Chapter 019: The Curtain Falls

The assassin’s palm strikes were fierce and swift as the wind, as solid as iron. Although Qiu Zhiqing’s own "Three Flowers Gather at the Crown" technique was as soft as snow and firm as ice, everyone could imagine the outcome when ice collided with iron.

Sensing disaster, Qiu Zhiqing retreated instinctively, pulling Prefect Zhao—who was still shouting, "The clouds and wind gather!"—out of the study and into the open courtyard.

Prefect Zhao, who had been shouting his moves just moments before, now hung his right arm limply, water streaming down his forehead—whether from pain or the pouring rain, it was hard to tell. Qiu Zhiqing fared no better; his left hand trembled uncontrollably, his entire arm numb. If he hadn't refined his "Quanzhen Inner Skill" to such a fluid and masterful state, he would likely have been as incapacitated as the Prefect.

Before they could find their footing, a tea table from the Prefect’s home came flying toward them. Qiu Zhiqing yanked the fifty-year-old Prefect away, tossing him toward the courtyard gate as lightly as a sack of grain. Simultaneously, a flash of sword light descended, cleaving the tea table into two halves that fell to either side.

Qiu Zhiqing did not pause; with a circular motion, he used the flat of his blade to catch the palm strike of the black-clad assassin who had lunged at him. Qiu Zhiqing was sent flying backward, a dull, throbbing pain in his right hand. He cursed inwardly, "Damn it, that palm power is truly monstrous. With that kind of skill, he could make a fortune as a blacksmith—why resort to assassinating a Prefect?"

What annoyed him even more was that when he turned to flee, he found a small old man blocking the courtyard gate. A closer look revealed it was none other than Prefect Zhao himself.

Qiu Zhiqing shouted, "We can't win, run!" Yet, he remained planted firmly in place. Executing the "Egret Rises from the Galaxy" move, he spun and thrust his sword backward. Seeing an iron palm swing horizontally toward him, and fearing for his blade, he shifted to an upward strike aimed directly at the assassin’s chin.

Qiu Zhiqing realized that the assassin’s strikes were too powerful to meet head-on. He aimed for the man's weak points to force a defensive posture, preventing the assassin from continuing his pursuit of the Prefect. If the Prefect died, he, a small Taoist of unknown origin, would surely end up a wanted man.

Irritated by the persistent Taoist, the assassin took a half-step back, swiped the sword aside with his left palm, and struck toward Qiu Zhiqing’s face with his right. Qiu Zhiqing was prepared; utilizing the "Peach Blossoms on Flowing Water" technique, he circled to the assassin’s left. But the assassin was just as fast. The initial strike had been a feint; as soon as Qiu Zhiqing shifted position, the assassin whirled around and delivered a palm strike three times more intense than those in the study—a strike so sharp it parted the falling rain.

The blow was too fast and too sudden to dodge. Unable to block with his compromised left hand, Qiu Zhiqing let his sword drop. He caught it with his left hand behind his back, while gathering all his internal energy into his right palm for a final "Three Flowers Gather at the Crown."

He could not retreat—not with that stubborn Prefect still standing by the gate. Why wouldn't the man just run? If he had fled, they both could have escaped. This was no time for a scholar’s sense of dignity. Furthermore, the guards had yet to arrive—it was absolutely maddening!

Their palms met. Both sides exerted their full strength; the rain was pushed away within a three-foot radius, and the accumulated water on the ground was swept clear. A thunderous boom echoed—whether from the sky or the clash of their palms, it was impossible to tell. A bolt of lightning illuminated the night, and the violent shockwave sent Qiu Zhiqing staggering back, his feet leaving deep impressions in the paving bricks with every step.

The assassin also retreated three steps to stabilize himself, bringing him closer to the Prefect. Just as Qiu Zhiqing thought the dust had settled—that the assassin would kill the Prefect and they could all flee—the assassin lunged at him again as if he had lost his mind.

"Big brother, prioritize your targets! Don't lose your head!"

Whether it was Qiu Zhiqing’s silent plea or a sudden return of conscience, the assassin remembered his objective after two more steps. Prefect Zhao, who had been watching the scene, realized the tragedy was closing in. As the assassin turned back, the Prefect raised his sword to strike, but the assassin grabbed him like a chick and delivered a palm strike to his shoulder.

Yes, his shoulder—not his chest, as either the Prefect or Qiu Zhiqing had feared.

Dropping the limp Prefect, the assassin turned to finish off Qiu Zhiqing. However, after just two exchanges, Meng Gong burst through the wall, wielding his pole-arm saber with the grace of a needle and the power of a mountain-breaker. The assassin fought them for a dozen moves; though he held the upper hand, he could not overcome them.

Finally, the soldiers arrived. Ten men aimed their heavy crossbows in two rows. The leader didn't even look at the chaos, simply bellowing, "Fire!" Qiu Zhiqing cursed him a hundred times over in his mind.

Fortunately, having prepared, Qiu Zhiqing traded one last palm strike with the assassin and, at the command to fire, dragged Meng Gong back with him. Faced with the volley of bolts, the assassin—having achieved his goal—glared at Qiu Zhiqing and leaped away into the darkness.

Prefect Zhao ordered the soldiers to stand down. Seeing the Prefect was still alive, Qiu Zhiqing let out a sigh of relief. No death meant no bounty—truly a cause for celebration. But that assassin? Such ferocious palm power... could it be? No, if it were him, he would have been dead already.

The next day, as the young Taoist took his pulse and listened to the reports from his subordinates, Prefect Zhao remained silent. When his subordinate asked anxiously, "Prefect, what should we do? We await your decision," Zhao waved him off. "Let it be," he replied, dismissing them.

Once they were alone, Meng Gong apologized remorsefully, "It was my recklessness that put you in danger, Prefect. I deserve death for my failure."

Zhao did not blame him. He knew that while Meng Gong had instigated the event, he had invited the assassin himself. The Transport Commissioner had left in a hurry, and the assassin had arrived shortly after. Now that he was injured, the secret supplies were being moved into the Northern Barracks—only a fool would believe this had nothing to do with the people in Lin'an.

After treating the Prefect’s injuries and prescribing medicine, Qiu Zhiqing left with Meng Gong. "Does the Prefect intend to just let this go?" he asked.

Meng Gong shot him a look. "Of course. And what about you? Weren't you supposed to protect him? The person you were guarding is severely injured, yet you’re completely unscathed. If you were a soldier under my command, any general would have had your head for such incompetence!"

Qiu Zhiqing blinked. Had they agreed to protect the Prefect? He didn't think so. "We only bet on whether ghosts or monsters would invade the office. We never agreed to guard him. Besides, you saw how fierce that assassin was—you claim to have god-like strength, yet you were pinned down. If I hadn't helped, you’d be paying me an extra consultation fee today!"

"What? You’re charging a fee?" Meng Gong was astonished.

"Not yet. Should I ask him for it? We could split the fee fifty-fifty," Qiu Zhiqing suggested.

Meng Gong shook his head like a rattle. "Protecting our superiors is our duty. How could we have the nerve to ask for a fee?"

Qiu Zhiqing understood. This man had the typical mindset of a soldier. He decided to treat it as another pro bono session. What a shame—a golden opportunity for a fee, wasted! And the Prefect was just as ungrateful, a stubborn old man who didn't even offer a word of thanks.

Meanwhile, in a private room at the Yue Lai Inn, a burly man with a square face sat across from a scholar in a green robe.

The scholar sipped his tea and said nonchalantly, "You did well last night, and with great restraint. Our employer is very satisfied."

The burly man asked calmly, "And what of our arrangement? Does your employer have any instructions?"

"No instructions, but the employer asked me to pass on a message: it’s heard you’ve been getting a bit too close to those in the north. Business is business, but remember, if we can support you, we can also..." The scholar’s tone shifted. "This matter is closed. As for your other request, the employer knows nothing and asks nothing."

The scholar didn't finish the threat, but the burly man understood. That last part was exactly what he had wanted to hear.