Chapter 157: I Swear to Kill Them All, and I Won

When Chen Guanlou reached the second chapter's perfect completion of the Book of Ascension, there was no turmoil, no earth-shaking events, no medicinal aids, no external stimulation, no desperate struggle for attainment—he didn't even consciously think about it; while drawing water from the well, he smoothly slipped past the second chapter and into the third.

Feeling?

If the second chapter was a qualitative leap, the third was like a fish returning to water. The previously sluggish areas became clear channels, flowing ceaselessly. The gentle streams now moved unimpeded, granting him new insights into swordplay.

Though he had not yet reached the perfect state of "no sword in hand, sword in heart," his intent moved with his mind, the blade followed his intent—petals, falling leaves, all could become swords.

He stood atop the roof, feeling the cold wind pass over him.

One day, the wind would be his sword, the rain his sword, heaven and earth all his sword. He reached out toward the horizon, as if merely extending his hand could let him touch the sky, touch the heavens of martial arts.

"Little Lou, are you crazy? Why are you standing on the roof in the wind? Don't you think it's cold enough?"

Da Wang shouted up from below, neck craned.

Chen Guanlou: …

That brat Da Wang just needed a beating—he shattered his sage moment, the perfect harmony of soul and body, the subtle sensation of heaven and earth's power.

He leapt down from the roof and gave Da Wang a sharp knock on the head. "I'll tell your mother you need real work—you can't just idle all day. How about studying?"

"Are you a demon?" Da Wang screamed and ran off.

Chen Guanlou took a half-month leave.

He gave a ridiculous yet predictable excuse: he would climb the mountains to seek out martial masters and study profound martial arts.

Those who knew him well understood his obsession with martial arts. Back when he was in the Bing-class prison, he'd plucked wool from prisoners, gathering no end of martial manuals.

The two Fan officials granted him leave, reminding him he must return before year-end accounts were sealed.

Chen Guanlou promised wholeheartedly—anything as long as he got leave. He handed his duties to Xiao Jin and Qian Fugui, and asked Wang Bantou to keep an eye on things.

Wang Bantou assured him: year-end was quiet, all yamen offices were dormant; even if they had to arrest criminals, they'd wait until after the New Year. Normally, no major cases were opened before the holiday—unless the palace ordered it.

The old emperor was currently focused on the war in Jinzhou and had no time to bother with the chaotic affairs of court. This year-end would surely be peaceful.

Xiao Jin and Qian Fugui swore they'd protect Second Young Master and properly train Li Xin. Second Young Master's safety was the safety of everyone in the Tianlao—strictly following the manual, not missing a single detail.

Elder sister Chen Xiaolan knew his nature: once he decided, even nine oxen couldn't pull him back. She only warned him: "I won't interfere in your affairs, but you must return before the New Year. And hurry up and marry a woman. If you won't act, I'll find one for you. I heard about the young widow—since she didn't want you, forget her."

"What young widow? I've long forgotten. Sister, you're listening to Chunxiang's gossip again."

"Whether Chunxiang's lying, you know best. Ever since the young widow vanished without word, you've been acting strange—running to the roof in winter to catch the wind. Don't you fear freezing to death? Even if she was beautiful, she's a widow with a son. I tell you, if you're going to marry a widow, marry one with daughters. A widow with a son? Raise him, and he'll turn out a thankless wolf."

Simple truth. The essence of life.

Chen Guanlou nodded repeatedly, fully agreeing with his sister's final words. Even Dorgon couldn't handle a widow with a son—what could an ordinary man do?

His luggage was a simple bundle. At dawn, he blended into the first group leaving the city, heading straight for Tuzhou's Dangyang County, Jiguan Village—so named because all villagers bore the surname Hu, also called Hu Family Village.

Surrounded by mountains, the largest peak resembled a rooster's comb from afar—hence the name Jiguan Village. Its geography was ideal: the mountains formed a natural barrier, with only one passage in and out.

After trekking through mountains and rivers, on the third day Chen Guanlou stood on the riverbank. Cross the river, climb one more mountain, and he'd reach Hu Family Village. By land, it meant detouring over a hundred extra li.

The river was wide—its broadest point at least seventy or eighty meters.

After settling the fare, he boarded the boat.

The boatman, who made his living on the river, burst into a genuine rustic folk tune that echoed across both banks.

As the boat reached midstream, Chen Guanlou stood at the prow, gazing at the roaring waters.

A lone swordsman.

At this moment, he wore the mantle of the nameless hero, his thoughts as deep and vast as the great river.

Suddenly…

Plop!

The boatman leapt into the river.

Sword drawn!

One slash downward!

Waves surged!

A gush of blood spurted from beneath the water, staining the surface, then quickly dissolving, swept away by the waves.

Several fish floated belly-up, yet the boatman's body remained unseen.

The boat's hull had been pierced by a large hole and was sinking rapidly.

Chen Guanlou smiled softly. The boatman being a Hu family member—or rather, a Hu family spy—was no surprise.

He picked up the pole, tossed it into the water, stepped upon it, and walked across the surface. A sinking boat wouldn't stop him. He had vowed to kill the entire Hu family—and he would.

A wicked family deserved to be cleansed.

He reached the opposite bank smoothly, continuing to climb mountains. Beyond the peak, he looked down upon a fertile valley, lush with brick-and-tile houses. At the village center stood a massive estate spanning dozens of mu—towering, unmistakable.

Children played in the village, their laughter seeming right beside his ears.

Even in winter, people worked in the fields.

But upon closer look, the laborers wore only thin clothing; the mountain wind howled, and all hunched their necks against the cold. Their frail bodies bore unbearable burdens, iron chains dragging from their ankles.

Slaves!

Serfs!

No wonder they were the kidnapper family.

On the field ridges, overseers swung whips—anyone who moved slowly, slacked off, or pretended to work was beaten with whips and clubs.

A woman collapsed from exhaustion. Instantly, whips and clubs rained down—her bones shattered, blood spewed from her mouth, still breathing, she was dragged away… dragged… dragged into the mill. Soon, the grinding sound of the millstone began.

A bloody, fleshy pulp was dumped straight into the pig trough.

The other serfs never looked up. Each mechanically, numbly kept working.

Chen Guanlou: …

He had still underestimated human evil.

Even hell's eighteen layers couldn't match this.

At the only entrance—the bridge atop the mountain ridge—a fortified watchtower stood, manned by fully armed guards, armed with all manner of prohibited weapons, even crossbows!

Pure rebel equipment!

No wonder this small, blood-soaked, evil family had stood for a hundred years—there was something to them.