No one saw how he drew his sword.
All they saw was a bolt of lightning suddenly blooming amid the swirling sand, followed by the ghastly spectacle of men and horses screaming and blood spraying.
His sword was so swift it seemed capable of cleaving wind and sand. Wherever its light reached, bandits fell like mown grass. Within moments, the yellow sand had been stained dark red, and the remaining brigands scattered in panic, not daring even to look back.
The merchants, spared from disaster, eagerly offered dry rations and clean water, their words brimming with gratitude. Yet the man merely shook his head indifferently. Most of his face lay hidden in the shadow beneath his bamboo hat; only his tightly pressed lips showed, cold and hard as a line carved by a blade.
No one dared trouble him further. They simply felt that a master of such caliber ought to possess such aloof pride.
They encountered three more bands of outlaws along the way. Each time, that gray figure went forward alone. His sword emerged, and the bandits fell back.
His sword left no survivors, nor did he waste a single movement. There was only the simplest slaughter, like one silent harvest after another.
After more than a month of travel, the wind and sand gradually subsided, and the outline of a town finally appeared on the horizon.
Earthen-yellow walls emerged in the dusk. Black banners snapped in the evening wind atop the battlements, their enormous character for "Han" searing itself into every eye like a brand.
Muffled cheers rose from the caravan, and delighted smiles spread across the travelers' faces-the joy of escaping death and finally nearing their reward.
Only the gray-clad man on his camel slowly raised a hand and lifted the battered bamboo hat that concealed