clang* — and struck the sword, sending it swinging wide.

It was a riding whip.

Tang Pidi’s warhorse had not yet stopped; he was already off it.

He came on in long, unhurried strides.

The swordsman thrust at Tang Pidi. Tang Pidi raised his left hand in an almost casual motion — and caught the man’s wrist. His right fist drove into the assailant’s throat.

Not the face — the throat. The moment the blow landed, the flesh of the man’s neck visibly rippled backward, as though it had flown to the back of his head and then — a dull sound.

In that instant, whatever bones lay inside the neck, and the windpipe, all broke apart.

A heartbeat later, Tang Pidi didn’t spare the man another glance. He turned toward the remaining assailants.

The chain-spear man watched Tang Pidi simply tilt his head — and the spear tip passed by harmlessly.

He quickly pulled the chain back, trying to loop it behind Tang Pidi for a rear strike. He had barely applied the force when he knew it was too late.

He only saw Tang Pidi step forward — yet could not have known how far and fast that single step could carry him.

One step, and Tang Pidi was before him. Still nothing elaborate — a straight punch.

*Bang.* The fist struck the man’s eye. At the moment of impact the eye socket split open.

A fist against a face, yet it landed with the weight of a siege ram.

Flesh and blood burst open beneath the knuckle.

Again — exactly as before — Tang Pidi struck once, didn’t look to see whether the man lived or died, and turned toward the next.

By then, the remaining assailants were already fleeing.

When Cheng Wujie had first appeared, his presence had genuinely rattled them. Yet they had held their ground — four against one; they’d believed he couldn’t hold out long.

But now Tang Pidi appeared, and the pressure that air carried around him shattered whatever composure they had left.

An assailant fled ahead; Tang Pidi took one stride and was behind him — his open hand pressed down on the back of the man’s head, and with a single forward shove, the man spun half a turn, legs still carrying him in a run — then his feet left the ground entirely, still running —

And then *thud.* The man’s head struck the road with his full weight behind it, his whole skull driving as though it meant to bury itself in his chest.

The moment bone met the official road, it seemed as though even his scalp had burst open.

In the space of a few short moments, every assailant was dead at Tang Pidi’s hands. He left not one alive.

This was deliberate. If any survived to be questioned, it might ruin the Emperor’s larger plan.

But his fury had not subsided.

“Some people,” Tang Pidi said, sweeping a glance across the bodies on the ground, “have gone too far.”

He turned and took hold of his warhorse.

“All of you — go back to your posts. No need to ask questions about any of this. I am going to the palace to see the Emperor.”

With those words, Tang Pidi spurred his horse forward.