Chapter Sixty-Seven: Thieves, Scoundrels, and Cunning Schemes

If there was a glimmer of consolation amid the misfortune, it was that the fertile fields atop the eastern ridge had not been seized. The first reason was that those lands also belonged to the Suiyun mountain range; the second, that the immortal of the city had shown magnanimity, expressly stating that the fields should be left to the refugees outside the city walls.

The immortals in the Jade Capital once declared that, wherever one might be, as long as they were willing to believe in the Pure Moon Shrine, they would be considered followers of the Jade Capital. It mattered not if they were subjects of the new Tang dynasty; so long as they believed in the Pure Moon Shrine, the Jade Capital would shelter them.

Such words might deceive the naïve townsfolk, but they would never fool the likes of Zhong Ming. He had never believed a single utterance from the Jade Capital. Their conduct was not only tyrannical but ostentatious and hypocritical to the extreme. Better, he thought, to consort with a true villain than to befriend a false gentleman. Some men wore their mercenary nature openly—perhaps greedy, perhaps overbearing—but at least their weaknesses were discernible. With caution, one might work alongside them without great misfortune.

But the Jade Capital, with its seemingly ethereal palace, concealed unspeakable dealings beneath its lofty façade. Such hypocrisy was the most dangerous of all. With a false gentleman, one could never tell if the smile hid a sweetmeat or a blade.

It had been over ten days since that day when the yutu descended upon the border. In that time, the Jade Capital had used all manner of pretexts to spread its teachings and had already gathered many followers within the city. In the first few days, as many still harbored corpse miasma, they set up altars and distributed pills to detoxify the townsfolk. Lately, they had taken to healing the sick as well, and the tale most widely told was of an old woman, blinded in war, who had her sight restored by the Jade Capital’s elixirs. The city sang her praises, calling the Pure Moon immortal a deity incarnate, a blessing for the new Tang and for the borderlands.

Each morning, a high platform was raised in the city for preaching—methods of prolonging life and passages from the canonical texts were expounded to seekers, relieving their sorrows. But none of this concerned Zhong Ming. He neither believed nor attended.

During these days, only one worry weighed on Zhong Ming: the sealed and frozen core within his body.

At dawn, Zhong Ming’s fenced courtyard was lively. The old priest Zhang Daozhen and his young disciple Zhang Nianchen were practicing their morning exercises in the yard. Nianchen followed Zhang Daozhen through a slow, languid set of movements, somewhat reminiscent of tai chi. Liang Yu, eager to join in, mimicked the priests from behind. Having learned little so far, his moves were awkward and more than once, he nearly toppled over.

Zhong Ming, meanwhile, stood firm at the stone table, practicing his calligraphy as always.

When he put away his brush and paper, the priests had just finished their routine. As they concluded, Liang Yu dutifully helped Zhang Daozhen to a stone stool and said, “Master Zhang, I had some new insights into the sword technique you taught me yesterday. How about I demonstrate for the young master so he can offer a few pointers?”

Since Zhang Daozhen’s arrival in the village, he had gained a sincere follower in Liang Yu. Though a Daoist of the Longmen Mountain Dan Ding sect, Zhang Daozhen was skilled not only in alchemy and formations but also in martial arts—by his own account, eighty years ago, he had been a renowned figure in the martial world. Whether that was true or not was anybody’s guess; Liang Yu’s grandfather wasn’t even born then.

But true or not, Zhang Daozhen was genuinely skilled and possessed many martial secrets. He had taught Liang Yu the “Army-Breaker,” a famous sword technique from a century past, known for its robust power and domineering energy—at its height, capable of splitting mountains, especially when combined with fierce internal force.

Upon hearing Liang Yu’s suggestion, Zhang Daozhen shook his head with a smile. “Liang Yu, mastery comes not in a day. Don’t let small insights make you proud. I think there’s no need to demonstrate yet. Wait until you, like Mr. Zhong here, can channel your blade’s energy along the ground like a dragon—then let Nianchen point out your flaws.”

“You’re right, Master. I’ll practice diligently,” replied Liang Yu, scratching his head. He knew he was far from achieving such skill. Though diligent and of decent talent, he still had no one to help him with his inner energy; forming true qi in his core would take time.

Behind him, Zhang Nianchen patted Liang Yu’s shoulder and laughed, “Brother Liang, don’t rush. One of these days, I’ll gather some herbs in the mountains and make you a couple of body-strengthening pills. That’ll make your practice twice as effective.”

Liang Yu grinned widely. “That sounds great! When you have time, I’ll go with you to gather the herbs.”

Recently, the two priests had taken up residence in Mud Village, occupying the courtyard left vacant by Mr. Guo. The old priest seemed to have plans of his own, never once mentioning leaving, and so no one asked how long they intended to stay. Besides, Zhong Ming had yet to fulfill his promise regarding Zhang Nianchen’s borrowed life; Zhang Daozhen had never brought it up, and Zhong Ming was glad for one less worry. The matter seemed all but forgotten between them.

After more than ten days, the two priests had blended into village life, living carefree and coming to Zhong Ming’s home for meals like clockwork each day.

The two young men laughed cheerfully, but Zhang Daozhen quickly poured cold water over their spirits. “Disciple, you’ve barely completed a few batches of pills, and now you want to help others? You’ll end up poisoning Brother Liang.”

Zhang Nianchen smiled awkwardly, shy as always, like a bashful girl. To dispel the embarrassment, he quickly said, “Master, Mr. Zhong, I’ll go cook breakfast.”

Now familiar with the household, Zhang Nianchen headed into Zhong Ming’s kitchen as if it were his own home. Liang Yu scratched his head, picked up his broadsword, and went off to practice.

Zhong Ming poured Zhang Daozhen a cup of cool tea and laughed, “Old Daoist, if you don’t let your disciple try, how will you know he can’t do it? You make pills that let people fly and run—why should your disciple’s kill them?”

“Not so. Mr. Zhong, you don’t understand—alchemy is all about the properties of the ingredients and mastering the heat. A small mistake leads to great error.”

When it came to alchemy, Zhang Daozhen became verbose and rigid; it was his lifelong pursuit, a truth unshakable to him, and he would brook no contradiction.

But Zhong Ming had no interest in discussing alchemy. He waved his hand dismissively. “If you’re really so skilled with pills, old Daoist, why not think of a way to heal my core first?”

“On that matter, I’m afraid my hands are tied…” Zhang Daozhen paused, set down his teacup, and sighed deeply.

He had racked his brains for days over Zhong Ming’s frozen core. He had tried Daoist qi, medicinal baths, even crafted a special pill for Zhong Ming. Yet nothing had worked. Zhong Ming’s core remained as frozen as a wintry wasteland.

Lately, cold would seep from his core up his spine, leaving him sore and chilled after sleep. Zhang Daozhen had explained it was a side effect of the frozen core. Even ordinary people, though lacking true qi, had vital energy in that acupoint, affecting their strength. With his core sealed, it was as if he’d lost a kidney—how could he recover?

He was left weak and listless, his arms trembling after even moderate practice, worse than when he was at his frailest. Finding a cure had become urgent; Zhong Ming feared that, if it went on, his very life might be at stake.

His brow never loosened. “Old Daoist, my health worsens by the day. I fear I won’t be able to fulfill my promise about the borrowed life. Why not choose a day and settle it soon? I don’t want to die owing a favor.”

Zhang Daozhen set aside his tea, rose, and said solemnly, “No need to rush, Mr. Zhong. Don’t lose heart. I’ll try to find another way…” He paced by the stone table, hands behind his back, frowning in thought.

Seeing the old Daoist’s genuine concern, Zhong Ming was grateful. He looked toward the Suiyun mountains and murmured, “Uncle, when will you return?”

He’d tried every remedy he could think of, all to no avail. Now, his only hope lay with Yang Yanlang, the uncle who had once been one of the new Tang’s three great generals.

Because of his affliction, that morning’s meal was joyless for everyone; after a hasty breakfast, they dispersed. Liang Yu returned to his yard to practice his sword; ever since he learned the “Army-Breaker,” he had found purpose and devoted his spare time to training.

Zhang Daozhen and Zhang Nianchen retired to their own thatched cottage, likely to search for a cure for Zhong Ming’s core.

Restless and irritable, Zhong Ming had no heart to practice calligraphy or swordsmanship. He sat alone in the courtyard, drinking tea.

It was not until mid-morning that he decided to take his horse out for a ride. Just as he led it from the gate, Fei Dacheng came rushing over in a panic—his flustered manner always comically at odds with his portly frame.

Seeing Zhong Ming, Fei Dacheng waved frantically. “Brother Ming, bad news—Little Fish’s father has been beaten up!”

Zhong Ming’s brow furrowed. “What happened, Dacheng? Tell me everything.”

Fei Dacheng caught his breath and rattled off the details. Since the new Tang’s border edict had been posted outside the city, the villages outside the border had become a no-man’s land. Besides Mud Village, there were five other villages within the Suiyun territory—a total of six, now all refugee camps, and the restless among them were acting up.

All had survived the war, and the habit of fighting for every scrap was etched deep in their bones. When the magistrate had authority, things were kept in check, but now, with lawlessness returning, the wicked grew bold again.

He River Village, near the eastern ridge, had a notorious reputation. During the chaos, it had been a haven for corpse-eaters; after the founding of the new Tang, those who hadn’t been caught pretended to be honest men. Now, with no one in charge, the old habits resurfaced. The people of He River had long coveted the fertile fields atop the ridge; now, a band of strongmen had uprooted several acres of newly sprouted rice.

As fate would have it, Little Fish’s father—Lu Dashu, a responsible and upright man—caught them in the act with his hoe on his way to the fields. He could not bear to watch his neighbors’ crops destroyed and confronted them. The thugs, itching for trouble, had no interest in reason. After a few sharp words, they set upon Lu Dashu, beating him bloody and leaving him for dead before they relented.

His companion had carried him home and sent Fei Dacheng to inform Zhong Ming.

Zhong Ming’s anger flared. He went inside to fetch his broadsword. Yet, even in his fury, he remained rational; haste only led to mistakes, a lesson he had learned well.

“Where is Uncle Lu now?” he asked.

“At home, resting. I called Master Zhang to tend his wounds,” Fei Dacheng replied.

“Good. Go tell your brother Liang. I’ll check on Uncle Lu first.”

With that, Zhong Ming mounted his horse and rushed to Lu Dashu’s home.

Located in the village center, the yard was already crowded when Zhong Ming arrived. Neighbors packed the courtyard, leaving no room to pass.

A villager being beaten was a major event; everyone came to see. All who had survived the war in Mud Village knew their survival depended on mutual aid, and so they stood united—like family not by blood, but by fate.

Men stood in the yard, clutching hoes and sickles, grim and ready for battle. As Zhong Ming entered, someone called out, “Mr. Zhong is here—make way, everyone!”

The crowd parted for him. As he dismounted and walked in, someone shouted, “Mr. Zhong, this can’t be let go. We’re not cowards in Mud Village—let’s grab our tools and fight those He River bastards!”

This sentiment echoed through the crowd, and many raised their farm tools in anger.

Yet the matter could not be settled that way. Zhong Ming raised his voice. “Everyone, quiet down! Dacheng has told me what happened. This is a village dispute—let me and Liang Yu handle it. Otherwise, what’s the point of Liang Yu collecting protection fees every month?”

Liang Yu, the local tough, collected these fees not for nothing. If disputes arose, it was his job to mediate. For matters between villages, it was even more his responsibility. In this lawless age, such men played the role of unofficial constables.

His words calmed the crowd. Someone said, “We’ll do whatever you say, Mr. Zhong.”

With the villagers appeased, Zhong Ming hurried inside. There, he found Old Man Sun and Zhang Nianchen standing watch. Old Man Sun looked up. “Ah, Xiao Zhong, you’re here.”

“Uncle Sun, leave this to Liang Yu and me. Please keep everyone else out of it—we can’t afford more people getting hurt.”

Old Sun was no fool; he nodded. “You handle it, Xiao Zhong. I’ll send the folks home.”

“Good,” Zhong Ming replied.

Old Sun went out to disperse the crowd, while Zhong Ming greeted Zhang Nianchen and entered the inner room.

Inside, Lu Dashu lay on the bed—hair disheveled, face and forehead bruised, his hemp clothes torn to rags. He had clearly been badly beaten.

At his bedside, Zhang Daozhen was applying ointment. Though blind, the old priest’s heart was guided by spirit, and he tended Lu Dashu’s wounds with unerring precision.

Zhong Ming approached and asked quietly, “Old Daoist, how is Uncle Lu?”

“Nothing serious—just superficial wounds. The worst is a blow to the neck that knocked him out. A good sleep, and he’ll be fine. But there’s one thing you should be wary of—”

With that, Zhang Daozhen rolled up Lu Dashu’s sleeve to reveal two bruised marks on his strong arm, swollen as if struck by a whip.

Zhong Ming frowned. “What’s this?”

“Those were made by someone’s fingers. The assailant is a trained fighter, skilled in external techniques. This grip is known as the Iron Eagle’s Claw.”

Zhong Ming’s brow tightened. He hadn’t expected there to be martial artists hiding among the refugees.

“Ordinarily, you needn’t fear him—Iron Eagle’s Claw is just an external art, and those who practice it rarely possess true internal force. But with your core frozen, you can’t use inner strength. If you seek revenge, be careful—don’t let him catch you off guard.”

Zhong Ming nodded, understanding. If the opponent wasn’t a true master, there was nothing to fear. “I understand. Tend to Uncle Lu—I’ll be fine.”

The old Daoist continued treating Lu Dashu, while Zhong Ming went to comfort Little Fish’s mother.

But as he turned, he was startled. The baby in her arms—Lu Xiaoyu, Lu Dashu’s son—was being held not by his mother, but by Sun Luolian. In his haste, he had not noticed before.

Surprised, he asked, “Luolian, why are you holding the baby? Where’s Little Fish’s mother?”

The baby had been wailing incessantly, likely startled by the crowd. Sun Luolian, inexperienced with children, was all flustered. At Zhong Ming’s question, she suddenly remembered. “Brother Zhong, go after Little Fish’s mother! She left the baby with me, dug a sword out of the wall, and ran out—she must have gone to the ridge to seek revenge on the He River villagers!”

Zhong Ming was even more shocked. He glanced at the corner of the room—indeed, a brick had been pried loose, revealing a dark hole where something had been hidden.

Where had Little Fish’s mother gotten a sword? Could she be a martial artist as well?

For a moment, Zhong Ming was utterly bewildered. When had this small frontier town come to harbor so many mysterious martial artists?