Wan Qinghe

The innkeeper hurriedly opened the private room with several attendants.

The moment the door swung open, a thick stench of blood hit them, mingling with the lingering aroma of food. It smelled like rotten meat soaked in wine.

The innkeeper stopped short, and the attendants behind him froze as one. The snowman before them sent a chill through him. A torso stood in the middle of the table, two wooden rods thrust into its severed limbs and braced against a chair. Scraps of sapphire-blue brocade covered its face, leaving half a pale neck exposed beneath.

Blood was everywhere: on the table, the walls, the floor. It had seeped into the oily sauce from the braised pork knuckle, turning it a murky dark red.

One attendant turned aside to retch. Another's legs gave out, and he dropped to the floor. The innkeeper's stomach churned, but he forced it down.

But this was no longer their affair. That was why he had not stopped Chen Chong. Earlier, downstairs, he had watched the man come down from above, a blade at his side and a little blood on his robe, walking at an unhurried pace.

He had even heard the screams from upstairs, but he had not dared say a word.

He fought back the urge to vomit, waved a hand, and told an attendant beside him, "Go inform Wan Qinghe, Gang Leader Wan."

He paused, his Adam's apple bobbing. "No. I'll go myself."

The innkeeper walked quickly. Sweat poured from his somewhat portly body, rolling down his forehead, neck, and back in beads and soaking a wide patch of his collar.

But he did not dare stop for even a moment.

He crossed two streets, turned into an alley, and arrived at a lavish compound.

Its courtyard walls rose high, and the words "Wan Residence" hung above the black-lacquered gate. After he sent word in, he waited a long while in the gatehouse before finally being allowed to see Gang Leader Wan.

Wan Qinghe sat in the hall with a ledger in his hand. When the innkeeper entered, he glanced up. The innkeeper told him what had happened. The ledger fell from Wan Qinghe's hand.

"What did you say? My son?"

The world spun around Wan Qinghe. He gripped the edge of the table and forced himself to stand steady. Then he seized the innkeeper by the collar, lifted him like a chicken, and raced off.

Unleashing the full speed of the Bone-Forging Stage, he touched the rooftops a few times with the tips of his feet. Wind rushed into the innkeeper's mouth, leaving him unable even to scream. Moments later, they landed at the restaurant entrance. Wan Qinghe kicked the door open, bounded upstairs, and pushed open the private room.

At the sight of the snowman, Wan Qinghe hurled the innkeeper from his grasp.

"Who did this? Who did this!"

His voice was the howl of a wounded beast, making the bowls and plates on the table hum.

The innkeeper trembled. He had landed hard, his back striking the wall. Pain twisted his face, but he did not dare make a sound.

Lying on the floor and gasping for breath, he said in fits and starts, "I didn't recognize him... but I think he's staying at the Welcome Inn."

At the words "Welcome Inn," a glimmer of clarity returned to Wan Qinghe's eyes.

He calmed somewhat. The Welcome Inn belonged to the authorities—or at least, the authorities stood behind it. He looked over the scene again.

The cuts were smooth. Four slashes had severed the four limbs, clean and swift, with no wasted marks. The dishes on the table were still warm, and the wine flask stood where it had been. Whoever had done this had made it look effortless. Like him, the killer was at the Bone-Forging Stage.

And the killer had not considered him a threat at all. After killing his son, he had sat in the private room for a while before leaving at his leisure.

Wan Qinghe stood there touching the snowman. He removed the wooden rods from the body and, without a word, pieced it back together.

He set the limbs where they belonged and gathered the hands and feet, assembling a whole corpse. Wan Qianshan's face had stiffened. His eyes were still open, filled with terror. Wan Qinghe reached out and closed them for him.

Silence. Beside him, the innkeeper barely dared to breathe.

Wan Qinghe waved a hand, telling the two gang members who had followed him to find something to carry Wan Qianshan home. The two fumbled off their outer robes and wrapped the corpse. One lifted it by the head, the other by the feet, and they carried it out with careful steps.

Wan Qinghe followed them downstairs and out of the restaurant. Dusk had deepened into darkness. Few pedestrians remained on the street, and lanterns swayed in the wind.

Without a word, Wan Qinghe walked toward the center of the city. He crossed two streets and came to a residence. Above its gate hung the words "Wan House."

He pushed the door open and went in. A short while later, he emerged from the residence, his face dark.

He looked back at the two words behind him, anger burning in his heart.

He was, in fact, a member of a distant branch of the Wan Family. By generation, he had to address the direct-line members of the main family as paternal uncles.

But how many dirty deeds had he done for the Wan Family over the years? He had collected illicit payments for them, settled murder cases for them, done their work that could not bear the light of day.

And why had Wan Qianshan targeted that group of wealthy guests? Was it not because several people in the Wan Family had set their sights on him and played him for a fool? They had sent Wan Qianshan to extort those rich visitors from out of town. Wan Qinghe knew perfectly well whose pockets the silver had ended up in.

He had always allowed them to set their traps. He had treated it as tribute to the Wan Family, paid in exchange for his place in a branch of the family and the right to claim their protection.

But now Wan Qianshan was dead. Wan Qinghe had wanted the Wan Family to send another Bone-Forging Stage fighter to help him.

He had entered the Wan House and made his request humbly. The man he had asked sat in the hall drinking tea. After listening, he set down his cup and said, "It would be inconvenient for us to intervene."

Wan Qinghe returned to the gang. White mourning cloth was everywhere. It hung over the doorway, white lanterns swayed beneath the eaves, and a mourning hall had been set up in the courtyard. A newly bought coffin stood at its center.

Wan Qinghe sat in a chair before the mourning hall, his face dark, and remained silent for a long time.

Then he rose and found a woman of considerable beauty. She was twenty-seven or twenty-eight, with a full figure, fair skin, and shrewdness in her eyes.

She was Wan Qinghe's current lover. Clever and capable, she managed the gang's money.

"Spend all our gold and silver on crossbow bolts," Wan Qinghe said, his voice low and heavy. "Once that boy leaves the Welcome Inn, kill him."

The woman nodded without asking questions.

She was now the person Wan Qinghe trusted most. His first wife had died long ago, and Wan Qianshan had been her only child.

In all these years, Wan Qinghe had not had another child with his lover. She was relieved to see that he had not lost his reason and charged straight into the Welcome Inn.

The Welcome Inn had branches almost everywhere, and the authorities stood behind it. If the gang leader stormed in and killed someone in a fit of rage, the entire Clear River Gang might be torn up by the roots overnight.

She turned and went to make the arrangements. Her steps were steady, and her face betrayed nothing.

In the mourning hall, white candles flickered in the wind, casting their light across Wan Qinghe's dark face.

Wan Qinghe reached out and touched the edge of the coffin. His fingertips rubbed the cold wood, once, then again. Wind poured through the gap in the door, blowing the white candle flames this way and that.