Chapter Seventy-One: The Death of Old Ma

Zhang Chen’s anguished, tearful cry echoed beyond the southern gate, so piercing it nearly sent Qin Yi stumbling to the ground once more.

At that moment, Old Jiang and his companions also arrived outside the gate. Jiang Yao stepped down from the carriage, catching sight of the scene and hearing Zhang Chen’s heart-rending wail. For the first time, her clear, spirited eyes narrowed, and in the next instant, the cold plum blossom sword at her waist trembled, sword energy surging wildly around her.

Old Jiang, witnessing this, finally allowed himself a smile.

Qin Yi stood dazed, staring at the blood-soaked old man lying among the four fallen horses. It was none other than the old horsekeeper, who only days ago had delivered them horses with a cheerful smile. It was hard to believe, but the truth was undeniable: a man who’d been brimming with life in the winter snow just days prior now lay in a pool of blood, encircled by dead horses.

Heaven and earth are merciless, the world ever-changing. Cultivation is the act of defying fate, and those who walk this path must reshape destiny itself.

“Old Ma, didn’t we agree? The day I bring home a beautiful bride, you’d gift me your finest horse. How could you just…” Zhang Chen’s voice faltered as he cradled the old man’s body, whispering in his ear. Even as blood stained his own clothes, he did not release the mangled, bloodied corpse.

Qin Yi began to walk, step by step, toward the southern gate, which now seemed crimson—whether from the dying sun’s glow or the image burned into his mind, he could not say. As he passed Zhang Chen, still murmuring to the dead man, his tone was flat and emotionless: “Come. There are matters inside left for us to settle.”

Jiang Yao drifted silently to Qin Yi’s side, her gaze resting on the old horsekeeper cradled in Zhang Chen’s arms, saying nothing.

Zhang Chen rose, still holding the corpse, and followed Qin Yi and Jiang Yao. The three walked together toward the southern gate, which now appeared blood-red in their eyes.

With a creak, Qin Yi pushed open the door. The three beheld South Street bathed in the golden light of sunset—a scene that should have been warm and inviting, yet was now desolate and forlorn for its emptiness.

None of them dwelled on the bleakness; they knew where they must go. At the intersection of South Street and Chaoyang Street sat the only coffin shop in Fish-Dragon Fort.

No matter how renowned a person might be in life, in the end, all are laid to rest in a coffin—no matter how fine, it’s destined for the earth.

Old Ma was unfortunate in life, with no family, and now met a tragic, lonely death. Qin Yi and his companions would not allow his body to remain abandoned in the street.

Their footsteps echoed down the deserted street, the only sounds in the silence—like the tread of underworld guardians come for souls, a sound Old Ma must have already heard.

Suddenly, the emptiness of South Street was broken. No longer did only the three companions’ footsteps sound; the street grew noisy, the air thick with hurried steps. Qin Yi halted, listening with growing impatience. “Damn, what a racket…”

When the clamor finally ceased, they looked ahead. South Street was no longer deserted, but crowded to bursting.

Two groups had appeared. They’d been hiding along the street before the newcomers had entered Fish-Dragon Fort, but now, unable to contain themselves, they emerged. Each group had a leader—one a gray-haired man, the other a thin, sharp-featured fellow with a leering grin.

“Who are you people?” the gray-haired man demanded, eyeing the trio’s uncommon bearing—nothing like the locals, especially the striking Jiang Yao, whom he’d never seen the like of before. Cautious curiosity filled his voice.

Jiang Yao did not answer. Instead, she pointed at the old horsekeeper in Zhang Chen’s arms, her gaze icy, her tone cold and clear: “Who killed him?”

The gray-haired man was momentarily cowed by the chill in her voice, unable to reply.

“My, what a beauty,” the thin man beside him sneered, his eyes roaming over Jiang Yao’s figure as he rubbed his hands together greedily. “I’ve never seen anything like her…”

Jiang Yao’s expression did not change as she repeated her question, her finger unwavering as she pointed at the corpse: “Who killed him?”

The man’s lust only grew, his desire for conquest flaring as he grinned lecherously and stepped closer. “No need to rush, little beauty. I’ll take good care of you soon enough. What’s one dead old man matter? He’s just a nobody. Don’t trouble yourself over it.”

“Oh? Just a nobody?” Jiang Yao withdrew her hand, her voice soft. In the next heartbeat, a flash of red shot from her waist, and she spoke again, her voice cold as ice: “To me, you’re just a nobody too.”

A dull thud echoed down the street. Before the sound had even faded, the red glow had returned to Jiang Yao’s waist, and a body collapsed to the ground. The sound rang in everyone’s ears—especially the two groups crowded together. It was not loud, but chillingly clear, like the tolling of a death knell in their hearts.

They had all seen it: in the blink of an eye, as the red light arced from the beautiful woman’s waist and returned, the leering man who had spoken so obscenely had been decapitated.

They did not know what it was, but they’d heard rumors—of a flying sword that could claim a head from afar.

Now South Street fell utterly silent. The eyes that fixed on Jiang Yao were no longer lecherous or adoring, but filled with terror. Though every instinct screamed at them to flee, their bodies would not obey; they stood frozen, unable to speak or move.

After a long, heavy silence, Jiang Yao’s voice rang out cold once more: “Who killed those horses?”

No one answered—not out of defiance, but because there was nothing left to say. Instead, those responsible tried to slip away, leaving a gaping space around the three companions. Only three men, pale with fear, remained standing alone.

Another dull thud. Before the terrified men could utter a word, red light flashed again, and three more heads fell to the ground.

A scream shattered the silence. Panic exploded through the crowd—everyone fled in terror, the street emptied in an instant.

Once again, South Street was deserted and silent.

Only three living souls remained, carrying a dead man onward, while four headless bodies lay cooling on the ground.