Blade's Opening

The moment he opened his eyes, a chilling flash of steel was already cleaving toward his face.

Wang Quan was so frightened his heart skipped a beat, his entire body plunging as if into an icy abyss. He was too late to even think, his body instinctively shrinking violently backward. The blade grazed past the tip of his nose, severing a few strands of hair before embedding deeply into the earthen wall behind him.

He widened his eyes, breathing in rapid, continuous gasps as cold sweat instantly drenched his thin inner tunic.

"Choose life, or choose death?"

A voice as cold and hard as iron hammered into his ears.

Wang Quan mechanically raised his head. Under the dim, flickering lamplight, a square face was looking down at him from on high. The man was around forty-some years old with a sallow complexion, and a blade scar on his left cheek slashed diagonally from his brow bone down to his jaw, appearing exceptionally ferocious in the swaying shadows. He wore dark cyan martial attire and carried a standard-issue saber at his waist, and at that moment he was slowly pulling that very blade—the one that had nearly claimed Wang Quan's life—out from the wall.

Wang Quan's throat tightened and his mind was a tangled mess. Fragmented memories surged like a tide—his past self had been a mountain bandit, caught in the act during a final highway robbery. The Anping County Yamen had given him two choices: execution after autumn, or entering the garrison to risk his life for five years to expiate his crimes through patrols.

He had chosen the latter.

Seeing that Wang Quan had not responded for a long time, a fierce look flashed in the scar-faced man's eyes as he raised his foot and kicked.

Wang Quan was sent flying backward, crashing heavily into the earthen wall. Agony exploded from his back and stars burst before his eyes. He curled up on the ground, coughing violently as a fishy sweetness welled up in his throat.

"I want to live! My lord, I want to live!" The instinct for survival finally overwhelmed the chaos, and Wang Quan cried out in a hoarse voice.

The scar-faced man retracted his foot and coldly looked down at him. "Since you want to live, be sharper from now on. The county garrison doesn't raise trash, and it certainly doesn't raise bandit prisoners."

He turned and shouted toward the doorway, "Come in!"

Two men wearing the same dark cyan uniforms responded and entered, expressionlessly hoisting Wang Quan up by either side.

"Take him down to Room Bing-7. Let him rest for the night, and tomorrow he joins Team Ding on patrol." The scar-faced man waved his hand, as if dealing with a negligible triviality.

Wang Quan was half-dragged and half-hauled out of the room. What came into view was a dim earth-and-stone corridor with mottled walls on both sides. Every few zhang along the walls, a pine-torch was inserted, the jumping light casting numerous distorted shadows. The air was filled with a scent mixed with mustiness, sweat, and blood.

Passing through two guard posts, they arrived at a narrow courtyard. Several low earthen houses stood side by side in the yard, and a crooked wooden sign hung above the lintel of one of them, bearing the characters Bing-7 written in cinnabar.

"Right here." The man on the left pushed open the creaking wooden door and tossed Wang Quan inside.

Wang Quan stumbled a few steps, nearly face-planting onto the floor. The man on the right pulled a pitch-black, soybean-sized pill from his bosom and casually tossed it onto the ground, kicking up a small puff of dust.

"If you don't want to die, rest up properly." That man's voice was flat. "On patrol tomorrow, whether you make it back alive depends on your own fortune."

The two of them turned and retreated after speaking, the wooden door banging shut with a loud clatter. The sound of sliding iron chains drifted from outside.

Wang Quan lay flat on the cold ground, panting for a long time. Pain wracked his entire body, especially his chest and back, which burned as if about to split apart. He gritted his teeth, inching his way over to the pill and picking it up with trembling fingers.

The surface of the pill was rough, emitting a faint bitter fragrance. He hesitated for a fleeting instant, but recalling the terrifying force behind the scar-faced man's kick and the unknown patrol tomorrow, he hardened his heart and shoved the pill into his mouth.

The pill melted instantly upon contact, transforming into a scorching, warm current that slipped down his throat before rapidly dispersing into his four limbs and hundred bones. The excruciating pain began to subside, his congested qi and blood seeming to flow once more, and the purple bruises on his body faded at a visible rate. Though he remained weak, at least he was no longer immobilized.

Only then did he have the strength to look around Room Bing-7.

The room was narrow, barely a zhang square. One side was an uneven earthen wall covered in stains and scratches. Against another side stood a dilapidated wooden bed, its board covered by a thin layer of blackened straw and a thin quilt hard as a brick. A chipped earthenware jar sat at the foot of the bed. Cobwebs laced the corner where a rat scuttled past with a squeak, vanishing into a hole in the wall.

The sole window was a foot-square hole in the wall sealed with a few strips of wood. Through the gaps, he could make out the heavy night outside and distant blurred outlines. A small oil lamp hung behind the door, its flame like a bean barely chasing away a tiny patch of darkness, yet making the entire room appear all the more dilapidated and desolate.

Wang Quan struggled to climb onto the bed that reeked of mildew and sweat, lying flat on his back. Every inch of his bones was screaming, but it was already much better than a moment ago.

He stared at the low, soot-blackened roof beams, his mind a chaotic mess.

The memories of his past self were still slowly surfacing, as if separated by a layer of thick fog. Anping County, a borderland region in the north. The garrison, expiation, five years of risking one's life. Along with those fragmented images—mountain forests, accomplices, blood-stained blades, yamen runners' chains, and the resounding crack of the judgment gavel on the magistrate's desk.

Judging from the attitude of Commander Chen, the scar-faced man, and the actions of those two guards casually tossing a pill and locking the door, his guilty self's life was worth less than grass. That pill could heal injuries, but its value was likely limited; otherwise, it wouldn't have been discarded on the floor like trash. Tomorrow's patrol would very likely be dangerous.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to rest. His body needed recovery, and tomorrow required physical strength. The medicinal power continued to take effect, the pain gradually turning into a profound exhaustion as his consciousness began to blur.