Chapter Eight: The Vengeance of a Ruined Home

"Ouch! You bastard, watch it!" A shrill, resentful voice spilled from the room, drifting right into the ear of Nan Quan, whose arm hung in a sling wrapped in white cloth. Instantly, a wave of pain shot through his broken limb, his brow furrowed tight for a moment before he schooled his expression back to normal. Still, his face was as dark as thunder.

"Out! All of you, get out!" No sooner had Nan Quan stepped through the door than he was met by the furious roar of his friend, Bei Tui, followed by the unmistakable racket of objects being flung and shattered, curses ringing out in tandem. A handful of maids, who had been attending inside, scurried out with quick, mincing steps, heads bowed low.

Nan Quan’s eyes gleamed as he watched the graceful figures glide past him, especially the glimpse of pale, shapely thighs revealed as they passed by. Still, he restrained himself, straightened his posture, and quickly entered the bedchamber. He sighed at the sight of Bei Tui, whose leg was suspended in the air, and said in a low voice, "Brother, don't be angry. It’s not worth losing your temper with the servants—after all, it’s your own body that suffers. Take care of yourself! If we're to be angry, let it be at our own lack of skill. Once we’re healed, we’ll deal with that brat together!"

"Hmph! We were far too careless this time," Bei Tui replied, sour and frustrated. Yet, catching sight of Nan Quan's broken arm, he found some small comfort—at least he had the excuse of carelessness. Nan Quan had been on guard and still ended up like this, so his own loss didn’t seem quite so humiliating.

Of course, Nan Quan saw through Bei Tui's thoughts. Old friends for years, they cooperated on the surface, but each secretly believed his own martial prowess superior. But after suffering such a blow, Nan Quan had no energy for rivalry; all he wanted now was to recover and avenge his disgrace.

"Brother," Nan Quan said, sitting down beside the bed and patting Bei Tui’s good leg with his left hand, his face solemn, "we’re both half-crippled now. Let’s not dwell on it. Yes, we were careless, but that brat is formidable. Even together, we’d barely be a match for him."

"Careless or not, next time that brat won’t get so lucky!" Bei Tui grumbled, still stubborn, but after a pause, he nodded with forced agreement. "Once we’re healed, we’ll tear that brat limb from limb!"

"Heh, of course! How else would we settle this grudge?" Nan Quan gave a sly, vicious grin, his eyes narrowed. "While you were unconscious, Master Lai sent men to burn down that brat’s place in town. Let him suffer awhile—when we’re back on our feet… heh..."

Just then, two sharp sounds snapped through the night from the window. The two men turned, spotting twin streaks of crimson left smeared against the glass, and outside, two shadowy figures collapsed to the ground.

"Who’s there?!" Nan Quan sprang up at once, eyes wide with fear. He raised his left arm defensively, but it trembled uncontrollably. Even Bei Tui, lying on the bed, instinctively edged toward the wall, one hand sliding under his pillow.

"It’s me—Ding Li." The reply was cold and simple, yet it struck like a thunderbolt. With ghostlike speed, Ding Li appeared at the door, his left hand gripping a drawn Tang saber—spotless, not a trace of blood. In his right, he held a short Arabian dagger in a reverse grip; under the flickering candlelight, fresh blood dripped slowly from its point.

Behind him came Saijigad, clutching a curved saber nearly a meter long, his eyes darting warily about the room, sweat beading on his forehead as he repeatedly checked behind the screen. He remembered the tales of storytellers—of ambushes waiting behind screens, signaled by a subtle cue, and then the killers would leap out, hacking their target to pieces.

"You’ve got guts, barging into Master Lai’s residence!" Nan Quan blustered, masking his terror with bravado. He glared at Ding Li, hoping to intimidate him into backing off.

"If I dared to come, I’m not afraid to die," Ding Li replied, his face cold. He’d already scouted the grounds. This was Bei Tui’s private courtyard; the only servants were those already asleep, and any night watchmen had been dealt with easily. Now, seeing Nan Quan still so arrogant, Ding Li’s expression hardened. He advanced step by step, his voice icy: "You burned my home, destroyed my family—there’s no reconciling this! You two have run rampant long enough. Tonight, I, Ding Li, will carry out justice!"

As he finished, Ding Li lunged like a leopard, crossing the three or four meters in a flash. The dagger in his hand stabbed straight for Nan Quan’s throat.

Nan Quan was startled out of his wits. He hadn’t expected Ding Li to be so ruthless, especially with both of them unarmed and injured. He tried to dodge to the side, but as he turned, he was met with a look of utter contempt.

"Fool," Ding Li spat, eyes flashing. The dagger, which had been driving downward, suddenly arced outward, once again targeting Nan Quan’s neck.

Nan Quan had nowhere left to run. Behind him was the bed, to the side a table. In desperation, he tried to lean back, but Ding Li swept his leg in a trip, shattering any hope of falling safely onto the bed. Pain seared through Nan Quan’s right shoulder, and he howled in agony.

Crack! Ding Li slammed the hilt of his saber into Nan Quan’s jaw, cutting off his scream. Nan Quan collapsed, clutching his wounded shoulder, groaning in pain.

In a blur, Ding Li swung the Tang saber in his left hand. Bei Tui, who had been shivering atop the bed, barely had time to lift his arm before a flash of blood exploded—the hand gripping a small, ornate crossbow was severed at the wrist, the white of bone and red of flesh exposed. The hand, still clenched around the crossbow, fell through the air.

Bei Tui’s brain barely had time to register the pain before another cold gleam swept past his vision. His pupils shrank in terror as the Tang saber carved a gash deep into his neck, nearly severing his head. He died without making a sound.

Nan Quan went wild with terror, shaking his head frantically at Ding Li, his face twisted with fear and pleading, incoherent cries for mercy spilling from his mouth. He tried to scramble away, but his shattered arm betrayed him; all he managed was to expose his unprotected back to Ding Li.

The room was thick with the smell of blood, but Ding Li was unaffected. If anything, he inhaled deeply, savoring the familiar scent, as intoxicating as the finest wine to a drunkard.

Nan Quan and Bei Tui were dead, along with eleven of their men. Each one’s throat had been cut, dying in utter silence, without a chance to cry for help.

Saijigad had witnessed every moment. Overwhelmed, he staggered from the stifling, blood-soaked room, clinging to a pillar outside as he dry-heaved. Yet his mind remained clear, replaying the events over and over, his resolve hardening: one day, he would become a man like Brother Li.

When Saijigad finally regained his composure, Ding Li had already slung the ornate crossbow over his shoulder. As they stepped outside, a clamor of voices erupted nearby. Ding Li’s heart leapt—he grabbed Saijigad and hurried toward the side gate, hoping to bar it in time.

"Nan Quan! Bei Tui! You useless fools, get out here! Something’s happened at the docks—Young Master Zhang’s men have wiped out dozens of our brothers!"

Bang! Even as the angry shouts rang out, the courtyard gate burst open just a few meters ahead. There stood Old Master Lai, whom Ding Li had seen at the docks the day before. In the dim night, his pockmarked, scab-covered face was more terrifying than a ghost; standing at the gate, he looked like one of the fearsome door gods from the founding days of the Tang Dynasty.

Both sides froze in shock. Especially Old Master Lai—his grotesque face split into a look of utter disbelief, staring as if he’d seen a nightmare come to life.

Ding Li’s reflexes were far quicker. He’d overheard the approaching voices and realized they weren’t here to surround him. In fact, all the house’s fighters had been summoned to the main gate, and Old Master Lai had only come by Bei Tui’s courtyard by chance. That he would run into Ding Li here was sheer misfortune.

"Go! Over the wall!" Ding Li shoved Saijigad aside and hurled his dagger straight at Old Master Lai, who dodged with catlike agility.

"Cut them down!" Old Master Lai roared, but retreated two steps himself. His men, now alert, surged forward with their weapons.

Deep in enemy territory, Ding Li knew he’d missed his chance to assassinate Old Master Lai tonight. Worse, now that he’d been exposed, he might never have such an opportunity again. Bitter as it was, he refused to throw his life away in a hopeless fight. Clutching the Tang saber in both hands, he drove the attackers back with a flurry of strikes. Glancing back, he saw Saijigad already at the foot of the wall. With two more savage swings, Ding Li turned and sprinted to join him.

"After them! Don’t let those two bastards escape!" Old Master Lai bellowed, brandishing a cleaver from his belt and pointing after Ding Li’s fleeing figure.

Whoosh! A sharp, piercing sound split the air. One of the attackers, surging forward at the order, dropped dead on the spot. The others froze, dropping to their haunches in fright; even Old Master Lai ducked low, his baleful gaze fixed on Ding Li as the young man nimbly vaulted the courtyard wall.

"Old Master Lai, you destroyed my home—next time, you’re the one I’ll come for!"

With that, Ding Li leapt down the other side. His words lingered in the night air, cold as ice, slicing straight to the bone.