Chapter 23: What a Sword!

A’Ming didn’t know why he had asked the girl that question. Perhaps the whim had simply struck him, as casually as plucking a rapeseed flower while out on a spring excursion.

Life needed a sense of ceremony. Life also needed refinement.

And “ceremony” and “refinement,” when stripped down to their essence, were simply “a whole lot of unnecessary bullshit.”

Like drinking a bowl of chicken broth before a meal to warm the stomach, or having a plate of cold appetizers first.

The middle-aged man had also noticed A’Ming speaking to his daughter. He immediately hurried over with an ingratiating smile and bowed at the waist.

“Sir, do you want the girl? Eight taels of silver. We can sign the contract right now, and she’ll be yours.

“After that, whether you want her to follow you to the Western Regions and learn acrobatics, or simply take her as a concubine, it’s entirely up to you.”

Like the gatekeepers before him, the middle-aged man had taken one look at A’Ming’s clothes and naturally assumed he belonged to an acrobatic troupe from the Western Regions.

A few years earlier, when the Emperor of Yan celebrated his thirtieth birthday after ascending the throne, an acrobatic troupe from the Western Regions had entered the capital and performed before the emperor. Their fame had spread from there, and for a time such Western Regions troupes became all the rage among the common people.

A’Ming nodded and reached into his pocket.

The middle-aged man immediately began rubbing his hands together in excitement.

But when A’Ming withdrew his hand and opened it before the man, the latter froze.

His palm was empty.

“Sorry. I don’t usually carry money.”

A’Ming’s apology was quite sincere. He even wore just the right amount of embarrassment and remorse, as though he genuinely felt guilty that he could not buy the girl on the spot.

During his half year at the inn, A’Ming had spent most of his time brewing wine and rarely even went outside. Besides, in this world, once food and drink were taken care of, a person with modern habits and ways of thinking truly had very little desire to spend money.

“No... no money? You bastard, are you fucking with me?”

The middle-aged man pointed directly at A’Ming’s face and roared.

A’Ming nodded and answered with complete seriousness.

“Yes.”

The middle-aged man paused, then rolled up his sleeves and threatened, “You’ve got a death wish!”

A gambling addict who could sell his own wife and daughter was hardly some courageous, hot-blooded hero. Claiming otherwise would be absurd. But he could still bluff and posture, imitating the hired muscle at gambling dens to frighten people.

Unfortunately, he had chosen the wrong target.

“Good.”

A’Ming reached out and seized the middle-aged man by the throat.

A bone-deep chill instantly spread from his neck. The man suddenly forgot to resist. In that instant, he felt as though some sinister predator had fixed its gaze upon him.

“Hey! If you want to fight, take it somewhere else. Don’t dirty the Hyena Gang’s doorstep,” the gatekeeper shouted with his arms folded.

Then, crack.

The gatekeeper went rigid.

He watched the middle-aged man’s neck snap in the Western Regions acrobat’s hand, bending at a horrifying angle no living person could possibly achieve.

Perhaps even the middle-aged man had never imagined that this bizarrely dressed fellow truly meant to kill him the moment he said he would.

The gambler knew how to bluff.

The man opposite him genuinely knew how to kill.

More than that, he had deliberately ridden a mule cart all the way here on a rainy day specifically to kill people.

Blood began dripping from the man’s eyes, ears, nose, and mouth.

A’Ming released him.

The middle-aged man collapsed with a thud, eyes wide open, utterly lifeless.

When he fell, his face landed very close to his daughter’s, who was still lying on the ground.

At first, terror appeared in the girl’s eyes. Then came a faint sorrow. But after that, she bit her lip, opened her mouth, and began laughing soundlessly, heedless of the rainwater running into it.

A’Ming turned his head and studied the girl’s expression.

He thought the scene was beautiful.

Father and daughter lying face-to-face, staring into one another’s eyes.

Unfortunately, there were no cameras in this age. He could not preserve the moment forever and keep it to savor at leisure.

What a... pity.

After admiring it for a few more moments, A’Ming turned away and climbed the steps.

The appetizer was over.

Now came the main course.

The gatekeeper clearly had not recovered from the shock. But when he saw A’Ming walking toward him, he immediately turned and tried to slip back into the courtyard.

He was only a gatekeeper, a bottom-rung lackey in the Hyena Gang. Borrowing the gang’s reputation to bully people was one thing. If he truly had the courage and skill to go hacking people apart, he would never have been assigned to guard the door.

Yet he had only gotten one foot across the threshold when a hand clamped onto his shoulder.

So... fast!

A’Ming did not particularly enjoy dealing with small fry like this. A lackey who did not even have the courage to attack him head-on offered very little pleasure even when killed.

But there was no helping it.

He had come here today to kill.

His palm slid swiftly from the man’s shoulder to the back of his head.

Then he slammed it straight into the wooden door.

Smack!

Like a watermelon hitting the ground.

A’Ming glanced at the red staining his palm and instinctively started to raise it toward his mouth. Then, with obvious disgust, he flicked his hand clean instead.

The flavor would be difficult to stomach.

It seemed only those people whose bodies glowed possessed blood with that sweet taste.

“Aaaaaaah!”

The gatekeeper who had gone inside to report their arrival was standing behind the door beside an elderly, white-haired man who looked like an accountant. After witnessing what had just happened, the old accountant collapsed limply to the ground while the gatekeeper screamed hysterically.

“Mmph! Mmph!”

His scream did not last long.

A hand covered his mouth.

Another settled onto his shoulder.

Crack!

Like swatting a volleyball, the gatekeeper’s face saw the scenery behind his own back for the first time in his life. For one brief moment, he experienced the advantage of never again having to worry about someone ambushing him from behind while taking a piss.

Unfortunately, he did not get to enjoy that advantage for long before collapsing to the ground.

The accountant trembled at the sight, rolled his eyes back, foamed at the mouth, and fainted.

A’Ming did not bother checking whether the man had truly passed out from terror or was merely pretending. The screaming had clearly alerted the entire gang. From both sides of the courtyard came twenty or thirty men carrying every sort of weapon imaginable.

One had a saber.

Another had an axe.

Another carried an iron cudgel.

A’Ming’s gaze swept over them one by one.

Finally, he smiled.

He had spotted someone carrying a sword.

Killing people on a rainy day somehow seemed better suited to a sword.

A’Ming suspected the Blind Man had infected him. Otherwise, why had he suddenly become so theatrical too?

“Hack him to pieces!”

A tall, burly man draped in animal hide was clearly their leader. He waved a hand and issued the order.

The two gatekeeper corpses at the entrance had already made it clear there was no longer any need for negotiation or attempts at friendship.

A’Ming was fast—faster than that zombie. He was not as strong as the zombie, but his strength still far exceeded that of an ordinary man.

The first two gang members, one wielding a saber and the other an axe, saw only a blur before A’Ming slipped behind them.

There was another difference between A’Ming and that zombie.

A’Ming treasured his fingernails and disliked using them to kill people.

So a metal file appeared in A’Ming’s left hand and plunged into the axe-wielder’s temple. At the same time, his other hand seized the second man’s arm, twisted it, and obligingly helped him draw his own saber across his throat, bringing his filthy life to an end.

Elegant.

Swift.

Without the slightest wasted motion.

This was not slaughter.

This was A’Ming’s own performance art.

He danced among the crowd.

Blood was the bouquet his audience willingly offered him.

Their screams were the cheers with which they paid for the performance.

Unfortunately, once those two were dead, even more gang members crowded in, compressing the space around A’Ming.

The sort of thing seen in martial-arts films, where a crowd surrounds you yet somehow takes turns fighting one-on-one, was difficult to find in reality. When everyone swarmed you at once, even a general said to be worth ten thousand men could still be hacked to death.

Fortunately, A’Ming was different.

Accepting two saber strikes across his back as the price, he burst free of the encirclement and charged straight toward the man with the sword.

The man gave a low shout and thrust his sword at A’Ming.

Disappointment flickered through A’Ming’s eyes.

The man was not glowing.

A’Ming turned his body aside, but his left hand slid all the way down the opponent’s sword from the point. Blood sprayed from his fingertips, yet he did not care. His hand continued downward until it caught the man’s wrist and forced it down.

The swordsman stumbled.

A’Ming casually opened his mouth, revealing two fangs. With the light speed of a dragonfly touching water, they snapped against the man’s neck like a stapler, leaving A’Ming’s mark behind.

Thud.

The swordsman collapsed.

But his sword was now in A’Ming’s hand.

“I’ve already finished the tune, and you’re still not done.”

The Blind Man Bei’s voice entered A’Ming’s ears.

Yet the Blind Man Bei was still sitting outside on the mule cart, erhu in hand.

With the power of the mind, transmitting one’s voice across a distance was no longer much of a technical hurdle.

“I remember ‘Moon Reflected on Second Spring’ being pretty long,” A’Ming replied inwardly.

“I forgot the rest of the score.”

“Fine.”

“You picked up a sword?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how to use one?”

“Watch.”

“Fine. Then I’ll play it again.” The Blind Man Bei felt he was making an enormous concession.

“Actually, there’s no need to force yourself. I don’t particularly want to hear it either.”

“Don’t worry. With the BGM I’m giving you, nobody can defeat you.”

“Fine. You’re blind, so you must be right.”

After their brief mental exchange, the gang members charged again.

This time, A’Ming stood where he was instead of dodging as he had before.

After all, he had promised to show the Blind Man his swordsmanship.

Pfft!

A gang member’s saber chopped into A’Ming’s shoulder. His shoulder muscles contracted around the blade, trapping it so the man could not pull his weapon free.

A’Ming swung his sword and severed the man’s head.

Another gang member struck A’Ming in the back with an axe.

A’Ming still did not move.

His upper body twisted, and the sword swept backward across the attacker’s throat. Blood sprayed from the man’s neck as he collapsed.

Two gang members carrying spears charged together.

A’Ming still did not dodge.

Both spears pierced his body.

A’Ming shuddered, then relaxed his muscles and continued walking forward, utterly unconcerned by the two oversized toothpicks skewering his chest.

In the blink of an eye, he stood before the two gang members, who still held their spears in bewilderment.

A’Ming smiled at them.

Then his sword fell.

He cut down both.

Their hands released the spears as they collapsed.

A’Ming leaned backward. The two spears lodged inside his body braced against the paving stones and supported him, leaving his body tilted backward without falling.

He still held the sword.

Blade and body aligned, both forming a forty-five-degree angle with the ground.

Then he asked, “What do you think of my swordsmanship?”

Outside the courtyard, the Blind Man Bei silently lowered his erhu.

He took from his pocket the handkerchief given to him by the wife of the Patrol Lieutenant Commander and wiped the raindrops from his forehead.

Then he sighed with feeling.

“What a cheap bastard.”