Chapter 39: The Harvest

The headless corpse sprayed blood in all directions, falling backward with rigid stiffness. With a dull thud, it hit the ground, echoing a muffled sound. Zhu Guohui’s face changed, retreating three steps in succession, staring at Yao Qian with astonishment, his heart full of shock. In just a single move, he had been forced back, and his companion slain—such skill was truly terrifying.

“Sir, I don’t believe I’ve ever offended you. Why must you cruelly kill my companion?” Zhu Guohui pleaded, but Yao Qian’s mind was already set. Moments ago, this man had relied on numbers to ambush him, leaving him flustered and disordered. Now, sensing the tide turning, Zhu Guohui immediately bowed and begged, groveling like a whipped dog. Such a person could not be allowed to live.

Thinking this, Yao Qian’s blade, Blood Vengeance, continued its ceaseless dance, slashing and thrusting with ruthless precision. Zhu Guohui’s staff moved in a blur, thundering like waves crashing against a dike, echoing throughout the courtyard. The two exchanged several blows, and Yao Qian soon discerned the depths of his opponent’s abilities. Zhu Guohui’s short staff technique was not particularly refined, but he wielded it with practiced ease, relying on surprise attacks. For a moment, his moves seemed overwhelming, but once Yao Qian adapted to the rhythm of staff and sword, he could see the vulnerabilities between them.

A cold gleam flashed in Yao Qian’s eyes. He sprang forth like a tiger released from its cage, leaping with ferocity—Tiger Leaps the Ravine! His body was fierce as a beast, and Blood Vengeance shot forward, a red beam piercing Zhu Guohui’s vision.

Zhu Guohui’s expression twisted in terror. The man before him seemed to transform into a savage tiger, pouncing with unstoppable force, as if a beast were hunting its prey. He roared, swinging his iron staff like a wind-blown fan, desperate to block the incoming strike.

In an instant, their bodies crossed paths. Yao Qian stood several meters behind Zhu Guohui, unmoving. As Zhu Guohui began to speak, a sudden confusion flickered across his face. A fine knife wound appeared on his neck, splitting open in a heartbeat. Blood sprayed like mist, his body collapsed, and the light in his eyes faded, plunging into endless darkness.

Elsewhere, seeing his two companions killed in an instant, the last survivor tried to feign death, but the pungent smell of urine already scented the air, and a trickle of liquid seeped from his trousers.

Yao Qian looked at him with disgust, strode over, and, regardless of whether he was truly dead or pretending, slashed his throat. Feigned death became real death. After all, a man like him was guilty of countless crimes; killing him carried no burden.

He never considered the stark difference between his present self and his past. Before, he might have merely entertained such thoughts, or perhaps never even considered them. Now, as a life perished in his hands, he felt not the slightest ripple—no more than slaughtering a chicken or a duck.

Clearing his mind, Yao Qian searched the corpses. The combined silver on the three bodies barely amounted to fifty taels—either they were truly destitute, or had hidden their wealth at home.

He carefully wrapped Zhu Guohui’s head, then glanced at the sky; it was not too late, he could still manage another job tonight.

Leaving through the back courtyard of Apricot Blossom Pavilion, he alerted Old Wang to send someone to clean up the mess. It would not do to leave a bloody scene and corpses in someone’s backyard at night—no need to frighten the locals.

Besides, what was a brothel? Who knew what powers lurked behind it? Yao Qian had no desire to provoke greater trouble. With Old Wang stepping in, it became an official matter—nothing traced back to him.

…

Night deepened, and soon an arc-shaped moon appeared in the sky, accompanied by countless stars. In a dim alley, nestled in West City of Pingyang, the commercial heart where merchants gathered and fortunes flowed daily in numbers beyond reckoning. Such wealth naturally attracted many covetous eyes, fueling the rise of organizations like escort agencies to protect merchants.

Yao Qian now stood not far from an escort agency—his second target concealed himself within its ranks as an escort guard. He waited patiently in the alley, blending into the darkness like a shadow, betraying not the slightest flaw.

Time passed, and eventually several escort guards emerged from the agency. Yao Qian’s gaze was sharp as an eagle’s, scrutinizing each one until he spotted his quarry—a burly man in his thirties, so ordinary in appearance and dress that he would never stand out in a crowd.

But who could have guessed that such an unremarkable man had stained his hands with the lives of at least twenty women and children? According to the records in the Shadow Portraits, he was ruthlessly cruel, utterly devoid of humanity. Others might have killed for reasons—grudges, vengeance, or emotion—but he murdered for his twisted pleasure.

In Yao Qian’s view, the man was nothing less than a deranged killer, a predator of married women. After his perverse pleasures, he would torture and murder, deriving sick satisfaction.

Trailing the man, they soon left the escort agency’s territory. Yao Qian watched him weave through the dark alleys, at first suspecting he’d been detected, but soon realizing the man was restless—tonight, he seemed intent on committing another crime.

Yao Qian’s eyes gleamed. So be it; such a man could not be left alive. Besides, his head was worth a hundred taels of silver.

After entering another alley, Yao Qian lost patience. With a powerful stride, he rushed from behind, drew Blood Vengeance, and slashed down in a decisive blow—straightforward, as if splitting a mountain.

The sound behind him could not escape the senses of a martial artist. The man whirled, drawing his blade.

Clang!

The blades collided, Yao Qian’s immense strength driving his opponent into the wall with a muffled thump. Since advancing his Demon Ox Strength to the introductory level, his power had increased by at least thirty percent—within his realm, he was virtually invincible.

Blood trickled from the man’s mouth. He opened it to speak, but Yao Qian had no interest in listening—what use were words to the dead?

With three swift steps, Yao Qian closed in, raised his blade, and slashed at the man’s neck. The man never expected Yao Qian to deny him even a moment’s explanation, not even a chance to know why he was dying. His face flushed red, eyes wild like a wounded beast, hissing in pain. He raised his blade in desperation, trying to block the strike.

Clang!

The metallic impact rang out. The man’s arms went numb, as if they no longer belonged to him. His grip loosened, and his blade was sent flying, clattering against the wall.

“Why are you—” he began, but before the word could leave his mouth, Yao Qian’s palm slammed into his chest. The sound of bones breaking echoed; blood gushed from his mouth.

The air filled with a thick scent of blood.

Yao Qian withdrew his hand and stepped back, watching the man’s body slide to the ground, eyes wide and fading, confusion and resentment lingering in his gaze. He seemed unable to comprehend why his killer had given him no chance to speak, no explanation.

With his death, another hundred taels were earned. Yao Qian felt a surge of satisfaction.

He searched the corpse; this miser was even stingier, not carrying a single tael. Truly a model for profitless crime.

With a single stroke, the head rolled to the ground, blood gushing forth. Yao Qian paid it no mind, cheerfully storing his second trophy.

As he wrapped the head and prepared to leave, he realized that two figures had appeared in the darkness of the alley, unnoticed until now.

A cold sweat broke across his back.

“Who are you?”