Chapter 25: Keeping Watch (Part Two)

In a flurry of swift, deadly motions, two of the four ghostly constables fell, and Fang Yue suffered a minor wound. The injury could have been avoided entirely, had Fang Yue possessed more experience in battle. Yet, after this bout of fighting, his confidence grew. These four spectral constables, aside from their strange bodies that resisted blades and swords, possessed no other remarkable qualities, and they even had fatal weaknesses—not difficult adversaries after all.

Without pausing, Fang Yue charged at another constable, blade flashing. In one stroke, the constable’s head was sent flying. The first level of the Way of Enlightenment Fist had granted Fang Yue a comprehensive improvement in physical prowess and speed. In single combat, a constable could barely survive a few rounds against him; only when several joined forces could they pose a real threat.

Now, Fang Yue had defeated each in turn, leaving only the last one standing.

A metallic clang echoed as the final constable blocked another of Fang Yue’s strikes. The force of the blow made it stagger and reel backward. Fang Yue sprang forward, launching a fierce punch at the constable’s head.

With a dull thud, silence returned to the long street.

Only the four headless corpses remained standing, unmoving, their decapitated heads scattered in the distance. Under the hazy moonlight, the scene radiated a chilling, sinister atmosphere.

Suddenly, from the far end of the street, footsteps approached through a swirl of mist. These footsteps were heavy and ponderous, echoing clearly along the quiet, empty road.

“Lord, this scholar Fang refuses the appointment, stubbornly defying your orders, and even assaulted us! Please, Lord, grant us justice!” one of the severed heads on the ground called out, its mouth opening and closing.

Fang Yue’s face grew cold. Even with nothing but a head remaining, these ghostly things still clung to life—but then, they were never truly alive to begin with. It was not so strange.

He was about to step forward and silence the prattling head with a few more cuts when the owner of the footsteps emerged from the mist at the end of the street, his form taking shape.

A towering figure appeared, more than two zhang tall, his head nearly level with the rooftops of the two-story pavilions lining the street. He wore the official robes of a seventh-rank county magistrate and strode forward, step by heavy step.

“Scholar Fang, why do you defy the order?” The giant’s voice rolled across the distance like muffled thunder, booming in Fang Yue’s ears with overwhelming force.

Fang Yue did not reply. He turned and ran.

He valued his life too much to accept an official post bestowed by the dead—who knew what consequences that might bring? The colossal figure approaching from the end of the street was clearly the magistrate in question. Though Fang Yue could not guess what manner of spirit he had become, his sheer height alone was enough to crush any hope of victory.

...

He ran for an unknown length of time before the heavy, distant footsteps finally faded away.

With a sudden gasp, Fang Yue sat bolt upright in bed, exhaling a long, ragged breath.

The room was still, lit only by a tiny, flickering kerosene lamp that cast a faint, yellowish glow. Outside, the wind howled and swirled.

“Another dream,” Fang Yue sighed inwardly, throwing aside his quilt. He meant to go next door and tell the inn servant it was his turn to keep watch for the latter half of the night.

But as he moved, a searing pain flared in his left shoulder near his back. He reached for it, found the area wet, and, holding his hand to the lamp, saw it stained bright red with blood.

“Damn it—it’s not just a dream.” Fang Yue’s face darkened. Wounds suffered in the dream had followed him into reality.

Fortunately, the cut on his shoulder was not deep and did not hinder his left arm, though it bled profusely—no doubt torn open again by the violence of the dream-battle.

It was the dead of night, too late to find medicine to staunch the bleeding. Fang Yue tore a strip from his robe and bound the wound as best he could.

“I’ll visit the doctor at dawn. If this knife wound gets infected, it will be trouble,” he thought, frowning. He picked up the lamp from the table and stepped outside to the neighboring room.

A lamp burned there as well. The inn servant sat at the table, dozing, his silhouette cast as a shadow against the door by the lamplight.

Fang Yue rapped gently on the door with the back of his hand.

The servant jerked awake, startled. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me.”

“Oh, Scholar Fang.” The servant relaxed, came to the door, and opened it.

“It’s the second half of the night. My turn to keep watch,” Fang Yue said.

“So soon? Is it that late already?” the servant yawned, glancing fearfully at the Chen Room in the corner of the second floor. “I must have dozed off—I didn’t even hear the watchman’s bell. At least nothing happened during the night.”

“No trouble is the greatest good,” Fang Yue replied.

No sooner had he spoken than his expression shifted, his gaze turning solemn as he looked toward the inn’s front door.

Darkness pooled there, the door tightly shut. Yet from outside came the sound of footsteps and muffled voices, mingled with the wind.

Who would come to the inn at such an hour, especially now, in these troubled times? Their intentions could only be suspicious.

Lowering his voice, Fang Yue said, “Someone’s outside. We don’t know who. Stay in the room, put out the light, and no matter what happens, don’t come out.”

He handed his lamp to the servant, then slipped silently across the floor to crouch behind the counter.

The servant was terrified. Anyone arriving at this hour could only mean danger.

He hurried back into his room, closed the door softly, drew the bolt, and snuffed out both lamps.

The deepened darkness amplified his fear. At first, he considered climbing into bed, but fear got the better of him, and he crawled beneath it instead.

“Innkeeper, open up! We need lodging!” a coarse voice boomed from outside, followed by pounding on the door.

The servant’s professional instincts almost made him answer, but he quickly clamped a hand over his mouth.

The voice outside was faintly familiar—he was certain it belonged to one of the four traveling merchants who had previously stayed in the Chen Room.

“They killed someone, and now they’re back at the inn in the middle of the night—what do they want?” Terror gripped him as he recalled the grisly scene in the Chen Room: the woman’s head on the bed, the floor strewn with torn limbs and flesh.

Such murderers, returning in the dead of night to bang on the inn’s door—nothing good could come of it.

Huddled under the bed, the servant trembled uncontrollably, praying that the killers would find the door barred and quickly leave.

But things, of course, never go as one hopes. The callers outside shouted several more times, and when no one answered, began to pound the door harder.

Bang, bang, bang.

The noise was tremendous. Even beneath the bed, with two heavy doors between him and the street, the servant heard every blow with painful clarity.

Each thudding strike sent a jolt of terror through his heart, the dreadful pounding echoing in his mind, pushing his fear to its breaking point.