“Just how vast can the gap between people be?”

Yu Jiuling asked.

Little Zhang Zhenren thought carefully for a long time, yet still couldn’t answer the question.

Little Zhang Zhenren possessed a cultivator’s heart and understood the ways of men, but a large part of the gap between people was decided by heaven.

“What made you think of that question?”

Little Zhang Zhenren asked.

Yu Jiuling lay on the bed, recalling what had happened in the night.

“That person clearly hadn’t moved — even in the moment I sliced through the ropes binding my body, I still had time to look back and see him standing there, perfectly still. Yet when I flew up onto the rooftop, he was already standing there waiting for me.”

Yu Jiuling took a long, deep breath.

A gap so vast — even someone with as broad a spirit as his couldn’t comprehend it, couldn’t accept it.

Counting from when he’d first followed Li Chi, setting aside martial skill entirely and speaking only of speed, those who could match him were exceedingly rare.

The person who had made a move against him last night didn’t merely match him — they had far surpassed him.

Yu Jiuling knew his own heart was expansive. There were many things he wouldn’t fuss over, many corners he wouldn’t box himself into. Yet a blow like this — no matter how large his heart was, he couldn’t pretend nothing had happened.

The shock of that gap left him with a deep, profound feeling of powerlessness.

Yu Jiuling turned to look at Little Zhang Zhenren and said: “I’m just worried about our chief and the others. They may underestimate our opponent — because up until now, we’ve never truly encountered a real adversary.”

Little Zhang Zhenren understood what Yu Jiuling meant. He rose to his feet. “You’re trying to tell me that staying here to keep you company is actually of little use. I’d be better off going to help our chief and the others.”

Yu Jiuling gave a small nod. “I’m not willing to build up another’s reputation while tearing down my own, but I have no choice but to admit — our chief is no match for that person. Sometimes, speed alone is absolute.”

Little Zhang Zhenren understood. Anyone who practiced martial arts understood.

When speed reached a certain level, there was no longer any need for exquisitely refined techniques, no need for masterfully devised strategies.

That person’s speed alone was already enough to threaten the life of every single person on Li Chi’s side.

Little Zhang Zhenren said: “The gap between people is truly difficult to put into words. Some may spend an entire lifetime training in martial arts and still never reach the starting point of another. Some already stand at great heights, yet when they raise their eyes, they find there are still people above in the clouds. But martial skill does have its limit. I have never personally seen anyone who has reached that limit — yet I have at least seen with my own eyes six people who are close to reaching it.”

He looked at Yu Jiuling. “Six. And all six are on our side.”

Yu Jiuling gave a small nod.

Master Ye, Master Wu, Old Zhang Zhenren, and Master Wu’s wife — when it came to the martial arts of the jianghu, those four had perhaps already come truly close to the boundary of the martial path.

And when it came to battlefield martial skill, both Li Chi’s and Tang Pidi’s abilities already carried the domineering force of men who could charge and slaughter their way through ten thousand soldiers.

In the past, Luo Jing might have been a step above either of them, but after a few years, the two of them had likely surpassed Luo Jing already.

If one didn’t distinguish between jianghu arts and battlefield skill — speaking only in terms of levels of strength — with a scale of one to ten, one being the highest, Li Chi’s six would all fall within the range of one.

Little Zhang Zhenren’s estimation was that those who reached the level of one were already not far from the limit of the martial path.

If the level of one were further subdivided — into the lower tier of one, the middle tier of one, and the upper tier of one — three grades in all, then Little Zhang Zhenren’s internal ranking would go like this:

His master, Old Zhang Zhenren, Master Ye, Master Wu, and Master Wu’s wife Su Xiaos — all fell in the middle tier of one.

Li Chi, Tang Pidi, Luo Jing, and that Shen Rujian — the Master Shen rumored to be extraordinarily powerful yet whom he had never actually seen make a move — all fell in the lower tier of one.

Little Zhang Zhenren had in truth not often seen Tang Pidi make a move, and his own background was in the jianghu, so when it came to rankings like these, he inevitably let his personal perspective color the assessment a little.

He always felt that the kind of martial arts used on the battlefield and the kind used in the jianghu were completely different things.

So he thought that on a battlefield, Master Ye and Master Wu might not necessarily be Tang Pidi’s match, but in a normal one-on-one situation, Tang Pidi should be a step below.

Little Zhang Zhenren also thought: even if the powerful figure Yu Jiuling spoke of reached the upper tier of one, with so many people on their side in the middle and lower tiers, how could they possibly lose?

The gap between people might be great — but could the gap within the level of one really be so enormous?

Between the limit of the martial path and near-limit of the martial path — could that gap really be so vast?

He even found himself wondering: was there truly anyone in this world who could actually reach the limit?

Little Zhang Zhenren knew he was no match for his master and the others, but he felt that placing himself within the range of the second level should be no problem.

In his view, those who fell within the second level were simply too numerous — people like the Tingwei Army’s Thousand-Commanders Zaoyun Jian and the others were all at least at level two.

So with so many powerful experts gathered together, all of them within Yuzhou City itself, perhaps Yu Jiuling’s worries were truly nothing more than concern clouding one’s judgment.

Little Zhang Zhenren even felt that Yu Jiuling had perhaps been frightened — that his composure had been rattled and hadn’t fully settled back down.

“Rest well.”

Little Zhang Zhenren said. “There may indeed be those in this world worthy of being called a one-man army, but no one can stand against ten thousand. We have numbers on our side — and besides, we’ve never considered it anything shameful to have the many fight the few.”

Yu Jiuling laughed. “True enough.”

—

Dawn broke.

Songhe Tower.

Cao Lie sat alone in the great hall eating breakfast. A place this vast, and only he was present, yet the morning spread on the table was extraordinarily lavish.

He had always believed: if you had status and wealth, why put on an air of lofty austerity and sparse desire?

Pretentious affectation — he couldn’t stand it.

Given his background, he would never think it wasteful that a single person eating this much food would leave leftovers.

There were at least ten varieties of light side dishes to accompany the congee alone, and eight different main dishes arranged before him.

When Li Chi stepped in from outside, Cao Lie couldn’t help but smile.

“I hear you’ve had word spread that it was you who shattered the Sage’s Sacred Blade?”

Li Chi sat down. Someone quickly brought over a steaming bowl of japonica rice congee. Li Chi peeled a salted duck egg himself, picked up a warm steamed bun and split it open, tucked the salted duck egg inside, then pressed the bun flat with his palm.

He took a bite, and that fragrant warmth seeped through his entire body all at once.

Cao Lie said: “He needs to be given a target. That target can’t be you, can’t be any single person — so it’s me.”

Li Chi clicked his tongue.

Cao Lie continued: “But I also know — even after the word gets out, no matter how arrogant a person is, they may not necessarily come. Jianghu methods hold no fear for him, but he’ll still be wary of you having a thousand archers lying in ambush here.”

Even a martial artist at the limit of the path would likely have no way to deal with a thousand archers firing in unison.

Of course, if there happened to be an indestructible suit of armor, that would be another matter entirely.

Li Chi said: “He won’t come here, but he’ll wait for you to leave Songhe Tower. That’s what I would do.”

Cao Lie narrowed his eyes. “Then I’ll step out and dangle myself as bait.”

Li Chi said: “You won’t work.”

Cao Lie asked: “Why won’t I work?”

Li Chi finished the bun, then drank half a bowl of congee in one go. He looked at Cao Lie and said: “If I were that person, I’d wait for you to leave Songhe Tower — but I wouldn’t make a move.”

Cao Lie fell into thought.

A moment later, Cao Lie understood. If he was a lure and Songhe Tower was a trap, then that person would realize: wherever the lure went was still a lure, and it wasn’t as though Songhe Tower was the only trap. Wherever the lure was, that place was the trap.

Li Chi asked Cao Lie: “How are things on Miss Cen’s end?”

Cao Lie shook his head. “She doesn’t like to be disturbed when she’s working — nobody can, not even me.”

Li Chi nodded. “If Miss Cen’s blade is finished, tell me at once.”

Cao Lie: “Leaving already?”

Li Chi glanced at him, then turned to look at Cao Lie’s attendants: “Two more bowls of congee, and a few more steamed buns.”

Cao Lie: “……”

—

About three or four li from Songhe Tower, inside a private residence, Fang Zhuhou looked around in all directions. “How long has it been since anyone lived here?”

Qu Nanhuai’s expression was somewhat unpleasant. The state of neglect in this courtyard pained him — this was his home; he had grown up in Yuzhou City.

The courtyard was overrun with wild grass: withered stalks still stood while new shoots sprouted up like sparse decorations among the dead ones. The house itself had already been old and decrepit, and with nobody living in it for years, even the roof had caved in somewhat. The windows were essentially all broken, and desolation pervaded every corner.

“Doesn’t matter how long.”

Qu Nanhuai exhaled heavily and walked to the steps, sitting down without caring whether they were dirty.

He settled there and spoke: “We appear not to have been exposed — yet in practical terms, it makes little difference from having been exposed. You can tell just by watching how the Tingwei Army responded. The person killed last night must have been someone of particular significance, which means the city will be heavily guarded for a long stretch of time to come.”

Fang Zhuhou paid no attention to his words and instead walked to one side, watching a butterfly that had settled on the petals of a wildflower.

“The rest of you can make yourselves comfortable here for now. I’ll head out shortly to gather information — as for how we’ll act, we’ll discuss it once I have a clearer picture of the situation.”

Qu Nanhuai rummaged through his pack. The rations were nearly gone.

“I’ll bring back something to eat.”

He looked at Fang Zhuhou. “Master Fang, please be sure to rest well.”

Fang Zhuhou naturally understood what those words meant.

The Emperor needed him to kill Prince Ning. If the operation went smoothly, the Emperor even hoped he would go on to kill Yang Xuanji.

But in a world like this — kill ten Prince Nings, kill ten Yang Xuanjis — and would there truly be no one left to raise an army in rebellion?

Was this an age that feared killing?

Commanders of rebel armies across the land had all been moving — from beginnings that were disreputable, gradually toward something more dignified — while the Emperor, who should have stood above all reproach, had been forced step by step down a path that was anything but dignified.

Fang Zhuhou was of the imperial bloodline, the Emperor’s uncle — and even he found this disgrace hard to bear.

Seeing that Fang Zhuhou paid him no heed, Qu Nanhuai rose and said: “I’ll be back in about an hour. You can eat some rations in the meantime.”

He stood and left.

After he had opened the door and gone out, Fang Zhuhou looked at the lean, tall man — only a single glance, but that man immediately understood Fang Zhuhou’s meaning.

Helian Shang gave a small nod. “I’ll go keep an eye on him.”

Helian Xia said: “I’ll go with you.”

Helian Shang looked at him. “You stay. Prepare the rations and water for Master Fang — someone needs to keep watch here too.”

Helian Xia was reluctant, but he didn’t seem to dare refuse.

“I’ll bring back whatever you want to eat.”

Helian Shang smiled. In his eyes, his younger brother would always be his younger brother — a greedy little brother.

Helian Xia smiled too. “How would you know what I want to eat?”

Helian Shang curled his lip. “What else would a pig want?”

And with that, he slipped out of the courtyard in a flash.

“Master Fang, I’ll go find some water.”

Helian Xia gave Fang Zhuhou a smile, then went to check whether the old well could still draw water.

—

About an hour later, the courtyard gate suddenly burst open with a bang. Two men who had been keeping watch outside came back, half-carrying Helian Shang, who was drenched in blood.

Helian Shang had a horrifying wound on his chest — front to back, it appeared, pierced clean through, leaving him soaked in blood on both sides.

Fang Zhuhou’s expression changed sharply. He stepped forward and examined Helian Shang’s injuries.

“Qu Nanhuai is dead…”

As Helian Shang spoke, blood welled ceaselessly from his mouth.

“Prince Ning’s… Prince Ning’s people had been tracking him. I tried to save him — I couldn’t. He was cut down right in front of me, no more than ten zhang away, and then someone ambushed me from behind…”

At that, Helian Shang coughed up a mouthful of blood. His eyelids could barely stay open.

He used the last of his strength to raise his hand. “For you.”

What Helian Xia’s blood-red eyes beheld — dripping blood and all — was a string of tanghulu, the kind he couldn’t afford as a child and never ate enough of as a grown man: red as blood, still dripping red.

—