Atop Dragon Head Pass, soldiers and common folk fought side by side. The common folk knew nothing of archery, but they could pick up stones.
The Mountain and Sea Army bandit forces attacking Dragon Head Pass had, in truth, never encountered anything like this.
When they had swept through Yanzhou, taking city after city, they had appeared invincible — but that was because there had not been a single army in Yanzhou capable of matching them.
The White Mountain Army could have, originally — but they had assassinated the White Mountain Army’s chief, then used large sums of money to buy off the other leaders, fracturing the White Mountain Army from within, and it was only through that that they had been able to force the White Mountain Army into submission.
But was the Ning Army the same as the White Mountain Army?
The Mountain and Sea Army couldn’t come up with any better approach. Unable to win on the main battlefield, they fell back on the same trick as before.
Mu Fengliu, drawing on the power of the Mountain and River Seal, manipulated the Clouded Mist Chart to identify a hired killer and attempt to assassinate Zhuang Wudi.
But for the killer to make a move, he needed an opportunity — and for close to two months now, Zhuang Wudi had not once come down from the city wall.
On a heavily guarded city wall like that, forget about the third-ranked Tyrant Blade from the Clouded Mist Chart — even if the third-ranked being among immortals themselves came down, they’d find no opening to act.
To kill Zhuang Wudi, one had to wait for the moment he came down from the wall. Of course, if the Tyrant Blade didn’t mind dying, he could also try his luck on the wall — the only outcome being mutual destruction.
But why did a hired killer kill for a living?
To end up dying with his target?
Inside Dragon Head Pass, the commoner laborers were hauling supplies needed for the defense, and the Tyrant Blade had mixed himself in among this group.
These past two days he had been posing as a laborer, and had gone up onto the wall three times. On two of those occasions he had gotten close to Zhuang Wudi — had even exchanged greetings with him — but had found no chance to strike.
For one thing, he knew Zhuang Wudi’s own martial skills were formidable. For another, Zhuang Wudi’s personal guards never left his side.
Striking in this environment would mean being riddled with Ning Army arrows or run through with spears within the next breath.
The Tyrant Blade carried a heavy log on his shoulder and headed up toward the city wall again. He told himself to endure — though he looked like a laborer sweating away in service of the Ning Army, it wasn’t entirely without benefit. Observing the target this closely, at such short range, would be of great help.
Two days of it — and he kept feeling, at intervals, that he was playing the fool, mixed in with the laborers, doing heavy physical work every day — and might even end up on the city wall hurling stones down at his own people, and would have to do it with convincing effort, or risk being found out.
Yet as one of the finest killers in the Clouded Mist Chart, he understood what patience meant for an assassin.
It was the indispensable means by which an assassin could both kill and protect himself. It was the standard that determined whether an assassin was qualified or not.
If you couldn’t even endure, what business did you have calling yourself a killer — you might as well go open a little stall somewhere.
The log on his shoulder was heavy. The Tyrant Blade gritted his teeth and kept on, climbing up the ramp to the wall, setting the log down, then, while pretending to stand up and wipe away sweat, scanning to locate Zhuang Wudi.
That man looked like he was forged from iron — every time the Tyrant Blade came up to the wall, he saw Zhuang Wudi directing the troops. Not once had he seen him rest.
A man like that — did he even need to be killed? Wouldn’t he simply work himself to death?
As much as the Tyrant Blade normally relished the thrill of a kill, right now he found himself desperately hoping Zhuang Wudi would work himself to death and spare him the trouble.
But that man clearly was not the type to be worked to death. Every time you laid eyes on him, he stood like a spear — hard and cold and sharp.
“Thank you all!”
Just then, Zhuang Wudi walked past the Tyrant Blade, nodding in thanks to the laborers.
The Tyrant Blade quickly bowed along with the other laborers. In the moment of bending forward, he was still assessing whether there was a chance to strike.
There wasn’t. One personal guard stood to Zhuang Wudi’s left, another to his right — one with a shield, one with a blade. Neither of those two looked easy to deal with.
But that wasn’t the main point. The main point was that there were simply too many people on the wall right now. Even if the Tyrant Blade landed a killing blow on Zhuang Wudi in this moment, he had no way of escaping alive afterward.
So he endured once more.
“The Mountain and Sea Army is coming up!”
Someone nearby shouted, and everyone turned to look toward the outside of the wall. In that instant the Tyrant Blade sensed an opening with sharp instinct. The small blade hidden in his sleeve slid down into his palm, and he meant to strike at the very moment Zhuang Wudi turned to look out over the wall.
And Zhuang Wudi did indeed turn to look outward at that moment. A fierce light flashed in the Tyrant Blade’s eyes.
But in that same instant, a unit of archers came rushing up from behind, rapidly taking their defensive positions, and in doing so they shoved the Tyrant Blade back several steps.
By the time he looked again, Zhuang Wudi was already in the middle of the archers’ formation. There was no longer any chance.
The Tyrant Blade swore furiously in his mind, then turned to leave.
“Everyone help carry those stones over here!”
Zhuang Wudi turned back and called out. The Tyrant Blade had a strong sense that the man was calling out while looking directly at him. He couldn’t simply walk away now, so he pretended to respond enthusiastically and went with the other laborers to carry stones.
Outside the wall, the Mountain and Sea Army pressed forward in a dark, dense mass, raising siege ladders, shouting battle cries — quite impressive on the surface.
But two months of fruitless assaults had already planted a deep reluctance in every one of them, and for most, the shouting was purely for show.
“Crush them!”
One of the farmers who had carried over the stones, seeing the Mountain and Sea Army already at the base of the wall, shouted and hurled the stone in his hands over the edge.
A Mountain and Sea Army soldier took the stone squarely on the head and had his skull split open on the spot.
The farmer-brother turned around, saw the Tyrant Blade standing there with a heavy stone in his arms, and immediately shouted: “Throw it! Smash those animals to death!”
Tyrant Blade: “Right… I was just about to throw.”
So at the edge of the wall, he made a show of taking aim and deliberately flung the stone toward a spot where fewer people were standing.
But there is always a certain kind of person who seeks their own death. A Mountain and Sea Army soldier, seeing the man beside him just get smashed dead — the skull caved in horribly, blood and brains splattered all over him — decided this patch of ground was ill-omened and scrambled a few steps to the side.
He had barely shifted position when the stone the Tyrant Blade had thrown came down — and landed squarely on his head as well. Though it must be said, when dropping something from above, landing on the head was pretty much the only option.
With a thud, this Mountain and Sea Army soldier’s skull also burst apart, the cranial bones splitting outward in all directions, his head reduced to the shape of a bowl.
The Tyrant Blade happened to see this, and thought: I can’t be blamed for that — it was just your bad luck.
The farmer-brother beside him saw this and immediately cheered: “Nice aim, brother!”
Tyrant Blade: “Ha… yes, yes indeed…”
The farmer-brother grabbed the Tyrant Blade by the arm: “Come on come on, let’s go carry more stones, smash those animals.”
The Tyrant Blade had no wish to blow his cover, so he had no choice but to follow the farmer-brother back to carry stones. The man seemed to have latched onto him — they went back again and again, trip after trip, and every single trip he dragged him along.
It was as if he found the Tyrant Blade particularly agreeable, and didn’t stop talking to him the whole time — chattering so incessantly that a surge of impulse rose in the Tyrant Blade’s heart, again and again.
Never mind Zhuang Wudi. This man — this man had to go first.
But he kept reminding himself: a qualified assassin must learn to endure.
And so the Tyrant Blade and the farmer-brother, back and forth, back and forth, carried stones together, hurling them down one by one.
This even managed to rouse the farmer-brother’s competitive spirit — he thought the Tyrant Blade was trying to outdo him.
By the end of the day, the Mountain and Sea Army still had not broken through Dragon Head Pass — and it could be said that both of these men had contributed no small effort.
The Tyrant Blade had mentally cursed the farmer-brother’s ancestors back eighteen generations, eighteen times over, thinking: you think I was competing with you?
If the farmer-brother had known his thoughts, he would certainly have said: Well, weren’t you?
When the day’s battle finally ended and the Mountain and Sea Army pulled back — clearly more eager in their retreat than they had been in their assault — Zhuang Wudi walked up before the laborer-brothers who had fought alongside them, clasped his hands in a bow, and said: “I am not a man of eloquent words, and I won’t say anything grand — but from the bottom of my heart, I thank these brothers. Please accept my bow!”
With that, he bowed deeply before all the common folk who had taken part in the battle.
The honest, simple laborer-brothers hurriedly returned the gesture. Everyone called out to Zhuang Wudi, emotions running high across the board.
In recognition of those who had fought with particular bravery in the battle, and to help the laborer-brothers protect themselves and enable better coordination, Zhuang Wudi personally selected several of the most courageous men from the day’s fighting — among them the Tyrant Blade and the farmer-brother.
Both of them were appointed as centurions of the laborer force, each given command of a hundred men.
When the commendation was given, the farmer-brother looked over at the Tyrant Blade, his expression clearly saying: Not bad, kid — I always knew you had it in you, you’re one of the few I’d acknowledge as worthy of standing at my side.
The Tyrant Blade looked away, thinking: I’m going to get rid of you. I have to get rid of you first.
He had expected that after this shameful day had passed, no further shame of this kind would visit him again.
But to the Tyrant Blade’s great surprise, the Ning Army treated these common folk with remarkable seriousness. He, as the newly appointed centurion of the laborers, had no choice but to be conspicuous before everyone every single day.
Although, thinking about it, that wasn’t entirely bad — the Ning Army’s people would have even less reason to suspect him now.
For an assassin, the shame that began on that day went on, day after day, without end.
Every day he was looked up to as a leader by a hundred common folk, and couldn’t even slack off — so many eyes were watching him.
And above all, the farmer-brother — that other newly appointed centurion — came around to find him every single day to chatter on endlessly…
The unspoken message being: you’ve got what it takes — I knew I wasn’t wrong about you, you’re a man fit to stand shoulder to shoulder with me.
The days passed one by one. Outside the city, Mu Fengliu and the others waited impatiently for good news to come back — while the Tyrant Blade, day after day, kept toiling away in what others believed to be a competition.
Every day was rolling logs and stones. Food was mantou and salted vegetables. Sleep was the open ground under the sky.
That night, lying on the open ground looking up at the stars, the Tyrant Blade — that man who ranked third on the Clouded Mist Chart’s list of killers — felt something like the urge to cry.
In all his years, he had killed without number. Whatever the target, he had always put them to the blade. He had never failed.
This time, it was as if he were a prisoner — placed under guard in the laborer camp, unable to leave.
And that farmer-brother seemed to have fixed on him — determined to compete with him in everything, absolutely everything…
The Tyrant Blade had even started to have the absurd impression, against his better judgment, that the man might be secretly enamored of him — and all this supposed rivalry was just an excuse to stay close.
“I have to get rid of him… I have to get rid of him first…”
The Tyrant Blade sat up sharply, muttering to himself.
If he didn’t get rid of that man soon — and before he had even gotten around to killing Zhuang Wudi — the Tyrant Blade felt he would be driven out of his mind.
So he looked around, saw everyone asleep, got to his feet, and crept in the direction of where the farmer-brother was sleeping.
—