Currents Run Deeper by the Day

The next two days saw the patrols outside Anping County's outer wall become increasingly dull and oppressive. The low-level Corpse Tribe members, with their dark skin and stumbling gait, appeared more and more frequently, almost becoming a fixed nightly spectacle. Wang Quan led his team through the overgrown weeds and crumbling ruins. With each swing of the Blood Drinking Saber, the dull thud of bodies falling was endless.

His movements grew more concise and sharp. He unleashed the Shadow Step, almost leaving afterimages in the dim light. Each saber strike precisely targeted the most vulnerable joint in the Corpse Tribe's necks. In his mind, cold system prompts steadily increased his accumulation.

Over two days, he cleared several scattered groups of the Corpse Tribe and accumulated 10 Skill Points. Wang Quan didn't use them immediately, saving them with his previous accumulation for a total of 19 points.

Besides routine patrols and kills, he divided his remaining time in half. One half was dedicated to more covertly investigating the shadow that loomed over Anping County: General of the Middle Army Li Chongshan. He used the Shape-Shifting Art to alter his appearance, blending into the bustling city like a drop of water. In tea stalls, taverns, and even corners where beggars gathered, he silently listened. Fragmented information was like shattered porcelain shards, requiring immense patience to piece together a vague picture. Li Chongshan took office five years ago, and the Blood Tax began shortly after. Even more chilling was that any Garrison veterans who had objected or attempted to resist back then, whether hot-tempered squad leaders or experienced old soldiers, had all disappeared within the next year or two through various plausible means—ambushed by a large group of Monsters, falling off cliffs, or even sudden, fatal illnesses. The coincidences were chilling. Five years was enough time for fear to take root and dissent to be silenced.

The other half of his time was devoted to the old locust tree in the Wei family's small courtyard. Every evening, as dusk approached, as long as there were no patrols, Lingling's clear, crisp shouts would ring out on time. Wang Quan's training was ruthlessly strict. If a horse stance was incorrect, she would have to hold it for half an hour; if the force path of a punch was wrong, he would repeatedly break it down, have her imitate, and correct it. He wasn't teaching flashy moves, but rather distilling the most fundamental aspects of the Wind Slaying Saber Technique—force generation, footwork, and breathing rhythm—into the simplest movements, honing the child's bones, muscles, and awareness.

"The force needs to penetrate, not be superficial," Wang Quan's hand rested on Lingling's slender shoulders, feeling the subtle tremors and the gradually gathering strength. "Imagine your fist isn't hitting empty air, but is meant to smash through a wooden board. Yes, just like that. Tighten your core, grip the ground with your toes."

Lingling's small face was flushed red, sweat dripping from her temples and soaking her hair. But her bright, dark eyes sparkled. Gritting her teeth, she persisted, meticulously repeating every movement. Wei Dayong often squatted under the eaves, watching, his pipe forgotten in his hand, his expression complex and hard to describe—heartache, pride, and a deep, almost tangible worry. Sister Xu sat quietly nearby, mending clothes by the fading light, her stitches fine. Occasionally, she would glance up at the two figures in the courtyard, her eyes full of tenderness.

This strict yet warm daily routine, like a stream slowly seeping into the cracks of a stone, quietly changed the atmosphere in the courtyard. At the dinner table, Wei Dayong would chatter more about trivial matters in the Garrison, complain about the food, or reminisce about an old comrade long gone. When Sister Xu served Wang Quan, she would subtly move more slices of meat from the stew into his bowl. Lingling grew increasingly fond of clinging to this quiet but reassuring Uncle Wang. During breaks in her training, she would excitedly chatter about nursery rhymes she'd heard or interesting things she'd seen during the day.

Wang Quan still spoke little, but his listening time grew longer. He would silently finish the hidden pieces of meat. When Lingling excitedly showed a small improvement, he would briefly affirm, "You've improved." When Wei Dayong drank too much in his melancholy, his eyes dim, Wang Quan would silently refill his bowl.

That night, the moonlight was faint. After washing up, Lingling fell into a deep sleep, weary but content. Wang Quan and Wei Dayong sat again under the old locust tree. On the table were a plate of salted boiled beans and two bowls of cloudy wine.

Wei Dayong took a sip of wine, smacked his lips, and looked towards the darkened window of his daughter's room. He said in a low voice, "This girl, she's got a backbone, takes after me. It's just this world..." He shook his head, not finishing, and turned to Wang Quan. "Brother, you tell me, what are we fighting and toiling so hard for?"

Wang Quan looked at the swaying moonlight in his bowl, not answering immediately. What were they defending? This increasingly strange county town that felt like a giant prison behind them? The numb or fearful common folk within the city? Or... was it merely the small courtyard, a bowl of hot rice, a dim lamp, and those tender yet earnest shouts?

"I don't know," Wang Quan finally said, his voice calm. "But having a saber in hand is better than not having one."

Wei Dayong let out a dry laugh, a hint of desolation in his smile. "A saber... yes, with a saber, one feels a bit more at ease." He paused, his voice dropping even lower, almost inaudible. "Like those old brothers who lost their sabers, they too... were lost."

He tilted his head back and gulped down a large mouthful of wine, his Adam's apple bobbing violently as if trying to forcefully suppress some surging emotions. The moonlight cast shadows on his weathered face.

Wang Quan also raised his wine bowl and drained the cloudy liquid. The wine was strong, burning his throat.