Chapter Three: The Vulture Strikes

Three years’ time is enough to turn a scholar into a licentiate, a licentiate into a tribute student, and also sufficient for a man to realize certain truths through experience.

His predecessor once imagined that, with so many famous mountains and celestial wonders in the world, there must be a few abodes of immortals. If only he could show them his determination and perseverance, the path to immortality would surely open! But reality was harsh and humiliating: this celebrated local scholar, beloved by his teachers, ended up destitute and sick in a foreign land, and by dying, gave him a second chance at life.

Thus, inheriting the memories of his predecessor, Kou Li understood a simple truth: in this world, it is best to be practical.

“Not a single one in a hundred years—might as well buy a lottery ticket,” Kou Li muttered, lying in bed. Old Zheng had said so himself: a martial artist’s prime is around thirty. By the most generous calculation, he had only six years left. Six years to rise from nothing and reach the summit of martial prowess? He might as well keep dreaming.

Outside, the noise was unrelenting. Ever since the court had opened the seas, Canton Province had become a rotting piece of fat, drawing ever more flies. The people here no longer lived by the old ways, rising with the sun and resting at night. Each heart burned with a feverish obsession.

A land of tumult, a place to get rich overnight—spending a fortune in a single day was not impossible.

Kou Li observed coldly. The vast majority here would be drowned by the tide of the times, and only a tiny handful would ride the crest of the wave. The path he had chosen was even more so.

That night he slept fitfully, tossed by endless, disordered dreams. Sometimes he became a celebrated poet, courted by famed courtesans and talented ladies, composing verses that were sung across the land as he passed his days in luxury. At other times, he became a merchant as rich as a nation, with countless businesses and untold wealth, living so lavishly that even his chamber pot was made of gold.

His dreams that night were especially vivid!

Perhaps, he thought, he could use his traveler’s advantage to live a life of wealth and ease. Why not?

In the darkness, the wordless scroll in his arms glimmered faintly with a lustrous green light.

Bang, bang, bang! A series of knocks resounded at the door. “Brother Kou, Brother Kou, you promised Bao’er you’d teach me to write and compose poetry today!”

Kou Li was dazed for a moment before realizing he had slept until the sun was high.

“Come in—pen, ink, and paper are in the box. Set them up yourself, I need to wash up.” For some reason, he felt especially drained today, his spirit flagging.

“Alright!” Zheng Bao’er, dressed in a little green jacket, her pigtail swinging, her fair cheeks flushed, looked lively and bright.

Though the room had washing supplies, Kou Li preferred the well behind the inn. The water was icy and sweet, and in this weather, splashing it on his face was nothing short of invigorating.

He also needed to clear his head; there was business to attend to today.

Zheng Old Iron happened to see Kou Li coming down the stairs. The young man’s face was sallow, lips purple, eyes bloodshot, and there was even a hint of death in his expression. The old man frowned meaningfully. “Young man, remember moderation.”

Kou Li raised his eyebrows. What nonsense was the old man spouting this early in the morning?

“Overnight, your face has taken on a look of ruin. Strange, very strange. Server, bring ten more meat buns!”

Martial artists, young or old, always ate more than common folk. Zheng Old Iron devoured twenty meat buns and downed three big bowls of congee before he was eighty percent full. He surveyed the inn with great interest; wherever his gaze fell, people shuddered.

Even the Water Dragon Gang had come to apologize to this old man in person—he was not someone they could afford to offend.

As Zheng Old Iron pondered, he thought: since this lad is so lustful, perhaps he should repay the favor with a few secret tonics from the martial world.

Just then, six men in conical hats entered, each carrying long objects wrapped in oiled cloth, silent and grim. The leader was tall and thin, with a long neck and narrow waist.

Silent footsteps—all seasoned fighters, Zheng Old Iron noted silently.

The newcomers were filthy, their faces smeared with grease and dirt as if they’d never washed. Their trouser legs were tightly bound, but their cloth shoes looked newly made. Their clothing, though simple, showed not a single loose thread; the fabric and craftsmanship were both top-notch.

“Old Ghost Zheng, it’s been a long time,” the leader said, raising his head to reveal a sinister face, eyes like hooks, a sparse ring of yellow hair around his skull. Most striking was a deformed, protruding forehead that seemed ready to split open.

“It’s you—Deng Ming, the Bald Eagle!” Zheng Old Iron blurted out.

In the martial world, people were either friends or enemies. This one was a mortal foe. Twenty years ago, three infamous bandits, the Eagle Trio, ravaged southern Henan—burning, looting, killing, and pillaging. The youngest, Deng Ming, was notorious by eighteen.

Southern Henan was dominated by the escort agencies, who would not tolerate such banditry. After a brutal battle, only Deng Ming survived.

The leader of the escort at the time was none other than Zheng Old Iron himself. Seeing the dying youth, he felt a moment of pity.

He never imagined that, after twenty years, this villain would return, and with such malice.

“Old Ghost, you cost me my brothers’ lives. Today, you’ll pay with your own!”

As the words fell, Deng Ming drew his ghost-head saber and lunged. More knife-wielding men with bamboo hats sprang from the front and rear halls, sealing every exit.

Screams, the clash of weapons, and the sounds of slaughter melded into a bloody symphony.

Zheng Old Iron grew more alarmed as they fought. Deng Ming’s sabersmanship had improved astonishingly. While many in the martial world could match him in unarmed combat, few could rival him with weapons. Deng Ming’s saber was fierce and ruthless, verging on unity of man and blade.

“Trying to fight while distracted?” Deng Ming sneered, his wrist dropping as he spun aside, gathering his strength. His fur bristled like a cat’s tail as he swung his saber in a cross, unleashing a brilliant X-shaped slash.

It was the killing move from the Eagle Trio’s saber art—the Three Eagles Cross Slash!

Zheng Old Iron quickly parried, but the cross-shaped light split into three, swooping down like eagles hunting prey, filling the air with a bloody wind.

In the nick of time, a short spear shot from Zheng’s sleeve. With two spears, the old gunman’s years of hard training paid off; spear shadows danced, warding off the attack.

But he soon tired, and a powerful blow sent him crashing into a table, shattering it to pieces.

Zheng Old Iron, aged and weakened, spat a mouthful of blood. Through blurry eyes, he glimpsed a familiar figure on the stairs, nodding to him in secret.

Though he knew the man was unskilled, a strange calm settled over him. His old eyes flashed; he feigned terror. “Your saber art—how has it become so deadly? The Nine Fiends Saber was never this fierce. Is this a Japanese draw-cut?”

Deng Ming relished his foe’s fear. “Ha! Not just the draw-cut. Even your old adversary’s saber skills. Strange, isn’t it? Why do you think I found you, despite your secrecy? Guess which of your old brothers betrayed the great escort master—”

...

Kou Li kicked open the door. Zheng Bao’er was engrossed in her drawings, oblivious to the chaos.

“Come with me!”

Kou Li had sensed trouble early. He’d suspected the Water Dragon Gang might retaliate, so he’d rigged a lookout at the window to watch the back door. Today, he noticed several men in conical hats lurking outside. When similar figures burst into the main hall, he knew disaster was at hand.

So, before the slaughter began, he rushed upstairs.

The exits were swarming with armed men, blades flashing—no place to hide. These were not mere thugs, but a killer’s guild.

He remembered a spot: at a secluded corner on the third floor was a storeroom with a hidden passage to the cellar—a secret he had once overheard from the innkeeper.

Surprisingly, Zheng Bao’er was remarkably calm, not crying or panicking—so unlike other children.

But just as they entered the storeroom, two conical-hatted men followed, blades glinting with a dark red hue—the color of blood.

These men were far more fearsome than the Water Dragon Gang’s thugs. Their eyes were cold, indifferent to death. These were seasoned killers.

“Bao’er, do you remember how I dealt with that big tiger on the mountain?” Kou Li asked as he retreated.

“I remember,” Bao’er nodded vigorously. It was their secret, one even her grandfather didn’t know.

“Good. Now, close your eyes and count to five.”

“One.”

Kou Li’s right hand formed a strange seal, and the Icy Soul Pearl on his neck began to glow faintly.

“Two.”

A cool current flowed from the pearl, following the meridians to his fingertips.

“Three.”

The killers closed in.

“Four.”

Steel gleamed as the blade swung for his face.

“Five.”

A chill swept the room. When Bao’er opened her eyes, both killers lay on the ground, faces ashen, eyes bulging—dead beyond doubt.

...

The air in the cellar was thick and moldy, enough to make one retch, but Kou Li had no time for that. His right arm throbbed with pain and numbness—the aftermath of using that technique.

Above, the sounds of battle raged on, making him forget his pain in his anxiety.

Screams and the clash of arms continued without pause; blood dripped through the cracks, sticky and sickening. Why had so many died just to deal with Old Man Zheng? Was this related to the Water Dragon Gang?

Amid the cries, Kou Li recognized the voices of familiar patrons.

Wang Mazi, a man who had made his fortune at sea, rumored to have visited several foreign lands, and was about to take a fourth concubine.

Hu Longwang, real name unknown, a stranger seeking wealth and glory to return home in splendor.

Zhao Ren, a navy officer who liked to drink at the inn, whose life’s ambition was to command a warship.

Duckling, a loafer who always joked about eating and waiting for death, content with his lot.

The innkeeper Old Zhao, whose grandchild had just passed the first month, and whose sole wish was to see his family prosper and die in peace.

Now, all these people were slaughtered like chickens—their status, wealth, or dreams counting for nothing.

Death is the great equalizer.

Ordinary folk cannot resist disaster or calamity; even the emperor himself cannot, save for the scale. In his half-conscious daze, Kou Li suddenly found clarity. He understood what had troubled him for so long.

With the advantage of a traveler, he could live well, even grandly. But after a hundred years, he would be no different from these commoners—a handful of dust, a coffin in the earth.

Weakness, insignificance, darkness, oblivion—irreversible.

Having died twice, he was filled with aversion and dread; he would not repeat this fate.

He wanted control of his own destiny.

And to achieve this, there was only one path from beginning to end.

“A hundred years pass in a flash, a life as fleeting as a bubble,” Kou Li murmured, his resolve now as unyielding as steel.

“Since I am determined, I will see it through. In life, nothing matters more than life and death.”

“If Heaven betrays the diligent, let me become a fiend in the underworld!”

Within his robes, something seemed to vanish into nothingness.