Chapter 86: Cheng Ren

Ahead was the ancestral hall. Bloodstains covered its outer walls in large patches; several corpses leaned against the base of the wall, their chests and abdomens pierced by more than one arrow. The blood beneath them had merged into one pool, congealed within it a long strand of intestine.

All the arrows had white feather fletching.

Inside the ancestral hall, it was pitch black. Something seemed to have been added to the table where maps were kept, and a figure stood motionless against the wall.

Xiang Weiyuan slowed his steps, wanting to enter the hall but hesitating. Suddenly, hurried footsteps sounded behind him—he spun around instantly, his spear already infused with Dao energy.

It was Sun Chaoen, the county magistrate, arriving—only his lower body wore armor; his upper torso was bare, wrapped in thick bandages oozing blood. His face was pale, his Dao light dim, clearly gravely wounded. In his hand he gripped another man, dressed in military armor, helmet missing, hair disheveled, stumbling as Sun Chaoen dragged him along.

Xiang Weiyuan recognized this man—he was Captain Wang Delu, in charge of the local militia.

Behind Sun Chaoen followed the assistant magistrate, the chief clerk, and other civil officials—all now clad in armor, each bearing wounds. Only Wang Delu appeared disheveled and drenched in blood, yet in truth he had suffered almost no injury.

Sun Chaoen saw Xiang Weiyuan and said nothing, stepping straight into the hall. Xiang Weiyuan followed closely behind.

As soon as they entered, an overwhelming stench of blood slammed into their faces, making them want to vomit.

Blood stained every corner of the dim hall, as if someone had sprayed it everywhere. In the open space inside, skulls were stacked in a pyramid—wider at the base, narrowing toward the top—a jinguan of three hundred militia heads.

On the table’s map lay the body of a small child, no more than two or three years old, chest and abdomen slit open. Beside the corpse stuck a short dagger. Its hilt was inlaid with multiple gems, ornate in design—the kind of close-quarters blade favored by Northern Liao nobility.

Against the wall stood a man, a long sword driven through his chest, pinning him fast. Though his robes were utterly stained purple-black, one could still make out the remnants of a civil official’s robe.

He was headless.

Sun Chaoen walked to the corpse, pressed his hand down, forcing Wang Delu to kneel before it. Wang Delu startled, then immediately began pounding his head against the floor, crying out: “Master Fang! I was a coward, it’s my fault! I deserve to die, I am guilty! Please, have mercy on me, spare me this time…”

Seeing the headless corpse, Xiang Weiyuan’s mind went blank, yet a silent, inexplicable, immense cold sorrow slowly took root and spread through his heart. Only after great effort could he speak, his voice hoarse beyond recognition: “What happened?”

Assistant Magistrate Ren Youwei spoke quickly and softly: “The Liao barbarians launched a surprise attack—five hundred cavalry, including a hundred Snow Eagle Riders. The Snow Eagle Riders are the personal guard of the A Gulala chieftain, identifiable by their white helmets and white-feathered arrows. They appeared without warning. Originally, they intended to storm the county seat. Master Fang, seeing the town unprepared, intervened—shot down over a dozen riders, then charged out and cut down dozens more.”

At this, Xiang Weiyuan felt doubt: How could Fang He Tong possibly have the combat prowess to charge through hundreds of Liao cavalry and slay dozens?

Ren Youwei continued: “...The Liao barbarians, enraged, split off a force to besiege Shayang Village. Thanks to Master Fang’s resistance, the county had time to mobilize troops and militia to defend the walls, preventing a breakthrough. Seeing they could not take the city, the Liao, furious and humiliated, turned to besiege the three Shayang villages. According to Liao tradition, they would massacre them.”

“At this time, the military encampment stood idle. When Master Sun saw the dire situation, he disregarded all caution and led troops out to rescue them. In the midst of battle, he was pierced through the chest by an arrow and fell into a coma. After Master Sun collapsed, Captain Wang seized command—he, a coward, led the troops back into the city, barricaded themselves inside, and watched helplessly as Master Fang exhausted himself and died, the Liao slaughtered all three villages, and built this jinguan…”

“When the Master awoke and learned what had transpired, he seized Wang Delu and rushed here immediately.”

Xiang Weiyuan listened numbly, then noticed a faint glimmer at the corner of his eye—the short dagger beside the little girl’s corpse was emitting clear magical energy. He walked over, yanked the dagger free. Its blade was nearly obscured by dried blood; then, before his eyes, a scene appeared.

It was before a village fortress—apparently a hamlet behind Shayang Village. Hundreds of Liao cavalrymen, wielding curved blades, were driving villagers out of the fortress. In the open ground stood a group of riders clearly distinct from the rest—each rode a white horse, taller than ordinary Liao steeds by at least two feet. Their scabbards and armor were white; their arrow fletching, white.

Among the countless white horses stood one magnificent black stallion, utterly without a single blemish. Mounted upon it was a towering Liao youth, his temples shaved bare, the rest of his hair braided into dozens of thin plaits tied into a single knot atop his head. His skin was bronze, gleaming like metal; his nose resembled a human’s, and by human standards, his features were strikingly handsome.

He sat astride his horse, looking down upon the captives. The villagers were mostly elderly, women, and children—few able-bodied men. They were herded onto the square, where a Liao soldier pushed forward a cartwheel and set it upright in the center.

This was Liao tradition: during the massacre of hostile villages, all those taller than the cartwheel were killed; those shorter were spared. It originated from ancient hunting customs—only killing adults, leaving the young to grow, ensuring future herds for future hunts.

The cartwheel had been taken from the village—it was slightly shorter than a standard Liao wheel, so only four or five children would survive. Had it been a proper Liao wheel, two more might have lived.

A woman brought her child to the wheel, measured it—the wheel just passed the child’s head. She wept with joy, shoving the child toward the far side of the square. The child, unaware, cried out to return, but the woman struck him hard across the face and shoved him away.

Soon all were measured. Five children stood on the far side. One child had slightly exceeded the height, but the Liao soldiers seemed not to notice this minor detail. The mothers on the far side no longer trembled—they prepared to die calmly.

Everything was ready. One command would bring the blades down.

The Liao youth on the black horse dismounted and walked to the cartwheel. He stared at the gathered villagers, his gaze cruel and cunning, like a predator toying with prey. A cruel smile curled his lips: “The wheel is placed wrong!”

With that, he kicked the wheel over!

“All taller than the wheel—kill!”

The Liao cavalry raised their blades and beheaded the five children first. The mothers on the other side erupted in chaos—some went mad, screaming as they rushed toward their children’s bloodied bodies, only to be cut down themselves. In moments, all lay dead in the blood; the Liao soldiers began severing heads one by one.

In the vision, the Liao youth walked toward Xiang Weiyuan, drew the short dagger, and returned it to his waist. It was the very dagger stuck beside the table.

The vision ended.

This dagger had been deliberately left by the young Liao man.

Xiang Weiyuan’s face was expressionless, but his hand trembled slightly. He noticed another object in the blood pool beneath the table, walked over, brushed aside a hardened chunk of viscera, and picked up an envelope. He opened it, pulled out the paper inside. The paper was soaked through with blood, yet the ink was darker, barely legible.

The writing was extremely messy, clearly dashed off in haste—yet each character radiated fierce, unrestrained, unyielding passion.

“Brother Xiang Weiyuan:

I am slow-witted, and after twenty-seven years, I finally established my Dao foundation—this life holds no hope of further progress. You, my younger brother, come from a renowned sect, gifted beyond measure; to have met you is my fortune.

You once spoke of the Three Immortalities. But the sage’s virtue seeks eternity—I, in my lifetime, can never reach it. So I have written only two essays: Merit and Words. I know they are crude, but I have given all I have. Now, the barbarians have struck suddenly; I, lacking talent and learning, have no strategy to repel them. For the people’s sake, for the nation’s sake, I must sacrifice this broken body and do all I can.

Fortunately, I have one final essay: ‘Cheng Ren.’”

(End of Chapter)