Sunlight gradually slanted toward the west, its warm golden hue deepening into a lazy orange.

Near Jiangzuo Village, about thirty li west of Jiangning, Ning Ji was watching with great interest a standoff unfolding by the roadside.

This was at a fork near a village entrance not far from the main road. On the threshing ground beside the road, more than thirty men stood on each side, trading filthy insults back and forth. Among them, roughly a dozen or so on each side looked like genuine blooded fighters, armed with blades and spears, clearly capable of real damage; the rest looked like able-bodied young men from the surrounding villages, carrying clubs, hoes, and the like, shouting to bolster their side’s numbers.

Since this wasn’t far from the main road, quite a few travelers were drawn in by the spectacle and stopped to watch. People gathered along the roadside, by the nearby pond, and along the field paths. A large escort caravan had even stopped its carts, with dozens of sturdy guards pointing and murmuring from a distance. Ning Ji stood at the fork on the field path, watching the show, occasionally joining in with the others: “Take my advice — just fight already!”

He had no idea what the two sides were even fighting about.

Both sides in the standoff flew banners — one belonged to the Baofeng Trading House’s “Earth” faction, the other to the “Wheel-Turning King’s” Eight Enforcers faction known as “Resentment of Meeting the Unloved.” In truth, the leaders of Shi Baofeng’s “Heaven-Earth-Man” three branches and the eight great generals of Xu Zhaonan’s so-called “Eight Enforcers” probably didn’t even know these particular men personally — this was really nothing more than a minor scuffle at the bottom rung. But once the banners had gone up, the whole standoff took on a rather ceremonial air, and became quite the talking point.

“Baofeng Trading House has plenty of money, but when it comes to fighting, they might not be a match for the Wheel-Turning King’s ‘Eight Sufferings of Life’…”

Some knowledgeable martial-world types debated the matter along the field path. Ning Ji listened intently, ears pricked.

“That’s right, that’s right. Those Great Illumination Sect followers drink their talisman-water and don’t care whether they live or die. Baofeng might have plenty of money, but that doesn’t mean they’ll come out on top.”

Ning Ji jumped up, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Stop arguing already! Just fight!”

Over on the threshing ground, things had indeed reached the point of actually fighting — both sides backed off some distance and each sent out a single fighter to face off.

The Wheel-Turning King’s “Resentment of Meeting the Unloved” side sent out a wiry young man with a rather deranged look about him, wielding a chopping blade, his eyes gleaming with malice. He drank down a bowl of talisman-water and began trembling in front of everyone, then started dancing about wildly, stamping his feet as if summoning a spirit. This man was apparently this village’s trump card — once he began trembling, the crowd grew wildly excited, and someone who recognized him called out, “It’s the Third Prince Nezha! Nezha the Third Prince has possessed him! The other side’s in for it now!”

“Isn’t Nezha supposed to use a spear?” Ning Ji turned and asked.

Someone slapped him on the head. “What does a kid like you know! The Third Prince is a terror around here — no telling how many men he’s killed on the battlefield!”

The slap carried no real force, and Ning Ji didn’t bother dodging it. He turned away and ignored the fool. As for the claim that this “Third Prince” had killed men in battle, he didn’t doubt it for a second. The man’s demeanor looked more than a little unhinged — the type who’d cracked under the strain of battle but somehow survived. In the Huaxia Army, someone like this would be sent for psychological counseling to nip the problem in the bud, but here, in a small village like this, it was no wonder they’d taken to using him as their enforcer.

While this “spirit summoning” was underway, the fighter sent out by Baofeng Trading House was a lean, well-proportioned boxer, half a head taller than the murderous madman from the other side. His clothes gave no impression of great bulk, and facing an opponent armed with a blade, he simply wrapped several layers of oiled cloth around his hands as makeshift boxing wraps. The crowd along the road, seeing his unimpressive bearing, jeered — they felt his presence had already been thoroughly overshadowed by the “Third Prince.”

The men on Baofeng’s side looked nervous too, several of them fussing over the boxer, one apparently even offering him a blade — but the boxer declined. This suggested the men flying Baofeng’s banner weren’t especially familiar with him either. To everyone else watching, it already looked like an eighty-percent loss.

Ning Ji, however, found it all rather intriguing.

The boxer’s footwork and movements were remarkably composed, his method of wrapping the oiled cloth around his hands clearly practiced and expert. Once he made a fist, his knuckles were noticeably larger than an ordinary man’s, and the striking surface was flat and even. Combined with the outline of his upper arm visible whenever the wind stirred his sleeve, all of it marked him as someone who had trained in boxing since childhood and had already reached a genuinely advanced level. And in the face of this whole spectacle, his breathing remained steady, with only the faintest trace of tension hidden beneath his calm demeanor — another sign that he was no stranger to bloodshed.

Both sides had clearly chosen to settle their dispute and duel it out in full public view, no doubt also wanting to show off their strength to onlookers. The “Third Prince” let out a wild shout and leapt about, while the boxer on this side simply cupped his hands toward the crowd in greeting, and the two of them quickly clashed.

The “Third Prince,” a man who’d seen blood on real battlefields, wielded his blade with vicious, ferocious force, charging and slashing about like a maddened monkey. The boxer opposite him began by retreating and dodging — so the first exchange belonged entirely to the “Third Prince’s” furious offensive, as he hacked down at least a dozen times in a row. The boxer circled and dodged around the ring, looking rattled and flustered on several occasions, throwing only three warning punches in return throughout the entire exchange, none of which actually connected.

Watching the “Third Prince” continue his wild, howling assault, Ning Ji, observing from the sidelines, let out a faint sigh. This man’s berserk fury carried real weight, somewhat similar to that “Miao Saber” Shi Shuifang back in Tongshan County, but his actual martial skill wasn’t anything remarkable, which capped how far his fury could carry him. Compared to an ordinary person who’d never faced real battle, this kind of ruthless madman’s ferocity was genuinely terrifying — but once his opponent found their footing…

On the threshing ground, the “Third Prince” swung his blade in a slash, and without stopping his feet, suddenly kicked hard toward his opponent’s groin — evidently a planned combination move, with the blade swing meant merely as a distraction and the kick as the real surprise attack. Based on the fight so far, the opponent should have dodged aside — but this time, the boxer instead stepped forward straight into the blade’s path. His legs pivoted and twisted; the blade’s edge grazed his shoulder as it passed, but the “Third Prince’s” footing faltered, and the vicious kick he’d unleashed toward his opponent’s groin was caught and clamped between the boxer’s legs — followed instantly by a heavy punch smashing straight into his face.

“AAAAAAAAAH—”

The “Third Prince’s” scream came out twisted and ghastly. His blade still swung wildly as his feet stumbled backward, but the boxer was already closing in relentlessly. After two more exchanges, another punch slammed into the side of the “Third Prince’s” face, followed by a grip on his arm, twisting it back behind him. With his blade-hand seized, the “Third Prince’s” feet kicked wildly beneath him like a crippled monkey gone mad, and the boxer landed another punch on his shoulder, then two more square in his face.

The “Third Prince” released the blade’s hilt with his right hand, trying to catch the falling blade with his left — but there came a sharp crack as the boxer’s fist shattered his right arm outright. The boxer kept dragging him along, punching again and again, and in moments the oiled cloth wrapped around his fists was soaked entirely in blood.

The beating continued for a while longer; by the time the boxer finally let go of the “Third Prince,” the man lay twisted in a pool of blood like a crumpled sack, his arm broken, his legs in no better state, blood covering his entire face and head — yet his body still twitched in the pool of blood, twisting crookedly as if still trying to stand and keep fighting. Ning Ji guessed he wouldn’t survive much longer, though perhaps that would be a mercy in the end.

“I am ‘Iron Fist’ Ni Po! From Jizhou!” Beneath the setting sun, the boxer spread his arms wide and shouted to the crowd. “In two days’ time, representing the Equality King’s Earth banner, I’ll be fighting in the Five Directions Arena! I hope you’ll all come out to support me then—”

Seeing his bold, heroic bearing, the crowd along the road burst into cheers of admiration. After a while, Ning Ji heard people behind him start talking again.

“The Five Directions Arena — that’s no easy fight. That’s the platform set up by ‘Yama King’ Zhou Shang’s side. Three straight matches, and people die in there…”

“Ah, young men — full of pride and arrogance, thinking a little skill makes them invincible. If you ask me, he’s just been fooled by those Baofeng people…”

“That’s right, that’s right. Yama King’s people, they’ve truly crawled out of hell’s gate itself — they’re nothing like these Wheel-Turning King bodhisattva-worshippers.”

“Still too young, that’s all…”

Among the voices grumbling on was the very same fool who’d smacked him on the head earlier. Ning Ji pursed his lips, shook his head, and walked toward the main road. By the end of the day, he’d already pieced together a rough outline of everything going on around Jiangning, feeling quite satisfied with himself — and he’d become rather more magnanimous about being treated like a little kid and patted on the head.

If he had to give himself a nickname right now, it should be “Deep Restraint” Long Aotian — a pity no one knew it yet.

The sun sank toward the west. Ning Ji crossed the road through the crowd, heading east.

Jiangning—

Much like the situation in Chengdu last year, once word of the Heroes’ Gathering had spread, this ancient city and its surroundings had drawn together a chaotic mix of every sort of person imaginable.

But unlike back then, last year in the southwest, the many Huaxia Army veterans who had survived the battlefield and the fighting against the Jurchens had all been kept under strict military discipline, never allowed to show off out in the world — so even though thousands of martial-world figures had poured into Chengdu, in the end what took place was nothing more than an orderly athletic tournament. This had left the young Ning Ji, who at the time desperately craved chaos, thoroughly bored.

But here in present-day Jiangning, the Fairness Party’s approach was more like breeding venomous insects in a jar — vast numbers of subordinates who had seen real bloodshed were released out into the world in wave after wave, still fighting amongst themselves under the banners of the five great kings. As outside cutthroats poured in as well, the outskirts of Jiangning had become like a jungle, teeming with monstrous, snarling creatures.

Among them, plenty were loudmouthed cowards all bark and no bite — but there were also genuinely many who had killed, seen blood, survived real battlefields. Their methods of fighting on the battlefield might not have been as systematic as the Huaxia Army’s, but for each individual, the bloodshed and terror they’d experienced, and the inhuman aura that grew out of it, were much the same.

And the entire Fairness Party seemed intent on catalyzing this demonic aura even further. Not only had they set up the grand arena for the Heroes’ Gathering in Jiangning, but the various factions within the Fairness Party had also privately set up all sorts of smaller arenas of their own, sending people up to fight to the death day after day. Anyone who showed astonishing skill in these arenas wouldn’t just walk away with the generous prize money offered by the arena’s host — they’d immediately be courted and recruited by various factions, becoming, almost overnight, a person of standing within the Fairness Party’s ranks.

For countless martial-world figures living on the edge of a blade — including many already within the Fairness Party itself — this represented a path to advancement full of both risk and temptation.

For instance, at the Five Directions Arena set up in the city by “Yama King” Zhou Shang’s faction, anyone who could win three consecutive matches would walk away with a public reward of a hundred taels of silver, along with generous recruitment offers from various factions. And now, with the Heroes’ Gathering underway, every faction throughout the city was recruiting soldiers and courting talent — He Wen had set up the “Three Rivers Arena,” Shi Baofeng had the “Heavenly Treasure Platform,” Gao Chang had the “Million Troops Arena,” and Xu Zhaonan had the “Heaven-Piercing Arena.” Every single day, at every single arena, a few skilled fighters would emerge and make a name for themselves. Once courted by the various factions, these fighters would ultimately be folded into the overall “Heroes’ Gathering,” competing to win the final championship on behalf of one faction or another.

In Ning Ji’s eyes, this savage, bloody, chaotic scene was even more thrilling than last year’s gathering in Chengdu — not to mention that this particular martial contest likely carried far more complicated political rivalries among the Fairness Party’s various factions beneath the surface. Of course, he had no interest in politics himself — but knowing it would make things even messier was more than good enough for him.

As he made his way forward, he naturally came across a few genuinely striking figures now and then, such as that “Iron Fist” Ni Po just now, or other strange characters who might well carry astonishing skills and mysterious backgrounds. Compared to the countless blade-wielding brutes who’d merely survived the battlefield, these people were far more interesting.

This was, in fact, a habit left over from his time in the army. Spying — no, that wasn’t quite right; surveillance in the army worked on the very same principle: noticing something about the enemy before they noticed you gave you a leg up whenever it came time to actually fight. Back when Ning Ji had been small for his age, he’d often been assigned as a scout under Zheng Qiming, tasked with tracking enemy movements — and this habit of quietly observing others had stuck with him ever since. Dig into the reasoning, and it really was all in service of country and people, so no one could really call it a bad habit.

On top of that, having grown up steeped in the family’s martial tradition — from Hongti to Xigua to Chen Fan, and even Du Sha and the various masters in the army — all of them had drilled countless bits of martial knowledge into him over the years. Now, plenty of ideas from those lessons could be confirmed, one by one, just by watching people he passed on the road. He saw through it all without saying anything, but found it a quiet pleasure all the same.

By the time the sunset had turned fully orange-red, he was still about twenty-some li from Jiangning. Ning Ji was in no hurry to enter the city that day. He found a small tributary stream running alongside the road, waded a short way upstream, and spotting signs of fish and frogs along a stretch of the creek below, went down to start catching them.

Autumn was deepening now, the weather about to turn cold, and some of the frogs had already burrowed into the mud to begin preparing for hibernation — but with a bit of luck, a few could still be found. Ning Ji waded barefoot through the mud, catching a few frogs and grabbing hold of one fish, when he heard a sound coming from around a bend further up the stream. He searched his way along and rounded the bend, only to find someone else splashing about catching fish in the shallows upstream. Startled by Ning Ji’s sudden appearance, the person let the fish slip away.

The figure standing in the shallow water turned out to be the same little monk he’d seen outside the post station at noon. He’d already caught two or three frogs, tucking them into the cloth sack at his side — presumably preparing his own dinner. Spotting Ning Ji, he pressed his palms together in greeting. Ning Ji returned the gesture with a muttered “Amitabha” and turned away, paying him no further mind.

This shaven-headed boy’s foundational skills were clearly quite good — he must have had an exceptionally skilled master teaching him. In that brief glimpse at noon, several burly men had reached out to grab his shoulder from behind, and he’d dodged without even turning his head — a trivial feat for a true master, but what really caught Ning Ji’s attention in that moment was the boy’s footwork and cultivation. In other words, up until then, the little monk had presented himself entirely as an ordinary person with no martial skill at all. That kind of natural restraint wasn’t something an ordinary training method could produce.

On the other hand, though the boy had clearly been drooling over the roasted duck, he hadn’t tried to use his own skill to snatch it — when his request for alms was refused and he was thrown out by the shop worker, he hadn’t shown any resentment either, which spoke well of his upbringing. In an age when chaos had turned even the gentlest of people vicious, this kind of decency could fairly be called “quite remarkable.”

So Ning Ji felt somewhat more at ease around him.

The two of them spent a while longer catching frogs and fish. The little monk, working bare-handed, managed only a single small fish for his sack, while Ning Ji’s haul was rather better. They climbed up a nearby earthen slope together, preparing to build a fire.

He set down the bundle and medicine case from his back, pulled a small iron pot from the bundle, and began setting up a makeshift stove. By now the sun had mostly sunk below the horizon, its last light filtering through the trees, birdsong drifting through the woods. Looking up, he saw the little monk still standing in the water, clutching his little cloth sack, glancing over with a hint of envy.

Ning Ji looked over the little monk’s gear as well — his belongings really were far more modest: aside from a small bundle, the shoes he’d taken off on the slope, and his little alms bowl, he had nothing else at all, and his little bundle didn’t even seem to have a pot in it — nowhere near as well-equipped as Ning Ji, with his two bundles and a case.

He thought it over, then waved the boy over. “Hey, Baldy.”

The little monk came running over, still clutching his sack.

“You don’t even have a pot. Want to eat together?”

“…S-sure!” The little monk’s face flushed slightly, looking rather pleased for a moment, then composed himself, pressed his palms together, and bowed. “T-this humble monk thanks you.”

“Go pick up some firewood, then.” Having grown up with plenty of friends around him, Ning Ji wasn’t shy about it, waving him off casually to go do the chore. The little monk nodded at once. “Okay.” Just as he was about to leave, he handed over the bundle in his hands. “These are what I caught. For you.”

Ning Ji took the bundle and watched the boy dash off toward the nearby woods in a flash, pursing his lips slightly.

“Not even worried I’ll take his stuff and run off. What a simpleton…”

After a while, the sky had gone completely dark, and the two of them built a makeshift earthen stove beneath a large rock behind the slope, lighting a fire. The little monk looked delighted, and Ning Ji chatted with him casually.

“Hey, Baldy, why do you call yourself ‘this humble monk’?”

“Master sometimes calls himself ‘this old monk,’ so I asked if I should call myself ‘this humble monk,’ and Master said it didn’t matter.”

“Huh. Your master’s got something to him…”

“Hehe…”