By now it was well into the second half of the night, and the darkness, which by rights ought to have settled into stillness, had not calmed at all—the glow of flames and the restless sounds of fighting still carried on in the distance. Atop the small hill, a figure in a long scholar’s robe stood holding up a long spyglass, scanning the surroundings.
“Now where could it be…” he murmured under his breath.
Behind him stood several more figures, keeping watch on all sides. One crouched on the ground, hand reaching into the robes of a fallen man dressed in black. The black-clad man’s face-mask had already been torn away; his body twitched faintly, and though surrounded by figures on every side, his eyes still burned with malice.
This man in black had only just begun to recover from the confusion clouding his mind. His name was Wu Cheng; on this journey south with Lu Tuo’s group, though he’d been assigned to the outer perimeter as a lookout, he was, in truth, a man of considerable renown across the north, with genuinely formidable skill. After Lu Tuo’s main group had moved on ahead, he had picked a high vantage point to keep watch from behind; seeing a signal flare go up from the woods in the distance, he had just been preparing to relocate again when the attack came.
The enemy who had suddenly appeared from behind him possessed formidable stealth skills; by the time he noticed anything at all, the man was already behind him, and with a single exchange of palms, Wu Cheng’s neck had been seized and he’d been knocked unconscious. When he woke a moment later, he found himself already surrounded by several figures. His mind was still too clouded to think clearly, but in his heart, he felt no fear at all. There were no shortage of remarkable characters in the martial world; even having been caught off guard himself was no guarantee these people would fare well against his comrades.
This team of masters, gathered together and built under the leadership of Marshal’s Bureau, which commanded fully half the might of the Great Jin state, headed by a disciple of the Valley Spirit, Wanyan Xiyin—though it couldn’t quite claim to stand against ten thousand troops on an open battlefield, it had few equals outside of one. Wu Cheng, being part of it, understood well enough the significance of a team like his own being assembled: their future targets were figures cut from the same cloth as the once-legendary Iron Arm Zhou Tong, or the man now hailed as the greatest fighter under heaven, Lin Zongwu—formidable powers of the martial world. For him to have been caught alone like this was, admittedly, humiliating—but the martial-world fighters who had shown up here tonight had absolutely no idea what kind of enemy they were actually up against.
The night wind blew past. He still hadn’t been able to make out who these people were. Beside him, the one who had searched him produced the single token he’d been carrying and brought it over to show the long-robed man holding the spyglass. The man’s voice carried on the night air—some of it comprehensible, some not.
“Only found this.”
“…Quite refined work. Look at this seal-script—looks like it’s in the style of the Valley Spirit’s own lineage… hold onto it for now…”
“Understood… might take a bit of time to get anything out of him.”
“He’s awake? Hm… step aside, let me put on a bit of a show…”
Wu Cheng still couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. The long-robed man walked over and crouched down, looking down at him from above. “Hey, can you talk? Where’s your leader?”
“You people… are all dead men…” Wu Cheng showed not the slightest fear; having taken a blow to the throat earlier, his speech was forced and hoarse, yet the vicious edge in his voice remained.
You people—you have absolutely no idea who you’ve just crossed—
That was what he thought to himself. The man across from him spoke again: “Well then, why don’t you tell me where your leader is first, so I can go and get myself killed properly. What do you say?”
“Heh heh…” Wu Cheng showed a bloodthirsty grin on the ground, and nodded, staring straight at the long-robed man, then glancing briefly around at everyone else before returning his gaze to the man’s face. “Of course—you people are all looking to die, no doubt about it—”
The moonlight was bright; even with the distant glow of unrest flickering faintly on the horizon, everything atop this small hill still felt eerily still and cold. The several men standing there, the one crouched down, and the man lying on the ground were all smiling—the man on the ground, even as he smiled, went on speaking in that hoarse, deliberate voice of his, word by word. But right at this line, his tone suddenly shifted. The man lying there seemed to have suddenly remembered something.
The air fell silent.
The men around him all waited for him to continue speaking; sensing this silence, there was a flicker of mild awkwardness, and the crouching, long-robed man even spread his hands in a shrug—but that puzzled look didn’t linger for long. Beside him, the man who had searched Wu Cheng crouched down as well. The long-robed man tilted his head up, and in that moment, everyone’s expression turned serious.
“…You recognized me.”
The murmur came so soft it seemed as though no one could possibly have heard it.
Wu Cheng opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but for a moment nothing came out. The long-robed man looked down at him for a moment longer, and once he’d confirmed something in his own mind, he rose to his feet, turning from a looming figure looking down at him into one simply turning away.
“He recognized me…”
“You people—” Wu Cheng turned his gaze toward the others nearby; their eyes, too, turned toward him, cold, as though looking at some lifeless object. They didn’t care in the slightest that he had “recognized” them—what they cared about was what lay behind that fact. Wu Cheng’s mind was still in disarray; he told himself he ought to say something defiant, but what actually came out of his mouth was: “They’re down below…”
A breeze passed through the night, and the grass atop the hill swayed with it; the figures showed little change. The long-robed man clasped his hands behind his back, gazing in some particular direction in the darkness, thinking for a moment.
“You people… you really do want to kill me, don’t you.”
The man on the ground gave no answer. None was needed.
…
A moment passed.
“What’s your name?”
“…Wu… you, let me go…”
“…Should I skin you alive to find out?”
“…Wu Cheng…”
“Your main group—are they over there, where the fighting’s already broken out?”
“…”
Off in the distant thicket of trees, wisps of smoke could faintly be seen rising—that was where the fighting had already begun—
…
The clash of spear against steel blade lit up sparks amid the trees, figures darting and slashing through the chaos, flames burning through the sparse woodland, smoke coiling and drifting through the air. All around, nothing but slaughter and confusion.
Qiu Tianhai, master of the Through-the-Back Fist, along with Li Gangyang, Young Master Lin the Seventh, and even Lu Tuo himself, had all scattered by now, these masters racing through the woods, cutting down the martial-world fighters who had come charging in. Already first-rate fighters in their own right, and having developed, through long association, a solid habit of coordinated teamwork, they held the overwhelming advantage in this complicated terrain against these martial-world warriors who had come purely on raw courage.
Qiu Tianhai surged through the flickering light and shadow like a boulder hurled from a catapult; his Through-the-Back Fist, built around concentrating force into a single point, simply shattered anything in its path when combined with the momentum of his lightness-skill—no one could withstand even two or three of his strikes.
Young Master Lin the Seventh, having been forced back and driven off by Gao Chong in the earlier clash, had lost a great deal of face; now, plunging into the crowd, he wielded his fast blade with everything he had, every strike merciless in the extreme. A middle-aged woman warrior had both her hands lopped off in a few swift strokes; her husband rushed forward to save her, only to have his throat cut clean through by a single, savage stroke from Lin the Seventh, his body kicked into her arms before Lin turned, tiger-like, to cut down the next fighter nearby.
Not to mention a fighter of Lu Tuo’s near-grandmaster caliber—his figure circled through the woods, and any enemy in his path was liable to fall within one or two exchanges.
Word that Yinping and Yue Yun had been captured had spread throughout Dengzhou and Xinye, and among the martial-world fighters who had banded together to come here, quite a few belonged to families with generations of tradition behind them—brothers who had traveled the world side by side, husbands and wives who fought together. Among the crowd were white-haired elders and hot-blooded young men alike. But against this overwhelming disparity in raw strength, none of it counted for much.
In the distance, Yinping, held fast by the Jurchen leader, watched everything unfold before her. Her mouth had been gagged, leaving her utterly unable to cry out, yet she still struggled desperately to make some sound, her eyes blazing red, stamping her feet in helpless urgency.
Not far off, smoke swirled through the air, and suddenly a fierce gust of wind came howling in—the dark-red spear cutting straight through the weakest point in this chaotic mess, and in the blink of an eye, closing the distance to a mere twenty feet. Yinping let out a muffled, desperate cry, nearly leaping off the ground. It was Gao Chong, charging through the smoke and flames—but ahead of him, several more figures had already appeared. Zheng San, Pan Dahe, Lei Qing, and other masters had already positioned themselves to cut him off.
Facing masters of Lu Tuo’s and Qiu Tianhai’s caliber, a forest was never an ideal ambush environment—but if there was any hope at all of rescuing Yinping and Yue Yun, this might be the only place where confusion could work in their favor. Gao Chong had rallied these martial-world fighters, asking of them only harassment—setting fires, stirring up smoke—but once Lu Tuo and the others personally entered the fray, a massacre had become unavoidable.
Bursting out from the shadows, Gao Chong charged like a tiger with nothing left to lose, roaring furiously as he drove straight toward where Yinping stood, that dark-red spear striking with the force of rolling thunder; in this nearly suicidal charge, for a brief moment, Pan Dahe and the others found themselves almost unable to hold him back. Watching him press forward step by step, the Jurchen leader laughed loudly. “Impressive, truly impressive! If you don’t surrender, and dare take one more step forward, I’ll kill this Yue Yinping right now!”
“Then kill her—” Gao Chong roared, his spear smashing hard into Pan Dahe’s blade, sending him flying more than ten feet through the air. The Jurchen leader laughed uproariously. “Clever! Then let me give Yue Yinping back to you—”
Amid that laughter, the Jurchen leader did something no one could have anticipated—he seized Yinping by the back of her clothing and, with both hands, hurled her straight at Gao Chong. Gao Chong, in the middle of his headlong charge, widened his eyes; his spear tip veered off its original path, thrusting fiercely into the space around him instead, and at that very same moment, several masters across the way—including Li Wanlian, the “Heaven’s Calamity Claw”—all leapt forward together.
Killing intent flooded in from every side; before Gao Chong could even reach Yinping, a storm of lethal strikes was already bearing down on him. He came to an abrupt halt, one hand seizing the rope binding Yinping, and the two of them spun and flew backward together with tremendous force; several killing blows landed in that same instant, blood spraying in an instant. In the blink of an eye, Gao Chong and Yinping had retreated more than twenty or thirty feet, hitting the ground and springing back up at once—though how many new wounds he’d taken in the process was impossible to say.
Pan Dahe closed in swiftly, only to be forced back by Gao Chong in the chaos of the moment; then came Li Wanlian’s ghost-like figure, darting forward and back, exchanging a claw strike with Gao Chong that tore several bloody gashes across his shoulder. The instant Yinping’s feet touched the ground, Gao Chong snapped the ropes binding her hands and feet; she snatched up a long sword lying nearby and threw everything she had into the Wandering-Shadow Swordplay, trying to guard Gao Chong’s flank—though it still felt woefully inadequate.
Gao Chong shielded her as they retreated, while the crowd pressed forward around them. The Jurchen leader smiled, speaking in an unhurried tone. “Look at that—I gave you exactly what you wanted. Can you actually carry her away, though?” He shook his head. “Not only can you not carry her away—you’re going to die right here yourself. And once you’re dead, Miss Yinping… well, she won’t be going anywhere either, in the end.”
The sounds of fighting around the woods had already thinned considerably; those who had planned to flee according to plan had already done so, and those who hadn’t had, by now, been mostly cut down by Lu Tuo and the others. Not far off, a young man, his face covered in blood, was being dragged forward by Lin the Seventh, who then drove a blade straight into his back. Lu Tuo, too, cut down an elderly man of considerable skill where he stood. Beside a large boulder in the woods, Gao Chong and Yue Yinping came to a stop; Yinping pulled the cloth from her mouth and shouted hoarsely, “Go, quickly—go—General Gao, please go—”
Gao Chong stood with his spear held level, his body already covered in wounds, his gaze sweeping the surroundings with a faint edge of weakness now showing through—yet he showed not the slightest intention of leaving.
“You’re not going anywhere now.” The Jurchen leader walked over, and after a moment, said, “A whole night of fighting between us—that counts for something, doesn’t it. I’ve seen your courage and skill firsthand, and I’m genuinely impressed. I am Wanyan Qingjue, son of the Great Jin’s Prince of Wu, Wanyan Shemu; my master is the Valley Spirit, Wanyan Xiyin. Might I have the honor of knowing this brave warrior’s name?”
Off in the distance among the trees, a figure came running: “General Gao, hold on—we won’t run, we’ve come to help you!” In this ambush through the woods, Gao Chong had known these martial-world fighters were no match for the enemy’s masters, and had told them to set fires and cause a distraction before fleeing—yet here were some who had still come running back.
What followed was the sound of fighting and screams of agony.
Wanyan Qingjue spread his hands. “I know you’re a brave and fierce man, but our Great Jin rules over all under heaven, and we hunger for talented men. If you’re willing to surrender to us today, I can personally see to it that Miss Yinping is set free—the two nations may fight to the death, but at the very least, you could spare General Yue the loss of one of his children—”
“General Gao, if you leave now, they won’t kill me—if you don’t leave, we’re all going to die here…” Beside Gao Chong, Yinping spoke in a low, urgent voice.
In the woods, figures could still occasionally be seen being dragged out of the darkness and cut down. Gao Chong looked around him; amid the smoke and flames, he knew there was no going back for him now.
…
Atop the small hill, the night wind stirred the folds of a long scholar’s robe. Ning Yi stood there with his hands clasped behind his back, looking down at the distant woods, several figures standing beside him, all as cold and still as though they might freeze the very night itself.
Wu Cheng had said his piece, but his mind remained in turmoil. He still couldn’t quite make sense of who these people were—or rather, he had already understood it, and yet simply could not accept the fact. They had come here with some grand purpose in mind, and had never once imagined they would run into something this… absurdly, unbearably surreal.
It was as though they had dug a pit to catch a rabbit, and, arriving in high spirits to collect their prize, had instead caught the briefest, terrifying glimpse of a bear.
“…You people… you really do want to kill me, don’t you…”
…
“How about it? Trade one for one!”
“Go, quickly…” This was Yinping speaking.
Gao Chong closed his eyes, then opened them again. “…For every one I kill, that’s one less.”
The man beside him couldn’t quite make out his low murmur. In the next instant, he roared out loud: “Go—!”
The red spear surged forward without a moment’s hesitation!
In the distance, a middle-aged woman, both arms severed, crawled slowly across the ground, tears of blood streaming from her eyes, her sobbing barely audible now. Her husband lay headless not far off. Lin the Seventh walked over, blade in hand, planted a foot on her back, and drove the blade down through her from behind.
Blood spread in a wide pool across the ground, soaking into the wild grass around it.
His companion Hong Shan, walking not far off, spotted a woman leaning against a tree, a blade wound in her leg—likely some traveling performer from the martial world, in her early twenties, already frozen with terror. Seeing him approach, her body trembled, weeping silently. Hong Shan licked his lips and walked over.
From behind the tree, a figure suddenly appeared. Hong Shan reacted swiftly, slashing out with his sword at once; his opponent struck back with a blade of their own. Hong Shan’s body swayed, then went still. Li Gangyang of the Heart Fist was the first to sense that something was wrong; in the blink of an eye he closed a distance of several dozen feet, charging into that patch of darkness. In the split second where light met shadow, he let out a shout—and then his figure seemed to be caught by something, and in an instant he was flung dozens of feet away, as though dragged in by some monstrous beast, countless things flickering through the dim, indistinct shapes.
Amid the dark outline of the scene, one could only faintly make out his body slamming into a tree with a heavy thud, and then going still, unmoving.
The fighting on this side had already been raging for some time. In the midst of Gao Chong’s struggle, Yue Yinping swung her sword, trying to break away—but Li Wanlian’s figure darted past Gao Chong like a phantom, her Heaven’s Calamity Claw tearing a strip of flesh from his side; the woman’s laughter rang out like a night crow’s caw as she seized Yinping’s wrist, kicked Gao Chong square in the chest, and flew off with Yinping in her grip.
Surrounded by Pan Dahe and the others, Gao Chong turned to give chase, only to find himself dragged back, taking another fist to the back. And on the far side, Li Gangyang’s sudden disappearance drew an immediate response—two martial artists rushed over first, followed by five more including Lin the Seventh, converging from different directions on that patch of woods still untouched by the firelight.
Someone let out a furious roar, his internal power surging outward, his voice booming like thunder: “Who’s there—”
And then: “Ah—!”
“Watch out—!”
Figures crossed and clashed in the darkness; in the next instant, crossbow bolts shot up into the air like a flock of startled night birds, and the whooshing sound of legs, palms, blades, and swords—driven to their very limits by internal power—rose like the roar of a great bellows, some striking trees with heart-stopping impact, followed the next moment by thunderous booms.
Boom—
Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom—
Gao Chong, covered head to toe in blood and still fighting, turned to look toward the sound. Wanyan Qingjue turned to look too. Lu Tuo had already begun racing toward it. Every master throughout the woods was now looking in that same direction—
And then, the fierce clamor of sound seemed to stop all at once.
Lu Tuo had nearly reached that spot when, from the darkness, a figure came bursting out in a wild frenzy—it was Young Master Lin the Seventh, his body twisted and distorted in several places as though it had burst apart from within, a crossbow bolt lodged in his back, still moving at tremendous speed. Lu Tuo reached out to grab at his chest, and from the darkness behind him, another black-clad figure came surging forward at high speed, like a hunting leopard closing in on its prey—Lin the Seventh.
The black-clad figure was not tall; in an instant, just as Lu Tuo caught hold of Lin the Seventh and hauled him up, the figure had already closed the distance between them. In that moment, as Lu Tuo moved to kick out, the diving figure drew a blade—an eruption of blade-light skimming low across the ground, as though meaning to sweep through and swallow up everything in its path.
This was the most common, most basic technique in all the martial world—Night Combat, Eight Directions. A move meant for cutting down the legs of attackers surrounding one on every side, delivered and withdrawn in the blink of an eye! In that instant, Lu Tuo’s figure retreated a full half-zhang, as though by some miracle, and the black-clad figure vanished into the woods on the other side, as though it had never been there at all. Lin the Seventh, still held aloft in Lu Tuo’s grip, had blood pouring down his waist like a waterfall—in that same instant, that shadowy hand’s blade had struck up from behind, cleaving straight through his spine.
The moment that followed was so still it felt almost suffocating. And from somewhere within that darkness, a terrible, malevolent presence began to surge outward—