Returning to the Village

Early the next morning.

After getting up, Yang Jing practiced the Mountain Collapse Fist in his room for an hour, then left the courtyard.

He did not head to Chengping Ward, where the Sun Clan Martial Arts School stood, but went south and left the city.

Yuhe County governed nine townships. Wazi Township lay southwest of the County Seat, about thirty li away.

Now that Yang Jing practiced martial arts, his body was strong and his steps were swift. His journey home was far faster than the ox-cart ride that had brought him here.

After leaving the city gate, he followed the main road southwest.

The weeds along either side of the road had grown past ankle height. Wind swept dust across the road, carrying a few withered yellow leaves-and faint cries of mourning from far away.

Along the way, Yang Jing saw quite a few displaced people. Most wore ragged clothes. Some carried bundles of torn cloth on their backs; others shouldered crude bamboo baskets, with sallow, emaciated children curled inside. They shuffled forward a step at a time, their eyes as empty as dried-up wells veiled in dust.

"There are even more refugees now."

Yang Jing frowned.

The world was growing more chaotic by the day.

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

Judging by their accents, Yang Jing thought most of these refugees had fled from Caozhou to the west.

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

To earn some extra silver, Elder Uncle Yang Guang and his father had signed up for the local Militia and accompanied the grain wagons to Caozhou. There had been no word from them since.

As Yang Jing pondered this, a sudden commotion broke out up ahead.

Three masked men carrying short sabers sprang out of the woods beside the road and blocked a group of refugees pushing a wheelbarrow.

The barrow held nothing but half a sack of moldy brown rice, yet the men's eyes gleamed viciously. They kicked it over, spilling rice across the ground. A refugee immediately lunged forward, scooping it into his arms with his hands, only to be kicked away by one of the masked men.

The barrow's owner was a middle-aged man. Red-eyed, he tried to fight them to the death, but the moment he raised his carrying pole, a blade slashed his arm. Blood instantly soaked his tattered sleeve. He collapsed in pain, able only to watch as the three masked men stole the little food he had left.

Yang Jing stopped some distance away and watched the robbers disappear into the woods with their loot. The refugees on the road either lowered their heads and hurried away or gave the spot a wide berth. No one dared make a sound.

There were no constables-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 different from an ordinary person.

If he rashly stepped in to right someone else's wrongs, he might end up losing his own life. After all, all three masked men had blades.

Yang Jing still had a whole family to protect. Naturally, he would not "play the righteous hero" without confidence in his chances. That was the preserve of great heroes and martial masters, and he was still far from their level.

Yang Jing lowered his head and continued on his way.

Besides the smell of dust, the wind carried a faint trace of blood.

Yang Jing quickened his pace, keeping clear of gatherings of refugees as best he could and skirting the corpses and signs of fighting along the roadside.

The road beneath his feet was full of ruts and hollows, whether worn by wagon wheels or trampled out by countless feet.

Only after an hour had passed since he left the County Seat did Yang Jing finally reach Yang Family Village in Wazi Township.

Along the way, Yang Jing had felt people sizing him up. But his long practice of martial arts, especially the near-frenzied training of the past half month, had made him much sturdier than ordinary villagers, let alone the sallow, emaciated refugees around him. Even his coarse cloth tunic and trousers could not hide the strength contained in his body, and the contours of his shoulder and back muscles showed faintly beneath the fabric.

Even those harboring ill intentions abandoned the thought when they saw Yang Jing's powerful build and wind-swift stride.

"Yang Jing's back?"

"Little Jing."

"Little Jing really is a martial artist. He's built far sturdier than us farmers."

"I hear plenty of martial artists only look strong, but their muscles are all useless bulk. Little Jing, let your auntie feel whether yours are useless too."

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

Only once Yang Jing had gone some distance away did someone curl their lip disdainfully. "What good is practicing martial arts? His family used to be among the best-off in our village. Look at them now. To pay for his training, they've sold their ox and sold their land. What kind of life are they living?"

Some agreed with that remark, while others objected.

Beneath the poplar at the village entrance, several peasant women sat on square stools, chatting.

Unaware of what others were saying about him, Yang Jing followed the village road and soon reached his home.

"Hm?"

Yang Jing paused, slightly taken aback by the scene at his gate.

His grandmother, Madam Qin, and his mother, Liu Cuiling, stood outside the courtyard gate, scrubbing something.

His mother stood on tiptoe, rubbing hard at the gate with a rag, while his grandmother bent over a broom, sweeping filth from the doorstep. Both worked with some haste, fine beads of sweat seeping from their temples.

"Mother, what are you doing?" Yang Jing asked with a frown. As he drew closer, he caught a pungent stench, mixing the foul odor of latrine waste with the rank smell of earth.

"Jing'er, you're back?"

His grandmother and mother turned and saw him. They quickly put down the broom and wet rag and came toward him.

Yang Jing went around them and walked up to the courtyard gate.

Several dark stains remained clearly visible on it, as though someone had flung something against it with force. His mother had probably been scrubbing for ages, yet had only removed the surface filth, leaving ugly streaks behind.

"Mother, Grandma, what happened?"

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

His mother's hand paused. She hurriedly hid the rag behind her back and forced a small smile. "Nothing. It's just... just some wretched stray dog rubbing dirt all over the gate. Your grandma and I will clean it up."

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

Yet her hand trembled slightly as she swept the filth on the ground.

"A stray dog could splash shit this high?" Yang Jing stared at the shoulder-high stain on the gate, his tone hard and brooking no argument. "Who actually did this?"

His mother opened her mouth to speak.

Yang Jing cut her off with a wave and turned to his grandmother, Madam Qin, who had been honest and dutiful all her life and did not know how to lie. "Grandma, you tell me."

Madam Qin's lips moved, her eyes darting away, not daring to meet his. After a long while, her eyes reddened, and her voice caught with tears. "Jing'er, don't ask. We... we'll just bear it for now. Your grandpa has already gone to find your uncle-in-law. We'll sell those two mu of good farmland north of the village to Master Ning."

"Bear it?" Yang Jing narrowed his eyes. His fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles turning white. Fury leaped from his chest like a sudden flame, burning until his temples throbbed.

"Jing'er?" his mother, Liu Cuiling, asked anxiously.

"Mother, I'm fine."

Yang Jing shook his head, his expression quickly settling. Then he took the rag from his mother, dipped it in water, and scrubbed hard at the gate.

As the filth came off onto the cloth, the stench grew stronger, but he only pressed harder and harder.

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

That evening.

In the main room of the Yang family home.

Everyone sat around the Eight Immortals Table, with two steaming basins of dog meat before them.

Naturally, Old Master Yang occupied the seat of honor, with Yang Jing and his uncle-in-law, Shi Yunlin, seated to either side.

Yang Jing looked at the dog meat on the table, then glanced at his older cousin, Yang An, whose eyes were red. Beneath the table, his hand involuntarily curled into a fist.

The dog was called Heizi. He had been a good watchdog, guarding Elder Uncle's home for many years. The day before yesterday, Feng Lei had brought men to the village and kicked Heizi into the courtyard wall, killing him outright.

His eldest aunt had waited until Yang Jing returned before stewing the meat, which was how they came to have dog meat that evening.