At the second quarter of the hour of Shen on the afternoon of the ninth of the ninth month, a discordant scene was rising and spreading through the city of Jiangning.

On Buxu Street in the eastern part of the city, what had been a lively Double Ninth Festival scene grew complicated in the moments after the explosion on the teahouse’s second floor.

Crowds of onlookers, near and far, clogged the street, armed jianghu wanderers and curious bystanders standing about, pointing and murmuring. Out on the street in front of the teahouse, the response among the retainers and guards was somewhat chaotic at first, but as men like “Iron Elbow” Xu An began charging into the smoke, several senior retainers capable of taking charge made their decision and sent up a warning signal flare into the sky.

It hadn’t taken long to reach that decision, but even so, to those out on the street, the choice had seemed, at the time it was made, a touch rash.

This time, under Jin Yongsheng’s arrangement, more than a dozen retainers of the Shi Family had come along with Shi Weiyang to carry out this scheme — every one of them a formidable, fearsome figure with considerable renown across the jianghu. Some had once run their own mountain strongholds in various regions; others possessed such extraordinary skill that they had commanded fear across whole territories even during the chaos of war.

In terms of standing alone, capturing a mere Yan Yunzhi would have required no more than any single one of these men to show up. Indeed, the most senior among them — men like the old jianghu veteran “Fifteen Strings” Yu Ci — held such standing that even had Yan Taiwei of the Yan Family Fort himself come in person, the old man would only have received the courtesy due from a junior.

This was not even a matter of using reputation and seniority to pressure others — ever since the chaos of the Central Plains and the ravages of the Jurchens, that kind of hollow reputation could no longer buy anyone lasting advantage within the upper ranks of a power like the Fair Party, forged as it had been through actual bloodshed. This old man, who wielded an unconventional weapon and seemed outwardly aged, had in recent years crushed the skulls of who knew how many jianghu men with his iron top, and strangled who knew how many self-proclaimed prodigies, arrogant with their youthful skill, with the metal wire in his grip — and it was only after more than a few broad-shouldered, towering men had been throttled to death by the old man’s hands that the upper ranks of the Fair Party had truly come to acknowledge the standing of men like him.

War, of course, brought chaos to the realm and set countless people adrift — but it had also intensified the exchange between people, sifting the sand for true gold. The old pattern, in which anyone entrenched in one territory with a modicum of force could style themselves a grandmaster, no longer held. And as one of the regions that had, in recent years, drawn the greatest concentration of people and endured the greatest chaos in the realm, the martial artists of Jiangnan had exchanged and merged through constant friction, and everyone, as a result, had grown considerably more formidable — this was a shared understanding within the Fair Party, and, to some degree, a shared understanding across the realm as a whole.

With more than a dozen retainers of this caliber, together with over a hundred of the Shi Family’s elite guards, plus the men stationed along nearby streets to lay false trails and guard the clinic, an array of this scale — even had that Sect Leader Lin of the Great Radiance Cult himself shown up in person — would have given the enemy a hard fight. True, no one on the arena stage in years past had been able to withstand that man once he unleashed his full fury as the greatest fighter under heaven — but this was no arena stage. With more than a dozen masters and over a hundred fighters sparing nothing to win, it would inevitably be the other side who suffered the loss.

And with an arrangement of this scale, for anything to go wrong enough to warrant firing off a warning flare and calling for reinforcements was, for any one of these retainers, a considerable loss of face. With heroes from every corner gathered here, with no one yet even clear on what exactly had happened, for one of them to panic and call for backup like this — how would he ever hold his head up in the jianghu again?

But of course, the disturbance caused by that explosion upstairs could have been either minor or serious. Amid the scattering smoke, Xu An had leapt up to the tall building, Shi Weiyang’s screams echoed from within the dust, and the several other retainers out on the street had each taken their own action — some arranging fishing nets to be ready, others loudly reassuring the crowd, “The Second Young Master is fine, I heard him,” while one retainer released the most basic warning flare.

On both sides of the street, among the crowd of onlookers, some recognized the meaning of that flare and began murmuring: “The Shi Family’s got business going on here.”

“This is no small matter — the Shi Family’s ‘Imperial Guard’ has personally come out. These are real hard men…”

The level of men the Shi Family had brought to bear here matched, in fact, the scale of the sudden explosion in the teahouse. What followed came violent and swift: Xu An kicked down from the upper floor, coughing blood as he rolled across the street; both the second and ground floors were consumed by the smoke of brutal slaughter; and then, as the floor collapsed, the dust surged outward in every direction, leaving those outside still unable to settle on the wisest course of action — and it was at that moment that Jiang Bing came stumbling out of the ground-floor smoke, supporting Shi Weiyang.

It was only upon seeing Shi Weiyang, drenched in blood, his arm severed, that the people around finally understood the true gravity of the situation.

And in the very next instant, that blade-wielding assassin came charging out from the smoke behind them like some blood-thirsty demon god!

The assassin’s steps were fierce and swift, dust kicking up beneath his feet as though exploding outward, as he charged toward Jiang Bing and Shi Weiyang, his long blade falling. The people on the street nearby had, for the most part, already taken action — some shouting as they hurled fishing nets, some throwing whatever objects were at hand, some charging forward with blade and spear, some hurling roadside tables and chairs. Jiang Bing shoved Shi Weiyang and threw himself desperately to one side.

What the assassin faced now was, in effect, a whole sky full of converging figures, spear-shadows, and the shadows of thrown nets… Just as Jiang Bing, shielding Shi Weiyang, threw himself aside, the assassin’s figure, at full speed, suddenly dropped low, as though transforming in an instant from tiger to spider. In a flash, a spear-wielding guard charging in from the front was swept up in that gale-force motion, his body wrenched violently backward through the air.

In the blink of an eye, the assassin burst out of the smoke, and though his blade had failed to strike home, he dropped low again, covering more than ten feet in an instant before rising once more, slamming that same guard down onto the steps of the tavern across the street with a crash. Another guard, startled, spun around, only to find the assassin’s blade flash horizontally right before his eyes; the guard threw himself backward with everything he had, colliding with a nearby stall, while the assassin pressed straight on into the tavern’s main hall.

The fishing nets, weapons, and various thrown objects all fell short, landing empty on the street; from the smoke behind, several more battered, staggering figures came stumbling out — this was the group of guards who had been knocked senseless on the teahouse’s ground floor.

Nothing had stopped there. The tavern across the street already had guards and retainers of the Shi Family stationed inside — earlier, they had also posted men on its second floor, the better to monitor what was happening in the teahouse, and once the explosion went off, these men had all hurried down. The assassin charged into the hall, and in an instant a clattering, crashing din arose, shouts rising all around.

“Stop him—”

“Seize this wretch—”

“WAAAAAAAAAAAH—”

“Watch out!”

“He’s a tough one—”

“Surround him—”

“Waaah—”

Tables and chairs flew through the tavern’s main hall. The several Shi Family masters inside couldn’t manage to encircle the assassin in time; he dragged them, exploiting the complicated terrain, into a ragged chase, and within moments three or four men had been cut down in pools of blood. One guard was seized and used as a human shield, taking several blows of blade and spear meant for the assassin, before, even as he struggled, having his throat slit in an instant — the scene was horrific beyond words, enough to shake even hardened veterans of the jianghu who had seen their share of bloodshed.

The assassin charged toward the rear of the tavern, apparently trying to flee.

In the middle of the street, Jiang Bing, shielding Shi Weiyang, kept shouting, “Someone save him—” He grabbed a nearby guard and tore off what looked like a relatively clean strip of his clothing, hurrying to bind and tighten the wound at Shi Weiyang’s severed arm. Another quick-handed companion came to help, relieving the now thoroughly shaking Jiang Bing.

At that moment, the street was a scene of total chaos — some directing others to give chase to the assassin, some rushing into the ruins of the teahouse to search for survivors, some racing to higher ground to keep watch over the unfolding situation, and some pressing Jiang Bing for details of what had happened.

For the most part, no one out here yet had a clear picture of what exactly had taken place inside the teahouse, or what fate had befallen men like Yu Ci and Xiang Dasong — whether they had been killed outright by the explosion, or had met their end in the slaughter that followed. If it were the former, then with his explosives spent, the assassin’s threat would have diminished considerably; but if the latter, then this man’s true skill would be far harder to estimate.

Jiang Bing hadn’t yet managed to answer.

From above the street, someone suddenly bellowed, “Watch out—”

It was a retainer of the Shi household, bow in hand, who had by then climbed onto the rooftop beside the teahouse. Just as he shouted this warning, the crowd realized that the assassin — who had charged into the tavern and then out its rear, apparently trying to flee — had now doubled back from a nearby alley, a stolen spear in hand, and the moment he cleared the mouth of the alley, hurled it straight toward this gathered crowd.

The spear whistled through the air, flying straight for Shi Weiyang and Jiang Bing on the ground.

The people on the long street had not witnessed the slaughter inside the teahouse, and had not expected this assassin to prove so savage — to charge straight back into a street thick with so many masters. Jiang Bing pulled at Shi Weiyang, trying to drag him back, and one of the retainers standing in front gave the guard beside him, who was also trying to dodge, a shove.

Dust rose, blood sprayed; the guard’s body crashed to the ground. The spear passed clean through him, its blood-red tip streaking straight toward Shi Weiyang on the ground, only to be diverted, as the guard’s body twisted, and plunge instead into the dirt of the road.

Shi Weiyang, covered in blood, convulsed where he lay. Jiang Bing’s arms and eyes both trembled. Guards on the street and nearby retainers charged toward the assassin, some carrying fishing nets as they ran. A flash of blade-light, and the assassin surged at high speed toward the crowd gathered at one end of the street.

On a rooftop to one side, the retainer who had given the earlier warning fell. His skill with the bow was considerable, and the moment he’d seen the assassin burst from the alley, he had meant to draw and loose an arrow — only for an edge to slice in at him from behind. This was a second, smaller-statured assassin, whose short blade moved with agility, whose lightness footwork and steps were likewise swift beyond measure. The two of them fought across the rooftop, and the archer, struck once across the buttock and once across the thigh, lost his footing and fell from the roof, crashing down onto a vendor’s cart by the roadside, sending debris flying everywhere.

“Watch out…”

“There are two assassins!”

“They’re seasoned fighters…”

Voices rose from the crowd, each calling out in turn. They could see that the assassin who had thrown the spear had already plunged, blade in hand, into the crowd, and the road descended into even greater chaos as a result. More than twenty men gave chase behind him, yet in that time they could not manage to cut him off — he wounded two more in his left-and-right rampage before scooping up a discarded longbow from the street and, amid the fighting, dashing into a nearby shop and up to its second floor.

Over twenty men surrounded the building, their skill varying widely, yet in that brief span, only one or two at a time ever truly managed to exchange blows with him.

Whether among the retainers of “the King of Equality,” Shi Baofeng’s faction, or his elite guards — all of them experienced, blood-hardened veterans of the jianghu — it was now plain to see just how thoroughly practiced this assassin’s methods of fighting in a melee truly were. In this era’s jianghu, short of martial artists at the crushing, overwhelming level of grandmasters like Lin Zongwu or Zhou Tong, the unspoken rule for fighting one against many remained high-speed movement, never engaging more than one opponent at the same instant — a method many present had themselves practiced in actual combat before.

And yet, as the fighting before them stretched on, this assassin’s skill, though it showed no sign of crushing dominance at first glance, revealed itself, strike after strike, to be ruthless and clean to an extreme degree — whether or not a blow landed, he would immediately wheel and flee at speed, always choosing the direction that would throw the situation into greater chaos. This kind of cold, calculating command of the battlefield amid utter chaos left even the more detached, experienced masters among the onlookers suddenly sensing just how vicious this opponent truly was.

Even retainers who had themselves seen real battle understood: for one man to stand against a whole street of enemies demanded total concentration, and stamina would inevitably fail sooner or later, leaving an opening somewhere. And yet this assassin, cleanly and efficiently, scattered the great mass of onlookers to use as cover, all while finding chances to strike back, and even managed to snatch up a fallen bow off the ground before charging into a shop with more complicated terrain. He didn’t even appear to be planning simply to break through and escape.

Fight to the death.

The retainer who had first sent up the warning flare now drew out a signal rocket of the very highest grade carried on his person, yanked off its cap, and sent a firework whistling up into the sky.

“Single-Stroke Lightning Sword” Jiang Bing, trembling, gathered up the still-convulsing Shi Weiyang and turned to go, shouting, “Make way—” A nearby retainer looked as though he wanted to object, but in the end could only guard the two of them as they moved, clearing a path through the onlooking crowd.

The assassin ran through the shop, charging straight up to the second floor and toward a window; on the street below, a crowd hurled spears and stones toward that window. The assassin dodged before it for a moment, then peered out and saw Jiang Bing already carrying Shi Weiyang far off into the distance. He called out, “You can’t get away—” and threw himself out through a window at the rear of the shop’s second floor.

Up on the rooftop, the smaller assassin was being chased down by attackers converging from both sides, yet even as he ran, he shouted, “You can’t get away!” The onlookers could hear a certain youthful edge to his voice, yet the breath behind it was deep and rounded, unmistakably the mark of an extraordinarily advanced internal cultivation — a single shout, and the echo rolled and rumbled in every direction. No one could guess which prestigious house’s disciple this might be, but all of them felt a chill run through them at the sound.

In the space of a few short moments, the great chaos had already spread far beyond its original bounds. With the release of that highest-grade warning flare belonging to the Baofeng Trading House, word of this disturbance had reached, in an instant, half the important figures across the city. On a street farther off, old Steward Jin Yongsheng, in the middle of discussing important business with someone, frowned and looked out through the window. Farther still, in Zhong’an Ward, Shi Baofeng, too, soon learned how matters were unfolding, and before long, nearly the entire body of masters beneath the “King of Equality” banner came pouring toward the scene.

Smoke and dust filled the air, the crowd in an uproar. Jiang Bing ran carrying Shi Weiyang toward one end of the long street — toward the clinic where Yan Tiehe was being treated, where both physicians and men who had received the summons were, at that very moment, converging.

Down a narrow lane running beside a row of shops, close to a filthy drainage channel, Ning Ji charged forward, blade in hand, cutting through the panicked crowd. Every so often someone tumbled into the muddy sewage water nearby, and a guard who happened to try to block him was cut down where he stood. Through the narrow alleys and open doors and windows between the shops, he could see the group protecting Shi Weiyang running along a parallel path.

In the space of these few brief moments, he had, through sheer speed and evasive movement, dragged those protecting Shi Weiyang back and forth several times through this chaotic stretch of street, cutting down a number of them with brutal, merciless strikes along the way — but in truth, the time left to him was already running perilously short.

It wasn’t that the other side lacked skilled fighters — some were simply too cautious, others too attached to their own lives; in this brief exchange, most had either been frightened off by his fighting style or held back by the little baldhead. Even so, he himself had taken a few hits along the way — his chest ached with a stifling heaviness, his arm throbbed faintly, and two wounds on his back were still bleeding.

When he’d snatched up the longbow, he’d managed to grab only two arrows along with it. He had lunged toward higher ground once or twice, meaning to draw and shoot, but had never found quite the right moment.

If he delayed any longer, he might not manage to get away at all.

A chaotic blur of figures flashed before his eyes; across the lane of one shop, Jiang Bing, carrying Shi Weiyang, ran right past the slightly limping figure of Yuwen Feidu.

He suddenly widened his eyes.

Jiang Bing was still running with Shi Weiyang in his arms; the retainers and masters guarding them beside him waved their blades and spears, frightening bystanders out of the way, never once realizing what manner of traveler was hidden among that very crowd of bystanders.

“He has to die—” Ning Ji shouted, “Don’t let him live!”

The savagery buried deep within him had, by now, been fully unleashed, and even his shout carried a thick reek of blood.

But Yuwen Feidu, standing off to the side by the shops, seemed to pay no attention to the crowd in the middle of the road. He merely turned to look toward Ning Ji, his expression grave, his mouth moving as though saying something quite serious.

Ning Ji kept running forward, but he suddenly gritted his teeth, sheathed his blade, and drew the bow. Just as he was about to enter the range of the next shop, in the sky above, the shadow of a staff came whistling down.

Ning Ji swung the bow up hard to block it, his feet driving downward at the same instant, his body leaping forward and twisting, trying to counterattack.

The shadow of the staff came like a storm, cutting down at a diagonal from a second-floor window above; before it had even landed, its wielder had already used extraordinary lightness footwork to push off the wall and strike again. In an instant, Ning Ji found himself struck by who knew how many blows of that staff, sent tumbling down the narrow lane, smashing through a number of wooden crates and stools set out along the way.

Ning Ji curled his body up, tasting something sweet in his mouth, rolling several times amid the wreckage of broken debris. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw, striding forward with staff in hand, none other than the man from Tongshan he already had a blood feud with — “Monkey King” Li Yanfeng.

“Quite the commotion. Seeing it’s you, this really is a pleasant surprise.” Li Yanfeng’s voice was faintly hoarse, carrying a certain rough charm, his eyes bright with malicious pleasure as he strode forward.

Ning Ji, clutching his stomach, curled up on the ground, spat out a mouthful of blood, then suddenly let out another shout: “He has to die! Kill him—”

In this moment, what he still cared about, remarkably, was still shouting toward the street ahead.

Li Yanfeng’s brow furrowed slightly; he glanced left and right. “Who are you talking to?” Yet his footsteps never once slowed. As he closed the distance, the shadow of his staff coiled and came whistling down toward the youth on the ground.

Ning Ji drew his blade, rolled, retreated — and in that same instant, a figure came from his side, a bamboo pole in hand, and met Li Yanfeng’s staff head-on, shattering it into flying splinters. Yet the man showed not the slightest retreat; as Li Yanfeng’s staff-shadow swept in, he threw a single punch straight at Li Yanfeng’s head — the force of that punch alone whistling through the air, sending Li Yanfeng stumbling back three full paces, staff raised, brow furrowed, fixing his eyes on the newcomer.

This figure who had suddenly appeared looked to be about thirty years of age, dark-skinned, his frame lean and solid. He tossed aside the half-length of bamboo pole remaining in his left hand, and spoke with considerable gravity.

“How much longer do you plan on carrying on like this?”

This, plainly, was directed at the young man on the ground.

Li Yanfeng’s brow furrowed further. This man’s skill with weapons was clearly unrefined — the bamboo pole had shattered the moment it met his staff — and yet the punch that followed had come with an unhurried, effortless confidence, not even bothering to guard against his own swinging staff. In that instant just past, he sensed instinctively that had he not pulled his staff back, and instead let that punch land, the consequences might well have been severe.

Even as he spoke, with a formidable enemy standing right before him, this dark-skinned man kept turning his head to look back over his shoulder.

“Who are you? How dare you get mixed up in this feud?”

Li Yanfeng asked.

In this moment, he was well aware that the men under “the King of Equality’s” banner nearby were also converging on this spot.

The dark-skinned man turned to look at him.

“…The day your father was trampled to death, I was there.”

“…”

Li Yanfeng hesitated for an instant.

The next moment, a furious roar from the “Monkey King” rang out across the entire long street, the sound rolling outward in every direction on the strength of his inner power, sending a chill through anyone who heard it. From behind the shop, this near-grandmaster-level master charged forward like a maddened ape, hurling himself with wild, ferocious force at the dark figure before him.

The other man met him with a heavy punch of his own!

Meanwhile, in the still smoke-filled area around the teahouse, Yan Yunzhi, covered head to toe in dust, was quietly slipping away from the chaos, trying to blend into the crowd fleeing in the distance.

In the time before this, she had tried to find her cousin, Yan Rong, but after the brutal torture he had endured, and then being caught up in the explosion that followed, by the time she found him, he had already breathed his last. In this moment, she didn’t even know who to hate — but finding herself in such danger, all she could do was proceed with the utmost caution, trying to get away.

Slipping out quietly, she made her way to the alley behind the teahouse, trying to put distance between herself and the scene. At one point, though, she caught, on the wind, the sound of that “assassin’s” voice, calling out again and again, refusing to let up, swearing to kill Shi Weiyang. She recognized the voice as belonging to that same young man they called Long Aotian, and amid her shock, even she found herself somewhat baffled — she couldn’t understand when such a deep, mortal grudge could have formed between this young man and Shi Weiyang.

Sneaking away, she reached the alley behind the teahouse, trying to make her escape, when at some point someone suddenly spotted her — three figures who had been searching the area, one of them, unmistakably, a retainer of “the King of Equality’s” faction. He looked her over carefully for a moment, then said, brow furrowed, with a note of satisfaction in his voice, “Miss Yan…”

The three of them, weapons in hand, stepped toward her.

A figure dropped down silently from the sky above, and in the next instant came a series of heart-stopping punches. Two of the guards were knocked flat to the ground, and the retainer, a man of some renown in the jianghu, was pinned against the wall, several blows landing hard enough to nearly drive his head into the earthen wall itself.

The one who had suddenly appeared was a young woman, solidly built and full-figured, her skin darkened by the sun, dressed at first glance like nothing more than an unremarkable country girl. Her gaze turned toward Yan Yunzhi for a moment.

“He got this worked up, all for you?”

“Ah…”

Yan Yunzhi’s brow furrowed slightly, not quite understanding what the woman meant…

The battle that erupted along the long street that afternoon came fast and struck with fury — but at a certain point, it also dispersed just as suddenly.

Yet the atmosphere of violence had not settled.

Across half the city, the elite forces under “the King of Equality’s” banner had already been mobilized.

Squad after squad of soldiers sealed off this stretch of streets; the people caught within were driven off or placed under confinement.

As the evening light fell, along a street lined with columns of soldiers standing guard, the carriage of “the King of Equality,” Shi Baofeng, arrived. A clean canopy had been set up beside a shop at the head of the street, and beneath it lay Shi Weiyang — in truth, having had his arm severed, he was in no condition to be moved at all. “Single-Stroke Lightning Sword” Jiang Bing, seeing how vicious the assassin was, had carried him toward the end of the street where more of their companions were gathered, fearing all the while that the assassin might, at any moment, loose an arrow their way — but by the time more reinforcements finally arrived, the assassin had already fled. The crowd had then formed a human wall around him, and the physicians who had rushed to the scene were given the chance, at last, to begin emergency treatment.

In this moment, Shi Weiyang, wrapped from head to toe in bandages, lay quietly on a makeshift bed fashioned from a market stall — his face pale, his breath faint and thin. Having lost so much blood, whether he would go on living at all was, by now, a matter of considerable uncertainty.

Shi Baofeng walked forward, step by step, slow and labored, and stood looking down at his son on the bed for a long while before at last speaking.

“His hand! Where is his hand!”

A servant hurried forward, carrying in a box the severed arm recovered from the wreckage. Shi Baofeng took the severed hand from the box, held it up before his eyes, and stared at it a long while, trembling — then, as though all the strength had suddenly drained from his arm, he let it fall, tossing his son’s severed hand onto the ground beside him.

“Who did this? Who is responsible?”

Jin Yongsheng came over and spoke to him in a low voice for a moment. Shi Baofeng went momentarily still, then said, “Summon the Monkey King.”

Li Yanfeng was brought over by an attendant. This near-grandmaster, who had taken part in the earlier battle along the long street, did not look to be in good condition himself — he had, just a few days before, been beaten by Meng Zhutao badly enough to cough up blood, and though today’s fighting had left no obvious marks on his face, it was plain his overall state was far from having come out ahead.

The two men exchanged the proper courtesies, and Shi Baofeng said, “May I ask, Monkey King — who was it that struck at my son?”

Li Yanfeng looked at him and was silent for a moment. “…Someone from the southwest.”

“…” Shi Baofeng’s expression turned grave; he held Li Yanfeng’s gaze for a long while before finally asking, “How do you know this?”

“Because the man said… that on the day my father was trampled to death, he was there.”

Li Yanfeng ground out the words through clenched teeth, one syllable at a time.

Shi Baofeng nodded.

After a moment, he drew a deep breath, gazed out at the rolling clouds of the darkening sky, and clenched his fists.

“My son… Weiyang. He has spent all this time recently investigating the matter of the Reading Society… and now, the Reading Society has colluded with the southwest to strike at my son, to take their revenge on him. This matter…”

“The King of Fairness, He Wen — he owes me an explanation—”

“The Huaxia Army of the southwest — they owe me an explanation—”

“Everyone connected to this—”

“Every one of them — will die—”

The furious voice of “the King of Equality,” Shi Baofeng, rang out across the entire length of the street.

As time passed and the evening deepened further, Xue Jin, beneath the bridge, saw the two young men return.

Both of them bore injuries, their appearance somewhat wretched; though they had changed into fresh clothes, their faces still showed the marks of having been badly beaten, bruised and swollen.

Yueniang lay beneath the bridge, barely clinging to life. Xue Jin had been unable to find the two of them all day long, and now, seeing them return, he wanted to rush forward and kowtow, begging — but seeing the state of their faces and bodies, he could only freeze, at a loss for what to do.

The two of them, carrying some medicine, walked back beneath the bridge, set up the clay pot, and began preparing to brew it. Since there wasn’t enough firewood, the little monk was sent off to go find some wood, while Ning Ji sat silently beside the small stove, first lighting the fire, then continuing the work of brewing the medicine in silence.

Xue Jin knelt and kowtowed to him several times nearby. Seeing the state the young man was in, he had no idea what to do or say, and it was precisely because of this — watching him go about the task of brewing medicine — that his tears began falling all the harder.

He was, after all, a man in his forties; the sight of him weeping was not a pretty one, and with his lame leg and halting speech, this awkward display was, in this moment, the only thing he was able to do.

“It’s all right.”

Ning Ji, gazing at the medicine pot and the flame, said quietly.

If Yuwen Feidu and Xiao Hei had been willing to help him, Shi Weiyang would already be dead.

But they had not helped.

Then there was nothing for it but to kill him a second time.

The next day, a great manhunt targeting members of the Reading Society broke out across the city, without warning.

Even as every faction had, since the King of Fairness’s arrival in the city, maintained an uneasy, deliberate calm in their negotiations, that calm suddenly and completely collapsed.