Over the next two days, patrols in Anping County's outer city grew increasingly dreary and oppressive. Those low-ranking members of the Corpse Clan, with their blue-black skin and shambling gait, appeared more and more frequently, practically becoming a fixed part of the scenery every night. Wang Quan led his team through the wild grass and ruined walls, the Blood Drinking Saber rising and falling as the dull thuds of bodies hitting the ground rang out without end.
His movements grew increasingly clean and fierce. Once he unleashed Shadow Step, he practically dragged afterimages through the dim light, every slash precisely cutting into the Corpse Clan's most vulnerable neck joints. In his mind, the cold notification chime steadily increased his accumulation.
After two days, he had cleared several scattered groups of the Corpse Clan and accumulated another 10 Skill Points. Wang Quan did not use them immediately, bringing the new points together with his previous savings for a total of 19.
Aside from routine patrols and killing, he split his remaining time in two. Half went toward investigating, with even greater secrecy, the shadow hanging over Anping County: General of the Middle Army Li Chongshan. He used Shape-Shifting Art to alter his appearance, blending into the streets like a drop of water, silently listening at tea stalls, taverns, and even the corners where beggars gathered. The scattered bits of information were like shards of broken porcelain, requiring immense patience to piece together into a vague picture. Li Chongshan had taken office five years ago, and the Blood Tax had begun with him. Even more chillingly, those garrison veterans who had objected at the time and attempted to resist—whether hot-tempered squad leaders or seasoned old soldiers—all disappeared over the next year or two in various perfectly plausible ways: attacked by a large horde of Demonic Beasts, slipping and falling from a cliff, or suddenly dying from a violent illness. The coincidences were chilling. Five years was enough time for fear to take root and dissent to fall silent.
The other half of his time belonged beneath the old locust tree in the Wei family's small courtyard. Every day, as dusk approached, as long as he had no patrol duty, Lingling's crisp shouts would ring out on schedule. Wang Quan's instruction was strict to the point of cruelty. If her horse stance was even slightly off, she had to hold it for half an hour; if the path of force in a punch was wrong, he would break it down, have her imitate it, and correct her again and again. He was not teaching flashy techniques. Instead, he infused the most fundamental principles of the Wind Slaying Saber Technique—force application, footwork, and breathing rhythm—into the simplest movements, tempering the child's bones and awareness.
"Let the force go all the way through. Don't let it float." Wang Quan's hand rested on Lingling's thin shoulder and back, feeling the faint tremors and the strength gradually gathering there. "Imagine your fist isn't striking empty air, but smashing through a wooden plank. Yes, just like that. Tighten your waist and abdomen. Grip the ground with your toes."
Lingling's little face flushed bright red. Sweat ran down her temples and soaked her sideburns, but her bright eyes gleamed as she clenched her teeth and persisted, repeating every movement with meticulous care. Wei Dayong often squatted beneath the eaves to watch, forgetting to light the tobacco pipe in his hand. His expression was complicated and difficult to put into words: there was heartache, pride, and an even deeper worry, one so profound it seemed almost tangible. Sister Xu quietly sat to one side, mending clothes by the fading daylight. Her stitches were close and neat, and from time to time she would look up at the two figures—one large and one small—in the courtyard, her eyes filled with tenderness.
This stern yet warm daily routine was like a stream slowly seeping into cracks in stone, quietly changing the atmosphere in the courtyard. At the dinner table, Wei Dayong would ramble a few extra words about trivial matters at the garrison, complain about the food, or reminisce about some old brother who had long since passed away. Whenever Sister Xu served Wang Quan rice, she would always discreetly push a few extra slices of meat from the stew beneath the rice in his bowl. Lingling, meanwhile, grew increasingly fond of clinging to Uncle Wang, who did not talk much but made people feel safe. During breaks in her training, she would chatter excitedly about nursery rhymes she had heard during the day or amusing things she had seen.
Wang Quan still did not say much, but he spent more time listening. He would silently finish the hidden slices of meat, briefly praise Lingling with a "You're making progress" whenever she excitedly showed off the slightest improvement, and when Wei Dayong drank himself into a gloomy stupor, Wang Quan would silently refill his bowl.
That night, the moonlight was pale. After washing up, Lingling fell into a deep sleep, exhausted yet satisfied. Wang Quan and Wei Dayong once again sat beneath the old locust tree. On the table were a dish of beans boiled in salted water and two bowls of muddy liquor.
Wei Dayong took a sip of wine, smacked his lips, and turned his gaze toward the dark window of his daughter's room. In a low voice, he said, "That girl's got strong bones, just like me. It's this worldly affairs..." He shook his head and did not continue, instead turning to Wang Quan. "Brother, tell me—what exactly are we fighting tooth and nail to protect?"
Wang Quan gazed at the Moon Shadow wavering in his bowl but did not answer at once. What were they protecting? This county town behind them, growing stranger by the day, like a vast prison? The numb or terrified common people within the city? Or... merely a bowl of hot rice, a dim lamp, and that childish yet earnest voice calling out from this little courtyard?
"I don't know." Wang Quan finally spoke, his voice calm. "But having a saber in hand is better than having none."
Wei Dayong gave a dry laugh, a trace of desolation in his smile. "A saber... Yes, with a saber, you feel a little steadier inside." He paused, lowering his voice until it was almost inaudible. "Just like those old brothers who lost their sabers. Once they lost them... they were gone too." He tilted his head back and gulped down a large mouthful of wine, his Adam's apple rolling violently, as though he were forcing certain surging emotions back down. Moonlight shone across his face, carved with the marks of wind and frost, leaving it half bright and half shadowed. Wang Quan also lifted his bowl and drained the slightly murky liquid in one go. The liquor was fierce, scorching his throat.
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