Chapter Seven: Deep in the Abyss

The morning sun had already climbed halfway across the sky, casting its gentle rays with the faint promise of heat in early spring. The boy in coarse robes raced along, and by the time he reached the dilapidated temple on the western edge of the city, his face was flushed, breath ragged, beads of sweat glistening on his brow, and his body trembling from exhaustion.

It was only after three months of recuperation that he could manage such a run. Had it been before the New Year, when he could barely fill his belly, he would have collapsed on the ground, gasping for air, unable even to stand.

After several deep breaths, the boy lifted his head and gazed at the ruined temple before him. The crumbling walls and wild grasses marked this as the "Broken Temple of the West City," as old Fool Fei called it.

Though commonly referred to as a broken temple, it was actually a Taoist shrine, but "broken temple" rolled off the tongue more easily, and so the villagers called it that. These villagers, unfamiliar with written characters, made no distinction between temples and shrines.

Twenty years ago, in peaceful times, this place bustled with incense and worshippers. Taoist priests lived here, practicing divination and alchemy, imparting the Dao. The village elders recalled that the medicines crafted by these priests could miraculously restore the sick. But when war swept across the border towns, hunger drove the priests away. Some said they had long wished to leave, not for themselves, but to aid those wounded by the fires of conflict.

A saying described Taoists well: "In times of prosperity, they retreat to the mountains; in times of chaos, they descend to save the world."

Since childhood, both the current Zhong Ming and his predecessor had heard tales of the Taoist priests’ benevolence and healing. Zhong Ming always held the shrine in reverence. When the children of Muddy Village came to play and misbehave, Fei Dacheng once urinated on a crumbling idol, but Zhong Ming never joined their antics. He would stand quietly in the courtyard, never crossing the line.

His mother had taught him: every drop of kindness should be repaid with a fountain of gratitude.

Born frail and sickly, Zhong Ming had suffered a grave illness as an infant, burning with fever for days. Even the old physician from the city’s Benevolent Pharmacy shook his head and sighed, certain the child would not survive. His mother, despairing, wept day and night, cradling him in her arms. It was Old Man Sun who sought out talismans and medicine from the shrine, saving Zhong Ming’s life.

In Zhong Ming’s memory, his gentle mother had often spoken of the immense kindness bestowed by the Taoist priests of the West City shrine.

Though Zhong Ming was no longer the original boy, and had never seen his mother’s face, he still carried his family’s reverence for the shrine.

Now, as his breath steadied, he bowed his head before the ruined shrine and spoke in a low, respectful voice: “Forgive me for any offense today.”

He raised his head once more, his gaze sharp, tightened the cloth sash at his waist, secured his sleeves, hid the folding knife in his bosom, and strode toward the shrine.

Though the walls had collapsed, the solid wooden doors remained intact. Faded yellow paint and the battered iron studs on the boards spoke of former glory.

At the threshold, the boy did not rush to enter but pressed himself to the crack between the doors, peering inside. The doors were ajar, leaving a gap just wide enough to see the courtyard.

At the center stood an ancient tree, said by the elders to be over a thousand years old. Its gnarled bark was as hard as stone, and the old willow was just budding, a few touches of green visible among the branches.

The elders often said that the locust tree was spiritual, and the willow had grown wise.

Villagers usually treated this old willow with deep respect, coming to the shrine to worship in good years. Yet today, those in the courtyard showed no reverence.

Several adolescents were bound to the trunk, facing outward, backs pressed to the bark, tied in a circle.

The one directly opposite the entrance had a dark, defiant face. Even tied to the tree, he glared fiercely at the constable in black robes and sword, his eyes as savage as a famished wolf, ready to pounce at any moment.

The boy in coarse robes recognized him clearly—it was Liang Yu.

His expression betrayed his refusal to submit, just as Zhong Ming had predicted; if given the chance, he would surely fight the constable Wu to the death.

Resentment breeds opportunity, and Wu had pressed close to Liang Yu, holding Liang Yu’s cherished short blade. He tapped Liang Yu’s cheek with the back of the knife and spat, “You little bastard, now that you’re in my hands, even if you had the skills of the gods, I’d skin you alive!”

---

Liang Yu stared coldly at Constable Wu, muttering something too quietly for Wu to hear.

Wu had to lean in, cocking his ear. “You little bastard, what are you mumbling about? Say it again if you dare!”

But instead of harsh words, Wu was met with Liang Yu’s teeth.

Suddenly, the dark-faced boy lunged forward, biting hard into Wu’s ear and tearing off a bloody chunk. Amid Wu’s screams, Liang Yu spat out the ragged flesh, laughing, blood staining his teeth.

He laughed loudly, spat in Wu’s face, his expression twisted. “I said, damn you!”

The boy at the door, spying on the chaos, cursed inwardly. There was no time to weigh the situation—he pushed open the door and rushed inside.

The wooden hinges screeched, but no one noticed; the courtyard was a tumult.

Wu, clutching his half-torn ear and bleeding profusely, rolled on the ground. Around him, Zhang the Scab and his gang of city thugs yelled and squawked, as noisy as a flock of crows, paying no mind to Zhong Ming’s entry.

The boys tied to the willow, including Liang Yu, shouted and laughed, undaunted by the threat of Wu’s vengeance. They cursed and spat at Wu’s gang.

Amidst the chaos, Zhong Ming drew his folding knife, dashed to the willow, and began slicing the hemp ropes. The redwood blade was razor-sharp, easily severing the ropes binding Liang Yu.

Seeing Zhong Ming arrive, Liang Yu’s eyes lit up with joy, then worry. “Ming, what are you doing here? Get out! Don’t get involved in this mess!”

Liang Yu knew all too well—biting off Wu’s ear was a grave crime, one that neither he nor Zhong Ming could bear.

Constables needed no excuse to kill thugs, and now, with blood spilled, the city constables’ ruthless nature meant they would not rest until Muddy Village’s troublemakers were wiped out.

“Go! Where do you think you’re going, you damned brats!”

Wu’s voice was shrill, his hatred piercing, the word “brats” breaking with rage.

He had somehow gotten back to his feet, still clutching his bleeding ear, blood dripping through his fingers.

As Wu stood, Liang Yu picked up a palm-sized stone, glaring at Wu, stepping forward to shield Zhong Ming.

But Zhong Ming ignored him, still slicing ropes. Five Muddy Village boys remained tied to the tree.

With a clang, Wu’s twisted face drew his sword, pointing it at Liang Yu, cursing, “You little bastards, today I’ll see you all die in this broken temple!”

The situation was far worse than Zhong Ming had anticipated; neither protection money nor gold could buy their lives now.

Wu shrieked and slashed at Liang Yu, his sword gleaming cold as it cut through the air.

Liang Yu dared not face him directly, holding only a broken stone. However brave, he could not block steel with stone, so he hurled it at Wu, hoping to stall him for a moment.

Then, rolling like a lazy mule, Liang Yu dodged the blade, scrambling up, ready for Wu’s next attack.

Wu, too, was forced to retreat, dodging the stone aimed at his face.

The exchange lasted but a moment. On the sidelines, Zhang the Scab yelled for five or six thugs to surround Zhong Ming and the others, sealing off their escape.

Zhong Ming finished cutting the ropes, the five Muddy Village boys gathered around him, shielding him.

The gap-toothed boy beside Zhong Ming shouted, “Damn it, let’s fight, get Ming out of here!”

“Gap-tooth, protect Ming! I’ll punch a path for you—don’t let Ming fall here!”

---

The tall, burly boy nearby picked up the cry, clenching his huge fists and charging at Wu.

In this dire situation, every Muddy Village boy’s first thought was to get Zhong Ming out, not to save themselves. To them, the safety of Mr. Zhong of Muddy Village was worth more than their own lives.

Seeing the burly youth rush ahead, Zhong Ming shouted anxiously, “Stone, don’t be reckless—”

But before he could finish, Stone was already before Wu. Wu’s blade flashed, slicing through Stone’s neck as easily as cutting tofu.

Blood spurted, splashing across Wu’s face.

Stone’s face was filled with shock; his neck felt heavy, all strength drained from his body. Even so, his limp fist still swung toward Wu’s chest, determined to knock him down for Ming to escape.

But the weakened blow was useless. Stone fell to his knees before Wu, neck twisted at an unnatural angle.

Wu wiped the blood from his face, his chest and collar soaked, no longer distinguishable as his own or Stone’s. The sword jammed in Stone’s spine, Wu had to kick the corpse aside, cursing, “Stupid bastard, thinking you can outrun my blade?”

In a blink, a Muddy Village boy was dead before all. Zhang the Scab and his gang grew fearful, retreating, lacking the courage to stop these madmen.

Zhang, a local bully, was used to oppressing honest folk, but truly ruthless people terrified him. His intent today had been to use Wu’s reputation to collect protection money from Muddy Village, to earn some silver, never expecting bloodshed.

Now, surviving would require risking his life.

Loving their lives, Zhang and his men began to withdraw, trembling with fear.

Money was good, but only if one lived to spend it.

In contrast, Zhong Ming and his friends’ eyes burned red with grief over Stone’s death. Liang Yu clenched his fists, his blood-stained canine teeth bared. Often, Liang Yu trusted his teeth more than his blade; he had killed, tearing open throats with those fangs.

Showing his fangs meant Liang Yu was ready to kill.

Zhong Ming’s hand hovered, reaching toward where Stone had fallen, as if to grasp his soul.

Eventually, he drew his hand back, gripping the folding knife tightly, his eyes bloodshot.

Human life was fragile, more brittle than a sheet of rice paper.

The boy in coarse robes, once calm, was now consumed by rage, using what little reason remained to keep himself from charging at the cruel constable like a mad dog.

His lips moved; he shoved Gap-tooth beside him, “Run!”

Gap-tooth’s tearful eyes were confused, unsure he’d heard Ming’s words. “Ming, what did you say?”

“I told you to run! Split up! No dying! No one is allowed to die!”

Zhong Ming shoved Gap-tooth harder, who staggered away, while Zhong Ming drew a sharp breath, raised his folding knife, and rushed at Wu.

He meant to delay Wu, to buy his friends a moment to escape—every second meant a greater chance for Liang Yu and Gap-tooth to survive.

Zhong Ming’s chest burned with vengeance; he wanted nothing more than to avenge Stone and drive the knife into Wu’s throat.