Chapter Twenty-Nine: A Night of Murder Amidst Rising Turmoil

A full moon hung in the night sky, sometimes shrouded by drifting wisps of cloud that veiled its luminescent glow. The young man rode his fiery steed to the ruined temple on the western edge of the city, dismounted, and with his bundle in hand, peered inside.

The dilapidated temple, ever since the great general’s horses had trampled its walls, had grown even more desolate. Most of the surrounding wall had collapsed, and through the gap, the ancient willow within could be seen swaying gently in the wind.

A thousand-year-old willow stood in that forsaken temple, its silhouette cast in darkness. The broken windows creaked eerily as the night breeze swept through, a sound that could send chills down one’s spine.

After meeting the Old Mountain Bandit, the youth’s conviction that there were no spirits or gods in the world began to waver. After all, this was not the world he knew from a later age—too many strange and inexplicable things occurred here.

He drew a withered willow branch from his breast, and only then did his courage return. Whatever spirits or gods might dwell here, none had ever shown him malice so far. Besides, he had come to offer his respects.

As the saying goes, “A smiling face invites no blows.” Bearing offerings of incense and candles, surely whatever dwelled within would not harm a pilgrim come to repay a debt of gratitude.

Straightening his back, bolstered by the sight of his offerings, the youth led his horse into the temple courtyard.

But when he tried to lead the fiery steed through the temple gate, the horse suddenly reared and neighed, refusing to enter no matter how he coaxed.

Left with no choice, the young man tethered the horse outside. The steed was well-behaved and wouldn’t wander even without a rope.

Animals possessed senses keener than those of humans; the horse’s reaction confirmed for the youth that something unusual indeed lingered within the temple.

Alone, he stepped inside, alert and cautious, and made his way to the ancient willow. The branches swayed above him, now more lush and verdant than they had been days before.

Now that he found himself before the tree, the tension in his heart eased. Since he was already here, there was no turning back. A resolute spirit welled up within him.

He began to murmur, “Old Immortal of the courtyard, thank you for saving my life the other day. I have come today to offer my gratitude—if I disturb you, I beg your pardon.”

He didn’t know what presence resided here, nor did he have any experience in the rituals of gods or spirits. He could only imitate the offerings he had seen performed in his previous life.

He placed the withered willow branch at the base of the ancient tree, then drew rice wine from his bundle and set it before the willow. He lit incense and candles, burned yellow paper, and bowed in deep respect.

He didn’t know the proper rites for this world, but in his hometown, one always burned paper, lit incense, and kowtowed.

Next, he groped his way into the ruined sanctuary. Fortunately, a hole in the roof allowed moonlight to spill inside, and by that faint light, he could see.

He lit incense and burned paper again, bowing three times to the battered idol, before rising.

The temple remained silent. The wind sighed through the willow’s branches.

He waited a long time, but nothing happened.

He sighed, guessing to himself that perhaps the Old Immortal was away, or simply unwilling to see him.

He returned to the courtyard, placed his hand on the ancient willow’s trunk, and spoke softly, “Old Immortal, I don’t know if you’re still here. I will never forget how your willow branch saved my life the other day. If you are here tonight, I beg you to show yourself.”

Only the clear breeze and bright moon answered him.

The wind picked up, the willow branches danced more vigorously, but aside from their swaying, not a single leaf fell.

It seemed whatever dwelled in the temple had no wish to reveal itself to him tonight.

“Well then, since I’m here, I’ll share a pot of wine with you.”

Though no one replied, the youth couldn’t shake the feeling that, as he spoke, a pair of eyes were watching him from the darkness.

Seated cross-legged beneath the tree, he unsealed the jar of bamboo-brewed rice wine, placing three shallow cups before him: one for the ancient willow, one for the temple idol.

He raised his own cup and drained it in a single gulp, the strong liquor burning down his throat with a satisfying heat.

“This bamboo wine is excellent. Though it’s only yellow wine, it’s brewed in bamboo tubes and carries the fragrance of fresh leaves. Old Immortal, it would be a shame if you never tasted it.”

With that, he poured one cup at the tree’s roots and another before the idol.

He didn’t know if gods or spirits could partake in such offerings, but in his previous life, he had often seen people do the same.

One cup for himself, two poured in offering—the wine vanished quickly, gone in less than the time it took for a stick of incense to burn.

Throughout, he spoke mostly to himself, with only the sound of wind and rustling willow leaves for company.

As the wine ran dry, a pleasant tipsiness washed over him. Propping himself up with his blade, he stood and bowed once more to the willow and the idol. “Old Immortal, I’m leaving now. Next time, I’ll bring more offerings.”

The courtyard was bathed in moonlight, silent but for his rambling voice—he must have looked a fool, talking to himself for half the night.

Yet he held a firm belief in the temple’s immortal, for it had once saved his life.

Seeing no reply, he sighed, picked up his blade, and made for the exit.

Suddenly, the fiery horse outside neighed in terror and burst through the broken door, panicked and wild.

Frowning, the youth called out, “What’s wrong, Firecloud?”

The horse was usually placid and rarely made a sound—this was most unusual.

The old steed, though intelligent, couldn’t answer. It merely pressed close to the youth, neighing in the direction of the courtyard gate.

He stroked the horse’s long face to calm it, then listened intently.

Outside, he heard a low, angry voice: “You fool! You can’t even watch a horse properly. If anything goes wrong, you’ll pay with your head!”

Hearing this, the youth’s heart leapt. There was no doubt—these were no friends. If they spoke so lightly of taking heads, they must have come for his life.

His mind raced, his face growing grim, as he hurried Firecloud toward the broken wall at the side.

He was a slight, frail youth, with little training in the blade—a mere few days’ practice. It would be madness to seek out trouble. His first thought was to escape.

But he was too late. As he reached the broken wall, two masked men in black leapt out, blocking his path.

Both wielded broadswords and moved with the agility of trained fighters.

It would be a lie to say he wasn’t afraid; his heart pounded like a drum.

Clinging to a thread of hope, he feigned ignorance, clasped his fists in greeting, and forced a smile. “Good evening, gentlemen. Might I trouble you to let me pass? I’m just leaving.”

“Leaving? Where do you think you’re going? Zhong Ming, this ruined temple is your grave tonight!”

They called him by name—just as he suspected, they had come for his life.

There was no more room for pretense. Not knowing the reason for their enmity, he drew his blade to defend himself. The Yanluo’s Silent Blade gleamed black and cold beneath the moon.

One attacker raised his sword, the other whistled sharply.

In response, the youth heard the sound of many footsteps outside the courtyard. By the sound of it, at least a dozen men—a force sent specifically to capture him.

Cursing his luck, he pushed down his fear and began to seek a way out.

Outnumbered, with his meager skills, he knew he could not break through. His only hope was that the attackers had come on foot, and he might find a chance to mount Firecloud and flee.

Mind made up, his eyes flashed with resolve, and he struck.

Though only seven days into his training, he had gained some strength. His blade came down fast and heavy at the swordsman before him.

The man grunted and raised his own weapon to block.

Steel clashed with a ringing cry.

A powerful shock ran up the youth’s arms, numbing them to the bone. He barely managed to keep his footing.

His opponent also staggered back two steps, astonished by the force behind Zhong Ming’s strike. Looking down, he saw a notch in his own sword, while the Yanluo’s Silent Blade remained unscathed.

The advantage of a peerless weapon was clear—had Zhong Ming been stronger, he might have shattered his foe’s blade.

The swordsman retreated two steps, warning, “Watch out for his blade—it’s strange, wicked sharp!”

The man who’d whistled now raised his sword as well, joining his companion.

Over his shoulder, the youth heard the sounds of the encircling men drawing closer. He gritted his teeth and slashed again.

This time, his opponents were ready—one blocked his blade, the other swept at his waist.

He stumbled back, but not fast enough; he heard the fabric of his robe tear as their blade sliced through most of it.

He cursed his narrow escape—had he been a moment slower, he would have been cut in half.

In that instant, he realized that life as a wanderer was nothing like the carefree tales—it was a path fraught with mortal danger.

After two exchanges, he had gained no advantage, and now the rest of the attackers had surrounded him.

In a blink, more than ten black-clad men had encircled him, their eyes predatory.

Firecloud pawed and neighed desperately; the youth’s nerves stretched taut.

He looked around, panic rising in his chest. The scene reminded him of three years ago, when he had first arrived and been hunted by a pack of ravenous corpse-eaters.

A helpless youth, surrounded by ruthless men.

A sense of hopelessness—wanting to resist, but not knowing how; struggling against a net that would not yield.

Stay calm! You must stay calm! Only by keeping your wits can you find a chance to escape.

He forced himself to steady his trembling hands and scanned the crowd, spotting a tall, bald man among them.

A bald man?

There were few bald men in the town. If he remembered right, only Chen the Chief Guard of the Shangwu family was bald. Years ago, Chen had shaved his head to show his devotion to the martial path, joined the Shangwu family, and was later promoted to chief guard because of his skill with the blade.

Knowing he stood no chance against this group, the youth quickly concocted a plan and declared, “You’re with the Shangwu family!”

As his mind raced for a ploy, he tried to buy time with words.

But Chen the Chief Guard barked, “He’s recognized us—take him down! Don’t waste time, the longer we wait, the greater the risk!”

At his command, the black-clad men surged forward, blades raised.

Zhong Ming cursed inwardly—so much for those dramas from his previous life! Weren’t villains supposed to exchange a few words before attacking? Why was this so different?

His cleverness had only dug his own grave.

Seeing the armed, burly men closing in, he knew he could not withstand them. All he could do was grit his teeth and fight.

Just then, a voice suddenly echoed in his ear: “Don’t be afraid. Raise your blade and strike!”