Chapter 40: All Were Killed by Me

Li Guanyi calmed his Qi, adjusted himself, then forced his body to the creek. He squatted down and saw his reflection in the moonlit stream—his face slightly pale, his eyes darker than ever, the Bai Hu manifestation resting on his shoulder, playing with his hair.

Bai Hu’s claws caught a strand of hair, refusing to let go, the claws twitching desperately.

Yet to the naked eye, it looked like a breeze brushing the boy’s hairtips.

Li Guanyi laughed.

He sat back on a stone by the creek, drew his black heavy blade—its edge nicked, stained with blood—and pulled a cloth from the satchel at his waist. By moonlight, he wiped the blood clean to prevent rust and stench.

Then he polished the small dents with a whetstone fragment, keeping the blade’s edge sharp.

Finally, he oiled the blade thoroughly.

As he worked, his mind grew still. When he sheathed the blade, its soft whisper brought him peace.

In chaotic times, a sword could bring peace.

He searched the bodies of the others he’d killed—found a pile of wooden identity tags: newly recruited border soldiers.

Also over ten taels of silver, a bundle of letters—he took them all.

The Po Zhen Qu’s internal energy had already restored. The aching from his first solo battle, triggered by instinctive overexertion, vanished swiftly. Li Guanyi gathered the vegetables, placing them in the basket left by the old man—woven from bamboo and coarse hemp, sturdy and solid.

Thirty or fifty jin of vegetables remained edible, none spoiled.

They were truly fine produce; clearly grown with care.

Li Guanyi lifted the basket with both arms, took two steps, then remembered something—he turned back and saw the copper coin he’d tossed earlier, now lying face-down.

On it were four characters inscribed by the current Chen Emperor.

The script was elegant, rich.

It read: “Tai Ping Tong Bao.”

The boy grinned, flipped the coin to show the obverse, and said approvingly: “Of course it’s the obverse!”

He picked it up, wiped off the dirt, and tucked it into his chest.

He’d planned to return, but then remembered Xiang Yaoguang of the Eastern Land Star Gazing School. With villains like Qian Zheng out there, the area outside the city wasn’t safe. Xiang Yaoguang had cared for him during his poison crisis. After thinking it over, the boy decided to return and give a warning.

His internal energy infused into his arms was weaker than the Xue family’s ancestral technique, which strengthened the limbs.

But Po Zhen Qu was comprehensive; Li Guanyi’s arm strength was no weak, his stance firm—firmer even than the Xue family’s.

He hurried back. The campfire’s glow faintly lit the stone wall, flickering softly.

Li Guanyi slowed his pace. Xiang Yaoguang, under her hood, seemed to sense him—she turned her head, her voice calm as still water: “You’ve returned.”

Li Guanyi said: “There are fugitives outside. Your location may not be safe.”

Xiang Yaoguang’s voice remained calm: “Rest assured, disciples of the Eastern Land Star Gazing School are not defenseless. I am not like you—a hero who charges into battle—but I can protect myself. Thank you for your concern.”

Li Guanyi nodded, turned sharply, and left.

As he prepared to depart, he noticed a baked bun skewered on a stick.

Xiang Yaoguang, hooded and quiet, read her book. The bun bore fine tooth marks—clearly bitten hard. The dry, hardened bun had cracked open. Li Guanyi paused, turned back, and asked: “You eat only this?”

Xiang Yaoguang looked at him: “A little rice flour, some clear water—enough.”

Li Guanyi grinned, pointed at the vegetables, and said:

“I can’t carry these. I’ll leave them here.”

“You’ll—”

He saw the hardened bun and swallowed the words “can you cook?”

Instead, he asked: “Do you have a pot?”

Xiang Yaoguang slowly nodded, rose, and knelt before a large pack.

She rummaged.

Clatter. Clatter.

She lifted her head, turned, and held up a small iron pot in her pale hand—raised it, then rotated her wrist to show its tiny size.

Then she answered:

“Yes.”

Li Guanyi fashioned a wooden frame, set the pot atop it, filled it with clean water, then used Xiang Yaoguang’s dagger to chop the washed vegetables into small cubes and drop them in to simmer. He broke the hardened bun into fingertip-sized pieces and added them too.

He sprinkled in a pinch of salt.

“That’s all. No meat, no oil. Make do.”

Li Guanyi sat beside the iron pot, watching the food bubble.

Xiang Yaoguang’s eyes peered through the rising steam at Li Guanyi, her voice calm as still water: “Your mind is not tranquil. It is rippling—have you faced a choice?”

Li Guanyi froze.

He had just killed fifteen or sixteen people—but this wasn’t his first kill.

Previously, when he killed the two night-riding cavalrymen, Yue Qianfeng handled the aftermath.

Now, he felt restless.

Li Guanyi realized—he feared no killing, only the messy aftermath it forced him to manage. He knew himself: he refused to bear the responsibility of killing. Even if they were fugitives, he understood the Chen state’s bureaucracy would never let him off easily.

These border recruits and their sergeant turned bandits—there must be a reason. The connections could be deep.

It wasn’t as simple as turning in the identity tags for a reward.

The wind carried the scent of leaves.

Xiang Yaoguang rose, knelt beside him, and extended her palm, her voice calm: “Please, give me your hand.”

“Is this some ritual?”

Li Guanyi laughed.

But after a moment’s thought, he placed his palm in hers. Her pale, delicate hand cradled his. Xiang Yaoguang lowered her gaze: “No. It’s just that people on this land fear solitude. I believe companionship will quiet your mind.”

Xiang Yaoguang closed her eyes, clasped his palm, bowed her head, and recited the Eastern Land Star Gazing School’s aphorism. Her silver hair fell, her expression serene—as still as a moonlit stream.

Li Guanyi’s mind truly calmed. The turmoil within surfaced—he made his choice.

Xiang Yaoguang opened her eyes, released his hand: “You carry the aura of killing, but not of hatred. You doubt neither your path nor your actions. This means you’ve not slain the innocent. Your choice did not betray your heart. So do not doubt yourself. Do not fear.”

Xiang Yaoguang’s hand released his. Her brown eyes fixed on the boy before her.

“No matter what path you choose, as long as you do not become a tyrant who disrupts the world—”

“I will walk beside you.”

Li Guanyi couldn’t help but laugh: “Even if I’m a criminal condemned to flee?”

Xiang Yaoguang clasped her left wrist with her right hand, placed it before her chest, thought carefully, then answered quietly: “Then, do you need a fellow fugitive who can guide your way?”

“I will accompany you through the grandest escape the world has ever known.”

“This is a fate-bound vow.”

Li Guanyi had no reply.

He gazed at the creek. After his battle with Qian Zheng, he finally understood his fight with the Tielei prince. Now, he was certain—he could defeat the Tielei prince with his blade technique. But he’d only found the method after dying dozens of times. There was no glory in that.

Today’s killing had drained his strength. He would rest, then return.

Li Guanyi suddenly shouted aloud, venting all his inner turmoil.

Xiang Yaoguang watched him in silence.

Li Guanyi slapped his cheeks, rose, and said: “Thank you. I’ve understood something.”

“I’ll come again after tomorrow.”

“I’ll take my leave now.”

Li Guanyi walked off quickly. Xiang Yaoguang returned to sit by the campfire, studying the simple meal, quietly tasting it with plain utensils.

Li Guanyi returned alone to the city. At the gate, many villagers from nearby towns had formed long lines, waiting to enter when the gates opened. He faced some harassment—the gate guards sometimes demanded bribes, mistaking him for a vegetable farmer.

But when they saw his sword and bow, they froze, dared not speak further.

Li Guanyi gazed at the bustling Yicheng Gate. Dawn’s pale light touched the horizon. Shops along the road had opened—large iron pots boiled steaming broth, baked buns exuded the scent of wheat. Buildings with red lanterns hung from windows displayed gaudy decorations; doors opened, and flamboyant women helped scholars onto horses.

A faint, sweet fragrance drifted.

Scholars, flowers pinned in their temples, rode drunkenly, slowly making their way through the smoke of food stalls.

Passing a corner eatery, he flicked a finger—[Tai Ping Tong Bao] clinked onto the table. “A bowl of sour soup to sober up.”

He tapped his fingers on a clapper; the music of strings and flutes followed.

He sang:

“What peace! Li Guanyi stared at this familiar, comforting scene of peace—yet remembered the old man’s wailing, the long lines of vegetable farmers at the gate, Zhao Da Bing’s talk of middlemen trading in people. The Chen state and the world unveiled a corner before him—luxury and absurdity intertwined like crossing rivers.”

So this was how it was: for some, chaos was not chaos—it was peace.

In chaotic times, it was the common folk who suffered.

The boy gripped his sword, slung his bow, his robe stained with blood.

The scholar, flowers in his hair, reeled on horseback, reeking of perfume.

They passed each other.

The scholar, inexplicably startled, sobered instantly—looked left and right, saw nothing.

Li Guanyi first returned home to reassure his aunt.

Then he went to the Xue family.

He had killed fifteen or sixteen people. Though some were fugitives, the matter was not simple. The Chen state’s bureaucracy was labyrinthine—he might get no reward and instead be dragged into trouble. The only person he knew who could handle this cleanly was one man.

He was a guest minister. He entered the inner courtyard, thought a moment, then headed for Ting Feng Pavilion.

The old man, kept awake by the Po Yun Zhen Tian Bow, was sipping millet porridge, baffled.

Last night, at Chou hour, why had the Po Yun Zhen Tian Bow trembled again?

Li Guanyi hadn’t touched it—so it wasn’t him who triggered it?

The old man was jolted awake by the sound of the bowstring, and after pondering it, realized that at his age, sleep came scarce—he had spent the entire night awake.

As he was thinking, he heard Li Guanyi approaching, so he ordered another bowl of rice added, with extra rice and ginseng—the young lad had the biggest appetite, and the Xue family wasn’t afraid of being eaten out of house and home—and told him to come in.

Li Guanyi entered, his sleeves swirling.

Xue Daoyong raised an eyebrow.

The stench of blood.

Li Guanyi sat quietly before the table, unstrapped his battle bow, and said, “I killed someone.”

The old man frowned slightly, then realized that if he had killed an innocent, he would not have come back to him.

He asked no further questions, and simply asked:

“Who?”

Li Guanyi placed a military identification tag on the table.

“Qian Zheng, a corporal of border traitors.”

The old man stared at the Rujingwuzhe ’s badge, his pupils contracting slightly.

That was an elite border soldier of the Ying state—a corporal who had survived at least three major battles and reached the Entry Realm, a warrior who had seen blood, with at least seven enemy heads hanging in his tent. But with the Xue family’s divine bow, at range, though difficult and dangerous, such an opponent could still be dealt with.

One-on-one, across a realm boundary, even with weapon advantage, it still counted as both wisdom and courage.

The old man nodded in approval: “Not bad…”

Then he saw the boy reach into his robe and pull out another wooden tag, stained black by dried blood. He let it fall onto the table—dozens of military identity tags, all from border troops. The old man’s expression slowly froze. The boy’s sleeves bore no blood, only a single spot on his lapel.

He set down his battle knife beside him and said quietly, “And his accomplices—sixteen in total.”

“All slain by my own hand.”

(End of Chapter)