Yi Yang's eyes shifted in the moonlight.
Then he fell.
He staggered back two steps, struck his backside against a stone stool in the courtyard, and slid to the ground. The standard-issue saber in his hand dropped beside his feet with a sharp clang.
His lips trembled against each other, and a broken wail squeezed out of his throat.
"Don't... don't kill me... this old man just guards the gate..."
The burly man barked a laugh, his grin stretching toward his ears.
"A gate guard is still a dog of the Heaven Patrol Office."
He raised his broad-bladed saber, aimed it at Yi Yang's head, and strode over. The skinny bandit circled around on the right, baring two short daggers to cut off his retreat.
Their coordination was seamless. Unfortunately, they had chosen the wrong target.
The burly man reached Yi Yang and raised his saber overhead, about to chop down.
Yi Yang's right hand moved.
Not to pick up the standard-issue saber on the ground.
Instead, the short saber hidden beneath his old blue robe at the small of his back slipped silently from its sheath.
Its blade was narrow and thin, one of the short sabers he had taken from those two Red Tiger Gang members. Its former owner had clearly treasured it; the edge had been polished until it reflected faces.
Steel flashed.
A horizontal slash.
A line opened across the burly man's throat, from left to right.
Not deep, but enough.
The sound of his windpipe severing was dull and wet, like stepping on a sheepskin bag filled with water.
The burly man's saber paused overhead for half a beat. His fingers loosened, and the blade tipped sideways onto his own shoulder. He clutched his neck and stumbled back two steps, blood spraying between his fingers