Chapter 16: Dying Sun, War Begins

The town’s four sides each had different scenery.

To the east lay vast fields, easiest to gaze upon the towering mountains, varied in shape and endlessly connected.

To the west were rivers and bamboo groves; to the north, wasteland overgrown with wild grass and mixed shrubs, where most townsfolk’s ancestral graves lay.

The south, though also wooded, was dominated by fruit trees; by autumn, countless named and unnamed fruits had bent the branches under their weight.

Under the setting sun, the fruits, once only faintly yellow, now glowed with an enticing reddish-gold hue.

“Another half-month or so, these fruits will turn sweet.”

Three militia and three guards, patrolling along the path to the south, glanced at the orchard and chatted idly.

“I bet some are ripe already—should we go in and grab a few to try?”

“Forget it. Don’t leave town. Word is bandits are coming tonight—maybe there’s already a whole horde hiding in those woods right now!”

The guard’s words hadn’t even fully left his lips when his throat suddenly choked.

An arrow pierced his neck, sending him crashing to the ground.

The other five froze for a moment.

Another arrow struck a militiaman in the face, the tip emerging from his cheek.

Instantly, the two guards rolled on the ground and scrambled to the base of the northern wall.

One militiaman moved too slowly and was riddled with arrows.

The other militiaman seized the chance and slashed his knife down on the bronze gong at the dead guard’s waist.

DONG!!!

The two guards huddled by the wall now screamed at the top of their lungs.

“Bandits! Bandits are here!!”

Dozens of lean, fierce men burst from the orchard—some wielding knives and spears, others bows and arrows, still others hunting guns.

Most wore tattered rags, but there were so many they must’ve stitched together clothes stolen from corpses, yet they covered their bodies completely.

The sun had not yet fully set.

These bandits and marauders had already launched their attack.

The houses in the town’s south were low, built of wooden frames, mud walls, bamboo roofs, and thatched tops.

Wang Fu was patrolling a path three rows of houses away when he heard the commotion; his face darkened.

He disliked detours, so he lunged forward, leapt, planted his toes on the mud wall, hooked his hands upward, and scrambled onto the roof.

He sprinted without pause, leaping twice.

He was now atop the third roof, seeing the assault below.

The fastest bandits had already reached the bodies just shot down.

“Hah!!”

Wang Fu swung both hands—dart-like throwing stars struck down three or four bandits in an instant.

He was also an expert with throwing stars.

The steel darts were heavy; in his hands, they could pierce skulls from twenty paces away.

Compared to the guns he’d tried a few times but couldn’t predict where the bullets would land, the steel darts felt far more reliable.

But launching such heavy darts required wide motions—useless in close combat against skilled opponents.

Yet after firing four darts, Wang Fu instantly rolled over and dove behind the roof ridge.

DUK DUK DUK DUK!!!

Seven or eight arrows slammed into the ridge.

Wang Fu crouched behind the ridge, peered out slightly, face taut with tension.

Damn it, these bandits were truly insane!

They charged without shouting, didn’t hesitate after three or four were struck down—they fired back instantly, with such precision!

But Wang Fu’s delay had bought time.

The bandits hadn’t even reached halfway down the path when a volley of gunshots erupted.

At the path’s end, a group of militia and guards arrived, still mid-step, and fired immediately.

Master Wang and the others had guessed the east and north were hard to hide in.

Bandits were more likely to attack from the west or south, so they’d concentrated their forces there.

Even if their marksmanship was poor, at this distance, with so many shooters, some bullets would surely hit.

Those hit by darts died instantly; those hit by bullets, if not in vital spots, didn’t die right away—but soon couldn’t hold back their screams.

The remaining bandits roared louder, charged harder, and closed in on the militia and guards.

A bandit’s cleaver plunged into a militiaman’s belly, twisted hard—blood soaked the grip’s woven cord, his face alight with ecstatic bloodlust.

A nearby militiaman seized the chance and slashed down—yet the ragged clothing, seemingly stitched from scraps, deflected the blade, leaving only a shallow wound.

“Die!!”

The bandit spun and lunged again with his blade.

“Die! Rob! Kill!”—these were the only Chinese words the bandits understood.

Knives, spears, lances—chaotic thrusts and slashes, blood spraying in waves.

Wang Fu saw his opening, slapped the ridge with his palm, drew his sword in an instant, and prepared to leap down and kill.

But as he rose, his eyelid twitched—he couldn’t help but glance south.

On the roof at the very edge of the southern town, a new figure had appeared.

Just like Wang Fu’s earlier movement, the figure sprinted and leapt across the rooftops.

His motions were wild, yet he made not a single sound.

Three or four rooftops, silent as he crossed them, vanished in a blur—he was nearly upon Wang Fu.

Wang Fu’s eyes widened, entering the state of a martial master’s awakening; his whole body trembled, sword poised to thrust.

In that split second, he remembered his two recent failures.

He had no time to recall the details—only a fleeting, half-remembered sensation flashed through him.

His sword, about to strike, instinctively rose upward, held vertically before him.

SHING!!

Blade met sword—sparks flew.

The two figures passed each other.

A lean man with wild hair, short beard, narrow eyes like knives, crouched low behind Wang Fu, holding a gleaming silver longsword horizontally.

A mist of blood burst from Wang Fu’s left waist—he screamed, tumbled right, and rolled forward on landing.

He’d rather plunge into the chaos below than stay near that swordsman.

Had it not been for that inexplicable premonition that made him raise his sword to block, he wouldn’t have been wounded at the waist—he’d have been sliced clean in two.

Among the guards, some of Wang Fu’s close disciples saw him wounded and roared, charging recklessly to drag him away.

Other guards, hidden among the militia, hurled throwing stars at the man on the roof.

One guard snatched a gun from a nearby man and fired at the rooftop.

The man swept his longsword.

The narrow blade became like a broad iron shield—all hidden weapons shattered against its spinning cut.

As for the bullet—he didn’t even dodge.

He knew it wouldn’t hit him—but he decided to kill those with guns first.

At that moment, his peripheral vision caught something speeding through the sky.

It was truly flying.

For it was a sparrow, flying straight—as if guiding someone.

Yet the figure on the ground moved far faster than the sparrow.

Black hair, young, blazing eyes, blue robe, cloth shoes, and a sword in hand.

Chu Tianshu ran, yet his upper body remained utterly stable, not a single bounce—“flying” described it better.

His speed, given enough distance, reached its peak.

As he darted through gaps in the militia, none could see what passed—only a shadow, a gust of wind.

The bandits, facing that direction with clear sight, saw the truth: someone was charging.

The bandit who’d fired the first arrow was among the fastest, positioned even deeper than Wang Fu’s group.

He carried the most arrows; even in close combat, he could instantly draw and fire multiple shots, wounding his foes.

The tension of the bowstring felt as natural as a limb—he’d already aimed the arrow at the blue figure, a predatory smile curling his lips.

A streak of silver erupted.

The sharp light sliced the nocked arrow from tip to tail, swept across the bow’s back and string, then buried itself into the shoulder’s collarbone.

CHAK!!

The silver streak didn’t stop—it swept out from behind the archer.

Chu Tianshu held the silver blade, his feet unslowed, his hands darting left and right.

The spearhead of the bandit ahead-left, the thigh of the bandit ahead-right.

Then the neck of the next bandit, then the right arm of the one who’d just seized a firelock.

After he passed them, their severed limbs, unable to contain the blood pressure, erupted in spurts.

Thin wounds split open, tendons and bones severed, the wounded screamed—some bodies spurted blood quietly, still upright.

The brutal scene was left behind him.

Chu Tianshu had reached the vicinity of Wang Fu and the others.

Though badly wounded, Wang Fu was still in a deep opening-acupoint state; he witnessed it all, and a strange sensation—neither cold nor hot—rushed through his chest, yet he shouted: “Watch out!”

The figure leaping from the roof occupied the exact spot Chu Tianshu had just left.

Chu Tianshu had already dodged to the right, his sword slashing hard against the ground.

The sand, the fallen steel darts, even a streak of blood—all were swept up by that stroke and flung toward the knife-wielder.

The knife-wielder did not raise his blade to block; instead, he stepped diagonally aside to avoid the darts, and for the sand and blood mist, he merely narrowed his eyes, letting his eyelashes shield his eyeballs.

If the opponent used those debris as cover to launch a surprise attack, his current stance allowed him to strike with his best possible cut at any moment.

But Chu Tianshu ignored him, lunged forward again, and jabbed the butt end of his peachwood sword scabbard into the temple of one bandit, breaking through several others blocking his path and charging straight out.

This man had actually broken out of the town and headed straight for the orchard.

The knife-wielder’s narrowed eyes snapped up, and he chased after him without delay.

Chu Tianshu no longer killed the remaining bandits; he pressed forward with full momentum, racing deep into the orchard.

He was now fully in the opening-acupoint state of a fist master, without the vision of a spirit-medium, but skilled fist masters were not entirely ignorant of demonic entities.

Their intuition could sense the source of danger; their noses could detect unusual odors.

Their yang energy was strong; even merely striking a spirit with bare fists could repel it like hitting a balloon, though the impact was too light to inflict serious harm.

But Chu Tianshu still held a magical artifact—his peachwood sword scabbard warmed slightly, aligning with his senses to indicate the direction of heavy demonic energy.

Beneath the shadow of a large tree ahead stood a red-faced, fat old man wearing a necklace of animal teeth; only a patch of hair remained on his scalp, braided into three small pigtails.

Beside him lay three large bamboo baskets, humming ominously.

Seeing Chu Tianshu rush toward him, the fat old man was startled, muttering something unintelligible.

Two dwarves, three feet tall, leapt from the tree canopy—faces wrinkled, wielding daggers—and a black wild cat followed.

Chu Tianshu’s eyes flickered; still over ten meters away, he suddenly veered off and dashed toward another direction in the woods.

The knife-wielder arrived here and without hesitation, pushed off sideways to follow.

He could not let this man slip from his sight again.

If this man found an opportunity to charge through the bandits once more—

No matter how fierce the outlaws, they would collapse!

The red, fat sorcerer, seeing the two men vanish into the woods, still looked displeased; he barked orders, telling the dwarves to stay close to him.

Suddenly, his expression brightened; he looked upward.

A brilliant, pure red glow from the western horizon was utterly extinguished behind the mountain peak.

The vast sky and boundless earth grew cold in an instant.

The moon had long risen, but gave only a dim, pale light.

(End of Chapter)