Chapter 8

The night was dim, fine rain drizzled from the sky; several sturdy men in black clothes stood in the alley, getting drenched, the rain soaking their black clothes and clinging tightly to their bodies, yet they paid no heed, instead keeping a close watch on their expressions; suddenly their expressions tightened, because a figure appeared at the alley mouth.

A man wearing half-white half-black attire, with a green sash tied around his waist and a long sword in its sheath attached, a black-and-white half headcloth pressing his hair down to his neck, rainwater dripped from the hem of his silk robe like dew on lotus leaves; looking at this man, the ruffians in the courtyard all rose to their feet.

"Kid, you've got the guts of a bear and a leopard, do you know what place this is?" a masked thug glared ferociously at the approaching man.

"Watch the show, damn it, dare to cause trouble on our Poison Scorpion Sect's turf, I'll cripple him." the masked little leader's face first froze, then his killing intent surged; as he tightened his right wrist, a sleeve-blade protruded from the back of his hand, while the other lackeys likewise either drew sleeve-blades or pulled out a strange gate-claw weapon, the haft as long as an arm, one end splitting into three prongs, these three prongs not only sharp but also able to close together to grab a person.

"Looks like I still need to give him a hot welcome." Zhou Shuo watched the swarming lackeys, slapped his waist sheath with his left hand, the long sword leapt out, a flash of cold light passed, the lackey at the front cried out, clutching his bleeding right wrist, halting his movement.

One lackey had his right wrist severed, but that was not enough to make these fierce and brave Poison Scorpion Sect disciples retreat; sleeve-blades and three-pronged strange claws came at him from all sides, Zhou Shuo watched the messy weapons striking, held his long sword horizontally with his right hand, blocked the three incoming strange claws, pulled right to push the attackers aside, then thrust left with the sword, stepped with his feet, and his body followed the blade.

Thin cold light weaved through the crowd, flickering intermittently; in the chaos lay a severed thumb, whole palms and shattered weapons fell, clinking and clanking, wails continuous, after about a dozen breaths Zhou Shuo sheathed his sword, not even looking at the lackeys fallen on the ground, he turned his head to look into the darkness.

"Wei Zhuang elder brother!" Zhou Shuo watched a youth approach from the darkness, holding a vermilion sword sheath in his hand, his forehead bound with a cloth.

"Let's go!" The youth's clothes were already soaked by the fine rain, carrying a wind-and-rain scent; he uttered two words and walked into the alley, and Zhou Shuo naturally followed.

Inside the alley was a sealed large house; Wei Zhuang stepped forward silently, and with a bang the house's grand door sprang open, revealing a spacious, warm interior; the house held several lamps, the walls bore torches and charcoal basins, shadows layered in the light; at the center of the great hall stood a tiger-skin throne, the wall behind it and the banners inside bore scorpion patterns; a black-clad armored man stood with one foot on the throne, his burly frame paired with a black beard on his jaw, giving off a somewhat heroic and valiant air.

"Wei Zhuang elder brother, I'm just here to watch the show." Zhou Shuo looked at the many people standing inside the house, couldn't help raising his eyebrows; there were at least thirty or forty people, each face covered with a black cloth, their bodies not only heavy with killing intent but also heavy with murderous aura; among them, the man with one foot on the throne had the highest martial skill, though still limited.

"Go help me find someone!" Wei Zhuang is typically a man of few words, but when he speaks there is always a sense of purpose.

"So you didn't bring me just to watch the fun, huh?" Zhou Shuo looked at the man of few words who opened his mouth to offer help.

"Kill them." The man with one foot on the throne looked at the two intruders, his black beard trembling, he let out a loud shout.

"Quick battle, quick decision." Wei Zhuang's body flickered, he shoulder-checked past a lackey, the long sword in his vermilion sheath already drawn—a strangely shaped long sword with an extraordinarily thick green-veined spine, one edge of the blade full of reverse teeth, exuding a ferocious, man-eating aura; as he brushed past the lackey, the latter fell, while Wei Zhuang had already thrust his sword into another person's body.

"Really straightforward enough." Zhou Shuo watched the future lord of the quicksand, tiger among sheep, ground his teeth slightly, went along with this guy, as if there wasn't much good entertainment to be had.

"There's still one more here..." several masked Poison Scorpion Sect disciples closed in, but before they could finish speaking, they choked on their own blood, clutching their throats and collapsing; Wei Zhuang severed a right arm, glanced at Zhou Shuo with sword in hand, then plunged back into the melee.

"Just now..." the black-bearded man standing on the throne likewise gazed at Zhou Shuo, his eyes holding a hint of disbelief, because he saw this man casually flick out a blade of light in an instant, and then his five subordinates all clutched their throats and fell—sword qi, extremely fierce sword qi.

"Children ought to be filial to their parents, not go gallivanting into the martial world at the drop of a hat; the martial world isn't that easy to mess around in." Zhou Shuo gripped his sword, looking at the fallen Poison Scorpion Sect lackeys, his gaze sweeping to the man still staring at him, one foot on the throne—the boss of the Poison Scorpion Sect, Heixiezi.

"Wei Zhuang elder brother, leave his life to me." Zhou Shuo looked at Heixiezi, from his hand scattered a blade of light, severing the right hand of a small lackey wearing a sleeve-blade, then seized his throat as he cried out.

"Speak, where is your prison? Otherwise it won't be just a matter of one hand." Zhou Shuo looked at the Poison Scorpion Sect disciple gritting his steel teeth, his eyes wavering.

"There, over there." the Poison Scorpion Sect disciple covered his missing right wrist, using his eyes to indicate the direction to Zhou Shuo, lacking the courage to lie.

Having obtained the answer he wanted, Zhou Shuo casually flung the fellow aside, then followed the instructions; as for that unlucky wretch, a 180‑catty person hurled into the air happened to block the two chain‑flying claws shot from Heixiezi's side, and was disemboweled, his intestines torn out.

"Block him for me." Heixiezi retracted his twin chain‑claws, pointing in frustration at Zhou Shuo walking toward a corner of the house, yet his right shoulder suddenly ached—he was pierced by a strangely shaped long sword, his whole body lifted by the blade and flung to strike the wall, where he came to a stop.

"Answer one question; get it right and you live, get it wrong…" Wei Zhuang casually snapped the necks of two Poison Scorpion Sect members, then strolled up to the man pinned to the wall by a sword.

"You ask, you ask?" Heixiezi looked at the cold‑hearted white‑haired youth, feeling only that his teeth were chattering.

"Was the assassin of Prince Han Fei your subordinate?" Wei Zhuang stared coldly at Heixiezi, reaching out to grip the hilt of the sword nailed into his body.

"No, no, it was an expert outside the city; the Poison Scorpion Sect merely handled the grunt work." Heixiezi felt the sword lodged in his body shift, his teeth involuntarily chattering, daring not to conceal anything.

As Wei Zhuang interrogated Heixiezi, Zhou Shuo followed the directions and found the entrance to the Poison Scorpion Sect's dungeon; a stairway led down into pitch darkness, ending in a damp stone chamber where a utterly disheveled old man stood with arms outstretched to either side, his wrists chained to iron links, standing there like a crucified Jesus—except without the cross behind him.

Zhou Shuo stepped forward and swung his sword to sever the iron chain; though called an iron chain, in this era most metal is bronze except for a few famous weapons forged from refined gold‑metal, but before the ice‑pattern sword forged from the top‑grade patterned steel of the Yang‑Shen world, it was as soft as tofu.

After cutting the chain, Zhou Shuo hoisted the fallen old man onto his shoulder, ignoring his weak inquiries, heading toward the stairway to leave the dungeon; one cannot help but say, this fellow's stench is truly strong—thinking back to the once‑illustrious Korean minister of war, now reduced to this state, Zhou Shuo couldn't help feeling a pang of pity for him.

"Boom—" the dungeon's exit erupted with a sudden roar, then abruptly sealed shut by some mechanism; inside the sealed stone cell a pungent odor instantly spread.

"Petroleum." Zhou Shuo sniffed the pungent smell, couldn't help grinding his teeth—this was a trap.

"It's stone lacquer, used by the Baiyue for mining; it explodes." the old man's weak reminder faded as the pitch‑black dungeon suddenly blazed to life, fierce flames mingling with an even more pungent odor that filled the air.

"You call it stone lacquer! We call it petroleum, but if we were mining we'd have something far better." Zhou Shuo thrust his sword casually into the ground beneath his feet, then drew a stack of paper from his bosom; the paper bore purple sigils formed from countless purple granules congealed together, crawling like earthworms across the sheet, shaping countless flames and lightning—this is the Fang Xian Dao paper purple‑fire thunder talisman.

Fang Xian Dao excels at divine thunder talismans, able to concoct various explosives; the most powerful is violet thunder powder, a fist‑sized amount capable of blasting apart a fifty‑square‑meter room, its explosive yield on par with TNT, usable for mining; besides mining, Fang Xian Dao's adepts can also take medicine as ink, focus their intent into the brush, write on paper to create fire‑powder thunder talismans, specialized against high‑level Dao practitioners.

Fire‑powder thunder talismans come in various textures—gold and jade being finest, wood next, paper lowest; having studied the Fang Xian Classic, Zhou Shuo drew the symbols with violet thunder powder on paper, each talisman's blast modest, but many together add up; he avoided the spreading flames, slapped a bunch onto the dungeon exit, then retreated to a safe zone.

The dungeon's choking odor had already grown thick; Zhou Shuo's mind stirred, and immediately a blast rang out—the air inside surged, fragments of stone hammered the walls, as expected the dungeon exit blew open; Zhou Shuo carried the old man, whose intake exceeded his output, out of the roaring flames and billowing smoke of the dungeon.

"Cough, really choking to death, Wei Zhuang elder brother, have you settled things?" Zhou Shuo looked at the black ash on his clothes, needless to say how vexed he felt, he walked to the Poison Scorpion Sect's main hall; there he saw Wei Zhuang standing with his sword planted, facing the gate, not far behind him Heixiezi's eyes were wide open, staring lifelessly at the sky, blood gurgling from his throat, the black feather emblem on it stained with blood.

"What use is he to you?" Wei Zhuang looked at Zhou Shuo emerging from the dungeon, battered all over but still shouldering a person on his shoulder, then glanced at the already dead Heixiezi, his expression a little displeased.

"What use is he?" Wei Zhuang watched Zhou Shuo emerge from the dungeon, looking a bit battered but still carrying a person on his shoulder, and glanced again at the already dead black scorpion, his expression slightly annoyed.