Chapter Sixty-Three: The Serpent Emerges from Its Lair

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“I am very dissatisfied with your conduct these past few days!” Fei Yue scolded sternly. Though he held no administrative authority in the Tang Sect, his martial prowess was unmatched among its ranks, and he was a trusted brother-in-arms of the sect leader during their early struggles. Wei Guang had grown up under his watchful eye; the depth of his affection translated into strict discipline, and Wei Guang usually feared this uncle most.

“Uncle, I…” Wei Guang lowered his head in explanation.

“In matters of great importance, personal feelings are nothing. You are to inherit the role of Young Master of the Tang Sect, so you must set an example in all things. Otherwise, how will you command respect in the future? The old brothers show me and your father deference now, but after we pass, who will do the same for you?” Fei Yue berated him, jabbing his finger at Wei Guang, and the usually proud young man dared not even breathe.

“But Uncle, didn’t the Dragon King of Jinghai already make arrangements with us regarding gunpowder and contraband salt—”

“Silence!” Fei Yue roared. He hurried to the window, peering all around to ensure they were alone, then quietly shut the door and turned to scold, “You’re obsessed with women! How could you blurt out such matters?”

“But isn’t this Wang Zhi’s territory?” Wei Guang murmured.

“You think the Court would allow Wang Zhi’s Sandbird Tower-ships to enter the river without precautions? You think with all these martial artists gathered, the Six Gates would not have agents among them? You think the Red Lotus Cult would let us cross safely? You think—You think! Fool!” Fei Yue cursed, pointing at Wei Guang. “If you possessed half the determination and skill of Zhou Qian, your father and I could die in peace!”

“Uncle, please don’t say that. You and my father are fated to live long lives—no, I’m sure my father won’t outlive you.” Wei Guang tried to lighten the mood with a grin.

“Hmph!” Fei Yue snorted, annoyed.

“Besides, I don’t see Zhou Qian as much of a figure. When Haozi died, he coughed up blood and fainted—a temperament like that won’t amount to much.” Wei Guang sneered.

“Hmph! Even if we ignore temperament and speak only of martial arts, if you could defeat the Four Sea Fiends, you could faint a few times yourself.” Fei Yue cast him a sidelong glance.

“Uncle!” Wei Guang grinned slyly and whispered something in Fei Yue’s ear.

“Is that truly so?” Fei Yue asked, surprised.

“Real or not, what matters is that others believe it’s true—then it becomes reality.” Wei Guang’s eyes gleamed.

He was obviously tempted, but after hesitating for a moment, he shook his head. “Zhou Qian isn’t easy to deal with. Let’s wait and see—I have a feeling things will change.”

Hmph! Zhou Qian! Always Zhou Qian! Since this impoverished youth entered the martial world, he had attracted everyone’s attention. Zhou Qian defeated this one, foiled that plot, accomplished this and that! Hmph! Jealousy gnawed at Wei Guang’s heart like a venomous serpent. If Zhou Qian was so formidable, he would measure him for himself!

Tonight the clouds shrouded the moon, the wind howled and swept across the river, reminiscent of the night Lady Hu died—cold and piercing.

Fourteenth day of the fifth lunar month, Year of the Water Monkey—ominous stars; avoid blades, avoid wandering.

“Master Lou, is this arrangement wise? Pairing everyone off in twos as if to supervise them—won’t it seem too obvious?” Shi Si asked anxiously.

“The old beggar finds it quite proper,” replied Qiao Shan, a third-generation disciple of the Beggar Clan, wiping his filthy nose and shaking his head. “It’s not just supervision; two to a group means mutual protection. At least the murderer will be wary, less likely to strike. These martial men understand reasoning.”

“If it were truly so, the martial world would have been peaceful long ago,” Shi Si disagreed. “But what about Brother Zhou’s security? That cannot be neglected!”

“I’ve already arranged four or five trustworthy men, all old brothers, so there should be no mishap,” Lou Yuxiao nodded.

The Sandbird Tower-ship drifted slowly upon the river, its scattered flames flickering in the dark like stars, casting faint light. On the deck, water bandits armed with blades and arrows swept their keen eyes across shadowed corners; the ship resembled a lurking beast, barely restrained.

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A burnt, acrid smell reached their nostrils; the firelight at the stern seemed especially vivid.

“Fire! There’s fire in the hold!” The cries in the night rang sharply.

The Sandbird Tower-ship was ablaze!? The leaders’ faces changed instantly—was it accident or sabotage? If the ship sank, at least half these martial artists could not swim! Compared to that, a few deaths meant little.

“Master Lou, let’s help fight the fire!” Shi Si urged, even he, a rough man, understood the danger.

“No! No!” Lou Yuxiao barked, “Shi Si, Qiao Shan, take some men to the third deck and protect the wounded—I fear the murderer may take advantage of the chaos!”

“Fuyue, Tianming, Shuiyu, Qingguang—you four go to each deck and calm our martial friends, strictly forbidding anyone to leave,” Lou Yuxiao’s eyes flashed with shrewdness. “Any who disobey—execute on the spot!”

“Yes!” The four were outstanding disciples of the Kongtong Sect, trusted by Lou Yuxiao.

“Wait! Also, take the opportunity to count heads. I refuse to believe the murderer fell from the sky,” he reminded them. In times of crisis, veteran martial artists showed their seasoned expertise.

“Old Cheng!” After they left, Lou Yuxiao stood atop the highest deck, listening as the commotion below gradually subsided. He nodded. “Go to the lookout! The Sandbird Tower-ship’s watchmen have poor eyesight!”

Old Cheng was puzzled, then realized and nodded. Even the best sailors could not see in the dark, but he was different.

Lou Yuxiao leapt high, each step seemingly slow yet swift, heading toward the flames—this was the Kongtong Sect’s famed ‘Cloud Dragon Triple Step’ at its advanced level.

Arriving at the stern, smoke and fire had already spread to the deck. Wu Zhang and several stewards were frantically directing efforts, buckets and barrels moving without pause.

“How are things?”

“The fire is contained within the first two lower holds. Fortunately, this flagship had plenty of waterproof mechanisms installed; sunken wood resists burning, and the keel is wrapped in iron. For now, all is well.”

“What about manpower?”

“Seven or eight dead,” Wu Zhang replied grimly.

Lou Yuxiao was about to speak when several men burst onto the deck. One laughed, “The fire on the first deck is out!”

Cheers erupted all around, but Lou Yuxiao’s face changed; he grabbed the man. “Mo Shaoguan! Weren’t you supposed to protect Zhou Qian?!”

“Brother Zhou said he didn’t need us, told us to help fight the fire instead.”

“Sigh!” Lou Yuxiao stamped his foot. “That Zhou Qian has no sense of caution!”

The corridor was eerily quiet. Zhou Qian’s door was gently pried open by a sword tip. In the gloom, eyes fixed on Zhou Qian lying on the bed, pale and weak, immediately lighting up. If he were slain, the martial forces of Jiangnan would be crippled, for only he knew the route of the voyage. This achievement would be enough!

A move—‘Meteor of Flying Fire’—stabbed straight for Zhou Qian’s chest.

By chance, Zhou Qian seemed to sense something and abruptly opened his eyes, dodging the strike in disarray.

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“Was it you who killed Haozi and Lady Hu?” Zhou Qian asked coldly.

The assassin instinctively felt uneasy—Zhou Qian was far too calm for a dying man.

The swordplay was fierce as a gale, murderous moves raining down, yet Zhou Qian evaded each by a hair’s breadth. This was not how a ‘sick man’ should perform.

A true assassin, missing his first strike, should have fled far away. But he was not a skilled assassin; a good assassin leaves himself a way out, but he had none. “At least his sword is still hanging on the wall,” the shadow reassured himself.

A swordsman without a sword is a tiger without teeth—just one chance, one opportunity to drive the blade into his throat. His attacks grew more savage.

“You’re not the real murderer,” Zhou Qian frowned. In his mind, the killer should be clean, decisive—a ruthless professional, not this incompetent, inexperienced amateur. “Whatever the case, I must subdue him first.”

Their bodies whirled, leaping and twisting, exchanging over a dozen moves in a flash.

“You shouldn’t use this swordplay,” Zhou Qian said, dodging a strike. “It’s not your technique. Your sword style should be steady as a mountain, upright against evil. You’ve made ten attacks, should have six for defense and four for offense, but you’re too intent on killing—your offense is weak, your defense absent, no method at all. Only those suited to a style should use it; your mind is chaotic, your sword is chaotic.”

In that moment, Zhou Qian was qualified to critique another’s sword art—for only when your skill surpassed most others in the martial world could you do so.

“What do you know! I have no way out!” the shadow rasped, sword and man as one, launching a desperate, suicidal attack.

“Now!” Zhou Qian’s eyes flashed. He opened his mouth and spat a dazzling light—the sound of steel rang as the shadow’s sword was knocked aside. Zhou Qian stepped forward, using ‘Cloud Dispelling’ to disperse the shadow’s force, then threw him over the shoulder, breaking his bones.

Sometimes, simple wrestling is more effective than intricate moves.

Zhou Qian moved to guard the door, preventing the assassin’s escape and searching for something to bind him.

“You…” Zhou Qian began, when suddenly the door slammed open, striking Zhou Qian’s head with uncanny precision. The master who had just performed so elegantly now tumbled to the ground in an ungainly sprawl.

“Zhou Qian! Are you… are you alright?” Mo Shaoguan’s anxious voice turned awkward as he realized what had happened.

Zhou Qian’s eyes watered from the blow, looking ‘aggrieved’ at Mo Shaoguan. “I was fine, until…”

“Ahem! So this is the assassin? We’d better tie him up to prevent escape,” Mo Shaoguan deflected, embarrassed.

Lou Yuxiao, arriving next, studied Zhou Qian and the assassin thoughtfully, but said nothing more.

“Let’s see what this fellow really looks like,” Mo Shaoguan sneered, pulling off the assassin’s black mask.

“Xiang Feihe?!” Mo Shaoguan cried in disbelief. “It’s really you!” Surprise, doubt, confusion, disappointment—all mingled in his voice, emotions he could not name.

Xiang Feihe was a hero, a true hero. When famine struck Sichuan, he spent his fortune to aid the people. In Hebei’s floods, he led his household to widen the river, digging for a hundred miles and saving three hundred miles of villagers. When mountain bandits ravaged Henan and the Court was slow to respond, he and his friends spent half a year combing the forests and mountains, finally destroying the bandits’ lair…

How could such a man become an assassin for the Red Lotus Cult? How could he cruelly murder Lady Hu and Haozi?