Chapter 152

Chapter 152

Old Zhao raised his right arm to block a machete aimed at his face, kicked his opponent while reaching out with his left hand to shove aside a hoe swinging toward Zhao Sanwang’s head.

“San Wang!” Zhao Sandi, locked in combat with two others and unable to break free, breathed a huge sigh of relief. Without time for more words, his eyes hardened, and he no longer held back, raising his blade to slash at the villagers wielding hoes and axes from all directions. “Son of a bitch! I mean it now!!”

“Son of a bitch! I’ll fucking kill you! A bunch of beasts, a pack of backstabbing outsider bastards, not playing fair—I’ll slaughter you!”

There was no hand-to-hand grappling, only the clang of blade against blade, the screams of the wounded as hoes and axes bit into bone, and the gurgle of blood spraying everywhere.

Under the flickering firelight, the two sides fought like hell under the moon, everyone going for the kill, a life-or-death struggle.

Blocking the road wasn’t enough—demanding money, grain, and even flesh, making bank off the chaos, living off other people’s misery, not doing a damn thing right.

Sneak attacks, no honor, breaking the rules, stepping on their turf and killing their people.

Both sides’ fury went through the roof, their strikes getting nastier, each aiming for vital spots like the heart and neck.

With one slash, guts and organs spilled all over the ground, pure savage bloodlust everywhere.

The women were terrified, shaking like leaves, screams ripping through the night.

“Ah——”

Elsewhere, a group of villagers chased the donkey cart for a while, snapped awake by the gut-wrenching wails at the village entrance. They turned back abruptly, their steps faltering.

“Quick! Move!”

Sun Shi’s elder brother, tasked with guarding the main group, lingered at the rear, keeping a sharp eye on the surroundings. Seeing the villagers pause, he yelled his lungs out.

“Don’t fall behind, don’t look back, follow the donkey cart!”

“Watch the kids, grab anyone who trips, pull the ones nearby!”

As he urged them on, his hands stayed busy, pushing everyone forward and helping those who stumbled.

Ahead lay obstacles; the hundred or so people trampled them underfoot, rushing past without daring to stop or look back. The donkey cart became their only guide—just follow it.

Lamps just lit were blown out, yard doors slammed shut, the big yards dead silent.

Through village paths, over family lanes, those near the main road heard the commotion outside. Women grabbed kids and hid under beds, their scared shadows lit by lamps still burning.

Footsteps were a mess, wheels rumbling on the ground, chickens and ducks flapping around in the backyards, pigs stirring in their pens.

Barks came from some yard, accompanied by the sound of paws scraping the ground and a rope straining at a neck, the barking carrying into the donkey cart.

“Woof woof woof——”

Xiao Heizi, his stubby legs gripping the straw mat, stuck his head out the window, barking like crazy at the outside.

Two dogs barked back and forth, their racket even drowning out the women's screams at the village head.

“Stop the chase!” an old man with graying hair shouted. Since we can't catch the front group, they’d keep the rear. “They can't get out of Wuling Mountain! Liuzi, go tell the hills. The rest of you, come with me to the village entrance—we gotta hold 'em here!”

With that, he turned and ran back toward the village entrance.

Seeing the crowd growing and the donkey cart long out of sight, Old Zhao relaxed a bit, done with fighting. He yelled, “Dashan!”

“Father!” In the chaos, Zhao Dashan gripped his bloody blade and swung it around. A bunch of men, scared shitless, didn't dare come close and backed off.

They were already spooked by the killing. Two big guys from the hills lay dead on the ground, their guts trampled, their machetes taken.

They couldn’t drag this out. Hearts pounded like drums; everyone thought the same—any longer, and they’d suffer a heavy loss.

These people fought with utter disregard for their own lives, ruthless and fierce—unlike anything they’d ever seen!

Too late, they regretted it. How had they not noticed these people had blades? They weren’t guards of wealthy families, nor did they seem like easy-to-bully peasants. They struck harder than mountain bandits, defying all categories—they’d completely misjudged them!

The surrounding Wansha Village people slowly edged toward Old Zhao, forming a small circle back-to-back.

Old Zhao quickly scanned those gathered. Two were missing, and his heart sank.

His eyes swept the ground, spotting two familiar faces. He led the group slowly toward that spot.

Zhao Sanwang gripped his machete, bent down, and quickly felt for a pulse. His face lit up briefly, but seeing the exposed intestines, his expression darkened.

“Gone.” On the other side, Zhao Ertian withdrew his hand, shaking his head at his father, his expression grim.

In real combat, everyone had braced for death before the fight, but seeing their own lying still on the ground felt like a stone lodged in their chests, suffocating.

“Wu Youliang’s still breathing.” Ignoring the situation, Zhao Sanwang tore a strip of cloth from his clothes, roughly stuffed the intestines back in, and wrapped the wound twice. In the dim torchlight, he couldn’t tell how deep or wide the wound was, but it was still bleeding, warm. By the time he tied the cloth, his hands were soaked through.

Whether he lived or died was up to fate.

Old Zhao quickly pulled a medicine bottle from his pocket. Zhao Sanwang paused, tore the cloth open again, sprinkled the powder haphazardly, and re-tied it. Under this rough treatment—tie, tear, sprinkle, tie again—Wu Youliang, who had been still, let out a groan.

Still conscious.

“Carry them.” Old Zhao said quickly.

Zhao Sanwang swiftly hoisted Wu Youliang, glanced around, grabbed Shi Erlang, and without a word, shoved him onto his back. He’d noticed this guy cowering in the fight—useless for battle, only good for grunt work.

Zhao Ertian untied his belt, strapped the other lifeless man to himself. A corpse with limp limbs was no different from a cloth bundle; he had to tie it tight like firewood to keep it from slipping.

The Wuling Village crowd watched them work, frozen, daring not to intervene.

Hasty footsteps approached from afar, a group of people running with torches, their arrival breaking the eerie silence.

Wuling Village was no small place. Besides the main settlement, there were homes at remote foothills and bends away from the village. The commotion had drawn people. Over the years, profiting from tolls, every household had plenty to eat. The men were robust, skilled in hunting, well-fed on grain and meat. At a glance, many had arms thicker than the thighs of Wansha Village men—an imposing sight.

But still, they fell short of the Zhao brothers in presence and stature.

One look at the scene—a mess.

The leading old man hadn’t expected such carnage in so short a time. Bodies lay everywhere, guts and blood making the ground impossible to step on or even dare to.

A wave of dizziness hit him; he nearly collapsed.

The four burly Zhao men, each wielding a large blade, and the others with bloodied faces glaring over—the old man and everyone else were stunned into place.

Hands gripping hoes trembled. How… how was this different from what they’d imagined?

Those two brothers had come down from the hills—how were they on the ground? It couldn’t be…

“You… you…” The old man, supported by others, pinched his thigh hard to clear his dazed mind. Seeing the “corpses” littering the ground, including many of his own kin, he choked back a mouthful of old blood, barely keeping it down. “You’re asking for death!!!”

“Who’s asking for death—we’ll see who’s tougher!” Zhao Sanwang roared, stepping forward. “You dare block the King of Hell’s path? Then I won’t hold back—I’ll send you on your way!”

The old man’s face turned pale and purple, his chest heaving. He said no more, his sinister gaze sliding over the group. He raised his hand to order them seized, when his peripheral vision caught a damned soul among the men finishing off the wounded—stabbing at villagers lying on the ground, dead or alive!

Old Man Zhao's face went white as a sheet. He stretched out his hand and screamed, his voice cracking: "Stop! Stop right now!!"

Zhao Quan was well aware of the importance of making sure they were dead. Since blood had been spilled, the bad blood was already set. To prevent anyone from playing dead and then jumping up to stab them in the back, the safest bet was to make sure they'd never get up again.

Ignoring the old man, he swung his curved knife, stabbing each one till blood poured out. He didn't aim for their necks or hearts, but struck their hands and feet instead.

It wasn't that he was soft-hearted—the guys lying there were still people, not animals, and he wasn't some cold-blooded killer. Wherever he stabbed, as long as they couldn't get up, that was enough.

A few muffled groans came out; those not yet dead got jolted awake by the pain, while the already dead showed no reaction even when pierced through.

Two guys who'd been playing dead in the chaos quickly lifted their eyelids to sneak a glance. Seeing how swiftly he acted, they were scared out of their minds. They scrambled to their feet and, dragging their bloody bodies, stumbled toward the direction of the old man.

"Village Chief, save us—"

"Uncle, I'm not dead yet—"

"Erbo, Jinbao, you two are fine?!" The old man's face lit up. Jinbao was his grandnephew; earlier, seeing him lying motionless on the ground, he figured it was all over—the third branch only had this one boy, and now their line would be cut off.

Now seeing him alive and kicking, though covered in blood on his face and body, he seemed fine, not like someone about to die. The old man couldn't help cursing him under his breath for being sneaky—he'd been full of tricks since childhood. But what to do now? So many people had seen him playing dead; there'd be hell to pay later.

The toll collection was a village-wide affair, and every household had to send someone. Others had lost their lives, yet these two had lain low to avoid the fight—no one would feel good about that.

So, seeing them alive, he was both pleased and displeased. Not wanting to vent his anger on them, he turned his head to look at the leading old man among the group, his face dark as thunder: "If you've got balls, show 'em in broad daylight. Sneaking in with those peasants on purpose and drawing knives to kill at night—what are you after?!"

"Which mountain stronghold are you from? Who's your leader? Sneaking in with those peasants on purpose—what's your game?"

"You'd better tell the truth! Otherwise, don't blame me for being rude!"

He wasn't buying that these guys were just peasants. That kind of viciousness didn't come without a few kills under your belt. He knew his own village's situation all too well and couldn't help wondering: had some outside crew taken a shine to Wuling Mountain and wanted to kill them off to seize their turf?

Could they have been targeted?

The mountain stockades all had their own people; it couldn't be that those up top had come down to cut them down for fun. They all worshipped the same ancestor; even if they were bored out of their minds from overeating, they wouldn't pull a stunt like this.

It had to be outsiders.

His heart suddenly started pounding. Usually, carrying water from the mountain was done openly, their eating and drinking were no different from before, and every household's yard had clothes drying day after day... He'd never paid attention before, but now everything seemed wrong. Lately, they'd collected quite a bit in tolls, and the passersby came from all walks of life. Though villagers led the way and didn't let them wander, coming and going in haste, and never letting outsiders into the courtyards.

But without thinking of this angle, no problem was apparent; once he did, every detail seemed careless.

Wuling Mountain was accessible from all sides; tough guys could cross ridges and cliffs to sneak in and out. His heart grew uneasy, and he couldn't help glancing again at the leading old man, especially at the great blade in his hand.

Such sharp weapons—even the chiefs of the stockades might not be able to produce two of them. Yet these leaders each had one, and they were built sturdy and strong. Such physiques couldn't be raised by country folk; their whole bearing had a bandit air, a bit like mountain men.

No wonder they dared to strike at their village—they had backing.

Countless thoughts surged in his mind, and the more he thought, the more his heart sank. If they were just peasants passing through, that would be one thing; but if they were a tough nut deliberately looking for trouble, then tonight might not end well.

He gritted his teeth and couldn't help glancing back at the mountain. What to do? The village was quite a distance from the nearest stockade; a round trip would take all night. By the time the mountain men came down, they'd be cold as a corpse!

Old Man Zhao had no idea the old man had mistaken them for fellow bandits. Frowning, he said, "What mountain stronghold? What are you talking about? I don't know what you mean."

"I don't care about your rules. Are you the government office or something, to charge me a toll?" He was a perfectly law-abiding commoner. If it were really the government collecting a toll, he'd grit his teeth and pay up. But who the hell did these people think they were?

He had no patience to argue with them. If they dared to block his way, he dared to kill.

Both sides had lost men and suffered injuries—there was no clear winner. The road was something you had to fight for with your life. Old Man Zhao feared nothing!

So he swung his blade and snarled fiercely at the crowd opposite: "If you want to fight, come all at once. Tonight, either you die and we pass, or you step aside and we all live."

He growled: "Choose!"