The night in the depths of summer’s heat was unusually stifling; torches blazed, casting the whole courtyard into restless, flickering movement. Dust from the collapsed corridor still hung in the air. A figure struggled up out of the rubble, hair and beard in disarray, blood and dust mixed together on his head. He looked around unsteadily, unable to stand, and sank back down into the rubble. This was Tian Weishan, the great figure of Wozhou, who had lost half his life in that single collision. He wiped his eyes and watched the figure ahead, who seemed to have lost his very soul, walking forward.

“Mad Tiger” Wang Nantuo climbed up from behind him.

Thirty years ago he had already been one of the finest masters in the martial world, and in the years since, within the Great Brightness Sect, he had stood as a dominant force. Even facing Lin Zongwu, he had never once been so thoroughly humiliated as tonight.

“Hey. Come back here.”

He said this, watching the man’s retreating back.

“Villains…”

Lin Chong staggered toward Tan Lu, his eyes bloodshot. In the flickering torchlight, Wang Nantuo stepped up and grabbed him by the shoulder, holding him in place.

“I’ll curse your whole family!”

The words came out low and heavy, one at a time. After his earlier stumble, “Mad Tiger” had truly grown furious now; his claws locked onto the man like steel pincers. Lin Chong struggled once, and the distance between them shrank and stretched in an instant, their fists crashing together with a sound like rolling thunder. Wang Nantuo’s grip shifted several times in an instant — the shoulder and arm he had seized felt like the muscle of an elephant, of a giant python, straining to fling him off in the struggle. He had spent decades mastering the Tiger Claw; a single strike from him could tear a boulder in half — and yet, for a moment, he found he could not hold this man at all.

In an instant they grappled and broke apart several times. Wang Nantuo tore Lin Chong’s sleeve, then drove a headbutt at him; it landed with a heavy crack, and Wang Nantuo struck again with his head. This time the man dodged and drove his shoulder in instead, and Wang Nantuo, roaring, swung his elbow down in a brutal strike, the two impacts crashing together like an avalanche. Wang Nantuo staggered back two steps, and Lin Chong reeled from the blow as well. The onlookers had not even caught their breath when Wang Nantuo roared and lunged again with his claw, striking Lin Chong’s chest even as Lin Chong’s own punch came in from the side.

The two threw themselves into a furious exchange — fists, claw-tears, elbow-smashes, knee-strikes, sweeping kicks like a storm of whips, one after another, before grinding to a sudden halt against the other’s counterattack, the impacts loud enough to set teeth on edge. In an instant, both men were covered head to toe in blood. Several of Tian Weishan’s disciples, caught up in the fight or trying to rush in to help Wang Nantuo, were struck before they could even see clearly, sent tumbling away like rolling gourds, coughing blood, unable to rise.

These disciples, who had always regarded a grandmaster like Wang Nantuo as something close to a living god, were now struck with terror — no one could guess what this ragged, fallen man was, or what he could possibly have suffered to bring him here in such a state, with skill like this.

At the side of the courtyard, Tan Lu’s heart pounded even harder watching this. While Wang Nantuo held the man off relentlessly, he began edging backward. Lin Zongwu, standing not far off in the torchlight, could of course see exactly what Tan Lu was doing, but merely glanced over without a word. Beside him, several Great Brightness Sect protectors watched with hearts in their throats, murmuring low analyses of this man’s fighting style, unable to make sense of it.

Lin Zongwu clasped his hands behind his back. “Over these years, the Central Plains has been in constant upheaval — people caught up in it find all manner of fates. It’s no surprise for one to find the martial path through it. This man’s mind carries a deathly weight; every movement of his is soaked in it, and yet he’s already entered the Way through it… Strange, that none of you had ever come across a master of this caliber before.”

Tian Weishan had staggered over by now, only shaking his head. “He’s not from around here.”

Across the courtyard, the two figures collided again. Wang Nantuo seized hold of the man and stepped in to throw him, but Lin Chong’s stance was crooked, without any proper form to begin with, and in that instant he spun Wang Nantuo around and drove a skyward kick into his head, his own body tumbling away and smashing into the weapon rack at the courtyard’s corner. Wang Nantuo staggered back into a pillar, blood covering his forehead. Seeing the man already pulling himself up against the rack, he let out a furious roar, his feet driving forward with sudden force, closing several yards of distance in a few strides, his body like a war chariot, and threw a punch.

The man across from him held a spear at an angle, his gaze still searching the courtyard for the fleeing Tan Lu. Turning back, his eyes were empty, restless, desolate, and he swung the spear up weakly.

“His grip on that spear is all wrong…” On the sidelines, Lin Zongwu had been murmuring quietly, but his voice suddenly cut off, and his eyes went wide.

“Watch out—” Lin Zongwu’s roar burst out, inner power surging forth like a great wave rolling in every direction. In that same instant, Wang Nantuo too sensed something was wrong. Ahead, the spear seemed to twist like a great coiling dragon — and then, the next instant, that impression felt almost like an illusion, for the man was only swaying, jabbing the spear crookedly, its point seemingly off-mark. Wang Nantuo’s charge did not slow; his right fist swept toward the spear’s shaft while his left drove straight for the man’s center, killing intent bursting forth.

In that collision, his arm and fist were as hard as iron — an ordinary spear like this one should have snapped in two under a single blow from him. But something felt wrong about his right fist, and the instant he registered it, his body was already twisting away — blood sprayed everywhere, his right fist already shattered, blood tracking down along his ribs. He had not struck the spear’s shaft at all. The spear tip had run straight along his fist and pierced through.

His feet dug into the ground, the paving stones cracking apart before him as Wang Nantuo halted, trying to pull back.

A lifetime with the staff, a year with the blade, but a whole life is needed for the spear — the spear is the king of all weapons, the most common and yet hardest to truly master, for every strike lies along a single line, and all its destruction concentrates on that single edge. Cross that line even slightly, close the distance, and the spear’s power counts for little. Even a grandmaster-level master could ordinarily turn decay into wonder against such logic — but in that instant, even Wang Nantuo had no idea how he had been struck head-on. His body hurtled forward, and only through great effort did his feet manage to stop him; flying shards of stone gave him some measure of cover on either side. And amid those flying stone fragments, the man across from him gripped the spear with both hands and thrust again.

The simplest of central-line spear thrusts — the spear strikes along a single line, seemingly weak — and yet the spear’s tip seemed to be drawing Wang Nantuo in, the closing distance like an illusion. Wang Nantuo’s heart sank as he watched, helpless, as the spear tip drove through his chest and out through his back… and in that instant, a fierce gust of pressure surged in.

“Who are you!” Lin Zongwu’s roar crashed down like thunder as he threw himself between them, his massive frame swinging both arms like a demon god, trying to snap the spear in two. The man had already drawn the spear back and thrust again; Lin Zongwu struck at it once more, the tip retreating and thrusting again… In an instant, three thrusts came, and Lin Zongwu met all three. Onlookers saw only his figure lunge forward, dust and stone flying, his left sleeve exploding into countless fluttering fragments like a swarm of butterflies. Lin Chong’s spear broke. He stood there, looking around at everyone.

Lin Zongwu’s figure stood like a mountain, and only then did he speak: “—What is your relationship to Zhou Tong?” Hearing that name, the crowd all felt a jolt of shock. Only the man himself pressed his lips tight, searching the whole scene for his enemy, but could not find him anywhere. In his hand he still held the broken half of the spear shaft; lost, dazed, and in the next instant his body surged upward, the broken shaft crashing down toward the top of Lin Zongwu’s head. “Villains—”

“Good—” Two furious shouts rang out almost together, pressure surging out in every direction, followed by countless splinters of wood exploding outward as Lin Zongwu raised both hands to block the shaft. Lin Zongwu had long stood unrivaled under heaven, and yet this overhead strike from a fallen, wretched man came close to an insult. The crowd watched, hearts pounding, as Lin Zongwu drove a kick into the man, sending him flying.

His body sailed across the courtyard, struck the ground, rolled, and fell again…

…

In that hazy blur, there was the mountain god’s shrine in the great snow, the confusion of joining Mount Liang, the aimless wandering after being kicked away by Zhou Tong…

Lin Chong had not practiced the spear in a long while. Ever since Zhou Tong had cursed him, he had never again taken up the weapon he had once trained in. Over the years he had reproached and tormented himself over it, feeling that he had no right to pick up his master’s art again, that doing so would sully his master’s name — but in the depths of midnight dreams, thoughts of it would sometimes return anyway.

Those forms — he must have forgotten them all by now.

That was what he had believed.

Forgetting the spear, forgetting the past, forgetting a great many things that had once happened — this was what Lin Chong had told himself, and he had made his peace with his own forgetting. But how could the guilt buried in his heart ever truly be forgotten? In the moment he saw Xu Jinhua lying in her own blood, what rose in him was not even anger at first, but a sense that it had finally happened — over all these years, every waking moment, he had lived in fear of exactly this. In every breath he took, the Lin Chong of before had gone on living, hidden in the shadows. He was lost, self-tormenting, furious, and guilt-ridden all at once…

To Tian Weishan and the others, what they had witnessed that night was simply a grief-stricken man on a rampage. To Lin Chong himself, what lay ahead was, once again, a sea of people.

Wherever there are people, there are rules, and no single man can stand against them all. How could a lowly drill instructor ever stand against Gao Qiu? How could a man sent into exile ever stand against those in power? How could a person avoid being driven to banditry? His body fell, then rolled up again, knocking over row after row of weapon racks, the world spinning around him, but everywhere he looked, countless shadows of people. It was just like before Xu Jinhua’s corpse — countless hands, pulling him back from behind.

“You can’t win…”

“It’s the same everywhere…”

“Even the emperor is a dog now…”

“Take the money, you could live well…”

So it turned out that all these years, so many hands had been holding him back from behind, all along…

Like a stray, homeless dog, he rolled and tumbled — just as, many years before, he had tumbled out of Zhou Tong’s small courtyard into the darkness. There was no Zhou Tong here now. He rolled against a wall, pushed himself up, his mouth curved into a line that could have been a laugh or a sob, gathered up five or six weapons in his arms, and charged forward, hurling them at the nearest person.

…

Tian Weishan and the others watched, wide-eyed, as the man who had just taken a kick from Lin Zongwu got back to his feet as if nothing had happened, and rushed toward them carrying an armful of weapons. He hurled the blades and spears from his arms at the nearest Great Brightness Sect protector, whose eyes went round with something between laughter and terror.

“Your mother… what is this…”

No grandmaster fought by cradling an armful of long and short weapons and hurling them like a village brawler. And yet this man’s skill was terrifying beyond belief. The protector, Feng Qihe, instinctively stepped back twice, dropping his own weapon to the ground. Lin Zongwu came flying across the courtyard from the other side. “How dare you—”

The spear strikes along a single line. Feng Qihe suddenly felt the spear tip before him grow monstrous, like a crack opening silently in an avalanche, splitting the earth apart, unstoppable — and his throat was already pierced through. Beside him, a hall master named Jing Zhonglin rushed forward, and his arm flew off into the air — Lin Chong had already switched to a blade and cut it away. Then the largest figure came charging in; Lin Chong swung the blade to meet him, and the two crashed together. The steel blade in Lin Chong’s hand shattered into five or six pieces in that thunderous collision, while Lin Zongwu’s fist came down; Lin Chong closed the distance and struck back with his own fist. After a few exchanges, he coughed blood and staggered back. At that moment Feng Qihe, still clutching his own throat, spun in place, the spear shaft protruding from his neck; Lin Chong reached over, pulled it free, and charged forward again, spear in hand.

The spear tip howled straight for Lin Zongwu’s face, forcing even him to step back and dodge. Lin Chong swung the spear about like a broom, wild and undisciplined, and yet its tip would always halt at some critical instant. Lin Zongwu retreated several steps, then surged forward and struck the spear’s shaft — the ordinary wood shattered and flew apart. Lin Chong’s hands still held the grip as if the weapon were whole, and he charged forward like a mad tiger, his fist carrying the sharpness of the spear, striking at Lin Zongwu. Lin Zongwu swung both arms to deflect the force, his whole body forced back a full step by the impact, before he finally managed to throw Lin Chong off with the momentum.

Lin Zongwu had always possessed a massive frame, and though he had once been pressed hard in real combat by the likes of Lu Hongti and a few others, his deep and boundless inner strength had truly made him unmatched under heaven. And yet in this moment, this man — who had folded his spear-way into his fighting style — had forced him back head-on, and even Lin Zongwu felt an astonishment beyond words. As he threw the man off, he had originally meant to add extra force to finish him, but the man’s body moved so strangely, drifting with the momentum, that he simply flew off as thrown. Lin Zongwu regretted the throw the moment it left his hands and spun to chase after him. Tian Weishan, who had been standing at a distance, watched the man land right beside him and moved to kick him — only to have the man turn his palm into a spear-strike and drive four fingers straight into his thigh.

Blood, thick and reeking, spread out — the thigh was where the great vessels ran, and Tian Weishan knew at once he would not survive. “Kill him! Kill him—”

Lin Zongwu charged in. “Out of the way—” And those bitter, sorrowful eyes lifted to meet him once more.

The spear strikes along a single line.

All these years, Lin Chong had never again picked up the spear in practice — but how could his mind ever stop thinking of it? Holding chopsticks, he saw the shadow of a spear. Holding firewood, he saw the shadow of a spear. Holding a blade, a stool — always the shadow of the spear. Ten years facing a wall trying to break through it — and now, in this moment, what everyone faced was the bitterest spear in the world.

This spear was mad, strange, humble, self-tormenting; it had stripped away every last shred of pretense and appearance. For over a decade it had trembled, fearful, never daring to move — and only now, in this single instant, did what remained of its edge pour into everything at once.

The moment he took hold of the spear, Lin Chong had known he no longer knew how to use it — could not even hold a proper stance any longer.

Not knowing the spear meant he would be killed. But what did that matter now? In this moment, he only wanted to charge at everyone before him.

The largest, most formidable figure came rushing at him, and he charged to meet it — spear in hand or not, he simply wanted to collide with it.

Figures moved in chaos through the terrifying courtyard. The maddened man opened his mouth, his face and lips streaked with blood, roaring soundlessly as he charged the man who was, in this age, first under heaven.

The roar made no sound; two grandmaster-level masters crashed together in a frenzy.

Some rushed forward with blades drawn, some fled in terror, some hesitated and were caught up in the fighting, sent flying out lifeless. After a while, Lin Chong seized hold of Lin Zongwu and toppled a section of the courtyard wall with him. Tian Weishan lay on the ground, blood pouring from his thigh, and at last, died. Some of the martial hall’s students tried to curry favor with the Great Brightness Sect and stayed behind; many more had already fled in terror… Outside Wozhou, Tan Lu rode a horse in headlong flight, racing to warn Qi Ao and save his own life…

The night had not yet grown deep, and chaos and heat still churned through the city of Wozhou.