The four deserters were in no hurry to give chase. Even a cornered rabbit would bite, let alone scatter and bolt.
One of them raised a bronze whistle to his lips and blew hard.
The shrill sound pierced the twilight and the forest foliage, carrying far into the distance.
Before long, an answering whistle echoed from deep within the mountain woods...
Bronze whistles were a military method of signaling; through variations of long and short blasts, they could convey simple messages.
The deserters slowly advanced as they signaled.
Behind the boatmen and clerks lay the wide river; there was nowhere left to run.
With the word already sent, once their comrades assembled, this crowd would be entirely at their mercy.
Li Qiang slumped on the ground. Watching the deserters advance step by step in disciplined formation, he scrambled backward in terror, his legs kicking frantically.
That sudden exertion wrenched the arrow wound piercing his shoulder, turning his face deathly pale and breaking into a cold sweat that drenched his forehead.
Tears welled in his eyes from the agony, blurring his vision so he could barely make out the deserters' faces—only the faint outline of their savage, grinning sneers.
A deserter in brigandine armor raised his saber to strike, the slender goose-feather blade gleaming with icy chill in the dim twilight.
Before the blade even fell, Li Qiang felt his life was already forfeit, and he closed his eyes in despair.
Right at that moment, a low shout rang out from ahead: "Stop."
The soldier raising the saber heard it, but paid the shout no mind. Only his squad leader could give him orders; no one else had the authority.
Leaping down from the vessel, Zhou Wuji saw the man showed no intention of stopping, so he flicked his left hand and flung a steel ball.
Back when his cultivation had been lacking, he had pondered many self-defense techniques—such as explosive flour, or throwing steel balls.
The smooth, walnut-sized steel ball weighed roughly two liang. Though it lacked an edge, its solid heft gave it tremendous force when thrown with all his might.
Its sleek shape made it easy to propel and convenient to carry.
Having opened his spirit aperture, Zhou Wuji naturally channeled true qi as he threw the ball, multiplying its destructive force at least tenfold.
The soldier raising the saber barely registered the shrill whistle cutting the air before the steel ball slammed deep into his nose.
Not only did it shatter his nasal bone, but the immense kinetic impact blasted through the sinus cavity behind it, blowing his brains apart.
With that single strike, the deserter fell dead on the spot.
The other three deserters jumped in fright, their eyes turning in unison toward Zhou Wuji as he skimmed forward.
At a distance of twenty paces, they could not discern his features clearly, only glimpsing that this Daoist seemed quite young, standing tall and poised like a crane. As he moved, his wide sleeves billowed in the air, giving him the carefree, graceful air of someone riding the wind.
The three deserters knew what they were looking at, immediately recognizing him as at least a Rank Eight Daoist capable of manipulating qi.
The archer did not hesitate to draw his bow and nock an arrow. But the moment his bow came up, Zhou Wuji raised his left hand and hurled another steel ball.
At such close quarters, propelled simultaneously by true qi, wrist strength, and finger flick, the steel ball flew as swiftly as a bolt fired from a heavy crossbow.
Before the soldier even sensed danger, the ball drove deep into his face, pulverizing his features into a mangled pulp. Spattering blood, he toppled straight backward onto the ground.
The remaining two deserters were horrified. They knew turning to flee would only hasten their deaths.
Leveling their sabers at Zhou Wuji, they steadily stepped backward.
Zhou Wuji had long seen how ruthless these deserters were; if Li Xin and the others were slaughtered, he would never be able to handle the cargo boat by himself.
Moreover, he had no idea if there were experts among the deserters. If he were surrounded, he would be in grave peril as well.
Rather than evade, it was better to seize the offensive.
In critical moments, Zhou Wuji always preferred to hold the initiative. Besides, with his sword technique at the proficient realm, slaying a few Rank Eight martial artists was well within his capabilities.
He had heard clearly earlier when the soldier mentioned signaling their squad leader over.
According to the military system of the Great Hao Dynasty, a squad leader commanded fifty men at most.
A Rank Seven martial artist would at the very least be a battalion commander; there was no way one would merely be a petty squad leader.
Naturally, Zhou Wuji could not allow the remaining two to escape. He accelerated toward them, and the two retreating soldiers suddenly split left and right, each raising his saber to slash straight at him.
Military martial arts were concise and direct. Though neither man had attained the level of Rank Nine overt power, their saber technique was practiced and vicious.
What was more, they coordinated with each other; backed by swift blades and heavy armor, they would not easily be bested even against a Rank Nine martial artist.
This was the first time Zhou Wuji had encountered military combat arts, and he could feel their ferocious momentum.
Internally, he gave them a nod of praise—they were indeed well-trained, brave, and eager to fight.
Still, the gap between them and him was far too wide.
Sword mastery at the proficient realm was equivalent to the culmination of Zhang Wuding's entire lifetime of bitter practice—and single-minded, dedicated cultivation at that.
At this stage, the blade was not merely an extension of his arm; he possessed a profound grasp of combat mechanics.
Furthermore, the minor accomplishment realm of the Flowing Cloud Sword made his footwork swift and elusive.
Zhou Wuji raised his sword and feinted a thrust to the left. The man on the left naturally halted, pulling back his saber into a defensive guard.
Seeing an opening, the man on the right sped up, raising his saber to chop with all his might.
In truth, Zhou Wuji had merely tilted his torso and twitched his arm—an imperceptible motion that nonetheless baited both soldiers into altering their moves.
With their level of martial prowess, once an attack was committed, there was no room left to adapt.
True qi circulating beneath his feet, Zhou Wuji glided right in a single stride. Only then did he draw the Seven Stars Sword and deflect the descending blade with a fluid guiding sweep, turning the furious slash toward the left.
Horrified, the man on the right tried to check his swing, but the Seven Stars Sword seized the opening with a darting tap.
In a flash of cold light, the blade drove into the man's throat, severing his windpipe and blood vessels.
Having struck home, Zhou Wuji turned with the momentum, the tip jabbing out again in a blinding tap that pierced the throat of the man on the left.
The "tap" he employed relied on a snap of the wrist while his forearm remained nearly motionless. The movement was minute and stealthy, yet blistering fast.
How could two ordinary deserters have ever witnessed such exquisite swordplay? A single misjudgment had doomed them both.
Slumped on the ground, Li Qiang had been convinced of his death, yet as he kept his eyes shut, no blade fell upon him.
When he opened his eyes, he saw the Seven Stars Sword in Zhou Wuji's hand flashing with cold light as the two deserters collapsed before the blade.
Li Qiang was both shocked and overjoyed. Zhou Wuji was actually this formidable?! He truly had misjudged him before...
Li Xin and the others who had retreated to the riverbank were equally dumbfounded. Being further away, they had not seen clearly, only catching glimpses of shifting silhouettes and flickering sword light before all four deserters were sprawled on the ground, life or death unknown.
Li Xin and the crew were likewise astonished and elated.
After dispatching the two men, Zhou Wuji twirled his sword to flick off the blood before sheathing it.
Turning to Li Xin, he said, "Stay here and don't wander off. I'm going to take care of the rest of them."
Snapping back to his senses, Li Xin hurriedly led a few men over to help Li Qiang up.
Facing Zhou Wuji's instructions, he nodded vigorously. "Be careful, Daoist!"
As a second manager, Li Xin was normally very smooth with words.
He would never have responded so plainly under normal circumstances, but having encountered such a bloody and perilous scene for the first time, his heart was pounding so furiously that he genuinely could not think of anything else to say.
Zhou Wuji nodded slightly, then glanced at Li Qiang, who remained slumped on the ground. "How are you holding up?"
Li Qiang was consumed by shame and unease. Just moments ago he had been badmouthing Zhou Wuji, yet here Zhou Wuji was, saving his life.
Enduring the excruciating pain in his shoulder, he said, "I won't die. Thank you, Daoist, for saving my life."
"It was nothing, not worth mentioning."
Zhou Wuji had been waiting for those very words. The lad had slandered him behind his back; letting him die would have been pointless, and talking behind someone's back was hardly a capital offense.
Saving his wretched life and watching him wallow in shame and regret—now that was truly satisfying.
Having gotten his satisfaction, Zhou Wuji kept his expression impassive while gloating inwardly.
With enemies still to eliminate, he had no time to chat with the kid.
His figure flickered as he slipped into the woods, and darkness immediately enveloped his vision.
Twilight was already dim outside, but inside the forest it was even gloomier.
He concealed himself behind a sturdy hardwood tree with lush branches and dense bark that emitted a faint, clean fragrance.
"It's a camphor tree..." Having adjusted to the gloom, Zhou Wuji recognized the species.
The villagers of Baishi Village came and went from Baishi Crossing daily, having long since trodden out a two-foot-wide path through the woods.
Lush foliage filled the forest, thick with vines, shrubs, and wormwood; only this narrow trail offered convenient passage.
Since the deserter had blown his bronze whistle to signal, reinforcements would arrive shortly.
Though Zhou Wuji was confident in his swordsmanship, he would not take reckless risks—after all, a man had only one life!
With the signal sent by their own men, whoever came would never suspect an ambush waiting beside the path.
The mellow, lasting scent of camphor would mask the scent of blood on him.
Martial artists had keen senses, and soldiers fresh from the battlefield were bound to be especially sensitive to the smell of blood.
Whether in position, shape, or scent, this tree provided outstanding cover.
Zhou Wuji had chosen it on instinct, but analyzing it calmly now, he found the choice brilliant.
Taking advantage of the remaining time, he drew a Golden Light Talisman from inside his robes and slipped it into his left sleeve pocket.
Before long, hurried, chaotic footsteps approached from the other side of the forest, accompanied by low voices. From the sound, there were at least six or seven men.
Zhou Wuji touched the two Yin Thunder Beads in his left sleeve pocket. Even if he ran into a pack of Rank Eight martial artists, the beads would be more than enough to handle the trouble...
Chapter 10