Chapter Twenty-Four: Lovers Gazing at the Sword

Sparse slanting rain fell upon the beams, upon the rear quarters, upon the blade in Ma San's hand. His knife had not left its sheath for a long time—when was the last time? Perhaps five years ago, atop the Min River, facing the river pirate Fan Li, known as the White Fish in the Waves. That was his proudest battle; after it, the calamity that had plagued the Min River for over a decade was swept away. After that victory, he was appointed Deputy Commander by Commander Liang; after that, he tasted the heights of fortune and glory.

Why, Ma San wondered suddenly, was he recalling his life's memories? It was not a good omen. He tightened his grip on the broad blade.

"Commander! We've arrived!" Qian Si, captain of the boatmen, could not help but remind him.

"Oh, we've arrived!" Ma San's expression flickered, then he snapped awake.

"Commander, what did the letter say?" Hu Yi Fei asked sternly.

"White tower, black tiles, a letter behind the plaque! Search the area!" The ten elite guards behind him responded with cold discipline and began to search.

"Brother Ma! Must we really do this? Is that wretched maid worth such risk?" Qian Si pleaded.

"Yes, Commander! If you ask me, the letter is surely from that maid's accomplices, intending to take your life. Knowing this, why risk it?" Hu Yi Fei added.

"Enough! My Lady Chun and I share the same fate, yet dream differently—she must have prepared an escape. As for the letter, it's likely from those hidden little devils, a ploy to set foes at odds. Do they think I can be fooled?" Ma San, ever shrewd, saw through it at a glance.

"But Commander, if you know it's a trap, why..."

"A wound of love can only be healed by killing!" Ma San replied dryly, his tone like an owl's screech, a cuckoo's bleeding cry.

"You say Zhou Qian will return within a stick of incense?" Lady She’s chilling voice startled the night.

Tan Hou’er chuckled, wincing as he touched his wounded arm, his eye twitching. "Zhou Qian went to find his two brothers, whose fates are unknown. He agreed to meet at this hour—by my guess, he’ll arrive within a stick of incense."

"And so you betrayed him?" Wei the Fourth sneered. These men of the green woods loathed two types: those who abandoned brotherhood, and the court’s lackeys.

Tan Hou’er grinned. "Just a chance acquaintance—what bonds are there?"

Yin Ji interjected suddenly, "This is indeed a fine place for an ambush!"

To either side stood two dilapidated pavilions, tiles broken, grass grown wild. These were the boudoirs of Ma San’s third and fourth concubines. Wives for virtue, concubines for beauty—these two old concubines, long past their prime, had died lonely the year before. Yin Ji had never met them, nor ever entered this place. But among the maids and young servants, rumors spread that at midnight, cries and wails of women and children echoed from these towers, haunted by spirits.

Night deepened, pitch black. In the distance, firelight flickered—weak, like ghostly flames. All present were masters of martial arts, strong in body, not plagued by night blindness, yet could only make out shadows.

"Someone’s coming!" Lady She suddenly announced, her shriveled ear pressed to her dragon-headed iron staff. In the martial world, it was rumored a certain secret art, Bat Ear Technique, allowed one to discern people and objects from miles away; Lady She likely practiced such.

"More than one!" Her ears twitched. "About a dozen—three are trained fighters, the rest move heavy-footed; likely armored."

"You dare deceive me!" Lin Tai, quick-tempered, grabbed Tan Hou’er by the neck with a hand as large as a fan. Tan felt a crushing force on his throat, nausea rising.

"Let him go!" Lady She snapped.

"Though I can’t kill you, I have countless ways to make you wish you were dead! What makes you so bold?"

"I truly don’t know who’s coming. I was tricked here by Ma San the Butcher. What accomplices? Ma San wants me dead, I’d never work with him—that’d be digging my own grave," Tan Hou’er coughed, blood surging, face reddening.

"You wouldn’t dare," Lady She mused, then grunted coldly.

"Lady, what shall we do?" Yin Ji and the others asked.

Lady She surveyed the surroundings, pondering for some time. "We should..."

Footsteps grew louder in the silent night. A rough voice called out, "Commander, we’re here—what now?"

Ma San was about to answer when a shrill scream echoed, "Ghost!" Wei the Fourth, the Flying Beast, tumbled out the window, and Ma San’s group drew blades and bows, tense.

"Attack!" came a desperate shout from the pavilion.

Huge dark shapes burst from the building. The elite guards raised their eight-ox crossbows, bowstrings thrummed chaotically—these battle-hardened men reacted instantly, casting aside crossbows, drawing blades, slashing at the shadows.

Splinters flew, things were hacked apart, but in the darkness, nothing was clear—most likely the contents of the pavilion. Amid flashing blades, the formation scattered in an instant; three shadows plunged into the crowd.

The greatest taboo in warfare is chaos at night. Why? Because fear grips every heart. Lighting a fire at such a moment is suicide, yet in the confusion, friend and foe blur. The terror of darkness, the threat of sudden death, shrinks courage; even the best skills are halved.

The three shadows tore through, slaughtering as if slicing melons. Five died in an instant—not ordinary soldiers, but armored, battle-hardened elites.

The general is the heart of an army. Ma San let out a furious roar, his iron Tiger Blade slashing the ground, sparks flying. In the flash, he swung at one shadow, the blade whistling, "Clang!" Both men staggered back three steps.

"Dragon-head iron staff?"

"Ma San, why are you here?" both exclaimed.

"I should have guessed Chun was with you!" Ma San's face was pale.

"Chun isn’t here—only Yin Ji!" With a graceful sweep of her hands, Yin Ji sent eight poisoned needles toward Ma San’s throat, heart, and head.

Two men darted out, blades spinning, deflecting the needles.

"Commander!" Hu Yi Fei saw Ma San’s dazed expression and called urgently.

"Heh heh! Heh heh!" Ma San laughed strangely, his manner chilling. "Good, good! Those who should die live, those who should live die. All must be killed! All must be killed!" His blade flashed, slashing at Yin Ji.

"Form up!" Qian Si saw Ma San’s madness and rushed to command the men.

The elite guards, seasoned and skilled, quickly recovered from panic and deployed their practiced formation.

This formation, called the Tiger-head Mandarin Duck Formation, originated from the famed Mandarin Duck Formation, first devised by a general to repel island barbarians. Eleven men per squad, armed with wolf-brushes, waist knives, rattan armor, and a mix of long and short weapons, switching patterns swiftly—three-man and two-man variations. After the general subdued six barbarian states, he abandoned it; later, it was refined by the Six Gates Bureau, tailored for martial artists.

Three act as one: one wields a small axe and round shield, one a broadsword, one two spears, moving in mandarin duck steps. Yin Ji and Lin Tai felt waves of blades pouring over them like a surging river, forcing them steadily back.

Ma San, wild as a mad tiger, his iron blade slashing in relentless waves—only a blur of blade visible in the night. Lady She, her right arm yet unhealed, could only manage the Wind Through Willow style, lacking power. Especially when she tried her three killing moves—Wave-splitting, Willow-breaking, Flower-turning—the force shifted right to left, but with her blood and qi blocked, she could not muster strength. Fortunately, Yin Ji assisted, her poisoned needles, throwing knives, and short swords ceaseless, their lethality heightened in the darkness, allowing them barely to hold out.

"Wei the Third! What are you doing!" Lin Tai shouted.

Wei the Third’s face was ashen, limbs stiff, drool at his mouth. Consciousness briefly flickered back. "Ghosts! Ghosts! Green, white faces! They bite! Eat my heart! My liver’s gone! Ahhh..."

Some guards seized the chance to shoot, flesh and blood splattered. As Wei the Third fell, coughing blood, he murmured, "Ghosts! Ghosts..." adding a note of terror to the moonless night. Ghosts? What ghosts...

"Ma San’s gone mad!" Lady She thought.

Now Ma San was like a demon, the left side of his face gouged by Yin Ji’s mysterious weapon, exposing bone; his right arm, left leg, and waist all pierced by hidden weapons, blood pouring, yet his swordplay grew fiercer. There was merit in his madness.

In pure skill, Ma San was perhaps equal to Lady She, perhaps even slightly inferior, especially with Yin Ji, newly entered the first-tier realm. Logic dictated Ma San should be suppressed, but now it was they who were pressed, for he fought with nothing but life for life.

Ma San’s blade raged, but in his demon wrath, his technique slipped. After a move called Flying Swallow Return, his blade swept upward—powerful but lacking follow-through. Lady She, with three decades of experience, exploited the gap with a move called Phoenix Nods, stabbing his shoulder blade, bone and flesh splattering. She rejoiced inwardly: "Yin Ji’s Soul Capturing Art is truly amazing—love turns to hate, hate to madness, finally mind destroyed, a wasted man." Just as she looked up, she found herself staring into a pair of bloodshot, bronze-sized eyes less than a foot away...

At the stone lion gate of the Commander’s Mansion, dozens of soldiers stood with bows and crossbows, tense, watching the entrance. Outside, a middle-aged man walked in, holding a blood-soaked sword.

"I’ve come for my apprentice. Tell your commander—if a single hair on my pupil’s head is harmed, I will slaughter this mansion."

"Crossbowmen, fire! Bowmen, ready!"

Strings thrummed, dozens of bolts flew silently at the figure.

By all logic, no matter how skilled, in the dark, unseen, faced with silent crossbow bolts, that man should have died.

Yet he merely flickered aside, and the bolts vanished into the night behind him.

The guards panicked—what mortal could do this? Was he a mountain spirit or a demon?

One captain recalled a legend: every dynasty has rare martial artists whose skills reach near the Dao. Then, the mortal body produces miraculous powers—"The autumn wind stirs, the cicada senses." In dealings, hostility is sensed; in combat, moves can be predicted; arrows cannot strike.

Lady She gasped, then pain struck—her right arm traced an arc through the air, landing on the ground. Without hesitation, she kicked Ma San a yard away, then pressed several points on her shoulder to staunch the bleeding.

"Ma San, you’re mad! Truly mad!" Lady She shrieked, like an owl—was it hate or terror?

For her Phoenix Nods had pierced Ma San’s shoulder blade, yet Ma San pressed forward, slicing off her right arm—a madman’s trade, two cripples, two first-tier martial artists lost to the world.

"All must die! All must die!" Ma San muttered, left hand gripping the blade, seeming oblivious to pain, charging again.

Meanwhile, Lin Tai battled the elite guards, hard-pressed. On any normal day, five, ten, even twenty would mean nothing to him, but with the Tiger-head Mandarin Duck Formation deployed, footwork precise, axe and blade attacking in order, it was as if he fought a monster with ten hands, ten feet, five heads.

Still, Lin Tai was exceptional. His hands, as big as fans, fluttered like butterflies, their force deflecting axes, blades, spears.

Lin Tai’s martial art was unique—not Southern styles, but Northern, from the previous dynasty’s Yellow Sect lamas, called "Bodhi Hands," or "Iron-grinding Palm." Though a palm technique, it relied on wrist force; at advanced levels, could shift acupoints and muscles. When weapons attacked, he could strike their back, slap their body, even touch their edge—a skill called "Ox Tongue Swallows Thorns."

After some time, the guards, not as long-lived in energy as martial artists, fatigued. The Tiger-head position swung a short axe with a move called "Sweep the Thousand Army," shrieking as it slashed at Lin Tai. Lin Tai used "Dragon Swallows Water," the right palm striking the blade. Astonishingly, his palm was like boneless octopus, adhering to the iron axe, dozens of pounds heavy. The guard felt a strange force, unable to lift or drop the axe; in his confusion, two fingers plunged into the gap between armor and neck, blood pouring.

The essence of the formation lay in the Tiger-head position—once broken, its power failed.

At that moment, Zhou Qian, hidden deep in the pavilion, felt a chill as a white-robed, green-faced, white-eyed middle-aged woman pressed down upon him...