In life, there is so much that cannot be foreseen.

Gripping tight the hilt of his blade, Ning Liheng drew a breath, letting his racing heart settle somewhat, keeping it within a range he could manage.

For what came next, there was little he could truly draw on. As for strategy or calculation, those were things that felt far too distant now. The disparity in numbers and in strength was, in this brief span of time, nearly impossible to bridge, and the soldiers Li Tianyou had left on the ground floor had already ruled out any hope of breaking through and fleeing. If there was anything that let him stay calm even now, it was perhaps only that he had faced situations like this far too many times before.

Some circumstances concerned one’s very life; others could only be called problems to be solved, one at a time. What remained of him after those seemingly hopeless, unresolvable predicaments of the past had been dealt with could not really be called optimism—at most, it was simply the appropriate attitude with which to face things.

There had never truly been any child of heaven’s favor, someone who could, from the very start, ride the wind and cleave the waves, thrusting every difficulty into the smallest possible corner. At least as far as Ning Liheng had seen, what the truly successful people he had known possessed was never really combat prowess to rival others, nor power surrounding themselves—the difference, perhaps, lay only in whether, once stripped of all external things, what remained was the disposition of a lion, or that of a rabbit.

Breathe quietly, steady the heartbeat, calm the fear, set aside expectation, make the appropriate choice… grip the blade tightly.

As for the rest, leave it to fate.

Still, if it had been possible, he wouldn’t have minded being a rabbit from the start, he thought to himself as he swung the blade… He wasn’t really so young anymore, was he… ah, well.

“Who’s coming!”

…

Ning Liheng’s own state of mind aside, among the onlookers, there was, at this moment, a rather peculiar mix of feelings.

Zhu Yanlin, Lou Jingzhi, Liu Xiyang among the crowd, even Li Tianyou himself, whether they knew him or not—none of them could help but feel something strange stirring within.

Zhu Yanlin was much like the others around him—this was essentially the first time he had properly come to know Ning Liheng. Even before this, he had only heard of his poetry; now, hearing even of his status as a man who had married into his wife’s family, his astonishment only deepened. Lou Jingzhi’s brow furrowed—he had, in fact, heard of this man before, though this was the first time he had actually seen him. And as for those like Liu Xiyang, who had known Ning Liheng previously, they now found themselves almost unable to recognize the scholar before them. Though people’s impression of Ning Liheng, over the course of his time at Wenlie Academy, had been overturned and revised more than once, this, surely, was the most drastic overturning of all.

The pride and integrity of a man of letters—many understood such things well enough, even if they couldn’t manage it themselves. Ever since Fang La’s army had entered the city, there had been no shortage of people who did not fear the blade, who stood their ground before such men. But integrity was integrity—standing stiff-necked before an enemy and letting yourself be cut down without a word, or charging forward with bloodshot eyes, blade drawn—these were entirely different things from what was unfolding here now.

This scholar named Ning Liheng, from the very start, had shown something more than simply gritting his teeth and refusing to fear death. From the beginning, he had seemed to stand off against Li Tianyou and the others almost as an equal, and now, having drawn his blade, what he displayed was nothing less than the raw ferocity of a warrior meeting an enemy in battle. It seemed that, in this situation, he genuinely meant to strike back at them.

Even Wenren Buer, watching quietly off to the side, was somewhat taken aback by what he saw. Since taking on this assignment, he had learned a great deal about this scholar named Ning Liheng. In truth, he held him in some measure of respect by now, but neither the battle at Taiping Lane, nor the later rally of three thousand routed soldiers during the flight afterward, was proof that the man was a formidable fighter. Even he himself, if targeted by Li Tianyou and this dozen-plus band of skilled fighters, would have nothing left to do but throw himself into a hopeless last stand. And yet there was no trace of that kind of desperation in Ning Liheng now—Wenren Buer could not even imagine where the hope, if any, was supposed to come from.

What followed only pushed the situation swiftly deeper into the abyss.

The trigger for the turn of events came from the blade-wielder named Liu Jin, though at root, it was Ning Liheng’s own bearing that had stirred him. As Ning Liheng swung his blade, the dozen-odd elite fighters of the Pacification Battalion around them had already risen, on the verge of striking. Liu Jin, moved by what Ning Liheng had said, had nearly lowered his blade—but the instant Li Tianyou himself rose abruptly to his feet, the young man, looking at Ning Liheng, felt his eyes redden, his expression turning savage in an instant. He swept his Overlord Blade around in a horizontal arc, stepped back two paces, and still stood shielding Ning Liheng’s side.

“I’ll curse your ancestors eighteen generations back… you cowards, which of you dares come at me!”

With a crash, Li Tianyou, who had just risen, slammed a palm down on the table before him, splitting it apart with a thunderous crack, splinters flying. From among the men to one side, someone bellowed, “What did you say!?” A long spear of refined iron broke free from the cloth binding it, swinging down with a terrifying rush of wind! Even the oil lamp above was sent swaying, its flame flaring bright for an instant!

Liu Jin leapt to the side; the tip of the great spear crashed into the floor where he had been standing. The floorboards of the restaurant, though sturdy, nearly broke through under the blow. Ning Liheng staggered back a step as Liu Jin’s blade was already swinging toward the spearman. But in the moment the spear struck the floor, its wielder had already begun drawing it back; by the time it broke through the surface of the boards, the iron spear’s shaft was bent nearly like a drawn bow. The next instant, the spearhead lunged upward like a coiling dragon, colliding violently with the descending blade. A deafening crash rang out on the floor above, sparks scattering through the air. In a flash, the spear whirled like a dragon and the blade struck like a tiger, colliding three times in rapid succession amid flashes of light.

To anyone untrained in martial arts, watching from the side—like the scholars present—the sheer intensity of that instant collision alone would have been startling. But to Wenren Buer, the difference in skill between the two combatants was already plain. The young man named Liu Jin fought with the raw, fierce power of the Overlord Blade style, clearly the product of a proper master’s training, but he was managing only to hold his own through sheer desperate force and youthful vigor. The spearman, by contrast, had swung with only one hand—and that iron spear was heavy, its shaft long; yet he had held it with just one end in a single grip, letting its own momentum pull it back around, using only one arm’s strength. In those few exchanges, the muscles of his arm had bulged so hard they nearly tore through his sleeve—proof enough of his sheer physical strength, and his control over that great spear marked him, outside these circumstances, as a master of the weapon in his own right.

Liu Jin, still young, had grown reckless in that instant, even shouting that string of curses about eighteen generations of ancestors, which left the face-conscious warriors with no choice but to strike back. Even if Li Tianyou had held some caution toward the Overlord Blade Battalion, there was likely no way for him to back down now.

As Wenren Buer’s thoughts turned over these things, the spearman on the other side struck three times in a row, sparks flying with each impact, before the spear shaft snapped back suddenly into his grip. Liu Jin charged forward like a fierce tiger, bringing his blade down in a direct vertical cut. The weapons of the Overlord Blade Battalion were already heavier than ordinary weapons, and more often than not the strikes were less a cut than a crushing blow, driven with raw, unmatched force—yet the man wielding the great spear stood his ground, bracing the spear with both hands, and the block alone sent Liu Jin staggering back a step.

The next instant, Liu Jin steadied himself, dropped low, and swept his blade horizontally at the man’s legs. His opponent drove the spear downward, and it slammed into the floorboards with a thud—another failed strike. By now Liu Jin’s body had been slowed by the force of that block, and the man, calm and ruthless, wrenched the spear free with both hands and, from above, swung it down hard toward Liu Jin’s bent back.

With that much strength behind it, and the weight of the spear, a solid hit would have broken Liu Jin’s spine outright.

And just as the man swung the spear, a voice cried out from nearby: “You’re already a dead man—still daring to move!” A great gust of wind roared in, and the oil lamps overhead nearly all went dark at once. The one who had struck was none other than Ning Liheng, who had been standing just behind Liu Jin all this while. He had grabbed hold of a corner of a nearby tablecloth and swung it hard toward the great spear. The table beside him had still had a spread of food on it, and as he swung, most of the dishes and soup went flying toward Li Tianyou’s men, while some remained wrapped in the cloth itself, adding weight and force to its swing.

There was a whooshing sound, then a thud, as the cloth wrapped partway around the spear, throwing its swing off course, while splashes of soup and sauce sprayed toward the spearman as well, throwing everything nearby into further chaos for a moment.

“Looking to die!”

“Damn you!”

“Kill him—!”

Amid the shouting came the sight of everyone flailing to shake off the soup and broth. These were, after all, men of the martial underworld, and though they now served as soldiers, this was no battlefield—there was face to be minded here. If their target was already a dead man, and their own side ended up soaked like drowned rats, it would only invite mockery once word got out. In a flash, tables and chairs nearby were flung up; some grabbed tablecloths of their own and flung the liquid back the other way, while others, like the spearman, wrapped cloth around their weapons and swung them to deflect the spray. Keeping water entirely off a blade or sword was difficult, but this much, at least, they could all manage.

Even as the cloth wrapped around the great spear, Ning Liheng swept his hand around in a wide circle, winding the cloth tighter and tighter around the shaft. Across the way, the spearman raised his left hand to shield his face while, with his right, worked the spear back and forth several times, trying to tear the cloth free or shake it loose, but his one-handed effort only shook Ning Liheng’s body a few times; part of the cloth still hung loose, his figure flickering in and out of view through it as the spearman stared at his eyes across the divide.

The next instant, the force pulling on the cloth loosened for a moment—Liu Jin had used the chance to roll clear to one side—and the spearman gave the iron spear a shake, knocking Liu Jin away, but his heart clenched suddenly, because Ning Liheng, who a moment ago had seemed strangely calm and silent, now lunged forward like a tiger.

The cloth still bound around the spear shaft had greatly slowed the speed at which he could use it, but he was an old hand at this too, and instead of pressing the attack, he yanked the spear back sharply. But Ning Liheng had already flung the military blade in his hand forward, like a throwing knife, straight at his face; as the man tilted his head to avoid it, Ning Liheng closed in and wrapped both arms directly around the spear shaft. With a roar, the man wrenched back with tremendous force, the spear shaft whipping wildly like a struggling dragon. The next instant, Ning Liheng gave a sharp pull, drawing the two ends of the cloth taut—this time, it was as if he had seized the dragon by the throat, gripping it in a stranglehold.

The strength he exerted in that moment was, itself, astonishing.

“Kill him.”

A voice, cold as ice, rang out in that moment, amid the chaos and noise.

The voice came from Ning Liheng’s own mouth. He too was part of this chaotic scene, and it was hard to believe that at such a moment he could speak in a tone so quiet, so nearly indifferent—as if he weren’t fighting for his life at all, as if this weren’t even about himself. But Liu Jin, fierce and reckless by nature, seeing this, charged forward again with his blade raised.

The iron spear whipped around wildly; Ning Liheng let go of the cloth, scraps of fabric and broken porcelain scattering through the air, and his figure had already closed in on the spearman. Beside him, Liu Jin swung his blade down in fury, but the spearman merely stepped back with his right foot, still trying to block—yet Ning Liheng’s right hand was already coming down toward his face. He had only stepped forward and struck out with one palm, but the sound of wind it carried was already enough to show that, had it landed on the man’s head, it would have crushed his face flat.

And in that same instant, several more figures and flashes of sword-light closed in from the side.

An indescribable, chaotic instant erupted before everyone’s eyes; among the onlookers, few could make out clearly what happened next. The deafening crash, the clash of blade against blade, the shouts—all blurred together with the flickering firelight and tangled shadows. When everyone’s eyes finally focused again, Ning Liheng’s body was already flying backward, blood spraying, splinters scattering through the air, a table—smashed to pieces—flying alongside him as he crashed into several long benches. The spearman had retreated more than ten feet away. Liu Jin’s Overlord Blade had been knocked from his hand, sent flying, and yet he still pressed toward the spearman, still managing to stand—though a sword had been driven into his right arm, its hilt held by the gaunt, tall man, while his left arm had a blade lodged in it, and someone in front had smashed an iron rod down on his shoulder, leaving flesh and blood mangled. Around him, three or four more men had closed in together.

Blood now spilled from his mouth, his gaze still fixed unwaveringly on the spearman, and he even managed a smile. “You’re already… cough… dead.”

Others might not have understood what had just happened, and even those directly involved might not have seen it all clearly. Perhaps only an observer skilled in the martial arts, like Wenren Buer, had truly grasped what had taken place.

The elite fighters of the Pacification Battalion were no mediocre hands, and when Ning Liheng first swung the tablecloth, half of them had already reacted. The moment Ning Liheng closed in, the men who had not been caught by the soup and broth rushed forward together.

As Ning Liheng’s palm came swinging down, his hand had clenched abruptly into a fist mid-air—this single blow, delivered from above with such force, could plainly have crushed a man’s face outright. But those around him had already reacted as well: the man behind the spearman had caught the military blade Ning Liheng had thrown earlier with a wooden table, and now smashed that same table straight at him; someone else dragged the spearman’s body swiftly back, while various weapons closed in from all sides—this was, after all, about saving their comrade, and no one had much room left to hold back. The spearman, in Wenren Buer’s estimation, was himself a skilled fighter, but that he had been pushed to this extreme could probably be explained by the old saying: the tough fear the reckless, the reckless fear those with nothing left to lose—and perhaps, too, by the fact that he had underestimated this scholar somewhat. As they dragged the man back, Ning Liheng’s punching momentum had not slackened in the least; the wooden tabletop flung his way was shattered outright in mid-air by his fist. But it was thanks to that table that the attack coming from the side as well was blocked; he himself took only one punch and one kick before being sent flying backward.

Liu Jin had no such luck. He had charged straight forward, apparently intent on taking his enemy down with him even at the cost of his own life, and had already taken several more blows in a row, his great blade finally knocked from his hands. Though the others were still wary of the consequences of killing him outright, and with so many against one, none had truly used their full strength or aimed for a fatal blow, the string of hits he had taken had clearly left him in a bad way.

“Cough, cough—you’re dead… there’s no way with this many of you, you’re already dead…”

Liu Jin spat out a mouthful of blood and said this with a smile, leaving everyone shaken by the sheer brutality of the sight. Zhu Yanlin, Liu Xiyang, and the other men of letters at the gathering were left staring in open shock; several of the women turned their faces away, unable to watch, while others, watching still, had their eyes reddening, on the verge of tears.

Even Li Tianyou himself was momentarily stunned. For a moment, the scene fell almost entirely still—Li Tianyou said nothing, and the men around him were uncertain whether Liu Jin was meant to be killed or not. In that pause, a sound suddenly rang out from a somewhat dim corner of the room.

A shadowy figure pushed aside a broken plank that had fallen over him and slowly sat up from where he lay. After shaking his head, he pressed a hand to the floor, and rose to his feet in full view of everyone, brushing the dust off his body.

It was Ning Liheng.

Though he had not, in fact, taken any truly fatal wounds, his scholar’s robe was already torn in several places, with one shallow blade wound on him; the arm he had used to smash through the table had been scraped raw by splinters, the sleeve torn, his hand soaked in blood, looking quite severe. His head, too, seemed to be bleeding. But he seemed entirely unaware of any of these wounds, merely patting the dust off his clothes a few times before standing up straight and looking out toward the center of the room.

Then, he walked over to one side.

The table that had been thrown at him had had its top shattered, but the military blade he had thrown was still lodged in it. He walked over and pulled it free.

“There’s still me.”

That was all he said. Just as the words left his mouth, Liu Jin, on the other side, stirred again, staggering back and pulling his body free from the blades and swords still holding him.

“What… what do you mean, still… Master Ning…” He stumbled backward as he spoke, and for a moment no one was quite prepared to stop him. His blade had not fallen far, and after taking a few steps he reached it, bent down for it, fell, and then, struggling, propped himself up with it to rise.

“I’m… I’m not dead yet… there’s still two of us… hah, hah… these bastards, ganging up on us like this…”

He panted heavily, great gulps of air, as he spoke.

Not far off, Wenren Buer watched all of this with a mix of tragic sorrow and desolation in his heart. He had been racking his brain the whole time for some plan, thinking that if there was anyone at this restaurant who could be used as leverage for Ning Liheng’s side, it could only be himself. But given the situation now, even if he threw himself into it entirely, there was really nothing he could do—not to mention the further trouble that would follow.

Still, however things had gone today, the feud between the Pacification Battalion and the Overlord Blade Manor had truly been sealed now, impossible to undo.

As he thought this, a sudden notion flashed through his mind, and before he could think it through fully, he heard Li Tianyou speak, his voice low.

“…You really are a man. Fine—I’ll give you a chance to die with your eyes closed in peace, so no one can say my Pacification Battalion… bullied you with numbers!”

In the dim light, Ning Liheng closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again.

At a narrow crossing, the braver man prevails—in what had seemed an utterly hopeless, deadly trap, a crack had finally, forcibly, been torn open, letting through a faint sliver of light…