Chapter 13: A Moonless, Wind-High Night for Murder

Dusk approached, and the twilight deepened.

It was time for the martial academy to close.

Jiang Ye sat as usual in the shadow by the door, his back leaning against the cold doorpost, eyelids half-lowered, watching the disciples disperse in small groups.

“Hu Shidi, want to come over to my place for some baked cakes today...”

Lin Xiaohé’s voice was softer than usual, almost hooking, as she followed Hu Tian out through the academy’s main gate.

“Sure...”

Hu Tian paused, glanced at Lin Xiaohé with a grin, and was about to agree.

Suddenly, a clear voice, carrying a hint of arrogance, came from behind.

“Hu Shidi!”

Zhang Xu stepped out through the threshold, flanked by two or three inner-disciple students, his pace calm and unhurried.

He didn’t even glance at Lin Xiaohé beside him; instead, he tilted his chin toward Hu Tian, smiling warmly but with no room for refusal:

“Come on, Brother, I’m taking you to ‘Zuixian Pavilion’ tonight!”

“Thank you, Brother!”

Hu Tian didn’t hesitate a moment—his smile instantly shifted to Zhang Xu.

He barely had time to throw Lin Xiaohé a glance of reassurance and dismissal before turning, naturally slipping his arm around Zhang Xu’s shoulder, intimate and familiar, as if he’d long belonged to that circle.

“In another little while, maybe I could slip into that circle too.”

Lin Xiaohé stood where she was, watching the figures receding into the dusk, their laughter surrounding them, a flicker of hope in her brow.

If she could even connect slightly with that circle, the Wild Wolf Gang might hesitate before daring to come knocking and extort her so openly.

At this thought, the petty annoyance stirred by Hu Tian’s easy abandonment of her vanished instantly beneath a stronger emotion—the resentment toward Shi Lei, and... a cold sense of relief.

She resented him for his recklessness: instead of solving the problem, he’d only drawn worse trouble, nearly costing her family their meager savings.

She was even more relieved she’d acted decisively, severing ties with him cleanly and completely.

What could a man like Shi Lei offer, besides misplaced stubbornness and a fist that only brought trouble?

In this world, those were the cheapest, most dangerous things of all.

“Hmph! I must’ve been blind back then...”

Lin Xiaohé cast a cold glance toward the dim training ground, let out a short, scornful snort, then turned without hesitation and stepped into the thickening night.

Watching Lin Xiaohé’s figure fade into the distance, Jiang Ye slowly rose, his gaze thoughtful, murmuring softly:

“One more person hasn’t come out yet.”

Twilight, like gauze, draped over the silent outer courtyard.

On the ground, equipment lay scattered.

In the farthest corner, pressed against the wall, a figure was slowly, almost imperceptibly trembling, assuming the starting stance of the Mountain-Crushing Fist.

It was none other than Shi Lei.

His bruises looked darker in the dimness; his lips were tightly pressed, his eyes no longer holding the unyielding resolve of before—only vast emptiness, and... a hint of Huansan .

His fists clenched, yet his strength seemed to have nowhere to land; his whole posture drifted, distracted—not practicing, but punishing himself.

Jiang Ye’s footsteps were light, yet clear in the silence.

Shi Lei jolted awake as if from a dream, whirled around, recognized the man, and flinched with panic and embarrassment, hastily dropping his half-formed stance.

He tugged at his lips, trying to force a smile, but only pulled at his wounds, making him look even more broken.

“S-sorry, Uncle Jiang...” His voice was hoarse and dry. “I... I lost track of time again, kept practicing. I’ve delayed your closing. I’ll clean up right away—I’m leaving.”

He didn’t wait for Jiang Ye’s reply, spun around, bowed his head, and began frantically gathering the scattered stone weights and wooden posts.

Jiang Ye said nothing, only sighed softly, then joined him in picking up the scattered equipment.

“Uncle Jiang... I might... stop coming to practice.”

After arranging all the gear, Shi Lei hesitated, then suddenly spoke.

Jiang Ye looked at him deeply, his voice low:

“You’ve only been in the academy less than two months, and your fist technique is nearly at the threshold...”

“Why give up now?”

Shi Lei flinched as if struck by the words.

The last glimmer in his eyes struggled violently, then drowned into deeper darkness.

“Someone like me... with this kind of root quality...” His voice dropped lower, nearly a whisper, each word soaked in icy self-denial. “Even if I reach the threshold, I’ll never amount to anything.”

He drew a sharp breath, as if trying to expel the suffocating gloom from his chest—but it caught in his throat:

“Hu Tian... how long has he been here? The Academy Master personally guides him. The inner-disciple brothers vie to befriend him. Lin... Lin Shimei...”

At the mention of her name, his voice twisted, raw with unmasked pain and humiliation.

“She turns and clings to him, attentive and eager... and me? I trained until I bled for her, came back beaten and bruised—what did I get?”

He choked, unable to continue, teeth clenched so hard his temples bulged with veins, eyes reddening—but he stubbornly held his head high, refusing to let the moisture fall.

Jiang Ye listened in silence, his eyes holding no surprise, only the deep understanding of a still pond.

Lin Xiaohé’s icy betrayal, and Hu Tian’s sudden appearance, had struck Shi Lei too hard.

“Sorry, Uncle Jiang, I talked too much.”

Shi Lei abruptly turned his face away, voice trembling with shame, and moved to leave.

“Shi boy...”

Jiang Ye’s voice was quiet, yet like an invisible thread, it halted his frantic steps.

He looked at the young body before him—bruised, battered, as if all spirit had been drained—and spoke slowly:

“I’ve heard the Academy Master say many times: root quality... is heaven’s gift of food.”

“But whether you hold the bowl steady, whether you eat enough, whether the food tastes sweet or bitter... sometimes, it’s not entirely up to heaven’s whim.”

“Flowing water doesn’t compete for the lead—it competes to keep flowing!”

At these words, Shi Lei’s body jolted; his dim eyes suddenly flared bright. “Flowing water doesn’t compete for the lead...”

“Uncle Jiang, do you think I still have a chance?!”

His gaze burned with urgency, desperate as a drowning man clutching at driftwood, fixed on the old man’s face.

Jiang Ye did not directly answer his question.

He simply gazed back at the boy’s blazing eyes, his expression neither joyful nor sorrowful.

Everyone walks their own path—he didn’t know what Shi Lei’s would become if he kept going.

Perhaps he’d struggle to reach the threshold, only to become a mediocre martialist, struggling and sinking in this chaotic world.

But he didn’t need to say it.

Some fires need only a single spark.

Shi Lei didn’t demand a definite answer.

He stood still, chest heaving, chewing over those eight words again and again.

“Flowing water doesn’t compete for the lead... it competes to keep flowing... keep flowing...”

Each time he repeated them, the light in his eyes grew brighter; his shattered spine seemed to draw a thread of strength from deep within his marrow, slowly straightening.

After a moment, he stepped back, turned to Jiang Ye, and suddenly dropped to his knees with a thud, forehead slamming hard against the cold ground.

“Thank you, Uncle Jiang, for your guidance—this debt, I, Shi Lei, will never forget!”

His voice was hoarse, yet firm as hammered iron, ringing with the weight of a falling mallet.

Without another word, he rose abruptly, turned, and strode out the door.

Jiang Ye stood where he was, watching the figure—once again upright—vanish swiftly into the night, and smiled faintly:

“Looks like tomorrow, he’ll be the first to arrive at the academy.”

Night had deepened.

Creak—

A soft sound.

The narrow door of the gatehouse opened a crack; a shadow slipped out soundlessly, then quietly shut it behind him, sealing it tight.

The shadow stood motionless beneath the eaves for a moment, then slowly lifted his head.

His face was covered by a common, coarse black cloth, leaving only his eyes exposed.

Those eyes, beneath the pitch-black sky, held none of the age or dimness of daytime—instead, they glowed with inner brilliance, deep as a frozen well, sharp as a blade about to be drawn.

It was Jiang Ye.

A moonless, wind-swept night.

Time to go “eat people” and make money!