Chapter 23
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Translator: True Detective
Chapter: 22
Chapter Title: Scheme - 2
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Limp. He was a cripple.
He'd been born that way. A cripple from the cradle, Limp. He couldn't walk properly. For over twenty-three years, as Zhang Ping staggered through life, the hobble cursed him with relentless regularity.
Limp. With every step, his balance faltered. Limp. He had to drag his leg with every breath. In his childhood, while all the other boys played at being heroes, his role was always the villain.
The ugly lame fiend. The monster of the unorthodox paths, felled by a single strike from the hero.
"I'll become a hero too!"
But the bullying and persecution only nourished the young Zhang Ping. In a corner of his heart, he nurtured the dream of heroism. One day, he vowed, he would set the world's justice aright. There was no rule saying he had to wield a sword to be a hero.
His mind was sharp and his will ironclad, so he gripped the brush until his nose bled. He built up a solid foundation of learning and achieved no small accomplishments. After earning the fame of Fire Mountain's top prodigy, what awaited him?
Limp.
"Look over there. Zhang Ping's passing by."
"The lame motormouth is off to compose another elegy."
"There's a reason he got kicked out of the Hanlin Academy without a single friend."
He stared straight ahead, ignoring the whispers. Limp. Even as he staggered, his back remained ramrod straight. He had no time to heed the prattle of petty fools.
Cripples, the lot of them.
In Fire Mountain's private school. In the Hanlin Academy. And even beyond.
"We'll ask Hero Huangfu."
"We'll send a letter to the Huangfu Clan."
"To do that, we'd need the Huangfu Clan's permission."
Limp. Zhang Ping muttered to himself. Since when had this land become the Huangfus' kingdom?
That lofty Huangfu permission was only obtainable at the Dragon-Phoenix Gathering—a place where sharp logic and keen intellect held no sway.
Young Master Huangfu Gyunjeong and his lackeys, in their gatherings of benevolence and propriety—there was no room for a cripple.
"Scholar Zhang! Broaden your perspective. We can't topple a mountain to save a handful of lives."
"Young Master, don't be too harsh. Maybe because he's lame, he empathizes more with the lowly masses. Haha!"
Gnashing his teeth, Zhang Ping turned a corner, and the Huangfu Clan's grand compound came into view.
Vultures picking at scraps. Minds clouded by the fat in their bellies. The righteous factions, clutching their money, had forgotten chivalry. Hadn't they fled with their treasures when the brigands turned the tables?
Those with power were all the same. Handing a starving man a mountain of ore didn't make the unorthodox any different.
The martial world was dead.
There were no heroes.
Limp. His foot slipped, throwing him off balance for a moment. One wrong move, and he could have tumbled into disaster.
Zhang Ping looked down at his cursed foot. It permitted nothing. Even if a miracle healed his leg right now, it would be the same.
His mind, once accepted into the Hanlin Academy, already knew the truth. All he could do was voice empty complaints. Stumbling, Zhang Ping steadied himself against the ground and caught his breath.
Every minute, every second of thought led to the same conclusion.
The world needed a superhuman. Someone to scrape away the righteous factions' grease and prune the overgrown weeds of the unorthodox.
"Farewell, young master."
The gate slammed shut behind him like he was being chased out. Calling him "young master" instead of Zhang Ping—that was necessary to get paid.
He couldn't even put his own name on the elegies, but he didn't blame them. That was why he'd written them under a pseudonym from the start. He'd chosen this path knowing full well what it would bring.
If anything, he was glad he could earn coin with just his writing talent.
"You're late."
A chill settled in the air.
The sun had set before he knew it. Squeezing through the brightly lit main street with his unsteady gait, the dark alleys gaped open like hungry maws.
Fire Mountain's night streets were dangerous, and lately even more so. Rumors abounded of Dragon Star Clan drug peddlers stabbing passersby. Better to hurry home.
But then.
Whoosh. A gust of wind made Zhang Ping halt. A faint metallic tang of blood tickled his nose. In winter, when scents didn't carry far, the killer was likely still nearby.
A stroke of bad luck. Should he turn and flee to the main street, or find a hiding spot? His mind raced with calculations, but his body lagged. Frozen by the cold, trembling with tension.
As he peered around a house corner to scout, a scream pierced the air.
"Aaaah! Help! I didn't do anything today—"
Squelch. The cry cut short by the stench of blood. A death rattle. Even as the scream echoed, no one emerged—that was commonplace in Fire Mountain. Zhang Ping steadied his panicked heart.
Moving rashly might draw the killer's attention. He needed to calm his breathing.
Peeking out again, he saw a frantic silhouette sprinting from the alley's end. The shadow on the wall fled desperately. Gasping breaths, pounding feet, constant glances back in fear.
Behind the flickering torchlight, another shadow stirred. It turned, reached out... and froze spasmodically. Squelch. A low sound, and the shadow crumpled.
In its place stood a man in a bamboo hat. He stood over the corpse, scanning for his next victim.
"Come on! Come at me, you fucking bastard!"
A warrior in Dragon Star Clan garb swung his arms in terror. The kitchen knife in his hand gleamed menacingly. The Dragon Star Clan's signature technique: Soaring Dragon Thirteen Blades.
In the unorthodox world, it was renowned for its ferocity. Master it on Fire Mountain, and no night street in the land could stand against you. Yet the bamboo-hat man didn't flinch.
Amid the flurry of slashing knives, a longsword flashed.
One flicker of light. One held breath.
When had he drawn it? When had he thrust it home? The bamboo-hat man twisted the reverse-gripped sword free from the Dragon Star warrior's chest. Zhang Ping held his breath. Lately, rumors spoke of a peerlessly skilled murderer prowling the night streets.
The Jiangming Blood Massacre had brushed past. A man and a woman, slaughtering over thirty souls.
The bamboo-hat man's footsteps drew near. Frozen earth cracked underfoot. Clutching his own mouth, Zhang Ping inched backward.
And then, at last. Bai Hui emerged at the alley's mouth. In that brief moment as he gazed ahead and walked, Zhang Ping's mind raced with thoughts.
Has he not noticed me? Does he have no interest in me? Or did he take a wound in the fight with the Dragon Star warrior?
None of it. Snap. Bai Hui stared straight at Zhang Ping. Thud. Thud. He approached. The closing distance amplified the silence.
Finally, Bai Hui stood before him. Terrifying enough to wish for death, but Zhang Ping neither bowed nor averted his eyes. Rigid in place, he glared defiantly up at Bai Hui. He would not show fear.
It was just infuriating to die at a martial artist's hands without accomplishing a thing. As Bai Hui's left hand hovered near his sword hilt...
The next instant, that hand dropped peacefully.
Thud. Their figures crossed. Bai Hui passed Zhang Ping without a care, as if nothing had happened. A cold wind lingered where he vanished.
Zhang Ping was stunned. Then dumbfounded.
He remembered, facing him like that. He had definitely insulted this bamboo-hat man before.
It was certain. Only an utter fool would forget a face after one glance—and no fool entered the Hanlin Academy.
Yet he let me live. Why? This killer who'd just slain three—why spare me?
His rational mind screamed to flee to the main street even now, but his instincts rebelled. If he didn't ask now, he'd regret it forever. Zhang Ping turned.
Forcing his mouth open.
"Why... why didn't you kill me?"
Glance. Bai Hui, walking ahead, turned back. Zhang Ping's wide eyes locked on the bamboo hat. But no answer came from Bai Hui.
Instead, from right behind him—a voice of unearthly beauty.
"Because you don't practice martial arts."
The girl's whisper in his ear made Zhang Ping whip his head around. There, under the pale moonlight, stood a girl bathed in its glow.
Rustle. Her skirt brushed past. She followed Bai Hui's path, and where she paused, a faint bloody scent lingered. One man, one woman—their movements too distinctive.
No need to see more. It matched perfectly. The fiends behind the Jiangming Blood Massacre.
Yet here he was, alive.
Zhang Ping recalled the rumor. The horrific incident at the Jiangming Lowly Guest Inn. The killer had personally released the errand boys and cooks just before slaughtering the clan heirs without mercy.
He'd dismissed it as impossible. Human nature bent toward the powerful— what madman would spare lives based on whether they knew martial arts? No such person existed.
He calmed his trembling heart. For the first time in his life, every nerve ending thrummed with thrill.
"Who are you?"
But no answer came.
Before him lay only an empty street. In the lifeless darkness, fat snowflakes fell silently. Ghostly quiet, deathly cold. The familiar street. The familiar scene. The sole difference: the corpses.
Their wide, lifeless eyes bore witness that what had just happened was no illusion.