The burly man cupped his hands to Zhao An. "Brother, we're from the County Constable's Office. Upstairs is the young master of the county—aiyo—"
Zhao An wasn't about to waste words. Before the man finished, Zhao An's figure flickered—he was already before him. The wooden ladle cracked against the man's kneecap; a twist of the wrist sent it whipping up like a leaping dragon, rapping his temple with lightning speed.
The Evil-Warding Sword Art was famed for its swiftness. Even swung with a ladle its power was dulled, yet still far beyond what the man could withstand. He managed only a single cry before slumping unconscious.
The two thinner attendants were mere servants without martial skill. Zhao An dropped them each with a single kick.
Freed, the young man on the floor tried to stand, but his leg—crushed under a stool—gave way; he couldn't rise. If he could have rushed upstairs to save someone, that would have been best. After all, a scene like that was an eyesore, and Zhao An would rather not see it.
But there was no time for hesitation. Even if the villain upstairs had already succeeded and the woman had already suffered, Zhao An would not let him enjoy it. At the very least, he would deliver a terror so great the man would never again hold his head high.
With light footwork Zhao An reached the second floor in a few steps. The bedroom door stood open. He went straight to the bed—one blur of movement—and slapped the wooden ladle across the man's face.
Caught off guard, the man yelped and flipped backward to the floor.
Zhao An stepped in and laid into him—left, right—several fierce whacks with the ladle until the man's head swam. Seizing him by the hair, Zhao An dragged him from the second floor all the way down; the man howled, clawing wildly.
A quick flick—Zhao An struck both crooks of the man's elbows with the ladle. His arms went limp, useless.
Zhao An hauled him to the doorway.
The crowd outside erupted.
"He's out—aiya, no clothes! Bare-arsed!"
"Hahaha!"
The comments flew. Zhao An ignored them. At the threshold, the women squeezed there scattered at the sight of the naked man he dragged, though a few dared a peek. The men lingered with interest, but when Zhao An approached with a murderous glint, they parted quickly.
Zhao An flung the man out. Faced with so many eyes, shame drowned pain. He wished the earth would swallow him. His hands flailed, not knowing what to cover.
The two attendants, though bruised, had not fainted. They hid in the crowd, not daring to help their young master.
Zhao An shot them a glare. "Take him and get out."
Granted amnesty, they rushed to support the naked man.
He raged, trembling, "Useless curs! Where were you—beaten half-dead and— I… I… You! You—take off your clothes!"
Zhao An ignored them and went back inside. Two big thugs lay on the ground; the youth had managed upstairs. From above came the broken sobs of a man and a woman.
Zhao An roused the two thugs. They bolted for the door on waking, but he caught one by the collar and let the other run.
He said evenly, "In a case like this, I'd normally kill. First, I happened to go without my sword today—your luck. Second, I leave a path for the victims here.
"Carry this message back to your office: the matter ends here. Don't show yourselves on this street again.
"If I see you, I break your legs. See you again, I break your arms.
"Don't test whether I kill. If it comes to that, there's no way back. I'm a rootless soul with no ties. Best not provoke me."
His tone held neither joy nor anger, calm as still water; yet the man's hair stood on end. He agreed frantically.
After driving him off, Zhao An tossed the silver he'd taken from the four—over thirty taels in small pieces—up to the second floor, but did not go up.
He called, "Take this silver and leave Fuzhou. Start over elsewhere. Stay here and your fate is uncertain. Even if that young master never returns, you'll face scorn."
Leaving their home, Zhao An returned to his small courtyard. On the way he thought: if he were an ordinary man of the jianghu, not an aberration numb to joy and sorrow, today would likely have ended in blood.
This handling might look like thunder at the start and drizzle at the end—evil unpunished, justice unfinished—but in truth, it was the most rational course.
His cultivation was unfinished. If he killed, he would have to flee at once. The County Constable's men might not catch him, but the rescued pair would suffer the backlash—perhaps killed on some pretext.
In times like these, upholding justice was hard. Handle it poorly, and good intentions plant the seeds of calamity.
Better to teach a lesson and leave a threat to keep them cautious for a while. Better to give the victims silver and a road to take. That was all he could do. The rest—heaven would decide.
In these years, common lives were as cheap as grass. He only hoped they would be like weeds—trampled, but if the roots lived, they could rise again.
Back in the courtyard, Zhao An resumed sword practice. Lacking emotion was abnormal, yes, but it had its uses. A wretched affair like today left no ripple in his heart.
He thought it was over—that he might enjoy a few quiet days.
But before sunset, trouble arrived.
With the sun leaning west and Zhao An about to go out for dinner, two figures vaulted over the wall into his yard.
White headscarves, green robes, bare legs, straw sandals.
Zhao An recognized them at a glance—disciples of the Qingcheng Sect.
They had not come in peace. Zhao An said calmly, "Which two from Qingcheng have come?"
The two traded a look. One said, "Kid, if you can recognize us, you're a man of the rivers and lakes. I'm Hong Renxiong of Qingcheng; this is my junior Luo Renjie. What's your name, and who's your master?"
Zhao An's body was fifteen, but his steadiness made him seem eighteen or nineteen.
Hong Renxiong, mid-twenties and mildly famous, called him "kid," looking down on him.
"Guests are guests," Zhao An said. "Please, sit inside."
He slipped into the room and took the sword from the table, then came back out. He wasn't truly inviting them in—just taking up his blade.
Hong and Luo noticed but didn't care.
Annoyed at being ignored, Hong barked, "I asked you a question, brat. Why no answer? Do you look down on me?"
Zhao An said, "Heroes and worthies—the Four Young Masters of Qingcheng—your renown is loud. I've long heard it. As for me, I'm a nobody. Surname Zhao, given name An. No sect, no school."
Hearing his epithet, Hong's face eased. "Boy, best report your true name. Otherwise, if blades cross and I can't hold back, don't regret it."
"You come uninvited," Zhao An said. "For what?"
Luo Renjie smirked. "Heh, we've come to borrow something."
"I refuse."
Luo's smirk froze. "I haven't said what yet."
"Whatever it is," Zhao An said, "I won't lend it."
"Then I'll borrow your head!" Luo snapped.
"That least of all," Zhao An said. "At least tell me—why do you want my life?"
"Because you were bold enough to offend the wrong people. Enough talk—take my sword!"
Luo lunged with Pine-Wind Swordplay.
Zhao An's blade slid free. He defended only, mostly evading on swift footwork.
He'd been training in seclusion, unsure of his level, and wanted to gauge Qingcheng's sword.
The Evil-Warding footwork was preternaturally fast. Though not perfected, it toyed with Luo with ease.
After a dozen strikes, Luo hadn't brushed Zhao An's robe. Shamed, he roared, "Turtle-spawn! All you do is run—fight me head-on if you've got guts!"
Zhao An had seen enough. Luo's Pine-Wind had some craft, but the hands were slow, and without matching steps it couldn't stand before the Evil-Warding quicksword.
Steel chimed. Zhao An's sword quivered—Meteor Chases the Moon—a straight thrust for Luo's throat. The move seemed familiar to Luo, but the thought came too late. His guard barely forming, an icy chill touched his throat; strength drained, sword fell, darkness took him.
Watching closely, Hong had already judged Zhao An's strange speed and suspected Luo was no match—that this youth likely had backing and should be questioned carefully to avoid bringing disaster upon the sect. He opened his mouth to speak—when Zhao An's pace suddenly surged. Steel sang, light flashed, the sword went in and out in a heartbeat; Luo's blood spurted, and he fell.
Hong reeled, yanking out his blade. "Bold cur! You dare kill a disciple of Qingcheng!"
Zhao An looked at him, face empty of joy or sorrow, and advanced step by step.
Killing didn't fit his old values—but it stirred no feeling now.
He knew: once he drew, he had to leave no witnesses. The men of Qingcheng all studied the Evil-Warding Sword—however poorly. They would recognize the form, and his execution was unmistakably orthodox; its power was too great.
There was no need to test Hong. Having seen Luo's play, Zhao An knew—even if Pine-Wind were twice as fast, it couldn't withstand the Evil-Warding quicksword.
Hong had been shaken by that last thrust; his momentum already broken. Zhao An flicked forward—Flying Swallow Threading the Willow—a lightning pick that pried open Hong's guard. Bodies brushed past; cold steel rested on Hong's neck.
"Tell me," Zhao An said, "why are you here?"
Cornered, Hong still bluffed, "You killed a man of Qingcheng. We won't spare you."
The sword trembled—snick—half an ear fell. "You think I don't dare?"
Terror cracked Hong's will. He confessed everything.
They were vanguard sent by Yu Canghai to move against the Fuwei Escort Bureau and seize the Evil-Warding Sword Manual.
Lin Zhennan's own skill was mediocre. He had kept the escort business large by reputation and coin—leveraging Lin Yuantu's remaining awe and smoothing both the black and white roads with silver, officials included.
By reason, Fuwei's destruction would cost the authorities money—so why did they look away?
Because the first thing Hong and Luo did on arrival was "pay respects" to the key officials of Fuzhou. When they reached the County Constable's Office, they happened to encounter the constable's son—the very "young master" Zhao An had beaten earlier. Conveniently, they accepted the errand to "teach Zhao An a lesson."
"So that's it," Zhao An thought. Unexpected, yet reasonable. "Looks like the main plot has begun. Even holed up in a back alley, I still got swept in. Just my luck."
"Has Yu Canghai arrived?" he asked.
"Master arrived today. He's in the city—"
A line of steel drew across Hong's throat.
Zhao An had never read The Smiling, Proud Wanderer, but he had seen several dramas. In every version, Yu Canghai was a small-minded villain. Having killed his disciples, there would be no mercy.
Whether Hong's report was true or not, prudence demanded flight. Zhao An had no wish to face a petty first-rate master—not yet.
With no joy and no sorrow, he turned back inside, packed a change of clothes into his hand-sewn rucksack, and walked out of the courtyard.
He was leaving. Clean and decisive.
First, the blacksmith. Then several shops in a row.
And then—
He would be gone.