The blade’s edge tore through the night rain.
As blood blossomed, a figure like a phantom burst out from beneath the eaves and along the rain-soaked street, the dagger in hand slashing again and again, plunging into the backs and chests of several men ahead — and not far off, the street had already dissolved into chaos.
“Go—”
This was a small, shabbily arranged town, and the disorder within it had already lasted some time, though the disturbance it stirred up wasn’t especially large. The town was mostly low houses and deep alleys; when the dozen-odd soldiers and constables who’d come as a group spotted two suspicious figures, the two spotted them right back, and a chase through the alleys and houses followed.
The soldiers and constables assigned to this pursuit were all capable men, but the two who had fled here were elite commanders from Fang La’s former army — in the chase through the alleys, it was several of the soldiers who fell into confusion and were killed instead. When a few seemingly calm constables on the street chanced upon one of the fugitives and suddenly clashed with him, drawing blood, the handful of nearby residents were finally roused, and the scene descended into chaos.
When four more constables arrived, the other fugitive burst out from the shadows and, in an instant, wounded several of them.
“Go—”
The man wielding the blade shouted as he charged wildly forward, but ahead of him, someone suddenly leapt down from a rooftop by the street, smashing through a run-down shed, swinging a steel saber as he came. Further off, a hook-sickle spear with a trailing chain swept through, cutting the curtain of rain. Elsewhere, still locked in combat, was a burly man wielding a bronze hammer, who had already felled two men in the street, though a blade had also struck his shoulder. Though both men were formidable fighters, the accumulation of fresh and old wounds through this whole running battle had left them thoroughly exhausted, their skills badly diminished. Before long, the sickle caught the saber-wielding man’s arm, and the two of them were driven toward the same corner.
The commotion on the street, and the constables’ alarm, had by now also roused the officials still stationed in the town — a group of runners came rushing over, some carrying fishing nets, charging straight toward them. The saber-wielding man rallied and drove back one wave of attackers, but the two of them were forced into a corner nonetheless. The man with the bronze hammer had just been struck across the face, blood streaming from his nose and mouth, his expression now ghastly and fierce, still swinging his hammer without pause — but a dozen-odd men had encircled them, and the fishing net surged forward again, thrown down over their heads.
At that very moment, from a nearby alley to the side, a figure suddenly burst forth. In the curtain of rain, a fierce gale howled, and the net, along with the several men rushing forward, were sent flying with a boom. Before anyone could make out this sudden reinforcement clearly, the constables behind swung their blades at him; on the second strike, several steel sabers were simultaneously shattered and flung away.
That figure surged forward, and the constables charged in one after another — broadswords, hook-sickles, spears, iron staffs all converging — but the next moment, it was the constables who were driven back, scattered in disarray across the long street. Even those who managed to keep their footing were forced back several steps, the arms holding their weapons still trembling from the force of the impact. A long Buddhist chant sounded, a monk’s staff struck the ground, and in the curtain of rain, the figure’s massive frame carried authority without anger.
“Who — who is—”
“Deng, Deng Yuanjue…”
“The Treasured Light villain…”
“He’s not dead…”
Given the enormous scale of this whole affair connected to Fang La’s rebellion, most of the constables mobilized this time had been briefed on the wanted bandits. Earlier, everyone had assumed the Treasured Light Tathagata Deng Yuanjue had died in the fighting; some of the constables hadn’t paid it much mind, but others recognized him now. There were a good ten or twenty constables and soldiers gathered on the street at this point, but faced with this ferocious bandit leader, they still couldn’t help feeling a chill of fear. On the long street, a tense, trembling standoff took shape.
“Go!”
Amid the falling rain, Deng Yuanjue called out low to the two men on the street. Holding his monk’s staff, his towering frame took two steps forward, and the assembled constables, weapons in hand, instinctively retreated. The two men behind, hearing Deng Yuanjue’s words, turned and ran into the alley, where several figures were waiting, some even mounted on horses — it was An Xifu of the Black Plume Guard. “Hurry!”
As they fled swiftly, Deng Yuanjue gave a low shout on the street as well, then turned and charged into an alley on the other side. The constables hesitated for only a moment before gritting their teeth and giving chase toward the edge of town…
…
Shifting the view now — beneath the heavy curtain of rain, it was still afternoon. While Lin Ecan was chasing Liu Xigua into the river, on a mountain ridge elsewhere, an astonishing hand-to-hand battle was unfolding. Chen Fan had run into Wang Nantuo and the seven or eight men under his command in these mountains, and after a chase and pursuit, the two of them had now come to a stop, trading blows and countering each other’s moves, blood mixing with the rain, the fight already lasting nearly half an incense-stick’s time.
Several of Wang Nantuo’s men stood guard nearby, weapons in hand, hearts in their throats.
Both combatants possessed extraordinary natural strength. Wang Nantuo had made his name over a decade ago and remained a supreme-tier master, his skill close to Lin Ecan’s own. Chen Fan, trained under Fang Qifo, was proficient in all eighteen classes of weaponry, and his bare-handed skill was likewise astonishing — his mastery of fists, palms, and claw techniques ran deep. In the assassination of Bao Daoyi, he had once countered claw with claw, tearing apart the hands of a master with decades of cultivation. It could only be said that true genius always surpasses what ordinary people can achieve.
The exchange between the two now raged like a violent storm — the collisions of fist and arm sounded like the pounding of a great leather drum, boom, boom, boom, boom. Having finally found an opponent of this caliber, Wang Nantuo had no wish to win by numbers, and had already ordered his men not to interfere; it was for this reason that Chen Fan too was willing to abandon evasive tactics and meet him head-on in a straight fight.
Crushing fists, cannon strikes, claws and grapples, even body-slams and headbutts — within moments of their exchange, the surrounding grass was flattened, mud and water flying everywhere; sometimes a mountain-leaning body slam would crash into a nearby boulder, making the very ground shake. Splashes of muddy water struck the onlookers’ faces, stinging faintly.
In truth, Wang Nantuo’s order that no one interfere came as something of a relief to those who’d accompanied him. The martial cultivation of these two men had already left everyone else far behind; if his own men joined the encirclement, Wang Nantuo might gain a slightly better chance of victory, but once Chen Fan truly cut loose and fought for his life, there was no guarantee the rest of them would come out unscathed.
So they simply maintained their encircling stance nearby. They were certainly no match for Wang Nantuo or Chen Fan, but they were still men of some skill, and being able to watch a battle like this held enormous value for them. It was only that both men possessed such astonishing strength, and fought with such wild abandon, that their exchanges seemed less the product of careful technique than a kind of frenzied, effortless power that came to each of them naturally.
Between the two, Wang Nantuo had at least had the advantage of resting while waiting, his body unmarked, whereas Chen Fan, having spent the preceding days protecting and fleeing with Ji Qian’er, was covered in old wounds. In his fight against Wang Nantuo, he was, in truth, already at a clear disadvantage — yet he still refused to concede. A young man in his twenties, fighting as if his life depended on it, was truly a formidable thing to witness. Though half his body was stained with blood, every punch of his still came like lightning and thunder, his stance rock-steady, his feet weaving continuous combinations even as he fought. Wang Nantuo, though gaining the upper hand after a long exchange, had his sleeves and trouser legs torn on both arms and calves, his fists and forearms streaked crimson — some of it Chen Fan’s blood, some his own, seeping from capillaries broken by the force of the blows.
Such injuries meant little to a martial artist of this caliber. His hair disheveled, Wang Nantuo’s ferocity was roused, and he fought with a wild, laughing abandon. After dozens more exchanges, he suddenly grabbed for both of Chen Fan’s arms; Chen Fan dropped low, twisted free, and grabbed back, kicking out low — their shins collided twice in midair. Wang Nantuo drove in with a headbutt; Chen Fan dodged and struck back with his elbow. Wang Nantuo slammed into him shoulder-first, sending him flying, but Chen Fan dragged him along, the two of them crashing into a nearby boulder, followed by a stone-crushing strike from Chen Fan. Wang Nantuo dodged it, then unleashed another storm of furious blows, forcing Chen Fan into rapid retreat.
This back-and-forth exchange repeated itself several times, leaving the onlookers thoroughly rattled. Then came a series of steady, ferocious cannon-strikes from Chen Fan; Wang Nantuo roared and blocked, and Chen Fan lunged in, swinging his elbows, driving his knees, while Wang Nantuo struck back — a burst of white mist erupted in the air. Chen Fan’s flurry of fists and kicks finally overwhelmed him; amid another roar, Wang Nantuo took countless punches to the upper body before being kicked square in the chest, sending him flying several zhang through the air.
The onlookers were stunned for a moment, and because the two had fought so brutally, for that instant they didn’t even understand what Chen Fan had actually done. But when Wang Nantuo was sent flying, a hissing, sizzling sound gave them a startling answer — though by then, there was no time left to think it through, as Chen Fan had already turned in the same instant, his eyes bloodshot as crimson as blood, and lunged straight at one of them!
“Shameless — vile — scoundrel—”
“Lime, li— lime powder…”
“Ahh—”
Amid Wang Nantuo’s incredulous, agonized roars, the others had no time to react — the man closest to Chen Fan had only half-drawn his blade when Chen Fan was already upon him. In a flash, blade-light and blood-light shot skyward!
The men around them screamed and rushed forward. In moments, clashing steel rang out, blade-light coiling like a dragon; one of them managed to land a cut across Chen Fan’s back. But by the time Wang Nantuo, his face streaked with lime and blood, came charging over with a murderous expression, Chen Fan had already wounded three men — one of them cut nearly beyond recognition — and had fled far into the distance.
“Shameless scoundrel — despicable villain—”
Wang Nantuo’s voice carried through the rain, agonized and full of bitter fury.
…
Rounding a mountain slope, Chen Fan, his face ashen, made his way toward a small, half-hidden earthen kiln nearby. His body bore serious external wounds and he’d spent enormous strength, but for the moment, these were not what concerned him. He pushed aside the weeds covering the kiln’s entrance to reveal Ji Qian’er inside, in dire condition. She lay there, her face ashen, lips purple, body trembling faintly.
Most martial artists were also skilled healers. At this point, Chen Fan’s own injuries were mostly external, but Ji Qian’er’s internal injuries were severe. He glanced at her, sat down beside her, and took out two packages he carried — one held medicine he’d risked going out to gather nearby, though given how hastily it had been obtained, he knew full well it might not do much good. The other was a bundle he’d lifted off one of Wang Nantuo’s men.
In this kind of running battle, most martial artists carried some emergency medicine, and it was on that assumption that he’d made his risky gamble earlier. Searching through the bundle now, he indeed found several porcelain vials. He held them to his nose, sniffed, and after identifying them, suddenly stood up and rushed out into the rain. Before long, Chen Fan returned from the downpour, dragging a large dog behind him.
He struck the dog with both palms, gravely wounding it, then forced it to swallow some of the powdered medicine before setting it aside and returning to sit beside Ji Qian’er.
But in truth, Chen Fan understood the situation perfectly well himself. He reached out a hand, hesitating even to place it on Ji Qian’er’s hand or body. Yet in the end he examined her as thoroughly as he could, then sat cross-legged beside her and closed his eyes, a faint look of pain on his face.
The internal cultivation techniques martial artists practiced were, in essence, methods of circulating one’s qi and blood. For martial artists at Chen Fan and Ji Qian’er’s level, the body’s potential and vitality far exceeded that of ordinary people; minor external wounds could heal easily through their own strength. Chen Fan himself, if struck by a blade in a non-vital area, would have his muscles contract instantly, minimizing even the bleeding, to keep himself at peak readiness at all times. The technique Lu Hongti had once used on Ning Yi — clearing his meridians — had, in essence, been a method of using external force to awaken the body’s own potential. But by now, none of these methods could help Ji Qian’er any longer. Without a stable environment in which to receive treatment, the outlook for her was grim indeed.
The pity was that a stable environment was, right now, precisely what they lacked most.
Days of constant flight and unending battle. Even Chen Fan’s body had been pushed to the edge of collapse. And yet, though he was only in his twenties, in these years of fighting he had already experienced more partings and losses than most. Now, the young man’s figure sat cross-legged in the dim earthen kiln, eyes closed, as still and silent as a towering, solemn stone statue.
Zong Feixiao and Tie Tianying’s schemes, the scattering of the main force, the appearance of Sikong Nan, Lin Ecan, Wang Nantuo, and the massive shadow still lurking somewhere behind it all… Ning Yi had said some days ago that the force their enemy was prepared to bring to bear this time was limitless — the harder they resisted, the greater the force that would be deployed against them. Hearing it said was one thing; even with mental preparation, when the moment actually arrived, it brought an entirely different feeling. Ji Qian’er… might die right here beside him, and her teacher was already beyond saving. Not just the Yongle court, but their own people too, seemed to be reaching the end of the road…
Ning Yi… had always had the sharpest read on the state of affairs. Even if he were here now, could he still turn this situation around…
Chen Fan sat there in the dim light, one hand having been resting on Ji Qian’er’s wrist, and now he gently closed his fingers around that cold wrist. After a while, Ji Qian’er slowly stirred awake, opening her eyes and gazing for a long moment before finally speaking softly. “Xiao Fan…”
“Mm.”
At that same moment, the large dog on the other side of the floor, which had been whimpering faintly from its wounds, suddenly began to howl loudly. Chen Fan turned to look and saw the dog convulsing violently, and before long, blood-flecked foam began pouring from its mouth. The kiln filled with the noise; Ji Qian’er turned to look that way as well, and Chen Fan raised his left hand and struck the dog dead with a single blow.
“Sister Qian’er, don’t talk anymore.” Chen Fan said quietly. He looked at the packet of medicine he’d gathered, sighed after a moment, tucked it into his robe, and stood up. “I’ll take you to find a doctor.”
If he had shown some faint discouragement before, then now, with Ji Qian’er’s eyes open, the young man’s figure grew tall and resolute once more, his words carrying a strength that could steady anyone’s heart.
But for Ji Qian’er, perhaps none of this held quite enough force. She was silent a moment, letting Chen Fan carefully and laboriously help her sit up and strap her to his back.
“I don’t care whether I live or not. But… Xiao Fan, I don’t want to be disgraced…”
Chen Fan’s figure went still for a moment. “I know. If it comes to that, I’ll kill you myself.”
Between “I will” and “kill you,” there was the slightest pause — almost imperceptible. Ji Qian’er said nothing more, resting her head against his back.
Before long, a figure in a straw raincoat stepped out into the rain, and in the dim light of the fading day, moved off toward the direction where people were most densely gathered…
The end of the road…
…
A little later, as time grew deeper, Lin Ecan returned to the place where Sikong Nan and the others had temporarily settled, and from a distance he could already hear Wang Nantuo cursing furiously. He went to look at the lime burns on Wang Nantuo’s face, and once he understood the reason, after a moment of blank astonishment, he suddenly couldn’t help but burst into loud laughter.
Later still, Ning Yi entered the camp near Siping Ridge, and not long after, quickly came back out again.
That night, Zong Feixiao led his men in a sweep through Yu Town; Fang Baihua and the others had already left ahead of him, and only Fang Shuchang and Qian Luoning remained, lingering because they still had no news of Xigua. A skirmish broke out between the two sides, and Fang and Qian fled wounded.
Regarding this whole affair surrounding Fang Qifo, the number of people implicated was enormous, and in these first few days, perhaps no one could see the full picture clearly. Only the Ministry of Justice and Sikong Nan’s faction, more or less, still had a grasp on the overall direction of events.
As for Ning Yi, at least in his first day or two after arriving, the information and intelligence he’d gathered were genuinely quite sparse — only a handful of confirmed deaths trickling in, with the news of An Xifu carrying the ledger north perhaps counting as the single most valuable piece of intelligence of those first days. The rest tended to be scattered, trivial reports that were hard to work up any interest over — such as some obscure nobody trying to make a name for himself by issuing a public challenge to Zhou Tong, the kind of thing that, amid such a serious situation, simply left one feeling drained.
“What I want to know is the detailed situation around Siping Ridge right now. This kind of pointless martial-world gossip can wait — we’ll enjoy it as a joke later. Whoever filed this under here, who is this Lin Zongwu… someone give him a good beating whenever we run into him, would you! Hurry, next report…”
His irritation stemmed from how slowly the intelligence summaries were coming together — with insufficient manpower and an originally different focus, the Bureau’s information gathering for now was always lagging behind the actual pace of events. In truth, though he hadn’t had much direct contact with matters like these before, Ning Yi already sensed, vaguely, that however this whole affair developed, it wouldn’t drag on much longer.
And just beyond the reach of the Bureau’s tendrils, within the space of a day or two, the situation had already stretched to its absolute limit. As the collapse of Fang Baihua’s forces had continued, the overall picture had increasingly become a one-sided rout — but the sudden arrival of An Xifu, Deng Yuanjue, and their group had temporarily drawn the attention of Zong Feixiao, Sikong Nan, and the rest. The last embers of the Yongle court flared with one final flash of light, trying to stir up the crisis and give Fang Baihua’s group a chance to escape. But taken as a whole, this was already a walk along a suspended iron cable — some faint hope remained, but a single misstep would extinguish everything completely.
In such a situation, it wasn’t only Tie Tianying who, upon learning of the Bureau’s man arriving, took a moment’s notice. Lin Ecan and the others had also glanced this way for an instant — but after learning the numbers and the name of the man leading them, they turned their attention away again.
“I hear that Demon of the Mind, Ning Yi, made enemies across the realm after the Liangshan affair, and doesn’t leave the capital lightly. Since only twenty of them have come, and they’re behaving themselves reasonably well, we’ll leave it be for now. Once this matter’s settled, we can deal with it then.”
Not long after, the entire situation finally turned toward its climax. Sikong Nan, Tie Tianying, and the others seized the opportunity to begin wrapping everything up, while Fang Baihua and her group fought for one last thread of hope. Both sides had, in effect, played their next moves.