Chapter Fifty-Eight: A Strange Occurrence

The ironclad ship was one of the three great vessels of the imperial navy. Its exterior was clad in iron and stone, resembling the shell of a tortoise, while inside, rows of cannons were mounted along its hull. A single ironclad could carry no fewer than a hundred cannons, its firepower rivaling that of the Sand Liao Tower, yet the cost of construction was immense. Even with the resources and manpower of the empire, only a dozen or so had ever been built.

These four colossal ships surged through the waves with fierce momentum, their allegiance uncertain. Fortunately, the Sand Liao Tower had already broken through the blockade of the centipede ships. Its speed was unmatched by almost any other vessel in the realm, and the only weakness of the ironclads was their sluggish pace, rendering them suitable only for waterborne sieges. Thus, Wu Zhang and his companions were unhurried, and after a few thunderous cannon blasts, the roaming heroes still wreaking havoc upon the centipede ships were summoned back with a whistle, retreating in haste.

Seeing the tide had turned, Xia Ziyi cast a venomous glare at Zhou Qian, hefted the gravely wounded Chen Si and A Rui, and with a leap, plunged into the river, rescued by several small skiffs that had been lying in wait.

“Zhou Qian, the favor you granted today will not be forgotten by the Four Pirates of the Sea. One day, we shall repay it!”

Zhou Qian stood with sword in hand, silent for a long time before staggering and collapsing onto the deck, letting out a deep sigh. “Thank goodness—I nearly scared him off!”

Zhou Qian was no immortal. He had already expended much of his strength during the pirates’ assault, and suffered considerable wounds in the decisive battle with the Four Pirates. His foes were no mere rabble, but notorious marauders who had dominated the Western Seas for years, their martial prowess first-rate among the underworld, their cunning and methods peerless. Zhou Qian’s victory lay in their arrogance and disdain, in the unpredictability of his swordplay, and in the marvel of his sorcery.

Why not use the flying sword? Zhou Qian, after all, was not a true immortal; wielding the flying sword demanded tremendous spiritual energy, and in the time it took, the Four Pirates could have slain him seven or eight times over. As for talismans, their slow casting made them unsuitable for such battles.

“Zhou, is this an imperial ship?” Wu Zhang inquired, his demeanor shifting to one of greater respect—the world belonged to the strong.

“Never mind them. Let’s go our own way,” Zhou Qian replied, shaking his head. Unless absolutely necessary, he wished to avoid entanglements with imperial forces—a common wisdom among those of the underworld. Moreover, the timing of the ironclads’ arrival was so uncanny that even a fool would suspect something.

The nearest ironclad was only a hundred yards away. Both sides fell into a tacit silence. Zhou Qian squinted and noticed the leader aboard the ironclad bore a scar across his skull. That scarred man, holding a bronze telescope, seemed to notice Zhou Qian as well and nodded.

Zhou Qian returned the gesture, and the two foremost ironclads passed the Sand Liao Tower, joining the other two behind to encircle the pirates.

At once, the cannons roared and fire flashed across the river. The imperial warships unleashed their full might, and with the pirates’ morale broken, they soon sank a dozen centipede ships, leaving fewer than ten to flee in disgrace.

“Sir! Why didn’t we…” an adjutant could not help but ask. “If we had wiped out these underworld fighters, it would have crippled the martial world for a decade—surely that would aid our future plans!”

The scarred man shook his head regretfully. “All eyes are now fixed on the First Emperor’s treasure. Offending these martial artists would be disastrous for our plans. Let them be for now—there will be plenty of opportunities ahead.”

The sun set, stars appeared, and the jade rabbit rose in the east. At night, the Tongtian River resembled a tamed beast, slowly closing its eyes, its waters gentle and slow. On the Sand Liao Tower, however, lights blazed, cups clashed, laughter and banter echoed—a revelry seemingly untouched by the day’s fierce battle.

Yet many were absent. Where once forty-six martial artists gathered, only about thirty remained, each bearing wounds. Yet these folk had long ceased to care for their own lives, let alone those of others. Instead, victory had boosted their spirits.

About twenty feasted at the banquet—those lightly injured or unscathed. Still, a few die-hard drinkers dragged their battered bodies to partake in the feast.

The wine was aged Huadiao, a rare treasure of the West Sea Dragon King, fragrant and mellow. The dishes were exquisite, a stream of delicacies from the sea: patterned prawns with claws as thick as a boy’s arm, bowls brimming with clams, crystalline fish fins as soft as powder, sea cucumber, frog, dried scallops—all rare treasures in the central lands. The martial artists ate with abandon. If Zhou Qian were present, he would have extolled and devoured the fare, but instead, he frowned on the deck, staring at the river, lost in thought.

The imperial court, King of the Cleansing Seas, traitors, the mysterious treasure of the First Emperor, and the strange fog—these burdens were enough to sap Zhou Qian’s appetite. Their group was but a secret chess piece, yet now it seemed everyone knew their hand. In the underworld, one truly had no say in their fate. Zhou Qian sighed helplessly.

“What are you thinking about?” Qiqiao’er laughed as she tried to snuggle into Zhou Qian’s arms.

Zhou Qian caught her hand, expressionless. “I didn’t bring any money today.”

“Ah!” Qiqiao’er pouted in disappointment. “You’re the second greatest swordsman in the martial world—how can you not have money?”

“I don’t recall ever having that title. Besides, Qiqiao’er, please keep your distance. Don’t think just because I let you go in Chang’an years ago that you’re off the hook now. I remember clearly—you swore never to steal again, and look at you! The reputation of the lady thief has only grown these years. You should consider my position! Who vouched for you before the Six Gates and got you released?”

Zhou Qian sighed, regretting his past decision. If not for his own work with the Ministry of Justice these years, the Six Gates might have arrested him as an accomplice.

“Hmph! The ‘Fragmented Cookbook’ I gave you was stolen goods too, and you never returned it!”

“That’s different!” Zhou Qian replied righteously. “That’s a rare treasure. What use is it to those who know nothing of cookery? Such a gem belongs with the virtuous!”

Qiqiao’er rolled her eyes prettily. “If you love cooking so much, why not become a chef? Life would be much easier!”

The words were casual, but Zhou Qian felt them keenly. At last, he had met a kindred spirit. “I’d like to, but my master won’t allow it!”

“Tell me, if we really find the First Emperor’s treasure, how much will I get?” Qiqiao’er sidled up to him, her eyes gleaming like ingots.

“What do you need so much money for?” Zhou Qian wondered. “You’ve stolen enough to last eight lifetimes!”

Qiqiao’er pouted pitifully. “You don’t understand. For a woman, money is never enough. The most expensive rouge at Listening Rain Pavilion costs a thousand silver per box. The finest brocade is five hundred silver per set. Hairpins, bracelets, shoes, food, drink, luxuries—everything costs money. You think everyone has a wealthy master like you?”

“My expenses for half a year can’t match what you spend on a single box of rouge!” Zhou Qian grinned.

“That’s just how it is…”

Suddenly, a piercing scream rang out from the ship. Zhou Qian froze, then dashed toward the source, Qiqiao’er scampering after him. Around the bend of the staircase, they saw Zhou Qian’s elder brother, Wang Hu, hurrying upward. Without hesitation, Zhou Qian asked, “Brother Hu, did you hear who screamed?”

“No idea, but it sounded like it came from the third floor,” Wang Hu replied, frowning.

Zhou Qian’s unease grew stronger. Ever since learning there was a traitor aboard, he had been tense, fearing someone would stir up trouble—and now, it seemed his premonition had come true.

In the blink of an eye, the three reached the third floor. Zhou Qian recalled that several seriously wounded martial artists were recuperating there. As they arrived, a rough voice called down, “Who’s there?”

“It’s Zhou Qian!” Zhou Qian recognized the voice of the sumo wrestler Shi Si and felt a measure of relief. “Who is it?”

“It’s Madam Hu. Best see for yourself,” Shi Si replied after a pause. “Fourth room on the right.”

The door to the fourth room was ajar, a faint light casting a reddish hue.

Zhou Qian entered, and the heavy stench of blood assaulted him, forcing a gasp. Blood soaked the bedding, droplets trickling from the golden peacock brocade onto the floor. Within lay the vague form of a woman’s corpse.

“Madam Hu was naked when I found her. I covered her with the quilt,” said Master Lou Yuxiao, the Elder of Kongtong, leaning on a cane. He had been wounded in the sea battle earlier, wood splinters driven into his leg by a stone shot, blood flowing endlessly. Age had weakened him, and he disliked crowds, so he had stayed on the third floor.

“I live next door to Madam Hu. I was just about to head down for a drink when I heard the scream, rushed in, and…” Shi Si, the burly man, sighed heavily.

Another was present: Lin Xiaofeng, the Water Moon Swordsman, a younger expert among the martial artists, usually wielding a fan. His self-created Falling Moon Swordplay was renowned. Now, however, his face was pale, beads of sweat glistening on his brow, clearly frightened by the scene beneath the quilt.

Zhou Qian’s heart sank. Without care for propriety, he slowly lifted a corner of the brocade. Instantly, a wave of fury surged within him, as if a beast called anger threatened to devour him.

Madam Hu’s body was covered with fresh wounds and bruises, the flesh torn and curled by hooks. Zhou Qian recognized this as a new form of torture popular in the underworld—the Mandarin Duck Hook Knife. Its blade was lined with countless tiny hooks, which, when drawn from the body, tore away large swathes of flesh. Madam Hu’s pride, her twin peaks, had become nothing but pits of ruined skin, and her lower body had been cut open…

The swordsman’s hand never trembled, but Zhou Qian’s did now, as he closed the quilt, staring at Madam Hu’s gouged eyes and twisted, deformed face. For the first time, he felt a powerful and desperate urge to kill—an urge directed at someone, or something, no longer human.

Below, a dense clatter of footsteps sounded—the revelers rushing up, drawn by the commotion…