The next morning broke crisp and cool. In the sprawling front courtyard, the entire Jiang household had assembled—a sea of over a hundred faces, from the oldest uncle to the youngest child. They formed a silent, dense crowd, their collective gaze fixed on Jiang Dao with a heavy reluctance. His younger sisters were the worst off. Nearly every one of them stood with eyes swollen and red, fresh tears tracing paths down their cheeks.
It was enough to make him feel a pang of guilt. The truth was, he'd been in this world for less than a month, each day a blur of tension and training. He felt a profound disconnect from this sea of faces, this instant family. He couldn't even put names to most of these weeping girls who were supposedly his sisters. The only one who felt real, the only one he felt any genuine flicker of attachment to, was the youngest, Jiang Ruyan.
"Father, don't worry. I'll be fine," Jiang Dao said, his voice steady as he tucked the letter of introduction into his coat.
"Dao'er, listen to me," Jiang Dalong pleaded, his weathered face etched with concern. "Qianyuan City isn't home. It's a complicated place. The old saying is true: a mighty dragon can't crush a local snake. When you get there, just keep your head down. Don't go looking for trouble."
"I understand," Jiang Dao nodded, the promise feeling hollow even to him.
"Dao'er," a soft, choked voice said. It was Second Mother, Liu Hongyan, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. "Your mother was gone before you knew her, and I was the one who watched you grow. All these years… I feel like I never did enough. I had this made for you… I don't know if it's right." She held up a heavy, brilliant white coat made of mink fur and draped it over his broad shoulders. "They say the climate in Qianyuan City is different, that the cold bites deeper there. This should help."
"Thank you, Second Mother," he said, allowing her to fasten the ties with trembling fingers before she retreated into the crowd.
One by one, they came forward. Third Mother, Fourth Mother, Fifth… all the way to Ninth Mother, each offering a tearful farewell or a final piece of advice. Jiang Dao stood there, a silent mountain in a storm of emotion, and could only think one thing: His father was a man of formidable appetites.
"Father, all of you," he finally said, his voice cutting through the quiet sobbing. "This isn't goodbye forever. I'll be back." He turned his attention to Pang Lin, Fang Biao, and Wang Xing—his martial arts masters. He gave them a respectful bow. "Masters, I'm entrusting the family's safety to you. If anything goes wrong—anything at all—send a carrier pigeon the moment it happens."
"You can count on us, Young Master," they replied in unison, their eyes also suspiciously bright as they returned his salute.
With a final, sharp nod, Jiang Dao grabbed his long saber and swung himself up into the waiting carriage. The interior was a cocoon of comfort, meticulously prepared by the maids. Soft blankets covered the floor, while one side was neatly stacked with dried meats, water skins, and an assortment of travel snacks. A small censer smoldered in the corner, filling the space with the subtle, calming scent of sandalwood.
Their carriage fell in with a northbound merchant caravan departing from the city, ensuring the road ahead wouldn't be a completely solitary one.
"Hiyah!" the driver's call cracked through the air, followed by the sharp snap of his whip. The wheels groaned, and they began to move.
Jiang Dalong let out a long, shuddering sigh, his old eyes glistening. He scrubbed at them with the back of his hand. "Damn this age," he muttered to no one in particular. "Always getting dust in my eyes…"
Beyond the walls of Fengzhou City, the world opened up into a vast, unending plain, bisected by a single, rutted official road that snaked its way toward the horizon. The road was a river of humanity: merchants hauling goods, weary porters with heavy loads, and the occasional lone martial artist, saber at their hip, moving with a hurried purpose that kicked up small clouds of gray dust.
Their caravan, dozens strong, added its own rhythm to the road, a symphony of creaking wheels and the melodic jingle of horse bells.
For days, Jiang Dao remained sequestered in his carriage. There was nothing for him to do but sit, feel the sway of the road, and methodically circulate the Life-Nourishing Art through his body. It was a slow, steady burn, a familiar comfort. The deep gash on his abdomen from his last fight had already knitted itself shut, the skin smooth and scarred over as if it had been healing for months.
I wonder what other internal arts the Raging Flame Gang has, he thought, a familiar hunger stirring within him. I hope they don't disappoint.
Three days later, the landscape began to change. The flat, fertile plains gave way to a series of rolling hills that seemed to rise from the earth like the knuckles of a giant hand. A thick, milky fog clung to the lowlands, and though it was only early autumn, the trees here were already shedding their yellowed leaves, their branches like skeletal fingers reaching for a hazy sky.
The caravan was moving at a steady pace when, without any warning, a sound ripped through the morning air.
"Aaaargh!"
It was a raw, piercing shriek. Instantly, every guard in the caravan stiffened, their hands flying to the hilts of their swords. The air crackled with tension.
"Bandits!"
"To arms! Form a defensive circle!"
The sharp, metallic singing of dozens of blades being drawn cut through the chaos. Panic erupted. Merchants shrieked, scrambling for cover, their faces masks of pure terror.
Jiang Dao's brow furrowed in annoyance. He moved his hand in a blur.
Pfft!
A black-feathered, poison-tipped arrow tore through the carriage's thick curtain. Before it could find a home in his flesh, his fingers closed around the shaft. With a contemptuous squeeze, he snapped it in two.
Bandits. Again.
He shoved the curtain aside and stepped out, his large, powerfully built frame seeming to swallow the light. All around them, the fog was alive with movement. Figures emerged from the mists, dozens of them, converging on the caravan from all sides. They were armed with crude steel sabers and long pikes that glinted menacingly in the dim light. A wave of palpable bloodlust washed over the terrified travelers. There had to be at least a hundred of them.
A line of archers took their positions, nocking poisoned arrows and drawing their bows taut, their dark tips a promise of a swift, agonizing death.
The caravan leader, cowering inside his wagon, his face the color of parchment, screamed out, "Honorable heroes! We can talk about this! Please, there's no need for bloodshed!"
A deep, rumbling laugh answered him, echoing across the hills. At the forefront of the bandits stood a bear of a man, draped in a black robe, his face a wilderness of a wiry, tangled beard. In his hand, he held a massive nine-ring broadsword. "If that's the case, let's cut the crap!" he boomed, his voice like grinding stones. "My brothers and I have been starving for years without a roof over our heads. Winter is coming, and we need to 'borrow' a hundred thousand silver taels to see us through. Put the cash on the ground now, and we walk. If not, we'll paint this road red with your blood!"
A savage roar went up from the bandits, a wave of sound and fury.
The sheer audacity of it was breathtaking. To demand a hundred thousand taels as if asking for a cup of wine.
Jiang Dao's eyes narrowed to slits, a dangerous light glinting within them. A hundred thousand taels. Enough to raise and equip an army of two thousand men, and keep them fed for three months.
"A hundred thousand?" the caravan leader shrieked, his voice cracking with despair. "Grandfather heroes, please, have mercy! This humble servant… I could never produce such a sum!"
"Can't you?" the bearded chieftain snarled. "Then we kill all the men and take the women for sport!"
"No! Please, don't kill anyone!" a voice suddenly cried out from among the merchants. It was a young scholar, his face slick with sweat and fear. "We have it! We can pool our money! Everyone, just give what you have!" He was on his way to Qianyuan City to take his exams, and he wasn't about to let his life end on this dusty road. His family had sent him off with a few thousand taels; if he gave up most of it, surely the others could make up the rest.
"You have the time it takes for half an incense stick to burn," the chieftain declared. "If the silver isn't on the ground by then, the killing starts!"
The caravan leader, galvanized by a sliver of hope, started shouting at the other wagons. "Gentlemen! Young Masters! Now is not the time to be precious with your money! Your life is worth more!"
But the other merchants were frozen, paralyzed by a terrible choice. The money they carried was everything they had. To give it up meant ruin. Even if the bandits let them live, they wouldn't survive the winter.
Jiang Dao shook his head, a sigh of pure exasperation escaping his lips.
Fine. I'll handle it.
This was just a pointless delay.
Without another word, he leaped down from his perch on the carriage and started walking directly toward the bearded chieftain.
"Boss, look at that one!" a pale, reedy man standing beside the chieftain—a scholar by the looks of him—pointed a trembling finger. "Someone's walking this way. He looks like a fighter!"
The chieftain's eyes locked onto Jiang Dao, narrowing with murderous intent. "The fool is tired of living," he grunted. "Archers, put him down."
Swoosh! Swoosh! Swoosh!
A volley of arrows sliced through the air, converging on Jiang Dao's approaching figure.
His expression remained impassive, almost bored. He didn't break his stride, simply raising a hand as he walked.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
One after another, the deadly projectiles were plucked from the air. His hand moved in an impossible blur, his fingers closing around the arrow shafts with a precision that was terrifying to behold. Not a single arrow touched him.
A collective gasp went through the caravan behind him.
"Brave warrior! Forgive our cowardice! Please, save us!" the caravan leader screamed, his voice filled with renewed hope.
Jiang Dao continued his inexorable advance, casually crushing the arrows he'd caught into splinters, the motion as effortless as snapping a twig. He was getting closer. The bandits began to shuffle nervously.
Seeing him catch the poisoned arrows with his bare hands sent a jolt of primal fear through the chieftain. "Who the hell are you, kid?" he roared, his bravado beginning to crack. He had never seen anything like it. This wasn't martial arts; this was something else entirely.
"Look out, he's coming!" the pale scholar shrieked.
It was too late. Jiang Dao's leisurely walk blurred, and in the next instant, he exploded forward, leaving an afterimage hanging in the air. He tore through the space between them, a human battering ram of muscle and intent.
A cold dread seized the chieftain's heart. "Together!" he bellowed, his voice raw with panic. "Get on him! Chop him into mincemeat!"
The bandits closest to Jiang Dao surged forward, a wave of steel and screaming fury.
CRACK! CRUNCH! SNAP!
Jiang Dao's hands became talons. The Eagle Claw Skill was unleashed not as a technique, but as a force of nature. Steel swords and iron-tipped spears shattered against his grip. His fingers, like iron hooks, ripped through the air with terrifying speed and precision, finding the soft flesh of throats and the weak points in armor. Each strike was a killing blow, delivered with a brutal efficiency that was utterly inhuman.
Screams were cut short, replaced by the wet, gurgling sounds of dying men as blood sprayed across the dusty road.
In a heartbeat, he was through them, a whirlwind of death that left a trail of broken bodies in his wake, his eyes locked on the terrified, bearded chieftain.