Chapter 25

The night was deep, wind howled fiercely, rain fell like knives.

In Dongjingcheng, south of the Zhuque Avenue, First Sweet Water Alley.

Countless black-clad figures, wearing conical hats and straw capes, silently surrounded the narrow alley.

First Sweet Water Alley was filled with tea houses, shops thrived, and brothels were numerous.

At that moment, a slender figure, small as a monkey, slid down a wall to the front of the black-clad men and whispered, “Seventh Brother, we’re certain Wei Hu is in Old Lady Zhang’s house.”

“Visiting Xiao Liu Hong?” The leader of the black-clad men spoke in a gloomy tone.

“That’s right!” the monkey-like figure replied.

“Strike in fifteen minutes. Eliminate Wei Hu—ignore everyone else. Once Wei Hu is dead, the Tiger Gang will be leaderless, and internal chaos, their collapse, is inevitable.”

“Seventh Brother is brilliant!”

“That’s what the Young Master said!”

“The Young Master is brilliant!”

Beneath Zhou Bridge, beside the Bian River, many boats were moored.

Several large pleasure barges, typically used for entertainment, hung lanterns made of sheepskin soaked in dyed orangutan blood—impervious to wind and rain; the lanterns swayed, the boats swayed, their glow flickering dimly.

The imperial guards responsible for patrolling the inner and outer cities were nowhere to be seen; wild cats curled beneath trees and beside the bridge, emitting mournful, pitiful cries. The Bian River’s waters were thick and heavy, rippling with the wind, emitting a deep, eerie wail like an owl’s cry.

In the distance, an oiled paper umbrella appeared silently, drifting toward the Bian River; its canopy was fresh grass-green, delicate and charming, seemingly untouched by the storm, as if about to be torn away by the wind.

Beneath the umbrella stood a youth, about sixteen or seventeen, dressed in a white Confucian robe, his expression calm and detached. One hand lightly held the umbrella’s handle; the other carried a carved-lattice lantern, its flame flickering, illuminating his path.

The paper-umbrella youth, carrying a lantern through wind and rain, reached the banks of the Bian River.

His steps were light, as if in perfect rhythm with the raindrops falling from the sky, each step distinct and measured.

Behind him followed a black-clad man, holding an iron spear upside down, his entire figure blending into the darkness, visible only intermittently.

Farther behind, many conical hats and straw capes trailed distantly, seemingly vanished into the wind and rain, impossible to discern from afar.

From a large boat moored by the river in the stormy night, music and singing drifted out—soft coos, tender scolds, lilting voices that stirred the heart and sparked wild imaginings.

The boat had docked via a gangplank to shore, beside which a wooden awning had been erected, guarded by someone. Now, a wary voice came from beneath the awning: “Who are you? Where from?”

The youth shook the small lantern in his hand and said, “I’m a Song Dynasty night watchman.”

“Where did this bookworm come from? Get lost!”

The youth smiled: “I’m looking for Miss Qingyi.”

“There’s no Miss Qingyi here!” A shadow flickered from beneath the awning, and a man stepped out: “I think you’re tired of living—I’ll throw you into the river to feed the fish and shrimp!”

He could not see clearly in the distance, only the faint glow of the lantern and the youth’s white robe. He lunged forward, reaching to grab the youth’s collar.

The youth slid his foot sideways, dodging aside; the wind lifted his oiled paper umbrella. His free hand swept lightly across the man’s neck—a pale red glow flashed, and the man’s head flew off, landing far away in the Bian River.

The youth glanced at his sleeve; half the blade’s length was exposed, still quite effective, he murmured to himself.

He reached down, picked up the fallen umbrella, and behind him, the conical hats and straw capes surged forward, closing in on the boat.

At that moment, the boat began to rock violently—as if something had happened beneath it—and then it slowly sank, as if swallowing water.

Inside the cabin, startled cries erupted, followed by chaos; the cabin door burst open with a crash, and someone shouted, “What’s going on? Why is water flooding the hull?”

Men on shore rushed onto the boat via the gangplank; the conical hats and straw capes clashed with those emerging from the cabin.

The youth stood motionless on the shore, his eyes bright, never blinking amid the chaos.

The black-clad man behind him, holding the iron spear, also stood still, like a shadow, never leaving the youth’s side from start to finish.

This boat belonged to the Qingyi Society of Dongjing’s Seven Gangs and Eight Associations—the inner-city Seven Gangs, outer-city Eight Associations—no one would have imagined the outer-city Qingyi Society had a boat on the Bian River inside the inner city.

And this boat was precisely the Qingyi Society’s headquarters.

The youth was Zhao Ti. He had ordered Shang Qi to kill Wei Hu of the Tiger Gang in Sweet Water Alley; he himself had come here to intercept the Qingyi Society’s leader, Yan Qingyi.

The Qingyi Society’s leader dealt in human trafficking and ran brothels, with deep ties to the underground Ghost Fan Tower; it was said their leader, Yan Qingyi, had emerged from Ghost Fan Tower.

The slaughter aboard the boat was swift; soon, the clash of weapons faded. Then, a slender figure leapt upward from within the boat, hopping lightly over heads like a dragonfly skimming water, leaping in a few bounds to the shore.

The black-clad man behind Zhao Ti moved to intercept, his iron spear slicing out a streak of dark light—under the night, it looked like a coiling dragon.

The figure wielded two willow-leaf blades, spinning them into a whirl of cuts, crossing like shears to block.

The black-clad man’s spear lifted and slashed; the figure could not resist. Before three moves were completed, he was hoisted high into the air and slammed hard to the ground.

Those who gathered to look saw it was a woman, her face fierce, a spear wound through her chest, blood gushing out—she was already dead.

Someone who recognized her carefully called out her name: it was Yan Qingyi, leader of the Qingyi Society.

Zhao Ti smiled from behind, one hand holding the lantern, the other raising the umbrella, turned, and walked away—Zhou Dong carried the iron spear, shadowing him, vanishing into the wind and rain…

Three days later, the sun shone brightly, a clear, sunny day.

On the southern road from the capital region, a carriage moved slowly forward.

The youth wore a snow-white robe, leaning sideways on the carriage’s front rail.

His eyes were half-closed, long eyelashes trembling; a slender green grass stem rested behind his ear, and he hummed softly:

The peach leaf’s tip is sharp,

The willow leaves cover the sky.

In his position, this Ming Elder,

Listen closely to my tale.

This matter occurred

In Wuliang Mountain, Dali.

At Wuliang Mountain’s Jianhu Palace,

There lived a Duan the Third…

Zhao Ti sang louder and happier; for over a decade, he had never left the capital region, and now his heart was filled with joy. He called to the driver, Zhou Dong: “Guangzu, have you ever been to Dali?”

Zhou Dong set down the reins, smiling back: “Young Master, in my youth I went twice. Back then I loved to travel, wanted to see all the world’s beauty, walk every famous mountain and river—I visited many places.”

Zhao Ti’s lips curled upward: “Guangzu, you’re enviable. Do you have any old friends in Dali you could turn to?”

Zhou Dong thought a moment: “Actually, yes—I have one old friend. Two years ago, he sent word from Shaanxi, inviting me to visit and catch up.”

Zhao Ti sat upright: “Is he also a man of the Jianghu?”

Su Da leapt from behind the carriage to the front: “I’ll drive. Old Zhou, you and the Young Master talk.”

Zhou Dong handed the reins to Su Da: “My friend is half a man of the Jianghu—he’s Ma Wude, a tea merchant, wealthy and generous, with the spirit of Mengchang. Any wandering martial artist who seeks him is welcomed wholeheartedly. I stayed at his home for over a month.”

Zhao Ti’s expression shifted slightly: “How is his martial skill?”

Zhou Dong replied: “His martial skill is mediocre, but his connections are excellent. Everyone who knows him owes him a favor—whether a sect leader or gang boss, all call him Brother Ma Five.”

Zhao Ti nodded, smiling.

The Ma Wude Zhou Dong spoke of must be the same Ma Wude who brought Duan Yu to Wuliang Mountain’s Jianhu Palace—the old martial artist from Diannan’s Pu’er!