Chapter Eight: Horses Trample the Ruined Temple

The most laughable thing in the world, without doubt, is to pit an egg against a rock; and yet, nothing could be more tragic either. Just like the young man in coarse clothes before them, clutching a redwood folding knife barely seven inches long, charging madly at Constable Wu, deluded enough to think he could face a three-foot regulation saber with such a meager blade.

The outcome was, of course, inevitable. Before the young man’s knife could even reach Constable Wu, it was already forced back by the saber’s relentless strikes.

The regulation saber, three feet of cold steel, showed no mercy. After driving the youth back, it pressed forward, its glinting edge descending straight toward the young man’s chest.

Constable Wu was no incompetent. As one of the few constables in this border town, he had his strengths—most notably, a mastery of the seventy-two forms of the Wu Family Saber Technique.

His saber was both precise and ruthless; not something an average man could withstand, and certainly not someone like Zhong Ming, who had no martial arts background at all.

As the blade’s gleam reached the youth’s chest, his raised arm couldn’t block in time. The folding knife and the saber were three inches apart, but the saber’s edge was closer still—only an inch from the youth’s heart.

His life hung by a thread.

“Ming!” came Liang Hei’s shout, his voice cracking. He lunged at Constable Wu, hands clawing desperately, bloodshot eyes growing more frenzied.

In that instant, time seemed to slow. Zhong Ming stared at the saber’s edge as it descended past his nose. He was calm, his mind unusually clear. He knew he should raise his hand to block the blade, but his limbs felt leaden, as if weighed down by iron—no matter how hard he tried, he could not move.

This scene reminded him of a night back on Earth: the same helplessness, the same slow-motion ordeal. Only then the wind, the call of deer, the cries, were now replaced by the whistle of the saber, Liang Yu’s shouts, and Wu’s savage laughter.

Such uncanny resemblance—as if two destinies meant to run parallel had collided again at this very moment.

Was he to die once more?

An absurd thought flickered through his mind. He gave a wry smile, but didn’t have time to even curl his lips.

He was unwilling, of course. To have lived again for only three years, only to step through death’s door once more—resentment welled in his heart.

The rich farmlands of Muddy Village hadn’t yet been divided; the crispy cakes had not yet been placed in Xiao Lian’s hand; the chess match with Master Tian was still unfulfilled.

Stone must have died in vain, and the broken folding knife in his hand would never pierce the evil constable’s throat. Instead, he himself was about to be disemboweled.

Yet again he tried to lift his arm or shift his foot, but to no avail. It was as if a mountain pressed down upon him—he could not move, could not dodge.

He began to feel a strange kinship with the Monkey King trapped beneath Five Elements Mountain. If that monkey truly existed, perhaps he felt just as Zhong Ming did: full of boundless spirit, yet unable to unleash it. And Zhong Ming, after all, lacked even the power to stir up Heaven.

A thousand thoughts flashed in an instant and all his resistance yielded only despair.

All hope extinguished, the youth braced himself for the fate of being cut open by cold steel.

Just as his emotions stilled, resigned to fate, a splash of green drifted down above the blade—a burst of color dazzling in this world frozen like a painting.

A crisp sound rang in Zhong Ming’s ear as the green stroke struck the side of the blade, knocking the deadly edge aside.

Metal clashed with metal, a resonant clang.

The youth, startled back to himself, saw that, with the help of that green, his folding knife managed to intercept the saber just in time. At the moment the blades met, the folding knife’s sharpness was revealed—the saber’s tip was sliced clean off with only a slight resistance.

Zhong Ming knew his folding knife was sharp, but never imagined it could slice through iron as if it were mud.

The new Tang regulation saber, though inferior to the legendary Tang blade, was forged from the immortal iron ore of White Jade Capital—a weapon hammered and folded a hundred times, far tougher than ordinary steel. Except for the fabled weapons of legend, few blades could make short work of the regulation saber.

By sharpness alone, this redwood folding knife was a rare treasure indeed.

A seven-inch blade severing a three-foot saber—such an incredible miracle left not only Zhong Ming stunned, but Constable Wu as well, his eyes wide in disbelief.

But Liang Yu, roaring as he charged, gave Wu no time to be dazed. Seizing Wu’s distraction, Liang Yu pounced, knocking him to the ground. The two were instantly locked in a grapple.

Liang Yu was a natural at street fighting. Once up close, he wasn’t easily shaken off. No matter how skilled Wu was with a blade, when it came to brawling, he was evenly matched.

For a moment, the two scuffled like a pair of street thugs, neither gaining the upper hand.

Taking advantage of the chaos, the youth in coarse clothes glanced at the ground, curious to see what had saved his life.

Looking down, he saw at his feet a willow branch, lying silently—its tender green leaves just budding. He stared in astonishment. That flash of green had merely been an ordinary willow twig.

He looked up at the ancient tree nearby, puzzled. Was it coincidence, or something strange? How could a newly budded willow branch deflect a forceful saber strike?

But there was no time for Zhong Ming to think further. The battle shifted again—Constable Wu, at some point, retrieved the broken saber and flourished it, forcing Liang Yu back.

Wu, though a rather handsome young man, now stood with half an ear missing, blood-soaked garments, and a savage glare. The handsomeness was gone, replaced by pure ferocity.

Liang Yu, wounded in the arm, clutched his left shoulder and retreated, never taking his eyes off Wu’s saber.

Behind them, the two sides had split into camps: Toothless and his men guarded Liang Yu, retreating to Zhong Ming’s side, while Zhang the Scab and his lot hid behind Wu.

It was a stalemate. Zhong Ming feared Wu’s saber; Wu feared the desperate tactics of Zhong Ming and Liang Yu.

Both Liang Yu and Wu were breathing hard, waiting for their strength to return for another round. Given the day’s events, the feud could only end with one side buried here.

Wu, a seasoned fighter, recovered his breath quickly. As his breathing steadied, he did not advance, but instead retreated two steps, tossing Liang Yu’s short blade to Zhang the Scab and snarling, “Go—kill them all for me.”

Zhang the Scab stared at the short blade, hesitant. He stammered, “Boss Wu, but… killing is a beheading crime!”

Zhang’s cowardice and stupidity made Wu grind his teeth with rage. With a cold laugh, he said, “I killed his brother—do you think these brats will let us walk out alive? Now we’re all in this together. If we don’t wipe them out, none of us will escape!”

Seeing Zhang waver, Wu pressed further, “Just do it. I’ll explain everything to the authorities. I’ll pin a ‘flowering thief’ charge on them—you’ll be safe, I promise.”

“Flowering thief” was a favorite trick of corrupt constables. If they set their sights on a common family’s property, they’d openly extort and, if refused, have someone falsely accuse the family of theft.

Once labeled a thief, the whole family would be thrown in jail and their property confiscated—naturally, with plenty siphoned off along the way.

Many families had suffered this fate, so the common folk treated constables with fearful deference, dreading these official bandits.

When things were quiet, and the authorities needed to boost their records, the constables would use the “flowering thief” charge to round up innocent people as scapegoats.

As long as the county magistrate benefited, he turned a blind eye, tacitly allowing the practice.

With Wu’s promise, Zhang the Scab’s resolve firmed. Clutching the short blade, he rallied his ruffians, their intentions clear.

Meanwhile, Zhong Ming and his companions each harbored their own thoughts. All wanted their brothers to escape first, and a heated argument broke out.

Toothless and his three comrades shielded Zhong Ming and Liang Yu, saying in a low voice, “Black Brother, we’ll hold them off—get out of here. Muddy Village can spare a few toughs, but not Mr. Zhong or Brother Liang.”

Liang Yu, of course, refused, shouting, “Shut up! I, Liang Er-Gou, am no coward—I won’t flee. You guard Ming, I’ll hold them here.”

“Enough arguing—no one escapes today. They plan to kill us all. If even one of us gets away, the whole Muddy Village will suffer.”

Zhong Ming remained the calmest, thinking things through. He realized there was no way out—today’s fight would end only in death. Raising his folding knife, he said, “No one’s running. We fight to the end.”

In this world, reason means little. Survival is the only truth.

Three years of war had turned every refugee into a desperado. Even after a few days of peace, the blood still simmered in their veins.

With Ming’s words, there were no further objections. Everyone tensed, ready for a fight to the death.

The two sides were poised to clash, the fight about to erupt.

Just then, the thunder of hooves echoed in their ears—both sides fell silent, confusion flickering in their eyes.

The pounding of hooves grew louder—dozens at least.

Horses were rare in this border town, especially after the recent wars. Even the most powerful local clans couldn’t muster so many mounts.

Everyone’s nerves were unsettled by the approaching riders—only Zhong Ming kept his wits about him. The sound was unmistakable: the fine-scaled cavalry he had glimpsed earlier.

The youth in coarse clothes, brow furrowed, could not imagine why the Commandant’s cavalry had come. Passing by, perhaps?

He had little time to ponder—already, the hooves thundered to the ruined temple.

With a crash, the broken wall beside the temple gate exploded—bricks and dust flew as a white warhorse leapt through the collapsing wall.

Both sides scrambled to dodge flying debris, panic etched on their faces.

When the dust settled, the white steed stood poised in the courtyard. Its rider wore a suit of fine-scaled lion armor, a silver dragon-lance in hand, exuding an aura that swept the entire temple.

The rider’s face was pale and handsome, but his gaze was piercing—like a blade driving into the soul. None dared meet his eyes.

The others did not know this man, but Zhong Ming recognized him instantly: the fine-scaled cavalry captain he had glimpsed at the city gate—the Commandant himself.

After surveying the scene, the Commandant reined in his horse between the two groups and called out, “Which one is Zhong Ming?”

The temple fell silent. Constable Wu and his followers stood frozen, dumbstruck.

Zhong Ming, awed by the cavalry’s dramatic entrance, took a moment to recover.

Liang Yu tugged at Zhong Ming’s sleeve, shaking his head, signaling him to keep silent. The dark-faced youth drew a deep breath, preparing to answer in Zhong Ming’s stead.

The military riders had charged in, calling Zhong Ming’s name—not a good sign. Liang Yu was unwilling to see his friend come to harm, and wanted to take the blame himself.

But Zhong Ming saw through this at once. Before Liang Yu could act, he strode forward, head held high.

“I am Zhong Ming,” he declared.

A true man takes responsibility for his own deeds—let no friend bear his guilt.

Zhong Ming cherished his life, but cherished his friends even more. He would never let Liang Yu take the fall for him.