Returning to the Village

The next morning, early.

After getting up, Yang Jing practiced Mountain Collapse Fist in his room for half a shichen before leaving the courtyard.

Rather than heading to Chengping Ward, where the Sun Clan Martial Arts School was located, he went south out of the city.

Yuhe County governed nine townships. Wazi Township lay southwest of the county seat, roughly thirty li away.

Now that Yang Jing practiced martial arts, his body was strong and his stride swift. He returned far faster on foot than he had arrived by ox cart.

After passing through the city gate, he followed the official road southwest.

The wild grass on either side of the road had grown past ankle height. The wind swept dust across the road, carrying a few withered yellow leaves with it, along with faint wails from afar.

Along the way, Yang Jing saw many refugees. Most were dressed in rags. Some carried battered cloth bundles on their backs, while others bore crude bamboo baskets on shoulder poles. Inside the baskets, sallow, skeletal children lay curled up. The refugees shuffled forward inch by inch, their eyes as hollow as dry wells filmed with dust.

"Even more refugees."

Yang Jing frowned.

These times were growing ever more chaotic.

Half a month ago, when he had returned to the city from Wazi Township, there had not been nearly so many refugees on the road.

Judging from their accents, most of these refugees had likely fled from Caozhou in the west.

I wonder how Father and Uncle are doing now? Yang Jing's heart sank.

His uncle Yang Guang and father had enlisted in the local militia to earn more silver, following grain convoys to Caozhou. No word had come back from them yet.

As Yang Jing pondered this, a sudden commotion erupted ahead.

Three masked men wielding short blades burst out from the woods beside the road and blocked a group of refugees pushing a wheelbarrow.

There was only half a sack of moldy coarse rice in the cart, yet the men's eyes gleamed with viciousness. With one kick, they overturned the wheelbarrow, scattering the rice across the ground. Refugees immediately lunged forward, scooping it into their clothes with their hands, only to be kicked away by the masked men.

The owner of the cart was a middle-aged man. His eyes reddened as he tried to fight for his life, but the moment he raised his carrying pole, a blade slashed his arm open. Blood instantly soaked his ragged sleeve red. He collapsed to the ground in pain and could only watch helplessly as the three masked men stole away the last of his food.

Yang Jing stopped from a distance and watched the bandits disappear into the woods after taking what they wanted. The refugees on the road either lowered their heads and hurried away or gave the area a wide berth. No one dared make a sound.

There were no Government Officials—there was not even the shadow of a proper patrol soldier.

Yang Jing did not meddle. Though he now counted as a martial artist, he had yet to develop Inner Force, and was not much stronger than an ordinary person.

If he rashly stepped in to stand up for others, he might instead lose his own life. After all, those three masked men carried knives.

Yang Jing had an entire family behind him to protect. Naturally, he would not go about playing the chivalrous hero without confidence in his chances. That was the privilege of great masters and heroes; he was still far from that level.

Yang Jing lowered his head and continued on his way.

Besides dust, the wind carried a faint, lingering scent of blood.

Yang Jing quickened his pace, avoiding clusters of refugees as much as possible and steering clear of corpses and signs of fighting by the roadside.

The road beneath his feet was pitted and uneven, whether from cart wheels or from the trampling of countless feet, he did not know.

An hour after leaving the county seat, Yang Jing finally returned to Yang Family Village in Wazi Township.

Along the way, Yang Jing could feel people watching him. He had practiced martial arts for a long time, especially with the near-mad training of the past half month, and his physique was far sturdier than that of ordinary folk—let alone the sallow, emaciated refugees around him. Even in his rough cloth outfit, the strength contained in his body could not be concealed; the outlines of his shoulder and back muscles showed faintly beneath the fabric.

Even those harboring ill intentions abandoned their thoughts after seeing Yang Jing's broad frame and wind-swift stride.

"Yang Jing is back?"

"Xiao Jing."

"Xiao Jing truly deserves to be called a martial artist. He's built far stronger than us farmhands."

"I heard plenty of martial artists only look strong, but their muscles are actually dead muscle. Xiao Jing, let Auntie feel whether yours are dead muscle or not?"

The village neighbors greeted Yang Jing warmly when they saw him.

Only after Yang Jing had walked away did someone curl their lip in disdain. "What good is martial arts? Their family used to rank among the better-off households in our village. Look at them now—selling oxen, selling land, all just to support his martial arts training. What kind of life are they living now?"

Some agreed with those words, while others objected.

Beneath the poplar tree at the village entrance, several village women sat on square stools and chatted.

Unaware of how others discussed him, Yang Jing followed the village road and quickly arrived at his home.

"Hm?"

Yang Jing was slightly stunned by the sight before his gate.

His grandmother, Madam Qin, and his mother, Liu Cuiling, were standing before the courtyard gate, scrubbing something.

His mother stood on tiptoe, vigorously wiping the gate with a rag, while his grandmother hunched over with a broom, sweeping filth from the doorstep. Both moved with some urgency, fine sweat beading at their temples.

"Mother, what are you doing?" Yang Jing asked with a frown. As he drew closer, he caught a pungent smell, mixed with the stench of latrine waste and the earthy reek of mud.

"Jing'er, you're back?"

Seeing Yang Jing, his grandmother and mother immediately put down the broom and wet rag and hurried toward him.

Yang Jing walked around them and approached the courtyard gate.

Several dark stains were plainly visible on the gate, as though someone had forcefully splashed them there. His mother had likely scrubbed for quite some time, yet had only removed the surface grime, leaving behind ugly streaks.

"Mother, Grandma, what happened?"

Yang Jing's voice sank. His gaze swept over the filthy gate, and his heart suddenly clenched.

His mother's hand paused. She hurriedly hid the rag behind her back and forced out a smile. "It's nothing. Just... some blind stray dog smeared filthy stuff all over the gate. Your grandmother and I will wipe it clean."

His grandmother nodded along and coughed twice. "Yes, yes. There are many stray dogs in the countryside. It's nothing serious."

Yet the hand holding her broom, sweeping up the filth, trembled slightly.

"A stray dog could splash shit that high?" Yang Jing stared at the shoulder-high stain on the gate, his tone carrying an undeniable force. "Who did this?"

His mother opened her mouth, about to speak.

Yang Jing waved her off and looked toward his grandmother, Madam Qin, who had spent her whole life honest and dutiful and could not lie. "Grandma, you tell me."

Madam Qin's lips moved. Her gaze shifted away, not daring to meet his eyes. After a long while, her eyes reddened, and she said in a tearful voice, "Jing'er, don't ask. Let's... let's endure it for now. Your grandfather has already gone to find your uncle by marriage. We'll sell those two mu of prime field in the north of the village to Master Ning."

"Endure it?" Yang Jing narrowed his eyes. His fist clenched at his side, his knuckles turning white. Rage shot up from his chest with a whoosh, burning until his temples throbbed.

"Jing'er?" Liu Cuiling asked worriedly.

"Mother, I'm fine."

Yang Jing shook his head, his expression swiftly calming. Then he snatched the rag from his mother's hand, dipped it in water, and scrubbed fiercely at the gate.

The filth smeared onto the cloth, making the stench even stronger, but the force in his hands only grew heavier.

"Cuiling, go tell your sister-in-law that Jing'er is back. Tell her to send the dog over. We'll stew it tonight," his grandmother quietly told his mother.

That night.

Inside the main room of the Yang Family home.

Everyone sat around the Eight Immortals table, with two steaming bowls of dog meat placed on it.

Old Master Yang naturally occupied the seat of honor. On either side sat his uncle by marriage, Shi Yunlin, and Yang Jing.

Yang Jing looked at the dog meat on the table, then glanced at his cousin Yang An, whose eyes were red-rimmed. The hand beneath the table slowly clenched into a fist.

The dog was called Heizi. It had been a good watchdog, raised at his uncle's home for many years. The day before yesterday, Feng Lei had brought people to the village and kicked Heizi against the courtyard wall, killing it alive with that single kick.

His aunt had waited until Yang Jing returned before stewing the meat, which was why they had dog meat to eat that night.