Wang Chong had a miserable night, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. Finally he got up, sat cross-legged in meditation, and practiced qi cultivation through the night.
As the sky grew faintly bright, he sneaked out of the inn, checking that neither the Flying Tiger Escort Agency nor the women of Qingcheng were up yet, quietly settled his bill, crossed the town, and ran at full speed using his lightness skill for a little under an hour, indeed faintly spotting a remote wayside inn.
He had asked the inn attendant the day before and learned that seventy li ahead lay such an inn. For ordinary people, seventy li was a full day's journey, but for an expert in lightness skill, it was but a moment in the wind.
Having eaten only one meal the day before and set out early, he was now very hungry. He entered the inn and asked, "Do you have any prepared food and wine?"
Before he heard the innkeeper's reply, more than ten jianghu men rushed out. A yellow-faced man bellowed, "Are you the lecher White Chrysanthemum?"
Wang Chong was startled. He hurriedly called, "No, no, I am a scholar."
A black-faced man nearby shouted, "How would a scholar know martial arts? He must be the lecher White Chrysanthemum in disguise, trying to slip past us. First capture this lecher, then torture a confession out of him, and he'll have no choice but to confess."
Wang Chong wanted to explain, but these people would not listen.
Immediately two men who looked very much alike, apparently brothers of the same surname, each holding a pair of iron plaques in both hands, rushed up, saying nothing, ready to attack.
Wang Chong really was a scholar. Before transmigrating, he had been a proper 985 engineering graduate, but now the saying truly applied: a scholar meets soldiers, and reason cannot be explained—far harder to deal with than online contrarians on social media. These jianghu men were really attacking. Helpless, he did not dare use a weapon, fearing it would confirm his identity as a lecher; if he could not kill them all to silence them, there would be more trouble. Hurriedly he used the inner-power art that came with his transmigration, activating Wind-Cloud Hundred Styles, guiding and pulling, trying to deflect the two brothers' iron plaques.
Unexpectedly, one of the three great techniques of Wind-Cloud Hundred Styles, "Wind-Cloud A Thousand Changes," was so marvelous: the two brothers' iron plaques, deflected by his surging inner force, each changed direction and struck their own side. The left, slightly older brother's plaque smashed into his younger brother's chest and abdomen; the right, slightly younger brother's plaque smashed into the elder brother's shoulder and forehead. Two thuds, and both died at once.
Wang Chong had no time to rejoice. He truly had no combat experience, relying only on instinct, and his stomach churned, retching dryly.
These jianghu men all knew that the Hao brothers practiced fierce external martial arts; their iron plaques were a family secret art. They had roamed north and south for decades, jointly defeating dozens of great foes, and were famous tough characters. They never expected the brothers would be killed in one move by this refined young man, the strike extremely marvelous, and many could not understand what had happened.
Before they could be shocked, they saw Wang Chong vomiting messily, and their eyes brightened. They thought, "So he's a greenhorn? He's never killed anyone." Who now thought about whether this young man was White Chrysanthemum? White Chrysanthemum's vicious fame was great—how could he not have killed? They all swarmed forward, weapons raised wildly. Clearly, jianghu people never followed jianghu rules—single combat, no interference—all that was novelist nonsense. They shouldered in together; killing the enemy was the true jianghu style.
Wang Chong truly had not expected that killing one person would cause such a strong physical reaction.
After all, not long ago he had still been a law-abiding urban elite who had never even slaughtered a chicken. How could he dare imagine one day killing with his own hands, using such cruel methods? And a double kill? He did not know he had such a weak and pitiful mindset, and no one gave him time to recover. Seeing more than ten jianghu men charging, all with fierce faces, even though he had just killed two with one strike, he couldn't help but feel afraid. He suddenly turned back, his body flashed, and dozens of meters away he used his lightness skill and ran off quickly.
He ran with all his might, wind whistling in his ears, so fast that even he was pleasantly surprised. Looking back and seeing no one could catch up, just beginning to feel glad, he saw these jianghu men each pull out various hidden weapons from their robes, shaking their hands and throwing wildly—flying locust stones, iron lotus seeds, flying knives, flying darts, sleeve arrows, iron gourds, and more, countless varieties, filling the sky. Wang Chong groaned and thought, "This jianghu is far too dangerous."
"They don't even verify whether I'm really White Chrysanthemum before attacking wildly to kill."
"What if they killed the wrong person..."
"Sigh, they must often kill the wrong person, probably accustomed to it."
Wang Chong changed his footwork repeatedly. He knew well that at such a distance even a sharpshooter might not hit, and these jianghu men's hidden weapons probably had even worse aim. Indeed, as he dodged with all his might, the hidden weapons shot at him all missed. His lightness skill surpassed these jianghu men by more than a notch; in an instant he pulled away the distance, and hidden weapons could no longer reach him.
As he ran with all his might, suddenly a strong wind came at his face, very fierce, carrying the might of wind and thunder, like a thunderclap in the sky, immediately making his breathing difficult. It turned out someone was striking a palm at him from midair.
From the sound of the palm, the attacker was truly a formidable expert. Wang Chong's heart was alarmed; he did not dare meet the palm directly. His folding fan flew from his sleeve, and he exchanged one move with this person.
The attacker's heart was also alarmed, thinking, "This person has Wudang's Orthodox Xuanmen inner power—gentle and peaceful, certainly not White Chrysanthemum."
Wang Chong was also shocked and frightened, thinking, "This person's palm force is so strong."
The person who stopped Wang Chong was a young Taoist priest, handsome and dashing, exactly Fang Jingru, acclaimed as the seventeenth generation's top expert of the Way of the Celestial Masters. Hearing the jianghu men shouting about capturing White Chrysanthemum, he struck out boldly. But after one exchange he knew this person certainly wasn't that lecher. He hurriedly called, "Which Wudang Sect Taoist friend is here?"
"I am Fang Jingru of the seventeenth generation of the Way of the Celestial Masters. Mistaking you for White Chrysanthemum, I therefore intercepted you."
Wang Chong was moved to tears. Finally someone was willing to reason, not beating or killing him without asking right from wrong. But the problem was he wasn't sure whether he was White Chrysanthemum. Feeling anxious and uneasy, he answered, "I am Wang Chong!"
Just this delay, and those more than ten jianghu men caught up.
Fang Jingru turned his body and stood before Wang Chong, shouting, "Fellow jianghu, this Taoist friend is not White Chrysanthemum. Don't mistake the person."
Those jianghu men were impolite, throwing a pile of hidden weapons. Fang Jingru was far more experienced than Wang Chong. A folding fan flew from his sleeve, sweeping through the air and knocking all the hidden weapons to the ground. He shouted, "This is the Celestial Master's Mansion's Wind-Thunder Dharma Fan divine art—certainly impossible to counterfeit. You need not worry."
These jianghu men, seeing this young Taoist's martial arts seemed extremely formidable, had no thought of arguing and all turned and left. Obviously accustomed to the martial world rule that if your martial arts are strong, what you say is reason, they retreated with great tacit understanding.
...Fang Jingru: He's also a great master...
Chapter 12