Riverbend outside Jiangning, the houseboat.
“Go ahead and shoot.”
“Let him go!”
“Shoot!”
“You’ll die a horrible death!”
“Who are you, why did you tie me up?”
“Second Brother! His mother—”
“…”
“What have you done!”
“Back off.”
The dim corridor of the houseboat had no lamp; only the faint firelight from the kitchen and the oil lamp’s glow from the sitting room tinted the two ends, casting a suffocating standoff — a giant of a man, a crossbow, a dagger, blood, and the seemingly half-dead hostage, water seeping across the floor beneath their feet. The giant held his crossbow, bellowing with rage, the killing intent on him now impossible to contain. By contrast, the figure a few meters away looked wildly disproportionate against him, yet the hand holding the knife remained perfectly still, hooked against that throat.
As the giant’s furious threats poured out, the reply came back just as directly — not fierce, not flippant, brief, quiet, and steady, like a post driven fast into a raging current: sometimes it seemed it would be swept away entirely, but the next moment, as the spray parted, it remained exactly where it had been, unmoved. Nearly every time the giant finished a sentence, the reply came instantly, without the slightest hesitation or delay — and in no time it had pressed the giant’s fury back down.
The figure took a deep breath, teeth clenched, spacing out each word: “What did you… do to them?”
“Guess.”
“What happened—”
The roar was deafening, but the reply came through beneath the wave of sound, quiet and quick: “If you like, guess again.”
The giant’s jaw trembled as he stared at that figure, as though trying to devour him alive with his eyes alone, then finally took a deep breath and stepped back.
“I misjudged you…”
“Good to hear.” The only way out was through the sitting room. Ning Yi watched his footing coldly, pushing the swaying hostage forward a step; the other man slowly stepped back again…
“If they’re unharmed, we can talk.”
“Fine.”
“As long as they’re not dead.”
“Fine.”
“…Otherwise I swear I’ll kill your entire family!”
“Fine.”
“I’ll skin you alive, make sure you die badly!”
“Fine.”
“Ning Yi! Ning Liheng!”
Just a few steps’ distance, a few exchanges, casual and perfunctory replies — the giant had by now reached the sitting-room door, lamplight falling across him, his expression twisting as if in spasms with every roar, plainly enraged to the extreme by such answers. Under ordinary circumstances, a mere scholar like this would have made even him wary to cross paths with on the road.
Behind the hostage, the scholar, who had only cautiously kept one eye visible watching ahead, now tilted his head, both eyes turning cold as they looked over — though a moment later he realized the man’s gaze wasn’t a reaction to hearing his name shouted out. That gaze fixed on him, and then, word by word, he said: “…Keep backing up, keep talking, don’t. Stop.”
Yang Yi slowly turned and stepped back over the threshold between the sitting room and the corridor.
Bean-sized lamplight flickered in the sitting room, casting his enormous shadow toward the door — and right beside that door, Yang Heng stood hidden, steel saber in hand, exchanging a glance with his still-retreating brother. From the moment he’d heard the first words, he hadn’t rushed into the inner corridor, but had instead taken up position by the door, ready to react. In the corridor, Ning Yi watched the shadow’s shift and kept pushing the hostage forward. Neither side could see the other now.
“Who sent you after us?”
“There. Are. Rules. Of the trade!”
Yang Yi backed away with his crossbow raised, kicking over a stool.
“You will never get away!”
“Mm.”
“This is outside the city, no one’s coming to save you!”
“Oh.”
“Leave this house and you’re still dead!”
“Fine.”
“I admit I misjudged you, but you’re just a scholar — you’ll get scared! One wrong step… and you’re dead!”
Ning Yi’s figure appeared at the doorway, watching him coldly, turning the hostage to face a different direction.
Yang Yi shook his head.
“I, Yang Yi, can admit defeat! Just let my family have an heir, and everything’s negotiable.”
The lamplight was dim, the room seeming to grow even darker under the tension of the standoff. By the door, Yang Heng pressed against the wall, saber in hand, eyes alert. Beside him, Ning Yi was about to push the hostage in; the knife was still hooked at his throat, and he watched that gripping hand in silence.
At the table in the distance, Yang Yi’s expression eased slightly. “I, Yang Yi, keep my word.”
As footsteps crossed the threshold, a voice with a faint shift in tone suddenly spoke up: “How do we talk this out?”
At that very instant, the tension of the standoff seemed to hit its lowest point — by the wall, Yang Heng’s left hand fingers twitched slightly, beginning to lift — and in the very next moment, a furious shout tore through the air.
“Watch the club—!”
“Look out—!”
The tension that had just eased suddenly spiked to its peak — this was the first time the scholar named Ning Yi had shouted aloud. Lamplight swayed, shadows swayed, wind whistled as something tore through the air — a dark shape came crashing toward Yang Heng, who raised his saber to block; the straw rope snapped in midair.
The earthen jar spun through the air, closing the distance to Yang Heng, who instinctively raised his elbow.
BOOM—
“AAAAAHHHH—”
“You son of a—”
“Shoot! Shoot!”
“I’ll kill you!”
“You’re dead, you’re dead!”
“Pull the trigger, pull the trigger, pull the trigger—”
In the dim lamplight and the darkened room, shards of the shattered jar exploded in all directions in the dark, boiling oil splashing across Yang Heng’s upper body. Instantly, screams of pain rose along with the sizzling burn. Yang Yi immediately raised his crossbow, his roar showing no sign of easing at all, as if he were about to charge forward that very instant. Ning Yi pushed the hostage a few steps and rushed into the room, then dragged him back into a corner to one side.
The room filled with all three voices at once. Yang Heng’s forearm and upper body had blocked much of the boiling oil, sparing his head a direct hit, but the area around one eye was still affected. It was summer, and he wore only a thin shirt, so half his body was now drenched in the scalding oil. Amid his screams he swung his saber and split a nearby stool in two, still cursing fiercely even as blisters rose on his face and body, looking as monstrous and hideous as some kind of creature, seemingly ready to pounce at any moment. Yang Yi, meanwhile, was shaking his head hard.
“I don’t believe for a second you’ll let him go now—”
“He won’t dare kill Big Brother! He won’t dare!”
“Come on then, try it, why not pull the trigger!”
“I won’t let you out of here.”
“Kill him!”
“Come closer — no matter what happens to me, the moment anything goes wrong, this knife slits his throat instantly…”
“You won’t walk out that door today!”
“Block the door!”
“His windpipe will tear open, blood will pour from his throat, more of it foam, and of course your son will feel the pain, and then he’ll realize he can’t breathe…”
“If he dies, you die…”
“I’ll cut off your hands—”
“Do you know what it feels like not to be able to breathe? Imagine it, imagine it — like a fish out of water, his whole body convulsing, limbs thrashing, his throat already slit, maybe he’ll even claw at it with his hands, and there’ll be more blood, more blood, until he feels nothing at all — you could watch this whole process over the time it takes to drink a cup of tea! Come on then!”
“You’ll die worse than him, I guarantee it!”
“But he’s your son!”
The three of them in the room formed a triangle of tension, occasionally shifting position but keeping their distance, their words coming rapid-fire. Yang Yi held his crossbow blocking the doorway, his tone resolute; the hideously burned Yang Heng was volatile and vicious, even feinting a lunge at times; Ning Yi spoke quietly and quickly, his eyes fixed on the two giants in the room, adjusting his position slightly whenever Yang Heng made as if to pounce, forcing him to pull back again.
“I won’t negotiate with you anymore, you’re never going to let my son go!”
“He’ll never dare touch him!”
“You move, I move!”
“No one’s leaving here today.”
“Let’s see who lasts longer, me or your son…”
“AAAHHH—”
Yang Heng suddenly roared and swung his saber as if charging forward. Ning Yi’s left hand, hidden behind him, flashed out with something, sparks flickering in the room: “Come on then!” It was a fire-striker he’d taken from the kitchen. Yang Heng’s face twisted, and he halted, shouting, “Throw it, then!”
“Of course I will.”
“Then throw it over here!”
“You want it, come get…”
Yang Heng lunged forward a step; Ning Yi waved his hand, and the man suddenly checked himself and stepped back — yet the fire-striker was never actually thrown. This repeated several times. The iron-tower of a man seemed to have thrown caution to the wind, continuing to try closing in on Ning Yi, convinced that at the final moment Ning Yi would never actually dare kill the hostage — trying to create chaos and openings. Ning Yi, knife in hand, hostage in tow, kept shifting position too; not far off, Yang Yi held his crossbow, watching warily. At one point Yang Heng and Yang Yi exchanged a glance, and Yang Heng suddenly lunged.
The room was already stretched to its absolute limit of tension, all three on a hair trigger. Ning Yi waved his hand again, Yang Heng shifted once more, then with another great shout, Yang Heng and Yang Yi crossed positions — and the fire-striker slipped from Ning Yi’s hand, flying toward Yang Heng.
Yang Yi was faster — with a kick he sent a stool flying, knocking the fire-striker out of the air. Yang Heng, holding nothing back now, charged forward. Ning Yi reached back and grabbed for the oil lamp mounted on the pillar beside him. But the next instant, the lamp wouldn’t budge — it turned out to be nailed to the pillar. Yang Heng closed in! Reaching to grab the knife at his nephew’s throat. Yang Yi kicked aside a stool in his way, pressing forward with equal force!
Ning Yi’s left hand flashed into the oil lamp, kerosene spraying out as it came free.
The room dimmed for an instant. Yang Heng’s left hand seized the knife with brute force, wrenching it away — and in the next moment, a flame flared to life between Ning Yi and Yang Heng, the darkness broken.
BOOM—
Fire erupted, blooming outward in both directions! In that instant, Ning Yi had used the lamp wick and kerosene to set the other man’s body alight — and, at the same time, set his own left hand ablaze!
Amid the bursting flames and Yang Heng’s screams, his hand still managed to wrench the knife away from his nephew’s throat. Ning Yi yanked the blade free with force, blood spraying up in the firelight. On the other side, Yang Yi was closing in, crossbow raised. Ning Yi released the hostage, lunged aside, and swung the knife down in a full strike at the top of Yang Heng’s head.
“AAAAAAHHHHH…”
“Aaahh—”
“Ahh—”
A crossbow bolt shot past behind Ning Yi; Yang Heng’s flame-wreathed screams, Yang Yi’s shouts, and the sound of Ning Yi’s furious swing all rang out together, figures crossing in that instant, flames raging wildly. Yang Yi, seizing the chance, grabbed his son by the shoulder and shoved him aside, then reached to grab Ning Yi — only to grasp empty air, since Ning Yi, who’d been charging at Yang Heng to strike him down, now found himself pulled along with the son instead, unable to react in time. Watching his brother’s body burst into flame, a knife driven deep into his skull, he chased after Ning Yi and his son — only to discover, with a shock, that a rope had been tied between the two of them.
The blood-covered scholar practically shoved the son to the other side of the room, then spun around, drawing an iron spike from behind his back with his right hand and pressing it once more against the son’s throat, eyes turning back toward Yang Yi.
Yang Heng staggered back several steps and collapsed in the flames. The fire itself wasn’t fatal — if he’d run out and jumped in the river it might not have killed him — but Ning Yi, seizing the moment of his sudden panic, had driven that blow into the top of his head without mercy, and that was fatal enough.
Both sides had been calculating all along. A moment ago, Yang Heng and Yang Yi had deliberately shown an opening to bait Ning Yi into throwing the fire-striker — had Ning Yi not happened to be standing by the lamp at that moment, he probably wouldn’t have thrown it so easily. This room, after all, belonged to the Yang brothers; they knew the lamp was fixed in place, but the scholar surely didn’t. Yang Heng had risked his own body deliberately, meaning to seize that single moment of hesitation to break the stalemate — who could have guessed the scholar’s reaction in that instant would turn so ferociously vicious, setting his own hand alight just to ignite the other man.
Even now, at the far end of the room, he still held the hostage clamped in front of him, his left hand having originally gripped the man’s chest — the flames were still blazing there, and he slapped at the hostage’s body a few times with his burning hand, then slapped it against his own. Kerosene had gotten on his forearm and wrist, and no matter what, the fire wouldn’t go out. Yang Yi watched that hand wave through the air again, then suddenly clench into a fist, and swing back with all his might.
BOOM.
Behind him had been a black-glazed wine jar, large, its walls thick enough that it had taken who knew how much force — with that single punch he’d smashed it apart, likely cracking or even breaking bones in his hand in the process. Wine came gushing out in a flood; he plunged his burning left arm and hand into it, extinguishing the flames with a sharp hiss, his whole arm trembling faintly — it looked, by now, to be ruined beyond use.
Yet that cold, staring gaze, and the right hand still holding the iron spike against his son’s throat, never wavered for even a moment — only his furrowed brow twitched several times.