It was the dead of winter. The wind cut to the bone along the mountain road.
A caravan of a dozen or so people could be seen in the distance.
"Cough, cough, cough—"
A fit of coughing came from inside a carriage.
"Lord Yang, the medicine is ready."
The young man held a steaming bowl of dark, murky medicine in one hand and lifted the heavy windproof curtain with the other. Lord Yang took the bowl and carefully blew on it twice. It was still scalding, so he could only cradle it in his hands to warm them.
A wheel had broken, forcing them to stop there.
Lord Yang asked quietly, "Any sign of them?"
The young man sat down and pulled a felt blanket over his legs.
With a hint of delight, he said, "They've taken the bait."
Lord Yang raised an eyebrow. "Hmph. A pack of petty thieves."
Though he was no longer as valiant as he'd once been, Lord Yang was still a tough man who'd personally slain hundreds of hardened bandits. Even as he spoke, a bloodthirsty ferocity like that of a savage wolf edged his words. From what they'd heard, the bandits in the area were no different from demons wearing human skin.
Ordinary bandits only wanted money, not lives. Hand over your valuables, and you could keep your life. They preyed on wealthy merchants and left common folk alone, which, in a way, could be called "honor among thieves." But the gang that had their eyes on them was different.
They were all young, around twenty, yet vicious and cruel in the extreme. Armed and numerous, they preyed on passing merchants, and few ever escaped alive.
Even ordinary people who crossed their path met a gruesome end. The bandits didn't just want money; they