Chapter 116
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The Battle of Jinzhou…
A ripple stirred in Qi Wuhuo’s heart. That middle-aged Daoist bore a gentle smile—an expression formed through long habit when seeing guests off or welcoming them.
Yet the gaze he cast upon the young Daoist held a sorrowful complexity, as though he had gleaned something from the fluctuation in Qi Wuhuo’s emotions. Still, he said nothing of it, only smiled and spoke: “In any case, Little Daoist, today you’ve struck a great bargain for our Dao Alliance, and even helped us resolve an issue that has weighed upon us for a very long time.”
“It’s only proper to offer a little something extra.”
“Even rice merchants say—‘No tip, no trade; no tip, no profit.’”
“Though we are the Dao Alliance, we count as half a Merchant Alliance too—so it is only fitting.”
When he returned with the document slip, Qi Wuhuo had already reined in the surging tides within his heart. At least, on the surface, he appeared composed. He merely said: “This humble Daoist wishes to entrust the Dao Alliance with an investigation. I wonder—how many contribution points would such a task cost?”
The middle-aged Daoist asked gently: “What matter would you have us look into?”
Qi Wuhuo fell silent for a moment, then said: “I had a teacher who was lost in Jinzhou. I saw him walk into the Demon Kingdom. Within that rift, there flew the banners of the Mingzhen Dao Alliance. Since the Dao Alliance has saved countless lives, I wish to ask—might it be possible… to find him?” What he truly wanted to ask was: Since the Mingzhen Dao Alliance had rescued so many people, might his teacher be among them?
The middle-aged Daoist gave a nod. “…This is no great matter. The Dao Alliance shall take care of it.”
“I will pass word within the Alliance on your behalf.”
“We maintain records—we can look into it for you. As for the cost…”
He handed the scroll in his hands to Qi Wuhuo and said: “There is none.”
“As the Alliance Master has said—”
“Even merchants possess their own Dao. Unless one walks the path of absolute detachment, how could all things be judged solely by wealth?”
“Daoist, should there be news in the future, I will transmit it via secret arts to your Dao Alliance token. At that time, no matter where you are in the Thirteen Regions of the Nine Provinces, you may receive the message.”
Outside the prefectural city of Zhongzhou, there lay a small village. In that village, there was a household that housed a man loathed by the entire village.
What made him detestable wasn’t merely his appearance—
Though indeed, his looks played no small part.
It was as if a chunk had been bitten off his face!
Ugly! Hideous and terrifying. He never smiled, and his eyes were as hard and cold as iron. People often said that if he ever did smile, it would be even more frightening—his facial muscles and bones twitching like those of a demon. And beyond his grotesque face, there was another reason: he was a man with broken legs.
Both legs were crippled.
When he moved about, he had to rely on his hands to drag himself forward across the ground.
His arms, however, were thick and powerful—unnaturally so.
Which only made him look even more like a monster.
Of course, that was what the children said. The adults, of course, claimed they would never judge a man by his appearance. They said that their disdain had nothing to do with his looks. No, what they hated was his drunkenness. Everything in his house had been traded for liquor. Each day, upon waking, he would brace himself with his arms, haul himself onto a wooden board, and drag his body forward using his hands.
Just to fetch more liquor.
The cheapest, most bitter, most turbid wine. He drank from dawn till dusk. When hungry, he would cook up some half-raw slop, swallow it whole—so long as it didn’t kill him, it was fine. Since the present Sage had issued the [Proclamation of Virtuoes Ascension], there were now subsidies for the orphaned, the crippled, and the destitute. But no matter what was delivered—be it rice or flour, grain or oil, or even household goods—this man would always trade it away for foul wine.
It was as though he meant to drown himself in it!
“I heard he once served in the military. Even rose to the rank of Captain.”
So some folks said.
But there were also rumors that distant kin of his once came to seek him out. That day, there had been a fierce quarrel—voices raised in anger.
After that, no one ever came looking for him again.
When the young Daoist arrived at the village, the village elder who led the way began venting all his complaints without pause. His cane thudded against the ground with every other step as he cursed: “That man’s a good-for-nothing! All he knows is drinking—his temper’s worse than anything I’ve seen. Folks go out of their way to help him, and he just curses them for it! Cook him a meal, and he says it’s foul, just spits it out—‘Terrible, terrible,’ he says!”
“Picky as a prince! What does he think he is!”
“The likes of him, best if he just drank himself to death!”
“Only when he’s dead drunk does he start babbling about how he once slew demons.”
“Hah! With that face? Looks more like a demon took a bite out of him!”
All along the path, the old village head grumbled nonstop. Eventually, he halted, pointed toward a far-off house, and said: “There, that’s the place. Tch, we’re not even close yet, and you can already smell the stench of liquor. That old fool probably started drinking the moment he opened his eyes…”
“No—wouldn’t be surprised if he drank through the whole damn night. Don’t throw up now!”
Still muttering curses, the old man marched forward, raised his cane, and banged on the door: “Oi! Oi!”
“Old Monster!”
“An old friend’s disciple’s come to see you—get out here!”
“You hear me?! Open up!”
He knocked for quite a while before, with a crash, the door was finally shoved open from within. The village elder, well-seasoned from long experience, shifted deftly to the side and dodged away—despite being in his sixties, he moved with the agility of a younger man—as a figure staggered out, reeking of wine. That man had no legs. His face was a wild mess of tangled beard. His eyes were murky, his hair completely white, his face lined with deep wrinkles.
The old village head gave a long sigh and said: “It’s him. I know he doesn’t look much like how you remember, but it is him. Don’t go thinking you’ve got the wrong person.”
“This guy’s only just over fifty.”
“Came to the village when he was forty-eight. Back then, he looked like he was just past thirty.”
“Even without legs, he was built like a boulder—his eyes burned like fire. But it didn’t last.”
“Seven years… Trees haven’t even had time to reach full height, and he’s already withered away like this.”
He himself was getting on in years, so there was some sympathy in his tone. He tapped his cane against the old ‘monster’ and said: “Get up, stop pretending to sleep. Someone’s come to see you—show a little courtesy…” Then he leaned closer, whispered by his ear: “Do you really want to die out here alone, with no one left to care whether you live or rot?”
“Aren’t you going to get up already?!”
Only then did the man lift his head. His eyes were clouded and dazed, as if he had never truly awakened from his stupor.
His face was a twisted mess of wrinkles, scars, and what looked like bite marks—all tangled together like some nightmare-born monstrosity. He glanced at Qi Wuhuo with a dull eye, muttered a few words, and said: “Got any wine?”
The village elder cursed him out on the spot.
The young Daoist looked at the dazed man and spoke gently:
“I’ll go buy some.”
He returned with wine and meat, but the man didn’t touch the food—only the wine. As for the well-prepared dishes that villagers might normally enjoy with a drink, he treated them like garbage. The village elder ground his teeth in fury. Seven years of drinking like this, and Qi Wuhuo saw for himself that the house truly was empty—utterly barren.
Not just cupboards—even a bed was nowhere to be found. Just a few piles of dead grass shoved into a corner. Each day, he’d drink until he collapsed, then wake to drink again. Once the liquor ran out, he’d crawl out to buy more.
Every single item in the house that could be traded or pawned had already been sold off without hesitation.
Qi Wuhuo borrowed another villager’s kitchen to cook a few simple dishes.
But that old man—ill, crippled, a shadow of his former self—only drank. He said: “This wine’s no good. The food’s worse. But the wine, well, at least it’s drinkable… Got some taste to it. Kid, I don’t know where you came from, but I’ll tell you this—I’ve got nothing. If you’re here trying to scheme something, then you’ve made a real mistake.”
The village elder grew anxious and scolded: “You damn fool!”
“Young man, don’t listen to a word he says. He has something. He does!”
Then, turning hurriedly toward the old drunk, he shouted: “Don’t you still have that military commendation iron scroll?!”
The old man said flatly: “Sold it.”
The village elder stood frozen, stunned—then roared: “You sold it?! What for?!”
The old man took another swig of wine and belched twice: “Sold it for wine… That thing’s only good for that now.”
The crippled, scarred old man’s expression remained calm. His eyes were still clouded as he said it. He drank again. The village elder, so angry he nearly keeled over, hurled his cane and stumbled off. But the old drunk didn’t even blink—he just went on drinking, like always, as if trying to drown himself in this foul wine.
Wretch. Monster. Drunkard.
He didn’t care what anyone called him.
The events of that year churned endlessly in his mind. Only through drinking could he find even a moment’s peace. This wine—it was sharp, acrid. Because it lacked depth, the intoxication stabbed into his skull like an iron spike, twisting and turning. All he wanted then was to collapse into that heap of dry grass, like a corpse, shut his eyes, and let the images of Jinzhou—the scenes burned into his mind—flicker past once more.
That year, there was a great famine. People ate one another.
There were monsters devouring humans. Arrows piercing the flesh of innocent people.
There were blades slicing through the heads of demon raiders—blood splattering all over their faces—everyone was mad with killing.
Ahead lay the demon race and civilians. But when he turned around, what he saw were iron-clad cavalry sealing the roads, barring anyone from passing. That same Xuan Armor to which he had once pledged loyalty and devoted his life—now, in front of Jinzhou, they raised their weapons against the very people they had sworn to protect. One division of the military had fractured. Those who insisted on following the command to the letter, and those who trusted the evidence before their eyes—the armored cavalry split in rebellion.
One side believed that blocking the path would lead to the commoners’ death, that it was inhumane. The other side clung to orders, convinced that among the fleeing people were demons in disguise. Letting them through would doom several surrounding provinces and bring death to countless innocents. The two sides first argued, then pushed, and finally had to draw their swords.
The cruelest irony was: both sides believed they were drawing their weapons for the people.
They fought to the death.
The casualty rate from that internal conflict was staggering.
Over seventy percent died or were wounded. Still, no one yielded.
Blades had stabbed through the chests of their own comrades. Blood ran into their eyes. When that big-bearded man died, he still clutched his arm and gasped: “You can’t let them through. The order says there are demons among them. If this place falls, the whole realm will suffer…”
So who was right? Who was wrong?
Was it those comrades, or was it him?
Or maybe…
He couldn’t think about it. Couldn’t remember it.
“Wine. Give me wine…”
“Give me wine!!”
He flew into a rage.
But the young Daoist’s calm voice replied: “I’m making food. Eat something first.”
“I want wine! Wine! What food?! Who cares about food?!”
He dragged himself across the ground, not caring about the dust and dirt on his face. He seized the wine and poured it straight into his mouth. The young Daoist fell quiet for a moment, then spoke gently: “If you keep this up, you won’t last much longer. Even if your body was once strong enough to fight demons, this kind of indulgence it’s not right. You won’t survive it. You ought to take better care of yourself.”
The old man burst out laughing .“Live?”
“Living is worse than dying! I should have died back then! You don’t understand anything, boy… you don’t understand anything at all…” He muttered as he tilted back his head and drank again, yet not a single word about that year escaped his lips. He just drank, then suddenly cursed, then drank again.
The young Daoist quietly finished cooking by the side and brought the meal over. The old man, just as he always did, was about to swat it away—but his hand suddenly froze, his whole body stiffened. He lowered his head, his cloudy eyes widened as he stared blankly at the simple bowl of rice and soup.
It was the kind of food only farmers in Jinzhou would make.
He suddenly lifted the soup and drank it in great gulps, muttering: “This taste… yes, this is it…”
“You’re from Jinzhou. You’re a Jinzhou native.”
“You are from Jinzhou, right? Jinzhou… Jinzhou…”
The young Daoist looked at the suddenly panicked old man and said: “Mm. Seven years ago, I was nine.”
“Nine… only nine… nine…”
The old man reached out, wanting to touch the young Daoist before pulling back his hand. He clapped the young Daoist’s shoulder, tried to speak, but not a word came. His face trembled—such a grim, fierce face, now on the verge of tears. But no tears came. His mouth opened, his whole body shook like a fallen leaf.
Qi Wuhuo didn’t know what to say. That tide of emotion surged through him, and all he could say in the end was: “I survived.”
“Many died. But many also lived.”
The crippled old man suddenly collapsed onto the ground, sobbing uncontrollably, his face streaked with tears.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”
“We failed to protect you…”
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”
His face was missing a large patch—sword marks, claw wounds. Tears poured down as he clutched the young Daoist, his body trembling, repeating only those three words: I’m sorry.
That year in Jinzhou, thirteen disciples of the Buddhist sect burned their ancestors’ relics to break open the path. More than six hundred sword cultivators from the Daoist sect died in seated meditation. One whole cavalry division defied orders and charged into the demon kingdom to carve open a way forward. In the end, only twenty-seven survived. The last thing he saw was a family—father and son dead, mother gone—only one child was left crying. But in the chaos, he was ambushed. A wolf demon crushed his legs.
Even the bones and tendons were ruined. He hacked off his own leg, then threw himself at the demon in battle. His face was half-torn off.
His heavy armor shattered. Over thirty wounds covered his body. When they finally found him, he was still holding his sword upright, a dead child clutched in his arms. He seemed delirious, yet he was shouting toward the direction of the capital: “Kill the traitor! Kill the thief!!”
The young Daoist looked at the weeping old veteran and instinctively raised his hand to form the Fearlessness Mudra—but in the end, he lowered it.
He simply placed his palm over the trembling hand of the old soldier, looked into his eyes, and softly said:
“Thank you…”
The old man wept, loud and long.
