Early morning of the twenty-first day of the seventh month. A small courtyard in southern Chengdu.

Huang Nanzhong, Yan Ying, and the others had been quietly waiting for the disturbance outside to reach them, but at the stillest moment of the night, the change erupted instead from within the courtyard itself.

Throughout the entire night, right up to this moment near dawn, it wasn’t as though no one had been keeping an eye on the young medic. Despite his earlier record of smuggling and selling military supplies, and despite having taken their money tonight, Huang Nanzhong, Yan Ying, and the others had never truly trusted him from start to finish—this was a wariness they’d had to maintain.

Since they still needed him to look after the severely wounded, the courtyard’s vigilance toward the young medic had been, in appearance, relaxed, but in substance, tight. Whenever he got up to drink water, went into a room, moved about, or picked something up, Huang Jianfei, Huang Shan, Mao Hai, and the others had followed close behind, mainly worried he might poison someone in the courtyard, or signal for help from outside. Naturally, when he was within everyone’s sight, their guard relaxed just slightly.

Which was exactly why, at the instant everything went wrong, almost no one reacted fast enough to grasp what was happening—because what unfolded before their eyes was something that had, in fact, occurred in plain view of everyone present.

Over the past hour, since the severely wounded had already been treated, there had been one or two instances of verbal taunting and insults directed at the young medic, along with the occasional slap or kick. Such behavior was hardly proper, but given the circumstances, not killing the young doctor already counted as showing him great mercy—as for these minor frictions, Huang Nanzhong and the others had no more patience left to police them.

The swordsman who had kicked the young medic from behind was named Chu Weiyuan, a minor leader among the Guan family’s guards. He himself had come through the night’s chaos unhurt, but the close comrades under his command had been nearly wiped out. Looking at this young medic before him, he’d thought to humiliate him a little, put him in his place, so as to keep him from doing anything reckless.

At the second quarter of the hour of Yin, the sky a dull grey-blue, in the most ordinary of moments, he walked past beneath the eaves, and the young medic happened to be right ahead of him. He shoulder-checked toward him, and the young medic stepped forward to meet it. Their bodies seemed to collide—Chu Weiyuan’s frame lurched violently backward, his back slamming into a pillar. Up to this point, aside from that sudden, jarring stagger backward, everything still seemed perfectly ordinary.

Who could have imagined what this young medic was about to do, in plain view of everyone?

Chu Weiyuan’s life ended within a few breaths. In that brief moment, an unbearable terror surged up in his mind—he had had not the slightest preparation for any of this.

The instant their bodies collided, the young man had reached out and drawn the blade from Chu Weiyuan’s own belt, thrusting it straight into him. The motion had been swift and silent, yet Chu Weiyuan had seen it with perfect clarity. In that split second, his instinct was to press both hands down hard, trying to seize the other man’s arm, his feet already beginning to brace—but it was too late. The blade had already gone in.

His body reeled backward violently, slamming into the pillar beneath the eaves, but the young man stayed with him like a shadow, never giving him the slightest chance to break free. If it had only been a stab to the belly, he might still have had a chance to live. But there was a sharp, killing intent in the young man’s every motion, in his very eyes—the long blade drove straight through, then swept sideways in one motion. This was the killing method of the battlefield: once a blade is driven into an enemy’s body, twist and tear the organs apart immediately.

Chu Weiyuan’s hands couldn’t grasp the other man’s arm at all. The blade flashed skyward, and his body seemed to go suddenly hollow. Terror, along with a wailing cry of “Ah—!”, seemed to rise from the very depths of a human soul. A chill swept up from behind through everyone in the courtyard, hair standing on end. Answering Chu Weiyuan’s cry came a strange, rapid sound bursting from deep within the young man’s bones and body—his skeleton crackling like popping beans as his body extended and unfurled, while from within his torso came a surging rush of air like the sound of a water buffalo or a bullfrog—the sound of an internal martial art unleashed at full power.

Something small, trailing a hint of fire, was flung by his hand into the nearby window, knocking loose the small wooden brace holding the window shut. Qu Longjun, sitting against the wall not far from the window, heard the wooden shutter bang closed.

The tall swordsman’s dying cries still echoed through the dim night. Mao Hai drew his blade, and others rushed forward as well, shouting low, “Kill him!”

The young man crouched low and met them head-on. The man swung his blade downward; the young man’s blade flashed upward. The two figures crossed—the attacker fell to the ground, kicking up dust, his thigh split open. At the same moment, on the other side of the building, someone seemed to burst through a window and leap outside.

A deafening explosion— Qu Longjun, sitting by the wall, felt her vision blur, her ears ringing with a droning hum, the world spinning around her—the thing the young man had thrown into the room had gone off. Through her blurred vision, she saw figures locked in violent combat filling the courtyard—Mao Hai charging forward, Huang Jianfei charging forward, Huang Shan’s voice shouting something from behind the house, the building itself beginning to collapse, roof tiles falling, and with a sweep of the young man’s hand, someone took a small blade in the chest and tumbled down from the roof, landing right in front of Qu Longjun.

“Ah—!” She screamed too, struggling to rise a few times, only to stumble and fall each time. Wen Shoubin ran over through the chaos, supporting her, trying to flee outward. The young man’s figure raced through the courtyard at tremendous speed; one swordsman who tried to block his path had his calf slashed open and rolled on the ground nearby, clutching his spurting leg.

Wen Shoubin and Qu Longjun ran toward the courtyard gate; they’d made it halfway when Yan Ying, who had nearly reached the gate himself, let out a cry of “Ah—!” and fell to the ground, a throwing knife embedded in the top of his thigh. Qu Longjun’s mind and vision cleared somewhat at that moment, and turning with Wen Shoubin to look, she saw the young man standing by the wooden shed that served as the kitchen, having just cut down another swordsman, saying, “Today, none of you are leaving.”

By this point, four swordsmen had already fallen in the courtyard, plus Yan Ying, plus the possibly five more killed by the explosion inside the room—of the original eighteen in the courtyard, only eight remained unhurt, and setting aside Huang Nanzhong and the father-daughter pair, those still able to wield a blade numbered only five, led by Huang Jianfei and Mao Hai.

In the blink of an eye, this young man had cut down four men—how long would it take him to finish off the remaining five? And yet, if he was so formidably skilled, why had he saved their lives in the first place? Qu Longjun’s mind spun in confusion. Just then, Huang Nanzhong, standing beneath the eaves, pointed a finger and stamped his foot, shouting, “You wretched boy, still refusing to see reason, still helping the tyrant do his evil—was everything I said to you today wasted breath—”

In the courtyard, Mao Hai, blade in hand, drew near Huang Jianfei and the others, muttering low, “Careful, careful—this one’s been on a battlefield… Huaxia Army…” He had just exchanged three blows with the young man in the chaos and already had a gash across his arm; he found it almost unbelievable, wanting to say that the Huaxia Army had actually sent someone this young into battle, but in the end couldn’t get the words out.

The two men beside him were also sweating heavily. In the space of a few brief moments, the young man had raced through the courtyard cutting men down, his blade-strokes fierce and sharp as a man-eating leopard—the others could barely even keep up in their reactions. Taking advantage of Huang Nanzhong’s shouting, they hastily gathered together to form up, only to see the young man swing his blade and let his arm drop—his left shoulder had taken a cut from someone, blood flowing freely, yet he seemed not to feel it at all, his gaze clear and utterly cold.

“You’ve all spoken so well today. I used to think of you as fellow Han people, thought there might still be some hope for you. But after tonight, in my eyes, you’re no different from the Jurchens!” His features, once delicate and gentle, now held nothing but cold, hostile intent in his eyes—a sight that struck fear into anyone who saw it.

“Kill him—!” Dust swirled through the courtyard; after the earlier explosion, it was only a matter of time before the Huaxia Army arrived. The sudden shout came from Huang Shan, who had been in the room when the young man threw the grenade and had burst out through the far window. He seemed simple and blunt, but was in fact sharp-minded, and now charged in fiercely from the side and rear. The young man stepped back, crashing through the boards and support post behind the shed, and the whole structure came crashing down.

The young man’s voice rang out: “Huang Shan, I told you before not to go stirring up trouble, or I’d kill you with my own hands. And you—none of you would listen!”

As these words fell, a stone came flying out of the darkness behind the collapsed shed, straight at Huang Nanzhong; Huang Jianfei, who had stayed close by his side the whole time, swung his blade and knocked it away. Then the young man suddenly burst out of the darkness, charging at high speed along the courtyard wall, with Mao Hai and the others closing in around him.

The first man to meet him found himself face to face with the young man in an instant, both blades slashing through empty air—but this fighter’s heart had failed him, and he stumbled and fell to the ground. The young man’s blade, too, cut only air, and he charged past, slashing across the buttocks of Yan Ying, who had finally crawled his way to the gate. Yan Ying let out a scream of agony, blood gushing from the wound; he tried to rise and open the gate, but couldn’t manage it, and collapsed to the ground, wailing.

Huang Shan, Mao Hai, and two other fighters chased after the young man’s figure. He swept through a half-circle and came toward Wen Shoubin and his daughter; Qu Longjun curled into herself, sobbing, and Wen Shoubin cried out through his own tears, “Don’t come near—I’m a good man…” Only to be shoved by the young man, sending him staggering backward and crashing straight into Huang Shan and the others rushing in. In the dim light, figures collided and tangled in confusion, the clash of blades ringing out.

Wen Shoubin’s scream cut off in the midst of the flashing blades—one of the fighters had been cut down. The fierce-looking Mao Hai was sent flying and slammed to the ground, a cut across his side, half his body soaked in blood. The young man rushed at high speed toward Huang Jianfei and Huang Nanzhong, exchanged two blows with Huang Jianfei, then dropped low, grabbed Huang Jianfei’s leg, and rolled across the ground, kicking Huang Nanzhong down as he went.

Huang Jianfei, falling to the ground, let out a great shout and kicked out repeatedly, knocking down another support pillar beneath the eaves, and with a great crash, more of the structure collapsed. By now all three of them lay on the ground; Huang Jianfei rolled, trying to strike at the young man, who rolled just as nimbly, tumbling directly over Huang Nanzhong’s body, so that Huang Jianfei couldn’t strike freely for fear of hitting his own master. Huang Nanzhong flailed his arms and legs wildly, sometimes striking the young man, sometimes kicking Huang Jianfei, but with no real force behind any of it.

In the dim, chaotic courtyard, the young man grabbed Huang Nanzhong by the hair and hauled him up. Huang Jianfei tried to rush in to save him, but the young man used Huang Nanzhong’s body as a shield, trading blows with him around the old man, then seized the elder’s ear, dragging him around the courtyard as he kept fighting Huang Jianfei. In moments, the old man’s body was covered in cuts, and then his ear was torn off; the young man grabbed the other ear next, and a shrill scream echoed through the night sky.

Qu Longjun stared, dazed and helpless, at Wen Shoubin lying in a pool of blood. She curled herself smaller. One swordsman in the courtyard tried to flee outward; Huang Shan’s hand suddenly shot out, seizing her, and shoved her toward the fighting swirling around Huang Nanzhong.

“Ah—!” Qu Longjun sobbed, and Huang Nanzhong sobbed too, the old man’s and the girl’s cries mingling together, becoming just another part of the chaos. Huang Shan used the girl as a shield, charging at the young man, blades flashing wildly through the night in a frenzy of combat. Suddenly Qu Longjun’s body jerked, and she collapsed forward onto the ground.

Not far off, on the dim ground, someone still writhed and screamed, someone else crawled forward, trailing blood. Wen Shoubin’s eyes were open, but beneath that dim sky, there was no more life in them. Not long after, Huang Jianfei too fell in the fighting, and the burly Huang Shan was struck down and hacked apart amid the ruins of the collapsed building…

…

In the pre-dawn hours, at the darkest point of the night, someone burst out of that small courtyard on Pingrong Road in southern Chengdu—the last surviving swordsman, his courage utterly broken, with no will left to fight on. Near the threshold, Yan Ying, bleeding from the buttocks down, struggled to crawl outward; he knew the Huaxia Army would arrive before long, and that at a moment like this, there was no escaping it—but still he hoped only to get as far as possible from that young man in the courtyard who had suddenly turned killer.

Ning Ji cut down Huang Shan amid the ruins of the room; inside and outside the courtyard, corpses and the wounded lay scattered everywhere. His gaze lingered for two seconds on Yan Ying near the gate, and lingered briefly, too, on Qu Longjun and the others lying on the ground.

The wounded inside the room had all been buried; even if they hadn’t died in the grenade’s blast, they had surely been crushed to death when the building collapsed. He walked into the ruins, feeling around beneath his feet, and at one point, digging through broken roof tiles, pulled a medicine box out from a pile of debris and sat down.

He too bore wounds and exhaustion, needing to be bandaged and to rest, but for the moment, he had no strength left to do anything.

It was then that he caught sight of the bodies of Qin Gang and Chen Wei, buried nearby in the rubble.

“Came looking for revenge, you idiots…” he muttered.

The sky had not yet lightened. For him too, this had been a long night.

At first, seeing enemies approaching had stirred a certain excitement in him, but for all his skill in killing, his parents’ teachings had never allowed him to lose himself in it. Now that the moment had truly come and stood before him, he couldn’t simply act on impulse—he had to carefully judge who was good and who was bad, who deserved to die and who didn’t.

In truth, apart from the secret surveillance of the past two months, this had been his first real confrontation with enemies who were, after all, fellow Han people.

Faced with the moment itself, what had really been on their minds? Could there have been some excuse for them? Could they have been reasoned with, talked around?

After all, when confronted directly, could they really assert such things so boldly and righteously? Could people who couldn’t even defeat the Jurchens really have so many different excuses to offer? Did they feel no shame at all?

If there had been even a shred of shame left in their hearts, might that not have been enough to persuade them to join the side of good? After all, they themselves had never managed to defeat the Jurchens, no matter what—and now that others had proven capable of doing so, and life here was good besides, shouldn’t they simply join in…

He had held these many thoughts pent up inside himself for over two months now, and had genuinely wanted to voice them. But the things Huang Nanzhong and Yan Ying had said tonight left him utterly baffled.

Even as he’d been sizing up everyone’s strength in the courtyard, this thought had stayed with him the whole time. In the end, he’d finally understood. It was something his father had occasionally said before:

—Revolution is not a dinner party.

If everyone in the world really could be persuaded by words alone, what would blades and guns even be for?

Having worked this through, the confusion of the past two months suddenly cleared. Since they were enemies, Jurchen or Han, it made no difference. The line between good people and bad people was, perhaps, the same no matter where you drew it.

He sat there among the ruins, feeling his own wounds—he should have started bandaging himself, but seemed to have forgotten something. He sat with this feeling for a while, then climbed out of the rubble.

Qu Longjun lay on the ground, two blade wounds across her back. He looked at this “little shameless dog” he’d spied on for two months, uncertain in his own mind whether she counted as good or bad.

He crouched down and opened the medicine box…

…

Drifting in and out of consciousness, she seemed to hear someone call out to her—but it wasn’t her name, it was some utterly baffling form of address.

“Little shameless dog,” the voice said. “…You look like a dead fish.”

…

Night opened its eyes.

Faint morning mist curled along the horizon. In Chengdu, the dawn of the twenty-first day of the seventh month was about to arrive.

Yao Shubin and the others sat resting beneath a great tree before a temple; in the prison, the martial grandmaster Wang Xiangfo, covered in wounds, had been trussed up like a rice dumpling; Du Sha sat atop the high courtyard wall, gazing east at the breaking dawn; in the makeshift command post, people yawned and drank another cup of hot tea; the residents of Yingbin Road rose from bed, yawning as well.

A unit of Huaxia Army soldiers, having caught the fleeing swordsman, arrived at the now-ruined courtyard, and there found the wounded man groaning softly, a blade wound across his backside; the young medic poked his head out and called, “Somebody help—I’m bleeding to death here!” This too was one scene among the countless that played out across that long night.

In countless corners of the city, countless specks of dust rose and fell upon the wind, gathering into this single clamor.

The city was about to greet the daytime’s fresh vitality. This long, chaotic night was finally coming to an end…