Chapter 101: Killed Until Eyes Ran Red

Hearing the chill in Jiang Mingyu’s words, Old Li’s ecstatic expression vanished instantly.

He widened his eyes, lips parting and closing, trying to explain but only uttering incoherent stammers: “I… my lord…” his voice trembling with despair.

Jiang Mingyu waved his hand impatiently, coldly saying: “What are you standing there for? Don’t you know how to send this so-called archer back to his hometown?” His brow furrowed, eyes icy as blades, every word dripping with murderous intent.

At this, several soldiers rushed forward, roughly dragging Old Li away. He screamed in desperate pleas, his cries sharp and terrified. Then came a series of bowstrings snapping—his screams cut off abruptly, replaced by the dull thud of arrows piercing flesh.

Jiang Mingyu didn’t even glance at Old Li; his eyes remained utterly blank, as indifferent as crushing an ant. He turned to Yang Dazhuang, whose face was ashen, body shaking violently, retreating helplessly like a trapped beast.

“Master Yang, isn’t it time we settled our accounts?”

Jiang Mingyu’s voice was calm, yet carried an undeniable weight of authority, like a judge about to pronounce a criminal’s fate.

He repeated his earlier accusation: “You and your rabble first gathered in the mountains, terrorizing the people.”

Zhu Ge Yu stood to the side, watching silently, inwardly admiring Jiang Mingyu’s bearing.

Jiang Mingyu continued: “Then you defied imperial troops and conspired to assassinate me. Under the laws of the Great Feng, what crime do you deserve?”

At that moment, Li Goudan stepped forward, shouting angrily: “Conspiring to murder a court official? The punishment is the extermination of three clans.”

Jiang Mingyu smiled faintly and nodded in agreement: “Correct. Extermination of three clans.”

But his expression turned instantly icy: “Yet today, I am merciful—I’ll kill only you. Are you ready to die?”

On the ground, Yang Dazhuang trembled under the overwhelming pressure, his pale face turning even whiter.

He seemed to already feel death approaching, even ignoring the blade at his nape.

But at this moment of life and death, his fear overcame all else. He crawled frantically forward, clutching Jiang Mingyu’s leg, sobbing: “My lord, I’m sorry! I’ll never dare again! I swear I’ll change—”

Before he finished, a dagger gleaming with cold light slipped from his rough sleeve. In Yang Dazhuang’s hand, the blade flashed with ruthless brilliance, now his only hope of survival.

Yang Dazhuang gripped the dagger without hesitation, suddenly transformed into a demon, his eyes filled with grotesque murderous intent.

He lunged violently toward Jiang Mingyu’s abdomen, lips curling into a cruel grin: “If I can take a royal envoy down with me before I die, it’s worth it.”

But just as the dagger neared Jiang Mingyu’s body, a cold snort sounded from the side, followed by a flash of silver. Yang Dazhuang’s body jerked violently, his eyes wide with disbelief.

Before the stunned gaze of all, Tu Kexiluo drew his longsword and coldly severed Yang Dazhuang’s neck. Blood gushed like a fountain, red mist splattering the snow and drifting in the cold wind.

His head severed from the neck, rolled onto the snow, staining the white with blood—a horrifying sight.

Tu Kexiluo withdrew his blade, coldly scanning the corpse on the ground: “You’ll never change in this life.”

Jiang Mingyu seemed to snap out of his shock, his gaze steadying amid the chaos. He looked at Tu Kexiluo, eyes filled with gratitude and approval.

Yang Dazhuang’s body lay on the ground. In the ensuing silence, Jiang Mingyu’s face gradually regained composure: “Good. Very good.”

He turned to the surrounding crowd, his voice calm yet resolute: “I never realized the bandits of Heifeng Ridge were all such fearless heroes.”

The scene froze in time—whether bandits or soldiers, all fell silent.

Yang Dazhuang’s death was like thunder, shattering their souls.

Jiang Mingyu spoke again: “Tell me, how should I deal with you?” His gaze swept over them.

Under the shadow of death, they lost all their former arrogance, leaving only deep terror.

Jiang Mingyu’s lips curled into a cold smile: “Pardon? Impossible.”

His tone grew colder still, as if he stood on the edge of life and death, having seen through all human frailty.

Jiang Mingyu’s eyes were icy, without the slightest hesitation—he gave the order: “I have no time to waste on you. Cut them all down. Eradicate them root and branch.”

The moment he spoke, the executioners moved instantly, raising their gleaming longswords.

The heavy blades reflected dim, chilling light in the air—about to fall in the next instant.

The kneeling bandits wore expressions of utter despair, wailing helplessly, with nowhere to flee.

Sharp decapitation sounds rang out, the wet crunch of blades cutting through flesh echoing across the empty mountains.

One by one, the bandits collapsed, hot blood spurting forth, soon pooling into a crimson lake on the ground.

The air reeked of thick, cloying blood.

Jiang Mingyu watched it all expressionlessly, hands clasped behind his back, eyes as cold as frost, unmoved by the brutality before him.

When the last bandit breathed his last, Jiang Mingyu gave a slight wave, ordering the troops to stand down.

He walked among the ground littered with grotesque severed heads, glancing idly, then ordered his men to preserve them carefully.

Jiang Mingyu’s eyes were cold as he surveyed the pile of scattered heads, coldly instructing his men to collect and preserve them—take them back to the city for rewards.

His tone remained calm and composed, unaffected by the carnage around him.

Yet Jiang Mingyu’s murderous rage had not yet subsided—he immediately planned to lead the army against the next target. His face brimmed with killing intent, eyes glowing with a feverish red, clearly still drunk on slaughter.

At that moment, Zhu Ge Yu spoke with solemn caution, his voice earnest and careful: “Master, wait. Our troops are exhausted. They need proper rest. Let us camp tonight, march tomorrow—only then will we have full strength.”

Jiang Mingyu’s face darkened, snapping back irritably: “So what are you suggesting?” His eyes revealed impatience—he was clearly annoyed by Zhu Ge Yu’s advice.

Zhu Ge Yu did not flinch, continuing patiently: “The army must rest to regain strength. This is prudent. As the old saying goes—” His tone was firm, his manner earnest and resolute.

Jiang Mingyu fell silent for a moment, then accepted his advice.

He nodded: “As you say.” Then ordered the army to set up camp and prepare to march at dawn.

He walked slowly past the scattered corpses, his face gradually regaining calm.

As Jiang Mingyu wandered through the bandit stronghold, Zhu Ge Yu slipped in quietly. He bowed slightly, respectfully greeting Jiang Mingyu: “Master, our losses: thirty-two wounded, forty-eight dead.”

His voice was steady, yet unmistakably heavy with grief and unease.

For any army, this was a crushing blow—and as the strategist, Zhu Ge Yu bore some responsibility for the casualties.

Jiang Mingyu waved his hand, a trace of comfort in his expression: “To forge a steel army, this is an unavoidable step. Grieve, but endure.”

His tone was calm, yet Zhu Ge Yu sensed warmth and care beneath it.

Jiang Mingyu continued: “Besides, they died fighting bandits, for the people of Shangmu. They died with purpose. I’ve wiped out every bandit on Heifeng Ridge—this avenges them. They may rest in peace.”

These words seemed meant to comfort Zhu Ge Yu—but more so, to comfort himself.

Jiang Mingyu knew his duty was to protect the people of Shangmu. Even at this cost, it was worth it.

His inner turmoil reflected both his respect for life and his sense of mission and responsibility.

Yet faced with the decision to exterminate bandits, his heart remained complex. He respected life, yet the cruelty of reality forced him to choose—to protect the many.

Under Jiang Mingyu’s gaze, Zhu Ge Yu felt a wave of helplessness.

Though he agreed with Jiang Mingyu’s decision, he could not escape his inner struggle.

In the end, he chose silence—he understood this decision was beyond his power to change.

An awkward silence settled. Jiang Mingyu sensed the shift and changed the subject: “How is the task I assigned you?”

Zhu Ge Yu sighed, his voice weary: “Don’t worry. The over ten thousand taels of silver from Mount Sanqing have been sent back to Shangmu.”

He sounded satisfied with the task’s completion, yet his fatigue was clear.

For a strategist, planning the details of a battle was exhausting—especially after combat, when body and mind were drained.

“Except for the last remaining Scorpion, there are no more bandits in Shangmu capable of posing a threat. No more surprises.”

His voice carried a hint of relief—he clearly felt responsibility for Shangmu’s peace.

“Should these silver suffice to feed your city garrison’s fifty thousand men for a month or two?” Jiang Mingyu asked.

His tone was lighter, as if, after countless hardships, a measure of relief had finally arrived.

He knew supplies were vital for any army—especially during war.

Jiang Mingyu nodded, satisfied: “With the silver hidden at Heifeng Ridge and Scorpion Gully, our troops will easily survive the spring famine.”

His gaze turned toward the distance, his expression grave: “Zhu Ge Yu, how do you think we should fight the next battle?”