The road stretched onward, and the pedestrians gradually thinned out. The stalls that had been selling goods emptied out one after another; only along the foot of the walls could scattered tents and displaced refugees still be seen.

Yan Yunzhi’s steps were swift. Trying to use the cover of the few remaining pedestrians, she moved quickly toward the crossroads on the other side — but ahead of her, someone slammed into her path.

It was a martial-world man in tattered clothes, powerfully built. He came straight at her, both arms spreading wide as if to seize her in an embrace. Yan Yunzhi slammed her foot down on top of his, then struck and pulled with her arm, throwing the man to the ground. At the same moment, someone lunged at her from the side, hand grabbing for her — she reached out in turn, catching two of his fingers, twisting his wrist with a joint-lock.

Her footwork was fluid; she retreated as she moved. Having caught his fingers, she now held the vital point. Relying on his greater strength, the man tried to pull free with his other hand. The two of them moved forward and back a few steps as Yan Yunzhi’s grip twisted again and again, until the man let out a cry of pain — his arm dislocated with a crack, sweat beading on his face like soybeans. Yan Yunzhi released him and turned to walk away.

Though she had trained in swordsmanship for years and held herself to a strict standard, she was, after all, the daughter of a regional warlord. Aside from the one time she had killed two Jurchen soldiers, a genuine breakthrough forged in mortal combat, she had otherwise always remained in relatively safe positions. But since leaving the Gathering of Worthies estate in Baofeng, her temperament had come to align well with the fierce, solitary spirit of the Tan Gong Sword style. Handling these opponents now with such deft technique, she was undeniably clean and efficient — her skill had clearly advanced a great deal.

Having injured these two men with restraint, though, the road ahead was now blocked.

Several more figures came running up, panting, from the other direction, while behind her, the men who had been tracking her were gradually converging as well.

The man with the dislocated arm still tried to advance, his face vicious. Yan Yunzhi’s eyes had already gone cold; she flicked out one of her twin swords, thrusting toward his face and forcing him back. She retreated slowly toward the courtyard wall at the side of the street.

“Miss, stop running.” The leader of the pursuers shouted. “This is my, Iron Fist Zha Jiu’s, territory. You won’t get away.”

“Whoever comes near dies first,” Yan Yunzhi said coldly.

The few remaining pedestrians on the road were now fleeing. Ten men had gathered around her, and the “Iron Fist” leading them called out, “Miss, it’s the Equality King who wants you brought back — you can’t escape. Why fight it? Look, we’ve been ordered not to use weapons, not to harm your life. But two fists can’t fight four hands. How long can you hold out? When we take you, if we have to bind you with ropes or a fishing net, a young lady like yourself will lose face. You can’t get away regardless, so why push it that far?”

The man was tall and imposing; though his clothes looked shabby and he was merely the leader of a small local gang, his words were reasoned and persuasive. But no sooner had he finished speaking than Yan Yunzhi’s right hand kept her short sword pointed forward while her left hand flipped, pressing the blade’s edge against her own throat.

“Get out of the way!” she shouted.

Her sudden move left the group stunned for an instant. In the next moment, the girl spun and dashed toward the wall behind her, intending to use this split second to scale it and break free.

She turned — only to see three more figures already atop the wall behind her, holding a fishing net, about to throw it down. Seeing Yan Yunzhi with a blade at her own throat, they froze for a moment, and she froze as well. Just then, a wooden club came whirling through the air with a whistling sound, sailing over Yan Yunzhi’s head and slamming straight into the net. Amid cries and a heavy thud, the three figures on the wall were swept backward by the net and tumbled into the courtyard behind it.

Yan Yunzhi, Zha Jiu, and the others turned to look and saw a young man’s figure already walking toward them.

“A pack of curs bullying one against many — that’s a shameful sight. If you’re looking for a fight, count me in.”

The young man walked straight toward them through the sunlight, tall and upright. The men on the street closed in to meet him. “This is business of the Equality King’s own men — state your name, whoever you are.”

“I’m your long-lost father.”

One of the men in the sunlit dust rushed at him. The young man gave a casual swing of his hand, and the man instantly seemed to shrink by half, tumbling into a rolling heap — this was a crushing display of both skill and raw power. Yan Yunzhi saw Iron Fist Zha Jiu raise his right hand, revealing a fist wrapped in an iron gauntlet. He gave a low shout, his internal energy surging, his stance sinking low — then he charged forward, his fist exploding out with a roar like thunder.

As the leader of a small faction in Jiangning, he couldn’t possibly be without skill of his own. Yan Yunzhi, still young in years and experience, could nonetheless tell from the churning power and immense force behind that punch just how ferocious his strike was. Iron Fist Zha Jiu stood nearly a head taller than the young man, and this all-out punch was aimed squarely at his face — by all rights, it was a blow one should dodge.

Yet what followed was the dull thud of an iron fist striking flesh. The young man had raised one hand and, right in front of his own face, caught the full force of the punch head-on. His clothes billowed, and beneath his taut sleeve, the swollen outline of his arm muscles was faintly visible.

“AAAAAAAAH—”

Iron Fist Zha Jiu held his punching stance, one foot forward and one back, straining with all his might to push through — but in the next instant, his feet began sliding across the ground. The heroic young man, gripping his fist with a single hand, took a step forward, forcing this grown man to retreat inch by inch.

“Iron Fist Zha Jiu — more than ten grown men, bullying one woman.”

The young man advanced step by step as he spoke, and Zha Jiu’s feet dragged backward across the dirt, carving furrows into the earth. Just as he finally tried to pull his fist back and retreat, the young man seized his fist-hand with one hand and grabbed for his wrist with the other.

“Today, I’ll just consider myself never to have had a son like you.”

“AAAAAAAAH…”

In the autumn light, the towering Zha Jiu had his arm seized and was slowly forced forward, screaming in agony as his arm bent unnaturally, his knees slamming down onto the ground with a thud. The young man pressed his whole body down toward the earth.

This was the first time Yan Yunzhi had ever seen someone with such naturally monstrous strength.

Honestly, he seemed even more impressive than that detestable Long Aotian.

The remaining men hesitated for a moment before shouting and charging forward with their weapons raised. What followed was a completely one-sided street brawl.

Dust rose from the street.

While the young man beat the crowd to the ground one punch at a time with overwhelming, ferocious strength, Yan Yunzhi noticed another young man approaching her gently — tall, slender, and handsome.

“Practicing the Tan Gong Sword — clearly a family tradition of some depth,” he said with a smile. “May I ask your name, miss, and why these ruffians were troubling you?”

Even in a chaotic age, there were still good people to be found.

Yan Yunzhi’s heart, all at once, relaxed.

Elsewhere in the city.

Ning Ji had already taken a casual look around the street where the newspaper office stood.

This wasn’t like smashing up some martial arts hall, nor was it some reckless attempt to challenge the world’s greatest master. A surprise strike on a newspaper office, catching them off guard, wouldn’t carry much risk — even if this particular paper was under the protection of the “Wheel-Turning King” Xu Zhaonan.

So he didn’t wait long before slipping in over the side wall.

The rear side of the courtyard was cluttered with junk — some worn-out jars and crocks, along with the sour reek of pickled vegetables. A perfectly ordinary sort of place. Ning Ji crept toward the building ahead, and as he drew near, he suddenly sensed something off — the sounds coming from upstairs and from the front didn’t seem quite right.

He frowned slightly. But looking at the simple wooden structure of the building, he scrambled up it in no time, and in a few quick moves reached the window at the back of the second floor.

Someone inside the room was letting out strange curses, sounding as though they were injured. Ning Ji pressed himself against the window and listened for a moment; the footsteps of the people inside the wooden building sounded off, and amid the thick smell of ink, there seemed to be a faint trace of blood.

What was going on? Had someone smashed their own head while printing newspapers?

He pushed the window open and peeked inside — the room beyond had several tables and chairs scattered in disarray, papers knocked to the floor, and spots of blood on the ground — clear signs of a fight.

Huh? Had these hack scholars who slandered innocent people finally had a change of heart and started fighting among themselves? And gotten this violent about it?

Seeing something like this so suddenly, Ning Ji felt a small flicker of excitement, wondering whether he should jump right in and offer everyone a bit of proper guidance.

Just then, the sound of commotion came from outside. A large group was rushing this way, and some had already reached the front gate.

Ning Ji’s brow furrowed. He pulled the window shut and lowered himself down along the wall.

Amid the commotion outside, someone threw open the courtyard gate, and a group came pouring in, cursing loudly about something. Some of it was in dialect and hard to make out at first, but Ning Ji roughly guessed that he’d come at a bad time — whatever mess was going on in that room was likely more than just an internal squabble.

That was unlucky.

There was no time to think it over carefully now. He jogged back the way he’d come, vaulted over the rear wall using it for leverage — and just as his head poked up, he saw someone in the alley behind, not far off, look over at him, then suddenly draw a blade and charge: “Who’s there?”

This man clearly had decent footwork; he probably hadn’t expected anyone to appear behind the courtyard, and now, at this sudden encounter, instinctively moved to cut him off. Ning Ji vaulted over and took off running, feeling rather aggrieved.

It’s not like I did it… though obviously he couldn’t say that out loud.

The man ran after him, shouting from behind: “This is ‘Wheel-Turning King’ territory! I am Quick Blade Qiao Bin! If you dare come make trouble here, why run with your tail between your legs? Have some guts and leave your name — fight me one on one—”

“Hmph.” Ning Ji’s feet moved swiftly, vaulting over the junk and trash piled in the alley ahead as if flying, and he didn’t bother hiding anything now. “Fine then — I am the legendary leader of the martial world… the Alliance Leader! Long Aotian!”

“Long Aotian? That name… uh… you’re that Five… Five-Foot Pervert Demon?”

The voice, which had at first simply been noting down a name in proper martial-world fashion, suddenly seemed to remember something halfway through. In truth, with so many heroes now gathered in Jiangning, a petty flower-thief’s nickname printed in some tattered newspaper wasn’t something many people paid attention to — but this particular paper happened to be published right in this district, and having read it, the man had retained the impression, and it now slipped out of his mouth.

That “Five-Foot Pervert Demon” was running on ahead, the man chasing him with blade drawn. The commotion in the courtyard had roused the others there, who now seemed to be closing in for the hunt as well — but seeing the disreputable young man’s superb lightness footwork, the pursuer soon found himself falling further and further behind, and might well have lost him entirely. But right at that moment, the young man, who had been about to burst out of the mouth of the alley ahead, heard those words and suddenly stopped in his tracks.

“I… damn it…”

Seeing the young man curse, Qiao Bin spread his hands wide and charged straight at him.

“Well come on then!”

Qiao Bin laughed loudly and swung his blade — but the next instant, everything blurred before his eyes. His “Quick Blade” was casually caught and pinned, and his entire body was sent flying, pushed backward through the air more than ten feet before slamming hard into the ground, leaving him dizzy and disoriented.

The young man kicked him square in the stomach.

“I’ll teach you Quick Blade… teach you Pervert Demon… Pervert Demon… Pervert Demon… slandering the innocent…”

The men from the courtyard ahead came chasing up and found a young man wildly kicking someone in the back alley. Qiao Bin, no slouch himself on this street, had been beaten down into a corner, curled up with his arms over his head, utterly unable to fight back.

The cursing young man’s eyes flashed with menace; seeing the crowd closing in, he swept them all with a vicious glare, looking every bit the ruthless villain. But in the next instant, he vaulted over a side wall and ran off into someone else’s courtyard on the other side.

The whole district erupted in shouting; someone beat a gong, and a crowd armed with blades and spears gave chase, the young man’s figure darting through one courtyard after another, over rooftops, and back out onto the main street.

What rotten luck…

Ning Ji ran on, seething with grief inside.

Normally, if he went out looking for trouble, he’d bring along a scarf to cover his nose and mouth at the right moment — but today, thinking it would just be a quick raid on some rundown newspaper office, what danger could there possibly be? He had no cloth on him at all, and now it was too late to try covering his face.

He’d already figured it out by now — just before he’d arrived, some unlucky bastard had already come and trashed this newspaper office ahead of him, and from the bits of cursing he’d overheard from the crowd, the ones who’d wrecked the place were very likely subordinates of the Equality King’s man, Shi Baobao.

Damn it, you piece of shit, what were you doing trashing someone’s newspaper office for no reason, have you got shit for brains…

He cursed inwardly as he sprinted down the street, with a dozen or so men — and further behind, dozens more — giving chase in a great commotion. Most of the pedestrians nearby scattered out of the way of this scene, which looked like some kind of gang vendetta; even various figures who looked like wandering swordsmen stepped aside to watch the show. Just then, in front of a food stall up ahead, a young monk holding an alms bowl, startled by the spreading commotion, turned his head and happened to lock eyes with Ning Ji from a distance — his mouth dropped open into an “O” shape.

“L-Long… Long…” He raised a finger, as if wanting to acknowledge him, yet seemed hesitant, unsure of what was happening.

Ning Ji kept running, hesitated for a moment, then ran straight toward him.

“Ha, Wukong!”

He ran up to the young monk, spread both arms, and embraced him — the monk seemed to want to dodge in that instant, but his body was already seized, and he was suddenly hoisted into the air and flung backward by Ning Ji: “Hold them off for me!”

Down the street behind them, the more than ten pursuers in the lead had already closed in. The young monk was hurled at them like a cannonball; he wasn’t the least bit flustered by this — while still airborne, he simply sighed and raised his alms bowl in front of him as a shield.

The men rushing in the front couldn’t stop in time, and the air rang with a series of clanging sounds as the young monk landed, swinging the bowl to knock away several men’s weapons. As he touched down, he stomped twice on the leg of the nearest man, using the momentum to shove him aside, then reached out with one hand and snatched a club from the grip of another man behind — swinging and striking, he clipped the shins of the four or five men in front, sending them tumbling into a chaotic heap.

Having landed, the monk held the bowl in his left hand and swung the club with his right, advancing two steps before retreating back across the street. He held the club out horizontally, his small frame blocking the crowd’s path, then finally gave an embarrassed little nod and a slight bow: “A-Amitabha…” Not sure what else to say, he turned to look back at his “Big Brother Long.”

Long Aotian reached up and scratched his head. He’d already known the young monk was quite skilled in martial arts, but hadn’t expected him to fight so beautifully — he opened his mouth for a moment, at a loss for words: “Not bad at all…”

“L-Long… Big Brother Long…”

“Wukong, well done! Worthy of being the sworn brother of me, Long Aotian, Alliance Leader of the Martial World—”

At this turn of events, some of the martial-world onlookers on the street grew more wary. Ning Ji waved his arms and shouted loudly, seizing the chance to build up his reputation — but seeing even more pursuers arriving in force, he abruptly turned: “Run for it—!”

“Oh… oh!” The young monk snapped to attention, tossed the club forward, and hurried to follow along.

A great crowd swinging blades and spears came sweeping through the district, but the two figures ahead moved even faster, one after the other, quickly pulling away, weaving through streets and alleys until they’d left their pursuers far behind.

Their pace slowed, and the young monk caught up alongside him. “Big — Big Brother Long… so you really do know martial arts…” At their first meeting outside the city, he hadn’t known this about him — but the grip and force with which the other had just caught and thrown him, combined with this wild chase, had made it plain enough now.

“Of course. I’m a doctor, after all!”

“Uh…” The young monk scratched his head.

Long Aotian threw an arm around his shoulders. “Come on, let’s go get you something good to eat!”

“Oh! Great! Thanks, Big Brother Long!”

A smile spread across the young monk’s face, and he’d already forgotten what he’d been about to say a moment ago.

The two figures, laughing together, disappeared into the crowd. It was the morning of the eighteenth of the eighth month; the autumn sunlight was warm and gentle, and Long Aotian and Sun Wukong wandered together through the war-torn city of Jiangning.