The Great Song Dynasty's Soul-Forging in Progress

He paused, then suddenly remembered that tomorrow was the fifteenth, and a rare gentleness appeared on his face.

"...Also," he lowered his voice, grabbed a dirty cloth to wipe the blade, and without looking up, as if he were talking about something completely unrelated, "one of you can run an errand for me tomorrow morning to Li's shop in the south of the city and buy two packs of osmanthus cakes."

The thugs in the room were stunned for a moment; no one dared to ask questions, nor did anyone dare to laugh.

At that moment, Sun Kui lowered his head to wipe his knife. The dim yellow lamplight fell on his taut, ashen face, and the deep, knife-carved nasolabial folds seemed to loosen slightly. No one in the room dared to make a sound; even their breathing was extremely low. Until he finished wiping the knife, he slowly raised his head, and his bloodshot eyes were once again filled with rage.

"Listen up, all of you!" He slammed his fist on the table, standing up and surveying the group of men with murky, menacing eyes. "Three days from now, a shipment of 'Drunken Eight Immortals' raw liquor will be passing through Hulu Bay! Five thousand taels of it! Five thousand taels!"

The room fell silent for a moment, then erupted into chaos, as if cold water had been poured into boiling oil.

Ignoring the buzzing noise, Sun Kui coldly and deliberately said, "I don't care if it's a trap or not. Even if it is, I'll crush it, rip Wang Zhonghua's guts out, and strangle him!"

He ordered his men to bring in two jars of the cheapest yellow wine, broke the mud seals, and poured himself more than half a bowl. The wine dripped from his lips, soaking his chest. Without wiping it away, he slammed the bowl on the table, looked around at everyone, and declared: "Drink this last bowl of wine, and we'll be brothers who've risked our lives together before the King of Hell! Either you come back with Wang Zhonghua's head to celebrate, or you come back straddling a chair, and I'll give you a grand funeral!"

The thugs howled like wild beasts, their throats thick with the stench of alcohol and destructive rage. A rough earthenware bowl flew out and shattered against the wall, shards embedding themselves in one of the thugs' temples, drawing blood down half his face. Yet, the man grinned and licked the blood from his lips.

Sun Kui stared at the smiling face, then suddenly remembered something. He strode to the untouched statue of the God of Wealth in the corner and pulled out a neatly folded piece of coarse cloth from under the incense burner. He turned his back, and all the onlookers saw him bowing his head, unfolding the cloth, and remaining motionless for a long time.

Some with sharp eyes noticed that it was a brand-new, unworn piece of indigo fabric, with fine and neat stitches—as if a blind old woman had groped her way through it, stitch by stitch.

Sun Kui folded the fabric neatly and stuffed it into his undergarment. When he turned around again, his face was normal, his eyes were bloodshot, and the corners of his mouth were twisted into a guillotine shape.

"Walk."

Meanwhile, three miles away from Hulu Bay, a small boat rests quietly in the shadows of the reeds.

Wang Zhonghua sat cross-legged at the bow of the boat, a pot of coarse tea simmering on a small clay stove. The tea bubbled softly, and wisps of white steam rose, blending with the night mist on the river. He held a warm, lustrous jade pendant between his fingers—Qin Tiehua had tied it to his waist himself when he first got out of bed after being injured. His expression was calm, as if he were not waiting for a bloody battle, but simply for the endgame of a game of chess.

At the stern of the boat, Du Ziteng squatted by the charcoal brazier, warming himself by the fire. He would occasionally peek towards the river bend, then pull back, rubbing his hands together. "Young master, aren't you really in a hurry? Those are mad dogs, thirty-six desperate thugs, real knives and guns..."

Wang Zhonghua didn't answer. He picked up the rough pottery teacup, blew away the foam, and slowly took a sip.

"Guess what Sun Kui is thinking right now?"

Du Ziteng was taken aback.

"He must be thinking," Wang Zhonghua gazed at the deep darkness in the river bend, his voice not loud, but steady, piercing through the night fog, "that there is no one in this world he can't kill, no mountain of knives he can't cross. In his life, he's been killing too easily, so easily that he thinks the word 'fierce and brave' can truly conquer everything."

He put down his teacup and gently poked at the charcoal fire in the stove; sparks flew up and then went out.

"Then let him see what a death trap really is."

The Hulu Bay River meanders, and the reeds are as dense as a city wall. The withered yellow reeds rub against each other in the night wind, making a fine and desolate rustling sound, like countless wronged souls whispering in the dark.

Lü Maoyi had been lying in this reed bed for three hours.

He buried himself completely in the mud, leaving only his eyes exposed. His body was covered with loose soil and cut reeds, blending seamlessly into the surrounding weeds. Mosquitoes scurried into his collar and cuffs, but he remained motionless; a water snake slowly crawled across the back of his hand, its cool scales brushing against his skin, but he didn't even blink.

Three days ago, he led his reconnaissance team in small groups and infiltrated this "natural killing field".

Twenty-three pits were dug, with sharpened hardwood stakes stuck at the bottom. They didn't need to be fatal; as long as they crippled a leg—a crippled mad dog would no longer be so frightening.

Two whole bags of barbed wire were scattered, each one boiled in molten gold for three hours; they would burst upon contact with blood, and there was no cure. That escape route would henceforth fester and rot in the nightmares of all the bandits.

Underwater hidden ropes—this was Zhang Simao's doing. The short, stocky blacksmith squatted in waist-deep icy water, biting his hemp rope and weaving it inch by inch. His lips were frozen blue, but his hands did not tremble in the slightest. Eight thick, tough, oil-soaked hemp ropes were intertwined into a net, just waiting for a ship to enter so that they could strangle the rudder and entangle the oars.

"Young Master Wang said this is called 'inviting the enemy into a trap.'" When Zhang Simao came ashore, his jaw was clenching, but he grinned. "For a blacksmith like me to be able to set up a trap once in my life is worth it."

At this moment, he was wrapped in a tattered cotton-padded coat, huddled in the shadows at Duan Gong's feet, still clutching half of the unfinished iron caltrop in his hand, his knuckles covered with new frostbite.

Duan Gong knelt on one knee behind the crenellation of the abandoned beacon tower on the north bank, his iron bow resting on the ground like a mountain. The twelve crossbowmen he brought lay silently on either side, no one speaking, only the fine, cold "click" of the crossbows being cocked, one after another, like the Grim Reaper's comb slowly brushing against his scalp.

Duan Gong adjusted the bowstring, his eyes as cold and sharp as a blade after frost. He was no longer the reckless young man who only knew how to fight to the death. Wang Zhonghua taught him: "A sharpshooter isn't someone who fights to the death; he's someone who decides the fate of the world. The arrows in your hand must be counted."

He remembered. Tonight, he would call the names of thirty-six people.

Qin Tiedan led thirty of the "Dark Arrows" main force, lying in ambush behind the earthen slope on the south bank.

Dressed in black, their faces covered with black cloths, a steel staff, level with their eyebrows, sat beside them in the damp, cold earth. No one spoke, no one coughed, and even their breathing was barely audible. They were like thirty lifeless sculptures, or thirty lurking wolves, silently awaiting the alpha's command.

Qin Tiedan sat cross-legged at the front, his specially made wrought iron rod, weighing at least forty pounds, beside him. He closed his eyes, seemingly resting, but his ears twitched slightly in the night breeze, capturing every movement deep in the river bend.

At that moment, he slowly opened his eyes and gripped the iron rod at his feet.

Tonight, I will use this stick to seek justice for my sister, for Young Master Wang, and for those whose bones have been shattered by mad dogs.

The third quarter of the hour of Zi (11:45 PM).

A thin mist rose from the river, the moonlight was obscured by the clouds, and only a thick, pitch-black darkness remained between heaven and earth.

Sun Kui led his men, like a pack of hyenas in the dark, stealthily crept to the east entrance, clinging to the shadows of the riverbank.

They extinguished all their torches, smeared their blades with black mud, and reflected no light. Thirty-six pairs of murky eyes glowed eerily in the darkness, a mixture of the exhilaration of burning alcohol and the hunger before a bloodthirsty craving. Their footsteps rustled rapidly on the withered grass, like insects gnawing at rotting wood.

Sun Kui took the lead.

With the ghost-head saber slung over his shoulder, his muscular arms, veins bulging like crawling insects, stared intently at the faint, flickering, dim yellow light deep in the river bend—it was a lantern bearing the character "吕" (Lü).

His breathing became heavy, and a low growl of barely suppressed excitement rolled in his throat.

"Listen up, all of you," he said in a low voice, but his tone was like a rusty knife scraping against iron, each word dripping with blood, "As soon as the ship docks, I'll be on board! Anyone who tries to steal my prize, don't blame me for being ruthless!"

No one answered, but the sound of licking lips rose and fell.

On the river, the sound of oars echoed.

A small, covered boat, like a funeral procession, drifted slowly into Hulu Bay.

The ship's cabin had a heavy, solid outline and a very deep draft. Lanterns swayed at the bow, illuminating the large, blood-red "王" (king) character on the deck.

Sun Kui's pupils shrank to two pinpoints, and his remaining rationality melted away completely in that instant.

"Do it—!!!"

He pounced out of his hiding place like a mad tiger, followed closely by thirty-six dark figures, trampling over withered reeds and speeding toward the riverbank!

Thirty steps!

Twenty steps!

"call out--"