Chapter 822: Assuming a Merchant

When the word "Kill" slipped from Chen Yan's mouth, the sound was so light that even the One‑Eyed Dragon standing three steps away didn't hear it clearly.

But Hongye heard it clearly.

Her figure vanished from the spot at the exact instant the word landed; a moon‑white afterimage traced an extremely short straight line, starting at Chen Yan's right side and ending at the One‑Eyed Dragon's right wrist that held the Nine‑Ring Great Sword.

The One‑Eyed Dragon's eyeball still lingered on the smile on Chen Yan's face that sent a chill down his spine.

His right wrist felt an extremely brief chill.

It wasn't pain, it was cold.

The edge of the fine‑steel short sword lingered on his wrist for less than a blink; skin, tendon, and bone were all severed at the root within a single breath.

The Nine‑Ring Great Sword, together with half a palm, flew out and struck the roadside gravel, the iron ring clashing against stone with a crisp ding‑dong.

Blood spurted from the wound, arcing through the air and splashing onto the One‑Eyed Dragon's own copper eye patch.

The One‑Eyed Dragon lowered his head to stare at the stark white bone stump of his right hand, his mouth forming a perfect circle, and after three breaths in his throat he let out a heart‑rending wail.

"Ah!"

That wail became a signal.

Hundreds of fierce bandits surrounding the caravan, after that howl, were stunned for half a breath, then brandished knives and spears and surged toward the caravan.

"Brothers, charge! Kill these short‑sighted brutes!"

A fierce bandit with a face full of flabby flesh rushed to the front, thrusting his Long Spear straight toward Chen Yan.

When his spear tip was still five feet from Chen Yan's chest, two silhouettes slipped out from beneath the third wagon of the caravan, the sound of Horizontal Blades unsheathing echoing through the canyon.

One slash.

The spear shaft was cut cleanly at the waist.

Second slash.

The Long Spear bandit's bent knee was slashed from behind, and his whole body fell face‑down onto the gravel.

Those two silhouettes were Covered Wagon Hands disguised as Beiwei Dead Guards; now no disguise was needed. From beneath the five wagons and from inside the wagons, sixteen people surged out simultaneously, each gripping a military‑grade Horizontal Blade, the veins at their temples bulging under adrenaline.

They formed a tight circular battle formation, shielding Chen Yan at the center.

Hongye did not take part in the defense.

She moved through the crowd not as a combatant but like a white crane dancing among a flock of black crows.

Each swing of the fine‑steel short sword took the shortest path, the edge targeting hand and foot tendons, never striking directly at vital points.

The first bandit's sword‑holding wrist was sliced horizontally, and the blade fell from his hand.

The second bandit's ankle was cut obliquely, and his whole body collapsed to the ground like a grass stalk cut at the root.

The third bandit thrust his Long Spear toward her back; Hongye shifted her body half a step sideways, the spear tip brushed her hem and missed, she flicked the short sword back, cleaving the spear shaft in two, then the sword hilt tapped the bandit's temple with just the right force, causing his eyes to roll back and his body to flip onto his back.

The canyon rang with overlapping, continuous wails.

The scent of blood ricocheted between the stone walls, carried by the canyon's cross‑draft outward in both directions.

In less than the time it takes to sip half a cup of tea, over thirty bandits who had surged ahead lay on the ground—some clutching their wrists and wailing, some curled around their knees and rolling, and a few who had been struck on the back of the head by a Beiwei Dead Guard fell unconscious, motionless on the gravel.

The remaining sixty to seventy bandits huddled back, none daring to charge forward.

The One‑Eyed Dragon kept wailing throughout the fall of those thirty‑plus men, screaming while standing, then while squatting, then while kneeling, and finally rolling sideways across the gravel.

A somewhat sensible bandit beside him wrapped a few loops of a white belt around the broken wrist to staunch the bleeding, but blood still seeped out, staining the belt inch by inch a dark red.

Chen Yan stepped out from the center of the formation, and the Beiwei Dead Guards automatically cleared a passage.

He walked up to the One‑Eyed Dragon, the sole of his black‑leather boot pressing on the still‑bleeding severed wrist.

Then he pressed down forcefully.

The One‑Eyed Dragon let out a howl no longer recognizable as a human voice, his body arching like a boiled shrimp; his copper eye patch fell off in the struggle, revealing a sunken, gaunt eye socket scarred with dark‑red old wounds.

Chen Yan crouched, the ribs of his folding fan pressing against the One‑Eyed Dragon's chin, lifting his face.

"What did you just say again?"

His voice was light, almost airy amid the howls and moans.

"Even when Chen Zhuguo arrives, you have to pay?"

The One‑Eyed Dragon's lone eye bulged to its limit, the eyeball veined with blood, his mouth gaped wide, and his throat rasped heavily.

His mind raced two breaths amid excruciating pain and terror, then he shouted with a desperate, all‑or‑nothing cry.

"How dare you touch me? I'm the brother‑in‑law of Colonel Bai Xiaowei of the Negotiation Office! Harm me and you're opposing the military! You can't get out of this mountain!"

Chen Yan's folding fan tapped his chin twice lightly.

"Bai Xiaowei, which Bai Xiaowei?"

The One‑Eyed Dragon thought his title had effect, his words spilling out like dirty water released from a gate.

"Negotiation Office Third Camp Colonel Bai Chongli! He commands five hundred troops; his word is law in these mountains! Believe it or not, with a single shout I can rally men and horses within Half Hour Rest to charge!"

Chen Yan's gaze lingered a moment on the name "Bai Chongli."

A petty Negotiation Office colonel with five hundred men dares to let his brother‑in‑law monopolize the entire Western Trade Route, wipe out an entire clan, and the Sunken Corpse Heaven Pool.

The water is deeper than he imagined.

If a colonel lacks such nerve, there must be bigger fish behind him.

He withdrew the folding fan from the One‑Eyed Dragon's chin, closed it, and slipped it back into his waist.

"Hongye."

Hongye silently stepped to his side.

Chen Yan pointed his finger at the One‑Eyed Dragon's other wrist.

"Cut the tendon of his other hand, don't let him die, lead the way."

The One‑Eyed Dragon's howl peaked at the highest pitch the instant the short sword sliced the tendon, then his throat was torn by his own scream, leaving only a hissing breath; tears and snot mixed with dust on the gravel coated his face.

Two Beiwei Dead Guards lifted him from the ground, holding him in front of them like a tattered sack.

"Lead the way, to your old stronghold."

Duyanlong's mental defenses shattered into mush the moment both of his hands were rendered useless; he had no thought of resistance left, only kept nodding, snot bubbles popping out of his nostrils, breaking, then popping again.

"Go, take the left fork, then over two more hills and we'll be there."

The caravan pushed aside the blocking boulder, creating a gap just wide enough for the carriage, and followed Duyanlong's guidance into a dense forest path along the side of the canyon.

The path twisted and turned, left and right, and Chen Yan silently recorded the direction of each fork in his mind while inside the carriage.

After about a little less than Half Hour Rest, the forest opened up brightly at its end.

A narrow valley hidden behind a series of ridges appeared before us.

The valley was far larger than Chen Yan had expected; the slopes were dotted with countless shacks and wooden houses, and the flat ground at the bottom held hundreds of fierce bandits sitting or squatting in groups, some sharpening knives, some roasting meat, and a few wrestling and roughhousing.

In the center of the valley stood a two‑story stone watchtower, its entrance bearing a Black Banner, on which a crooked white‑painted snarling wolf head was depicted.

Chen Yan's gaze did not linger on the watchtower.

He looked at the open ground behind the tower.

There, forty to fifty rag‑clad Liuren laborers hunched over, laboriously moving heavy wooden crates; the crates were continuously brought out through a Secret Tunnel on the side of the valley and stacked in rows on the open ground.

Each laborer wore iron chains around his ankles, the chains clanking loudly on the ground; their faces were ashen, eyes vacant, like a horde of soulless walking corpses.

Chen Yan's eyes fell on those crates.

His ears caught a detail.

When the crates hit the ground, the sound was not the muffled yet soft thud of silk or tea leaves, but a heavy, dull clang of metal striking metal.

The smell in the air was also off.

It wasn't the musty odor of grain, nor the dye scent of fabrics.

It was a mix of iron rust and hot coal, the kind of scent only found in a weapons‑forging workshop.

The dandy grin of a spendthrift on Chen Yan's face vanished completely at that moment.

He leapt down from the carriage, strode toward the neatly stacked crates, the thud of his black‑leather boots on the broken stones echoing.

He reached the nearest crate, lifted his right foot.

He kicked it.

The side panel of the crate shattered on impact, splintering wood, and its contents were exposed to the sunlight.

Rows upon rows of brand‑new Horizontal Blades were neatly stacked, their blades still glinting with the sheen of fresh oil.

Beneath the Horizontal Blades lay a crate of refined steel arrowheads, each honed to razor sharpness, the shafts bearing identical batch numbers.

This is not something horse bandits could produce.

These are Standard‑Issue Weaponry.

Chen Yan crouched, picked a Horizontal Blade from the broken crate, tested the edge with his thumb, then turned it over to glance at the faint, deliberately worn‑down number on the hilt.

He tossed the Horizontal Blade back into the crate, stood, and glanced back at the now terrified Duyanlong.

A curved smile returned to his mouth, the curve sending a chill down the neck of anyone who saw it.

His voice was low, but at that moment each word sounded like steel forced through his teeth.

"Illicitly forged weapons."