A special thank you to all my patrons.
The List of My "Wandering Reader":
-Davis Nguyen
-Cain
-Goha21
-Jacob Mooe
-HADES
-Varun Madhu
-Aziz Makda
-Gonzalo Sumalavia
-JWolf
-kevin Williams
-Shadow260802
-MIKE
-KD2001
-merp.
-Jose Carrillo
-Derek M
You can read 50 chapters ahead of everyone on p@treon.
P@TREON - [email protected]/lessaservantofcosmos
(just replace the "@" with "a")
ps: Please support me on P@treon. I can really use your help!
—————————————————————
Huang Cheng had long noticed the approaching assailant but pretended to be unaware. Only when the enemy's blade was fully committed did he raise the small round steel shield on his left forearm to deflect it. Sparks flew as the blade was knocked high, exposing the attacker's unprotected torso.
Huang Cheng pushed off the ground, twisting at the waist to generate force. The ring-pommeled sword in his right hand flashed like lightning, slicing across the assailant's throat. A spurt of blood shot out like an arrow following the blade's arc.
The attacker's sword clattered to the ground as his hands clutched his throat, as if trying to stem the flow of blood—but it was a futile effort. With a gurgling sound, he collapsed lifelessly.
Clad in armor forged from fine steel, Huang Cheng charged recklessly through the fray. In mere moments, he had cut down over a dozen men, leaving the remaining attackers paralyzed with fear. When they saw their leader fall to Huang Cheng's blade, they let out a panicked cry and scattered in all directions.
The archers perched on the rocks managed to shoot down four or five more before the darkness swallowed the fleeing figures. A few others, slowed by leg wounds, hobbled desperately to escape but were picked off one by one by the archers.
As the last assailant fell with a dying shriek, silence swiftly reclaimed the night.
Huang Cheng and his men dared not pursue too far and soon retreated to their defensive formation, waiting for dawn.
The night was long, but light eventually came.
The sky gradually brightened, shifting from black to deep blue, then slowly to a lighter hue. The Qinling Mountains emerged in the dawn light, their distant and near peaks resembling an ink-wash painting—soft gradients of ink blending with the mist curling around their summits, creating a scene as ethereal as a celestial realm.
Yet the foreground was a vision of hell.
Lifeless bodies lay strewn about like torn ragdolls, limbs severed and scattered. The once-crimson blood had dried into a dark, ugly black, as if a mad painter had splattered ink haphazardly across the ground.
It was only then that Fei Qian realized the human body contained so many colors: dark red muscles, pale white bones, reddish-brown and yellowish-white viscera, and even a putrid green where intestines had spilled from split bellies.
At that moment, Fei Qian wished he were nearsighted—anything to blur the grotesque details.
A mountain breeze carried the thick stench of blood. He had never known human blood could reek so foully, so densely that even the wind couldn't disperse it. Each breath felt like a lump of coagulated filth forcing its way into his chest, suffocating and unbearable.
Gritting his teeth, Fei Qian forced himself to stand firm. He knew that in the years—no, decades—to come, scenes like this would become commonplace. If he couldn't endure a few deaths now, how would he cope when thousands fell before him?
He called Huang Cheng over, but just as he opened his mouth to speak, another gust of wind brought another wave of blood-stench.
Fei Qian could no longer hold back. Without uttering a single word, he doubled over and vomited violently, even retching up bitter stomach bile.
After a long pause, he finally managed to compose himself slightly. "...Forgive me... Shuye, have... have the men search the bodies... see if we can identify them..."
Huang Cheng showed no trace of mockery. He nodded solemnly and issued the orders before fetching a gourd of water for Fei Qian.
A few sips later, the nausea in Fei Qian's chest eased slightly.
"...Shuye, when was the first time you killed someone?"
"The first year of Zhongping," Huang Cheng answered without hesitation. "The Yellow Turban rebellion had spread. Some of the rebels from Chen and Runan moved south into Jing and Xiang..."
The chaos of war.
Huang Cheng looked even younger than Fei Qian, yet he had already taken lives four or five years ago. If calculated, that meant he had fought and killed by the age of fourteen or fifteen.
Fei Qian couldn't help but grimace wryly. Last night, he hadn't even lifted a hand in combat—merely witnessing the aftermath had left him vomiting uncontrollably. If the day came when he had no choice but to kill, would he even be able to do it?
"Young Master Fei... you're actually holding up quite well," Huang Cheng said, sensing his thoughts. "Back when the Yellow Turbans attacked our county, I heard some scholars went mad at the sight of corpses. Some took over ten days to recover..."
Fei Qian didn't know whether to laugh or cry. In the end, he simply nodded, accepting Huang Cheng's attempt at comfort.
Just then, Huang Xu hurried over, reporting regretfully that nothing noteworthy had been found on the bodies.
This was to be expected. Those who carried out such ambushes would hardly leave behind incriminating evidence. Yet there was a saying: "The dead do not lie."
Suppressing another wave of nausea, Fei Qian forced himself to approach the corpses. Huang Cheng had suggested simply tossing them into the Yellow River for convenience, but Fei Qian insisted they dig graves at least twenty paces from the riverbank and bury them deep.
People of the Han dynasty knew nothing of bacteria—but Fei Qian did. The corpse of any large animal was practically a biological weapon. Flowing water could eventually cleanse itself, but stagnant pools would turn toxic if contaminated by decomposing flesh. Drinking untreated water from such a source could cause severe illness—vomiting and diarrhea being the mildest symptoms.
"These aren't Yellow Turbans—at least, not recent ones," Fei Qian said hoarsely, using his blade to prod at a gutted corpse. "Look at this layer of fat... The Yellow Turbans, even if they had any, wouldn't have this much."
Fat accumulation required steady meals and relative stability—luxuries the Yellow Turbans, mostly destitute peasants forced into hiding in the mountains, lacked. Most were emaciated; only their leaders might have some meat on their bones.
Though Huang Cheng didn't understand the science of fat storage, he had fought Yellow Turbans before and knew how gaunt they usually were. Without hesitation, he sliced open several more corpses to inspect their stomachs. After confirming Fei Qian's observation, he turned to the pale-faced Fei Qian and said, "You're right."
You did that on purpose, didn't you, Huang Cheng?!
Fei Qian stared at the grotesque, disemboweled corpses—their blackened blood, exposed organs in sickly shades of red, green, and yellow—and felt his stomach churn violently again. He couldn't hold back any longer and vomited once more.
"Young Master Fei! Are you alright?!"
"...Cough... I'm... fine. Vomit a few more times... and I'll get used to it..."