Snowman

Several days passed in a hurry.

With little else to do, Chen Chong often wandered the streets of Pingyang City, mainly to gather news. He had reached the Bone Tempering Realm now, so there was no need to be quite so cautious. As he walked, he would sometimes sit in a teahouse or tavern and listen to gossip from every quarter.

News came from Dingyuan County.

Many people had died this time. The rebels had supposedly killed them. Someone in a teahouse said that on the day the city fell, the Zhao Residence burned all night, its flames turning half the city red.

Most of the Zhao Family's direct descendants were dead. The collateral branches had fled in every direction.

The city's wealthy households had been stripped bare, and bodies lay everywhere in the streets. Carts hauled the dead from morning till night, their wheels creaking endlessly over the stone roads.

But plenty of other rumors spread in secret, each told with convincing detail.

Some said the Li Family had plotted with the rebels. The Zhao Family stood in its way, so it had borrowed the rebels' hands to destroy them.

Supposedly, all of Dingyuan County now belonged to the Li Family, and the court even intended to appoint a magistrate from the family that had "earned merit in quelling the rebellion."

Some people in the teahouse slapped the tables and cursed. Others murmured agreement, while still others merely shook their heads.

Whatever the truth, one thing was certain: many people had died in Dingyuan County. More than a dozen Bone Tempering Realm martial artists were said to be among them. No one knew how many others in the city had been killed or wounded.

In any case, the carts carrying bodies out of the city never stopped.

Chen Chong lifted his teacup and took a sip.

Dingshan County, the place where he had spent half a year. World-Aiding Hall, the little courtyard, the Dark Market, Chen Huaixu, Su Hongyu, Li Zhaoning... those people and places seemed to lie beneath a layer of water now, visible but beyond his reach.

Back at the inn, Chen Chong opened the panel.

Balance: 22,356 taels. He chose to deduce Immortal-Slaying Saber (First Form) (Incomplete).

"Deduction in progress... Deduction successful. Immortal-Slaying Saber (First Form)."

"Spend one thousand taels of silver to fuse?"

"Fusion in progress... Fusion successful. Myriad Ravines Return to the Edge—Ravine-Returning Profound Severance (First Form)."

"Spend one hundred taels of silver to simplify?"

"Simplification in progress... Simplification successful. Ravine-Returning Profound Severance—Stroke Saber and Meditate."

Chen Chong touched his saber. Its blade was long and slender, its plain black-lacquered scabbard faintly cool beneath his fingers. He closed his eyes and imagined the force of countless mountain peaks converging in a single stroke. He imagined the slash that had killed Wang Guanyong that day.

Saber light flashed, blood mist dispersed, and mountain ravines poured forth.

Ravine-Returning Profound Severance (First Form) (Proficient: 625/1000).

He opened his eyes, saw the words "Spend one hundred thousand taels of silver to continue deduction?" on the panel, and breathed a sigh of relief.

So he could keep deducing it after all. One form was enough for now. He could worry about the hundred thousand taels later.

Over the past few days, he had asked the Hundred Treasures Pavilion about its caravans to Anyang Commandery. One was due to leave in a few days.

The price really was ten thousand taels of silver. It covered food, lodging, arrangements along the road, and guards. Expensive, but convenient. In a few days, he could set out for Anyang Commandery.

Chen Chong rubbed his stomach, left the inn, and headed for a nearby street.

Food stalls and restaurants filled the street. Tavern signs hung one behind another, and all kinds of aromas drifted through the air: the char of roasting meat, the richness of simmering broth, the scent of dough rising from steamers. Together, they made his stomach growl.

Chen Chong entered a restaurant, took a private room, and ordered a generous spread: red-braised pork knuckle, steamed sea bass, stir-fried kidneys in sauce, dry-fried green beans, and a pot of warmed yellow wine.

The dishes arrived one after another. He picked up his chopsticks and began eating with gusto.

Then footsteps approached, making no attempt at concealment.

They were heavy, thudding across the floorboards. The door to the private room was shoved open, dragging the curtain askew.

A young man stood in the doorway with two middle-aged men. He was in his early twenties, dressed in a royal-blue brocade robe with a jade belt and gold rings on his fingers. His face bore the particular arrogance of a spoiled young master.

The two men behind him stood to either side. Both wore dark-gray short tunics and carried short sabers at their waists. Their auras were steady. Both were at the Flesh-Nourishing Stage.

"Brother, you look like a man of means. How about lending me a little money to spend?" the young man said, as casually as if greeting an acquaintance.

Chen Chong set down his chopsticks and glanced at him. "Oh? How much do you need?"

"One thousand—" The young man paused, looked at the fine dishes on the table, then at the saber at Chen Chong's waist. "No. Five thousand taels."

Chen Chong reached into his robe, casually pulled out five thousand taels in banknotes, and tossed them onto the table.

The notes landed beside a plate, picking up a smear of grease. Wan Qianshan's face lit up, and he reached for them.

Then saber light flashed.

A hand lay beside the five thousand taels.

It was still twitching, its fingers slightly curled, its fingertips resting on the banknotes. Blood spurted from the severed wrist and splashed across the tablecloth, spreading into a dark-red stain.

A shrill scream rang out. Wan Qianshan clutched his severed wrist and bent double, his face flushed crimson. An inhuman howl tore from his throat.

The two men lunged forward. Their hands had only just touched their saber hilts when their heads stayed where they were.

The saber had moved too fast. Their hands were still drawing their weapons, but their necks had already been cut.

Their headless bodies pitched forward and overturned the chairs. Blood welled from their necks and spread into two pools on the floor.

Still screaming, Wan Qianshan saw what had happened and hurried to announce who he was. "I'm—"

Before he could finish, another slash fell. "I'm—" Another slash. "I—" Another slash.

All four limbs had been severed. Left arm, right arm, left leg, right leg. Four strokes, so fast they seemed to have landed at once.

The cuts were smooth as if pared with a knife. Blood sprayed across the floor, walls, and table, spattering the entire room.

Wan Qianshan lay collapsed on the floor, nothing left but a torso and head, like a puppet stripped of its limbs.

His face twisted, his mouth hung open, and only hoarse, rasping sounds came from his throat. He could no longer form a single word.

Chen Chong fitted two wooden sticks from a chair to Wan Qianshan's sides, making him look like a snowman.

He pushed the sticks into the severed stumps and propped the torso upright beside the table.

Chen Chong studied Wan Qianshan as though admiring a masterpiece. The twisted face did not look quite cute enough.

He tore up Wan Qianshan's costly royal-blue brocade robe and covered his face completely. Much cuter.

Then, as if chatting with a friend, he began telling Wan Qianshan about the things he had done.

Wan Qianshan, the young master of the Clear River Gang and its leader's only son, might not have been guilty of every evil under the sun, but he had committed plenty. He had bullied men, preyed on women, and ruined many families.

Chen Chong had heard story after story about him over the past few days. A shop he had seized by force. A young woman he had violated. A man whose leg he had broken for looking at him one time too many.

He had also heard that Wan Qianshan had lately taken to watching for wealthy visitors from out of town, choosing those unfamiliar with the local situation.

He had not expected to become one of those targets himself.

Chen Chong lifted his cup and took a sip of yellow wine.

When Wan Qianshan fell silent and toppled over, Chen Chong picked up his torso and secured it in the middle of the table.

Propped up by wooden sticks, his face covered, he looked like a crooked snowman. The food on the table was still warm. Steam rose from the red-braised pork knuckle, and the steamed sea bass stared with clouded white eyes.

Chen Chong sat back down and went on eating.

He picked up a piece of kidney, chewed, and swallowed. Then he took another sip of wine.

The smell of blood was strong in the private room. Mixed with the aroma of the food, it had become strangely unsettling.

He set down his chopsticks, stood, straightened his robe, pushed open the door, and walked out.

Chen Chong went downstairs, crossed the main hall, and left the restaurant.

Dusk had begun to settle, and the lanterns along the street lit up one by one. He walked back at an unhurried pace.

Behind him, in the restaurant's private room, the "snowman" still stood on the table, his face covered, perfectly still.