Little Grove Town lay northeast of Maple City, with Green Mountain Town between them. By straight-line distance, it was the farthest of the city's subject towns from the seat of power.
The column rode hard under Wei Feng's lead, passing Green Mountain Town without pause. Half a day brought them to the edge of Little Grove Town.
Green Mountain Town had no mountain, though the name had survived some forgotten age. But Little Grove Town did have one true landmark — a grove of moon cypresses. Small, it was, every tree visible at a glance. Moon cypress wood calmed the spirit, and furniture carved from it fetched high prices.
Rumor held the grove had once been vast. But the wood was worth so much that townsfolk had stolen it tree by tree. Only a standing order from Maple City forbidding poaching had saved what remained.
Constables pulled from Green Mountain Town camped among the trees, lounging at ease. At the thunder of hooves they gathered to greet the newcomers. Mere mortal muscle, they had never dared enter the town themselves. Their job was to watch and warn.
Wei Feng reined in outside the grove, sweeping them with a cold glance. "What is the situation in Little Grove Town?"
The Green Mountain leader was a broad-faced man past forty. "Fog began five days ago, sir. We thought nothing of it at first — just weather. We could still see the town's outline then, and faint figures moving. One of our men even visited relatives inside. Yesterday we received orders to set up this observation post. Since then, no one has come out. The fog only thickens. Now we cannot see anything at all."
Among the Academy disciples, Jiang Chen craned his neck toward the town. Maple City's territory had raised him. He had grown up in Phoenix Creek Town, but Little Grove Town was familiar ground. The West Mountain bandits he had broken single-handed, sword in hand, had laired in the hills ten li north of here.
From the moon cypress grove, the town had always been visible — poor, but peaceful and content. Now there was only fog.
Wei Feng's voice cut through: "You were ordered to watch the town. Instead you laze about. Worse, you've been poaching moon cypress. Did you come here on official duty, or to line your own pockets?"
The Green Mountain constables went pale. The leader bowed and scraped, scrambling to explain.
Wei Feng's verdict fell like a blade: "Every felled tree goes to the City Guard camp. All of you lose a year's pay. You —" he pointed at the broad-faced man, "— you were in command. Dismissed."
The man's face drained to ash. He did not even dare protest, only withdrew in silence.
It was only then that Jiang Chen noticed the felled cypress stumps. Wei Feng had taken them in with his first glance.
Jiang Chen admired the man's sharp eyes. He also thought him harsh. The town had fallen to something unknown; these constables had risked their lives manning the watch line. A few trees for extra income — a failing, yes, but an understandable one. Green Mountain Town was poor. A year's lost wages would gut their households. For a man past forty, that constable's rank might have been the summit of a lifetime's climb. One sentence from Wei Feng, and he was back at the bottom.
But this expedition ran like an army, and Wei Feng commanded it. His word was law. No one disobeyed.
The verdict delivered, Wei Feng reined his mount around and spurred straight for Little Grove Town.
Warhorses, every one. Riders, every one a cultivator of the Academy. Barely thirty men, yet they moved as one, fast as lightning, with the weight of ten thousand soldiers.
Hooves thundered like rolling thunder — and then stopped dead.
The warhorses, seasoned veterans of battle, reared before the fog that swallowed the town. They screamed and fought their bits. No amount of spurring could force them one step closer.
Thirty-odd mounts trembled and whinnied in unison. Something inside Little Grove Town terrified them beyond reason. The sight chilled the men.
None fell from their saddles — their riders' skill was too great for that — but morale cracked. Gone was the bravado of leaving the city gates.
Even Wang Hao, usually mild and unruffled, set his jaw.
Only Wei Feng's face showed nothing. His armor bore the scars of old battles. His saber hung long and straight at his hip. His horse stood tall and proud. Three loves, men said, and all of them were Wei Feng's.
Then he drew.
A lightning flash of steel, and it was over. His warhorse's scream died mid-breath. The great head toppled from its neck and was hurled a man's length by the fountain of blood. The carcass crashed to the ground.
Wei Feng rested his hand on the saber hilt, eyes fixed on the fog-veiled town. His voice was ice: "Cowardice at the moment of battle — what use are you?"
"Good!" The first to answer was Du Hu, fire-tempered and blunt as ever. He drove his fist down and pulverized the severed head. "Wei! How do we charge?"
Wei Feng raised two fingers. "My command: dismount, prepare for battle. Arrowhead formation, myself at the point. We go straight into Little Grove Town."
The executed horse had made the point for all of them — there was no turning back. They swung down from their saddles without hesitation.
"Arms up!" Wei Feng called.
A chorus of steel answered.
His plain-faced deputy stepped forward. Right palm up, left hand weaving seals, he muttered a chant, then: "Edge!"
Jiang Chen felt his sword grow keen. A blade merely good became, for a moment, a thing that could cut anything.
"Flame Attach!"
Fire roared up every weapon. The cultivators raised their swords and spears like torches, torches meant to burn through the fog around this town.
"Solidify!"
Ling Chuan felt his body harden, a swelling urge to meet a fist with his own. He glanced at Du Hu, whose beard bristled with readiness, and quietly swallowed the impulse.
Zhao Yan was already thinking aloud: "Group buff arts are at least Grade C-class, top tier. This unremarkable deputy fired off three without blinking. The military bureau really does hide its dragons."
Whatever they thought, an army marches with one will. Buffs in place, Wei Feng led with his saber, and stepped into Little Grove Town.
They advanced watchfully. The town was silent but for their own footsteps.
The fog thickened as they walked.
It grew heavy as something solid — three paces out, a man vanished. Only the flames on their blades stood stubborn in the endless white.
The formation tightened, spacing shrinking from five paces to three. Any closer, and they would hamper each other in a fight.
Jiang Chen and his brothers held the middle-rear — the lowest realm, given the safest spot by unspoken custom. The Academy's old tradition, no shame in it.
Du Hu cracked his knuckles. Not from nerves. From hunger for a fight. Jiang Chen had no doubt that even the notorious Heart-Devouring Demon, feared across the land, would earn a swing from those fists without a second thought. Whether it would land was another question.
A shout from the formation's edge: "What is that?!"
Another voice, dismissive: "Just ghosts. What's to fear?"
Then, shocked: "So many?!"
Wei Feng whipped around, saber flashing a horizontal cut. A vast blade-light split the heavy fog — for an instant.
In that instant, everyone saw them.
The whole street. Shambling, clawing, crowding — ghosts. Hundreds upon hundreds of them.
High noon, and a hundred ghosts walked the daylight.