Chapter 193: Follow Me

The ambushing big man's pudao was a long weapon, useless in close-quarters grappling, so he simply dropped it and grabbed Zhao Jin with both hands. But before he could exert any force, a sharp pain tore through his ribs.

Zhao Jin stabbed again and again with his short blade until the arms wrapped around him loosened. When he stood up, he was drenched in the enemy's blood, his spear broken to half its length, and he swayed slightly where he stood.

Chen Sheng and Wang Zhaojing seized that opening to charge out of the encirclement and once again stood at Zhao Jin's side. Over in the trees, Dong Bingfeng shot two more arrows, killing two ambushers, and the momentum on that side stalled. The ambushers had long known Dong Bingfeng was in that tree, but every arrow he loosed was lethal. And though Liu Yong and Ji Xiang had been running, their strikes showed no mercy — they hadn't gained any advantage there either.

As the fierce battle paused for a moment, the ambushers realized how many of their comrades were gone. The forest floor was strewn with the corpses of their own men. The slope had been covered in white snow, but now it was all stained the dark, purplish-black of blood.

Zhao Jin drew a deep breath. He hadn't sensed the ambusher earlier, and his legs had suddenly buckled during the chase because his strength was nearly spent. Worse still, they'd been attacked just before lunch, and his stomach was completely empty, leaving his body even weaker. But at this moment, none of that mattered.

"Over a hundred came at us. Now only half remain!" Zhao Jin shouted, sheathing his short blade as he spoke. He took two steps forward, and the ambushers instinctively retreated.

Zhao Jin raised the broken half of his spear and bellowed with all his might: "Kill them all! Avenge our dead!"

As the words left his mouth, Zhao Jin leveled the broken spear and charged down in great strides. Wang Zhaojing and Chen Sheng exchanged a glance, then charged down with their own battle cries. On the other side, Dong Bingfeng loosed another lethal arrow, then jumped from the tree, grabbed the spear he'd left behind it, and charged up the slope.

Zhao Jin's side numbered six. The enemy still had fifty. Yet the words Zhao Jin shouted made it sound as if the six of them were encircling and slaughtering those fifty — the few killing the many. It sounded absurd, but not a single ambusher thought so. They had all been terrified by Zhao Jin's killing.

They'd thought it would be an easy catch, but they never imagined their targets would be this troublesome — fierce in martial skill, well-equipped, and equally unafraid of bloodshed and killing.

Among Zhao Jin's companions, the most outstanding ones had all learned military and battlefield techniques. They might not look flashy, but they were the most practical killing skills. Though Ji Xiang and Liu Yong had no formal masters, they had trained alongside Zhao Jin and the others all along, following the same path. Moreover, they never lacked silver, so their weapons were all finely crafted. Weapon quality isn't just about looks — in the clash and strike of battle, finely crafted arms maintain their killing edge. And because they ate well and trained ceaselessly, their physical conditioning even surpassed that of adult martial practitioners.

More crucially, Zhao Jin and his group didn't just practice martial arts — they had killed before, had experienced bloody combat. In such a situation, they didn't panic; they responded with courage. And Zhao Jin and his companions had coordination among them, having drilled together many times.

Zhao Jin and the others fought in groups of three or two. The enemies immediately around them were really only three or two at a time. Relying on their ferocity to engage, at certain moments and positions, Zhao Jin's group was actually using superior numbers against fewer foes.

The ambushers lacked this analytical ability. They only felt that their opponents were too fierce. Even their own archers had been wiped out, and after fighting this long, their opponents' momentum was still like a rainbow. Far from seizing the moment to negotiate or flee, they wanted to slaughter them all.

Watching Zhao Jin and the other two charge down, the ambushers directly in their path no longer dared to fight. One of them started to raise his blade to meet the charge, but seeing Zhao Jin charging faster and faster, he dodged to the side instead, turned, and fled. With one man fleeing, the others' courage rapidly collapsed. Moments ago they had been doggedly grappling and killing, but now it was like a mound of sand dropped from a height — with a great crash it burst apart, everyone scattering in all directions.

But face-to-face grappling and killing required battle. Chasing down fleeing soldiers only required striking at necks and backs at leisure.

Zhao Jin's broken spear thrust out and withdrew ceaselessly. Chen Sheng's long blade fell without pause. Wang Zhaojing's longsword kept slicing toward the necks of the enemies ahead.

Blood, screams. They had fought this long on empty stomachs, every one of them hungry and exhausted, but none of them stopped. This was a life-and-death struggle — either you kill me, or I kill you.

They fought their way through, and soon Zhao Jin's group of three merged with the three from below the slope. The ambushers, meanwhile, had scattered in every direction. In true battle, every death and wound exacts a price, but chasing a routed enemy is one-sided slaughter. As the two sides cut through, over a dozen more corpses lay on the ground.

Everyone's breathing was ragged. Their bodies were all nearing their limits. Zhao Jin's arms trembled faintly, and his voice was completely hoarse, but he still said: "Don't chase recklessly. Follow me and keep killing!"

Everyone nodded silently. Zhao Jin headed straight east at a run, and the others stumbled after him. They were exhausted, but those ambushers were equally exhausted. What's more, their exhaustion was magnified by fear and despair. From the moment they routed, they could no longer run, while Zhao Jin and the others, driven by courage and vengeful killing intent, still had strength. Conviction sustained them.

Zhao Jin did not chase blindly. When people are panicked and desperate, they instinctively choose the route that takes the least effort to run. They all fled toward the shallow valley between the hills, then ran outward.

Before long, Zhao Jin, running at the very front, caught up to an enemy. His spear thrust into the man's waist. Zhao Jin's strength was already insufficient — the spear couldn't pierce through — but it inflicted a severe wound. The man rolled on the ground screaming. No one paid him any heed; everyone just continued the pursuit.

In the chase, Zhao Jin's and Dong Bingfeng's spears were far less useful than the other four's weapons. Sword edges, blade edges, axe edges — they aimed only for heads and necks.

But everyone has their limits. Zhao Jin and his companions' footsteps slowed, yet the routed ambushers could no longer run fast either.

Zhao Jin ran a few more steps. As he dodged around a tree ahead, his legs went weak and he couldn't keep his balance. He stumbled a few paces, bracing himself with his spear. He still didn't want to stop. But just as Zhao Jin straightened up, three ambushers ahead, also stumbling, simply collapsed flat on the ground.

They had fallen to the very rear of their comrades, with pursuers like killing gods behind them. The more they ran, the more their courage failed and their hearts trembled. The more they ran, the more despair they felt, so exhausted it seemed they might die. They simply gave up in despair and collapsed.

His steps briefly obstructed by these three who had collapsed, Zhao Jin simply stopped the pursuit. The remaining dozen or so ambushers had already fled far, scattering in every direction — there was no worry of them turning back to attack.

Having stopped, Zhao Jin paid no heed at all to the three on the ground. He merely braced himself with his spear, refusing to let himself fall, gasping for breath. He wasn't much stronger than the three on the ground. Zhao Jin had been on the verge of collapse.

In this state, his companions were no better off. Chen Sheng leaned against a tree trunk. Wang Zhaojing sat directly in the snow. Dong Bingfeng propped himself up with his spear. Liu Yong and Ji Xiang supported each other. Their breathing sounded like a gale, and every face and body was stained with blood, their complexions all deathly pale.

But they stood, while the enemy lay prone.

After a moment of silence, the three on the ground finally recalled their situation. They struggled to push themselves up and kneel. Their voices were hoarse too as they weakly cried for mercy.

"Who sent you?" Zhao Jin asked in a low voice.

"We... we..." The three men kneeling there looked hesitant. Zhao Jin straightened up, drove the spear in his hand viciously into one man's shoulder, and twisted the shaft. The impaled man screamed in agony as the spearhead churned in his shoulder, causing unbearable pain.

"Setting up an ambush with this many men requires long preparation. A gang of dozens like yours, doing this kind of desperate murder-for-hire work — if your leaders know the truth, how could you not?" Zhao Jin's voice was not loud, but the three ambushers' faces grew more and more ashen as he spoke.

Zhao Jin pressed down on the spear shaft with one hand and drew the short blade at his waist with the other. In an even more chilling tone, he said: "You've killed so many of my people. Did you really think you'd live? Speak what you know, and I'll give you a quick end. If you keep your mouths shut, you won't die before nightfall."

As his words fell, the short blade slashed out, slicing off the man's ear. Wound upon wound, the man's mouth gaped in pain, but with his shoulder hooked by the spear, the more he struggled, the worse the agony.

The two beside him turned pale with terror at the sight. Fighting with real blades and spears was one thing, but enduring torture required tremendous courage. And these few who had collapsed in despair on the ground — where would they find such courage?

"... It was Steward He of the Sanxiantai..."

One man blurted it out, and another quickly chimed in: "All of us went to his estate back in the twelfth month. He fed and housed us, just waiting for the chance..."

In a jumble of words, Zhao Jin soon understood clearly. The Grass Den was a salt smuggler gang from Huai'an Prefecture, Meng Shanhu was a mounted bandit from Shandong, and there were also He Weiyuan's own household troops. They had been staying at He Weiyuan's estate all along. That Steward He spared no expense — not only fine wine and meat, but he even brought in singing girls from various places for their amusement.

These bandits and criminals were accustomed to murder and robbery. Seeing how lavishly wealthy He Weiyuan was, some had even secretly proposed sacking the He Family Estate.

Unexpectedly, none of the leaders agreed. And when they got drunk and clashed with the He Estate's household guards, they couldn't gain the slightest upper hand. Only then did everyone realize this Steward He's background and capability.

After the new year, everyone was getting restless and pent-up, when suddenly yesterday they received word to set up an ambush along the road.

This stretch of road was the only place suitable for an ambush. They had set out before dawn to reach it, leaving their horses in a sheltered spot. They'd waited less than two hours when a fast rider came to notify them, telling them how many targets there were and what distinguishing features to look for.

"... Word is that He Weiyuan is the local congregation master of the Smelling Incense Sect, so no one dared make a move..."