Chapter Seventy-Six: A Heart Like a Fierce Tiger (Part Three)

Chapter Seventy-Six: A Heart as Fierce as a Tiger (III)

The night wind howled mournfully. Yang Heng’s corpse burned on the floor, casting flickering shadows across the room. Wine continued to seep from the shattered jar, and the hand that had just been extinguished trembled weakly in the darkness. The two men’s gazes met in the air; even after suffering such wounds, the scholar’s eyes remained cold and sharp, unchanged from beginning to end.

“Sometimes, it’s just like this…” the scholar spoke, each word deliberate. “One misstep, and you die.”

The latter half echoed his earlier words. Yang Yi glanced around—his eldest son, near death yet still held hostage; his family, lost without a trace; his brother, dead just like that. He had taken dozens of hostages in his life, yet never encountered anything like this. A frail scholar, a frail scholar… but those eyes were nothing of the sort. Even in the most notorious desperados, he had never seen such ruthless, decisive ferocity. The trembling hand coupled with that gaze—this man was not only merciless to his enemies, but, at this moment, even to himself.

It was as if he had, unwittingly, dragged home a harmless white rabbit. But in the sliver of an opening, the rabbit bared its fangs. Before he could react, his home was ravaged, and when he finally turned back, all he saw was blood everywhere—and the rabbit’s eyes turned crimson.

He ground his teeth. “Second Brother—” The shout rang out across the whole house, echoing in the night, but there was no reply. After a moment, he called again, “Wife—” His voice carried, but no response came. His eyes reddened as he forced a laugh and roared the final name: “Eldest Son—” He released the crossbow, his gaze fierce as he looked toward the steel blade lying beside Yang Heng’s body.

“I’ll tear you apart…”

Gritting his teeth, he enunciated every word and started toward the steel blade. At that moment, he saw the iron rod slowly leave his son’s throat. Without the scholar’s restraining hand, his son’s body staggered, perhaps roused by his father's earlier shout. In his field of vision, the scholar untied the rope, flicked his hand, and released it.

In an instant, his spirit soared to its peak.

The scholar stepped back, then suddenly kicked his son’s back with all his strength.

Flames danced; his son stumbled forward, charging toward him. At the other end of his vision, the scholar raised his hand, the iron rod lifted high.

“Yah—”

“Ah—”

With a cry, the scholar hurled the iron rod with all his might. Yang Yi, too, surged forward, grabbing his son and pulling him aside. The iron rod spun past, tearing a spray of fresh blood from his hand. The scholar’s figure closed in, raising a wine jar.

Bang—

Yang Yi didn’t dodge. He slammed into the scholar, smashing the jar firmly against his own head. He wiped the wine off with a swipe; the scholar was knocked into a cabinet several meters away, blood spilling from his mouth. Yang Yi’s heart was filled only with murderous intent, no hesitation. He charged forward, swinging a fist.

The scholar’s right hand reached behind him.

“One misstep, and you die…”

With a crash, Yang Yi’s punch landed in empty air, hesitating a fraction. The scholar’s eyes flashed with a smug smile, and he bent desperately, then ran toward the door. Yang Yi would never let him escape; he swung a cabinet, smashing it at the door. The cabinet splintered against the door, and the scholar staggered, changing direction. The steel blade on the floor was only a few steps away.

A wine jar whistled through the air, smashing against Yang Heng’s burning body. The flames dimmed suddenly as wine soaked them; the scholar rolled forward, propelled by a shard. Yang Yi rushed in, crossing half the room in a moment. The scholar, stubborn and fierce, climbed up, grabbed an empty wine jar, and hurled it. Yang Yi ignored it, closing the distance, his left hand reaching for the scholar’s chest and his right arm swinging back.

In panic, the scholar reached for another empty jar behind him but missed its edge; he tried again as a fist came whistling toward him.

“I’ll rip you—”

Thud—

His body wavered in that instant; his fist crashed into the scholar’s shoulder, knocking him to the floor, sliding him more than a meter away.

The figure remained there. A few seconds later, Yang Yi moved, staggering two steps back, his gaze dazed. Atop his head, a heavy iron weight with sharp edges had shattered his skull, now lodged there.

The scholar stumbled several times, finally climbing up by grabbing the cabinet with his right hand. Wine jars posed no threat to Yang Yi, whose rage now burned hot; even the hint of threat from the scholar reaching behind him had stoked the flames. Had he missed, he might have died himself, but in such a narrow escape, at a disadvantage, there was nothing else to do, no other choice…

Yang Yi still stood, swaying. Ning Yi drew a deep breath, feeling the pain radiate through him, his gaze cold as he walked to Yang Heng’s corpse and picked up the steel blade. Under Yang Yi’s gaze, he struck the blade onto the neck of the fallen eldest son, then, reversing his grip, hacked straight at Yang Yi’s head.

Fresh blood sprayed violently.

“You should have killed me first…”

He murmured softly, then unleashed a second, third blow in swift succession. At last, Yang Yi’s body collapsed to the floor. Ning Yi delivered a few more finishing blows to the bodies, then staggered back, leaning against the wall, his body trembling, weak and powerless. “Ha…”

Only now, fear and anxiety surged up without reservation. He had died once already, but that didn’t mean he could accept dying again at any moment. Fear, panic, tension—these feelings persisted. Even in his previous life, he had rarely faced such knife-edge encounters. Strategy and calculation were all one could do; most of it, ultimately, came down to fate. He had walked close beside death’s shadow. Thankfully, he made it through—only now could he take a moment to feel lingering relief.

He paced through the bloody room, then picked up a wine jar and smashed it onto Yang Heng’s body, extinguishing the flames. Another jar followed. Gradually, the light in the room faded…

Light returned, a tiny oil lamp flickering bean-like. Corpses, blood, a ravaged house—his figure sat beneath the lamp, surrounded by a spread of medicinal salves. He bit one end of a bandage, gripping the other with his right hand and tightening it, already wrapping up his left hand.

Unfortunately, he had no chance to ask who was behind all this.

In such circumstances, it was impossible to cover every angle. He suppressed all emotions with cold calm, his sole aim merely to kill the enemy; if not, at least to hold them off and escape. The brothers’ ferocity had indeed surpassed his expectations—despite holding hostages, they had remained aggressive, making it impossible to use the hostages as leverage to learn more.

Threats with clues were easier to handle; but this time, there was not a single clue. Someone shadowed him from behind, but he had no idea who. It was this situation he could least tolerate.

Pain radiated from his arm, shoulder, chest. He took a swig of wine, stood, and surveyed the house again, then picked up the crossbow and placed it on the table, heading out the door. The house stood by a deserted riverbank, the water below shallow, a simple wooden walkway leading to the road by the shore. Trees lined the bank, a low mountain in the distance, and morning stars sparkled in the sky.

Ning Yi stood there, gazing at the distant mountains, the nearby water, the woods ahead and the boathouse behind, lost in thought for a long while.

Then he turned back.

The door closed, the light dimmed once more.

Midnight… How much time remained until midnight…?

Jiangning City, the Su residence.

In the small courtyard’s parlor, lamplight flickered. Su Tan’er sat reading; Juan’er and Xing’er played chess nearby. At the door, Xiao Chan skipped back and forth, bored, occasionally holding onto a pillar and peering toward the courtyard gate. If anyone passed by, she would turn suddenly, her hair swirling in the air.

Su Tan’er sipped her tea and glanced toward the door, a hint of slyness in her eyes. “Chan’er, what are you looking at?”

Xiao Chan blinked. “Uh… Miss… I’m not—nothing…”

Su Tan’er smiled, then sighed.

“But… the young master did go out rather late today…”

Night approached. Outside the city gate, a farewell banquet at the inn had reached its end. Gu Yanzhen bid goodbye to his friends, then, with his attendant Lao Liu, headed to a small manor nearby.

He planned to take few attendants to Raozhou this time. Among his confidants, only Lao Liu knew the most; the others might suspect something but would naturally keep it secret.

He went to the manor to check what he needed for the journey: three carriages in total. He inspected the middle one, and upon drawing back the curtain, found a large cage inside—clearly meant for prisoners.

He glanced at it, nodded coldly.

“Stay at the house near Xinlinpu for a month, then head to Raozhou. After that, treat her as mad, dead, and pay her no mind.”

He proceeded to check the supplies for Leping, gifts to be sent. Though the journey was just beginning, most of his thoughts were already on Leping and future plans.

For what had already been decided, there was no need for further thought—it was a trivial matter.

“Let’s go, it’s about time. Let’s see if the Yang brothers have finished the job.”

“I think it’s fine. The brothers have never failed before.”

“No matter what, I only believe what I see.”

Gu Yanzhen shook his head. “I don’t make assumptions.”

Though he said this, he felt little concern. Confirmation was merely his habit; after he confirmed it, he could proceed against Yun Zhu. If the brothers failed, and he had to capture Yun Zhu himself, the worst would be a loss of face—he could not stand such mockery, just like that slap in the street. But after this, everything else was settled; scholars, acclaimed talents—they were all the same under the knife. He would let that woman see, and feel no mercy for her. One month later… this matter would be entirely over. He would go to Leping, sever his inner demons, leave no regrets.

All the way, he discussed Leping’s affairs with Lao Liu: whom to send gifts to, how much, what needed to be done to win the people’s hearts. Lao Liu carried a torch ahead; as they approached the mountain, he stopped and looked. There were torches atop the mountain too, circling left three times, right three times; this side responded in kind, then the mountain torch signaled to the rear.

Gu Yanzhen watched; he had been here before, so it was familiar. He had many things to consider, so he kept his head down, planning, thinking about the coming year and years ahead. Perhaps next time, he would approach Minister Li; he wanted to join the military, and Li would not refuse. Of course, he would need solid achievements in office first. In Leping, he had a full plan: in three years’ tenure, he could greatly improve the people’s lives—this would require bold action and determination. After three years, the friction between Liao, Jin, and Da Wu would likely peak—not likely to resolve within three years—just the time for a hero to make his mark.

A pity—if only he had started three years earlier, perhaps at the outset of next year’s campaign. He had wasted time in Tokyo, pursuing various avenues. If he rose in rank, he would surely purge such incompetence.

Passing through the wooded path, crossing the bamboo grove by the river, they reached the house on the water, its lights dimly glowing. Lao Liu led the way, Gu Yanzhen following with head bowed. Truthfully, he felt uneasy facing those brothers; thinking of other matters made him seem more composed. Wind moaned, river water gurgled. As they neared the door, something heightened to its peak, but he tried to ignore it. The scent of wine drifted out; perhaps the men were drinking, as expected.

Lao Liu pushed open the half-closed door—inside, a clang rang out, then bang, crack, hiss; the light extinguished. He couldn’t fathom the reaction.

Next moment, a thunderous crash—the door shattered near his face, a beam whistled out, slamming into Lao Liu’s brow, then swinging back. A second later, the roof of the house collapsed before his eyes, a huge tremor as the beam dragged the rooftop down.

Lao Liu fell into the shallow river beside, arrows piercing his chest, thick blood swirling into the water, diluted by its flow. The lively guard who had just been at his side was now a corpse.

A splinter from the shattered door struck his face, fell into the river, and all thoughts ceased abruptly. Gu Yanzhen stood there, stunned, dazed for a long while.

The night wind roared past, starry sky shining on the lonely figure before the boathouse, without a place to belong…

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