Chen Qi's sharp eyes narrow.
From his perch on the tree branch, he catches the glint of Li Wen's fan stroke, the subtle arc of silver, the faint twitch in the shoulders of both carriage defenders.
His breath sinks cold.
"Get ready," he murmurs, voice low but steady.
The four elders crouched below the tree, turned to him instantly, their eyes flashing.
Chen Qi's hand grips the bark, knuckles white. "Li Wen has acted.
The needles carry poison. The fight won't last much longer—when the time comes, we move."
Below, the battle rages on.
The driver, still holding his ground against Nie Hou's crashing mace, seems unfazed, his stick striking and deflecting with practised rhythm.
But his movements, sharp and confident a moment ago, now carry the faintest lag, so slight only a careful eye could see.
The black-robed youth remains swift, blades dancing against Gong Er's heavy swings, but a stiffness lurks in his shoulders, a shallow edge creeping into his breathing.
Gong Er notices first, and his bald head gleams with a thin smile.
Nie Hou catches the signal in Gong Er's step, and both bandit leaders begin to pull back ever so slightly.
Their strikes no longer thunder forward at full strength.
Their pace slows, controlled, measured, not from weakness, but from patience.
They exchange the briefest of glances across the chaos. Li Wen's poison is already working.
Why waste strength, why risk everything, when the victory is inevitable?
So the battle continues—steel against wood, blade against blade—but beneath the fury of blows lies a careful rhythm. The bandits no longer fight to kill quickly. They fight to wait.
Chen Qi's gaze grows colder. He knows the poison will spread only once the men push their qi to its limits, and both the driver and the youth are doing exactly that.
Time is running thin.
The driver's brows knit as a strange heaviness creeps into his meridians.
His true qi stumbles, sluggish, like water forced through clogged reeds.
A flash of realisation strikes him—poison. His teeth grit, and his mind snaps back to the faint prick on his back, that mosquito-bite sensation he dismissed.
"So it was then," he mutters inwardly, fury blazing.
With a roar, he bursts out with a sudden surge of strength, muscles straining, qi forced through sheer willpower.
His stick whirls, smashing Nie Hou's mace wide, driving the burly man back a dozen steps.
Yet he does not press the attack.
Instead, he wheels around, his eyes fixed on the black-robed youth. His boots tear at the dirt as he runs, desperate.
From the mound, Li Wen's fan slams shut with a sharp snap.
His voice slices through the din. "He wants to escape—quickly, stop him!"
Chen Qi's face hardens as the pieces fall together.
He can see the end before it comes.
The driver and the inspector cannot win.
His voice is calm, sharp, and carrying authority. "Surround them. On my signal, we move."
The villagers nod, slipping from tree shadows and brush, spreading in a wide arc to encircle the battlefield, silent but ready.
Chen Qi alone remains motionless on his branch, eyes locked on the struggle.
The driver's path is cut short as ordinary bandits surge forward, weapons raised.
Their blades and spears clash against his staff, slowing his advance just long enough for Nie Hou's thunderous steps to close in again.
With a bellow, the bandit leader's mace ignites, flames licking across its iron surface.
He swings down like a falling mountain.
The driver curses, unable to stir his qi. He braces his stick high, the wood shuddering against the descending blaze.
His throat tears with a shout, desperate and commanding. "Young master—escape!"
But even as the cry echoes, the youth falters.
The poison clamps his meridians like chains, his breath catching.
His guard drops a heartbeat too long.
Gong Er's heavy blade flips in his hand, striking with the back flat against the youth's chest. The impact crashes like a drum.
Air bursts from the youth's lungs as his body is hurled backwards, slamming into the dirt.
Agony blooms through his chest as his ribs crack, each breath ragged and shallow.
His ears ring, but through the haze of pain, he hears his driver's desperate shout.
It is too late. His qi refuses to answer. His body refuses to rise. And the ground holds him fast.
The driver strains against Nie Hou's flaming mace, his stick gripped with both hands, the wood groaning under the pressure. The heat scorches his arms, and pain shoots through his muscles, but still he holds on. His teeth grind, and with a hoarse cry, he shouts, "Wait! Do you even know who you are attacking?"
For a heartbeat, the battlefield stills. The bandits glance at each other, weapons poised but hesitating.
Up on the mound, Li Wen slaps his folding fan against his palm, his eyes narrowing in feigned enlightenment. "From the Demon Hunter Building," he declares coolly.
The driver seizes the opening, his voice cracking but urgent. "Yes! And more—I am a core member of the Wang family!"
Shock ripples through the bandits' ranks. Even Nie Hou's mace wavers for a moment, the weight of the name sinking in. Murmurs stir, uneasy.
At that instant, footsteps ascend the mound. Lu Tong, clad in a plain grey robe, emerges with a cruel sneer and comes to stand beside Li Wen. His presence presses down, sharp and heavy. "What are you waiting for? Kill them."
Li Wen's face twists. "They are from the Wang family."
"Then all the more reason they cannot be left alive," Lu Tong snaps, eyes cold. His meaning is clear—ties to the Wang family are too dangerous to let linger.
Li Wen exhales sharply, then calls out with sudden force, "Brother, kill them!"
At the very same breath, a crow's cry pierces the sky, sharp and ominous.
Arrows whistle through the air.
This time, they fall not upon villagers, but upon the bandits.
Shafts punch into flesh, dropping men where they stand.
Cries erupt as the ambush turns.
Even Li Qiang, lying unconscious on the ground, jolts awake with a scream as an arrow buries into his thigh.
Li Wen leaps from the mound in alarm, landing on the street below.
Lu Tong is not so fortunate—his body becomes a pincushion, arrows sprouting from his chest and limbs, blood spraying as he collapses like a toppled tree.
Nie Hou and Gong Er, caught off guard, whirl their weapons furiously, deflecting the incoming storm of arrows with sparks and clangs.
From the trees, figures in leather armour stride forth, bows still raised, blades at their sides.
They move with discipline, fanning out until the surviving bandits are ringed completely.
Nie Hou and Gong Er exchange a glance, their eyes darkening as they sense what approaches.
Four men among the armoured group step forward, their auras deep, oppressive—masters.
Nie Hou's face pales as recognition strikes him.
The leading figure's bearing, his sharp brow, his aura—it matches an image buried in Nie Hou's memory.
"The Chen village's second elder…" he mutters inwardly. "That man… must be his kin."
Li Wen, eyes darting wildly, raises his fan and shouts into the tightening circle, "Who are you?"
The villagers do not answer Li Wen's shout; instead, a hundred blades whisper free from scabbards, spear tips gleam, and a dozen arrows are drawn and nocked, the crowd tightening into a living ring of steel.
Nie Hou snarls, "Why does Chen Village involve itself in this?"
A villager steps forward, voice raw and steady, "You're bandits — is any more needed?" and others echo him as they lean forward, ready to charge.
Panic flashes across Li Wen's face; "We act under the magistrate's orders!" he cries, bargaining with the one thing he hopes will save him.
The driver, breath rasping, spits, "Do not worry about the magistrate — kill them."
Nie Hou barks, "Shut up!" his voice threading fear through his words, and Gong Er levels his sword at the wounded youth's throat. "Stop, or I'll cut him down."
The villagers do not halt. Li Wen, desperate, shouts, "They'll all be dead without my antidote!" trying to clutch at a single last leverage.
Chen Qi drops from the branch in one fluid motion and lands on the road; his aura blooms outward — half-step Grandmaster pressure rolling like thunder — and silence sharpens at the edge of every breath.
"Hand over the antidote," Chen Qi says, voice cold and controlled.
"If you insist — first let us go," Li Wen answers, sliding backwards, his fan clutched like a talisman.
Chen Qi's frown is brief and hard; the great crow demon ordered him to save the inspector, but he will not let his village be the one blamed for a rescue.
"Except the four bandit leaders," he says, "kill all the bandits."
The villagers move as one; iron and resolve cut through the ambush in seconds.
Screams wrench from throats, blood paints the dust, and within the span of a heartbeat, the ordinary bandit ranks are broken — many felled, the rest writhing, bereft of will.
Chen Qi steps among the stunned survivors and barks orders: "Give the driver and the young master the healing pills; bind them and four leaders of the blood hunt bandits — we take them with us."
Hands move fast; rough cloth binds wrists, ropes are lashed by practised hands, and two villagers—one steady-faced, one trembling—kneel to press bitter, smoky pills to the lips of the driver and the collapsed youth.
The driver swallows with a harsh cough; the pill burns down like iron, and colour slowly returns to his ashen face, his breathing steadies, and he spits a foamy stitch of blood before looking up with furious gratitude.
The youth gags, breath rasping as the healing herb burns through his chest; his ribs throb where Gong Er struck, but his eyes snap open, fierce even through the poison's haze. "What—what happened?" he demands in a cracked voice.
No one answers. Rough hands bind him and the driver.
The driver doesn't resist, knowing any struggle will only worsen their fate.
The youth, though still poisoned, thrashes weakly until the driver says, "Young master, don't struggle. I don't think they mean to kill us."
Breathing hard, the youth stills, but his voice is bitter. "Then what do they want from me?"
"It could be you," the driver mutters grimly, "or the family behind you."
Both glare at the four captured bandit leaders tied beside them, hatred simmering under their bruises.
Horses arrive from the rear, and the villagers sling the captives one by one over saddles. The column turns, disappearing into the shadowed forest to the east.
What remains on the battlefield is silence and ruin—blood-soaked corpses, the shattered shell of the carriage, crow feathers scattered atop the mound, and on the road a dark jade etched with an eagle's head.
From the west, a lone rider speeds from Qinghe City. From the east, a convoy rumbles in from Xuanyi City.
The convoy arrives first.
One man stoops, lifts the jade, and when he sees the eagle's mark, his face hardens, colour draining from his cheeks.