At the ancestral residence of the Ma family in Xinghua Alley, the golden-armored deity who had roamed the town returned to the courtyard. Strangely, despite his divine stature, none in the town seemed to notice his presence.
Young Ma Kugui sat crouched on the steps outside the gate. The moment he laid eyes on the divine figure clad in golden armor, hope bloomed across his face. A martial cultivator from Zhenwu Mountain asked, "Well? What news?"
The deity, resplendent in his golden armor and exuding an aura of solemn majesty, moved his lips slightly, yet Ma Kugui heard nothing. Anxiously, he turned to look inside the house at the sword cultivator, who sighed and explained, "He says your grandmother's sins in life were many. Even before her death, her three souls and seven spirits were already in ruin, her body frail as a dying flame. After death, her life soul decayed in unison. This town, unlike others, naturally repels ghosts and spirits. Thus, he found no remnant of her soul."
Ma Kugui's face twisted in anguish. He threw his head back and roared at the divine general, "I don't care what you have to do—bring my grandmother's soul back!"
The sword cultivator from Zhenwu Mountain turned pale, fearful that Ma Kugui had provoked the wrath of this god surnamed Yin. Just as he was about to intervene, the golden-armored figure unexpectedly spoke in the formal dialect of Eastern Baoping Continent: "It is not that I refuse, but that I cannot."
Having spoken, the mighty general bathed in golden light looked toward the sword cultivator inside. The latter drew a deep breath, clasped his hands as though offering incense, and bowed three times in reverence.
With each bow, a thread of faint golden energy—fine as hair—rose from his Niwan acupoint and was gently inhaled by the golden-armored deity. After the third bow, the divine being ascended like a radiant pillar of light and vanished from this world.
The sword cultivator's face turned deathly pale. He found a chair and sank into it, exhaling a long breath. So goes the old saying—inviting a god is easy, sending one away is not.
Ma Kugui retracted his gaze, his face expressionless. He stepped into the room, sat beside the cold corpse, and grasped the old woman's withered hand. His eyes locked onto her face, and he said nothing for a long time.
The sword-bearing man took the tiger tally from his waist. Its luster had dimmed. He slowly tucked it into his sleeve and, after a brief rest, sat on the threshold with his back to the boy.
"She was likely struck outside the door," he said quietly, "a blow of immense force that flung her into the house, killing her instantly. What I say next, you may not like—but you deserve to know the truth. The assailant was probably a Qi cultivator who lacked restraint. Your grandmother's body was already frail, and that was the cause of death. Given that a cultivator was responsible, this likely involves either Chen Ping'an of Niping Alley and that outsider girl, or the young woman at the covered bridge whose water-viewing state of mind you shattered. The former is unlikely. The latter is almost certain.
"So, your decision to kill Chen Ping'an at the mass grave was an act of filial piety—a severing of karmic ties. Yet, you never imagined someone would come knocking on your door the moment you stepped out."
Ma Kugui trembled. He gently pressed the back of his hand to his grandmother's swollen, bruised cheek and whispered, "So it was me... I killed her, didn't I?"
The man replied, "From a worldly perspective—yes and no. If we speak from..."
But Ma Kugui rose with a twisted grin and cut him off, shouting, "Massacres are forbidden, the slaughter of innocents is forbidden—everything is forbidden! Then tell me, is vengeance also forbidden?"
Before the man could respond, Ma Kugui continued, "If even revenge is forbidden, then what's the point of being a martial cultivator? Why not become a wanton devil instead? Why didn't I agree to join that sect the Daoist couple invited me to?"
The man hesitated before speaking. "So long as you can bear all consequences yourself, then it is your choice—like today. Also, perhaps I haven't made this clear before: when it comes to killing, each person has their own limit. You and I cannot be compared. Not just because my cultivation is higher, but because of our hearts. I may kill a hundred and all be deserving, but you may kill just two or three—and already one is not."
Ma Kugui sneered. "Why do I even ask you how to kill or whether to kill? As if I'd need your help! Almost forgot—I'm not even a formal disciple of Zhenwu Mountain yet!"
He looked down at the old woman's face, then turned and shouted toward the Eight Immortals table in the main hall, "Get up and lead the way!"
A black cat darted out from beneath the table. Ma Kugui followed it out.
The man remained indifferent. He came from a nation that had descended into chaos 150 years ago—a century of ceaseless war, lands shattered, lives lost on an unimaginable scale. Of ten million households, fewer than eight hundred thousand remained by the end. Children of that generation believed the dead required no burial.
He was one of those children. Rising slowly, he chose not to remind Ma Kugui that the murderer had already been driven from town. Instead, he intended to ask Master Ruan a question. Why, in this small town where Buddhism had been weak for a thousand years—only revered in small nations—did karma manifest with such clarity?
This martial cultivator followed the youth from afar. Even now that Ma Kugui was a disciple of Zhenwu Mountain, the man would not interfere in his private vendettas. Life and death on the battlefield were shared; in cultivation, each bore their own fate.
Of course, there were exceptions.
He had once saved Ma Kugui from Chen Ping'an's hand—not out of duty, but for two reasons: One, he did not wish for such a gifted youth to die prematurely. He hoped Ma Kugui would forge himself within Zhenwu Mountain, that both his talents and temperament would ascend, and that he might one day stand as a paragon of martial strength in the coming age of chaos.
Two, Master Qi had personally intervened, saying only that the boys needed to determine a victor—not life and death. At the time, he thought Master Qi feared Chen Ping'an's demise. Only later did he realize that was not the case.
The man followed from afar.
He watched as Ma Kugui, after his initial burst of fury, gradually slowed his steps. His movements became more relaxed, more like an ordinary boy wandering the town.
Then, the black cat leapt from a rooftop to the boy's shoulder, then to the ground. It turned its head, then bolted ahead—as if telling the boy it had found their target.
The youth began to jog, and once again, his presence shifted.
The spring rain was light, merely hastening the steps of pedestrians. It was not enough to send anyone hurrying for shelter.
A well-dressed young man and woman walked out of Riding Dragon Alley toward the main street, joy lighting their faces from some recent fortune. But they had yet to understand the truth of fortune and misfortune being intertwined.
From over fifty paces behind, the youth began his charge. At twenty paces, he shouted, "Hey!"
The moment the young man turned, Ma Kugui's punch exploded forth—unrestrained and full of fury.
The youth was sent flying, crashing hard onto the street. His body twitched faintly, showing no sign of rising.
As Ma Kugui landed, he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the stunned young woman. Twisting his frame, he lashed out with his left arm—lightning-fast—striking her neck.
Taller than him by half a head, the woman was smashed to the ground with a dull thud. Her head slammed into the muddy street.
Ma Kugui placed a foot on her forehead and stared into her dazed face. Bending down, he spoke in proper court dialect:
"I know the killer is no longer in town. But that's fine. I'll find them myself."
The beautiful woman, her eyes ringed with red, blood seeping from her nose and ears, looked up in terror at the dark-skinned boy looming over her.
His face twisted in fury—
"I, Ma Kugui, destroyed your..."