The villagers saw the ferocious, almost feral glint in Li Chijing's young face and instinctively recoiled. In the crowd, Ye Chengfu observed the boy, stroking his chin in thought.
"The fourth son is no easy mark either," he mused, torch held high. "The lead deer is dead, and three wolves remain — the eldest cunning, the youngest fierce. In ten years' time, Lijing Village will belong entirely to the Li family."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Someone called out: "Li Changhu was killed by the refugees!"
Li Xiangping knelt beside Li Changhu's body, fighting back tears. He turned to Tian Shoushui. "Uncle Tian, what happened?"
"Likely the remnants of the Yuan family," Li Mutian said through clenched teeth, his gaze fixed on the guilt-ridden, silent Tian Shoushui. He swept his eyes over the assembled villagers and called out: "Li Tongya!"
Li Tongya wiped his face, stepped forward, and bowed to the villagers. "We have disturbed you all tonight. Please disperse — there is no need to linger."
He helped Liu Linfeng to his feet and leaned close to his ear. "Uncle, take men and secure the refugees. Prevent anyone from causing trouble in the confusion. We will join you shortly."
Liu Linfeng, who had been kneeling before Li Mutian in trembling shame, seized on the command like a lifeline. "Yes, yes, of course." He gathered his men and left.
Tian Shoushui and Ren Ping'an carried Li Changhu's body to the rear courtyard of the Li compound. From the main house came the sound of wailing — Lady Ren had heard the news and fainted. Tian Yun and the Liu family's daughter tended to her while someone rushed to fetch the physician.
"Brother..." Tian Shoushui set Li Changhu down, eyes wet, and opened his mouth to speak. Li Mutian waved him off.
"Ping'an, go look after Lady Ren. Shoushui, go help Liu Linfeng watch the refugees. Without the Li family's word, he won't be able to control them."
Tian Shoushui wiped his eyes and withdrew. Ren Ping'an nodded numbly and went to care for his daughter.
When the outsiders were gone and only the Li brothers remained, the tears they had been holding broke free. Li Mutian, who had held himself together through everything, sat beside his eldest son and let out a low, wounded howl — the sound of a lone, injured wolf.
"Changhu..." The brothers wept openly. Li Tongya and Li Xiangping maintained some restraint, but Li Chijing, still young, wept as though his heart would break.
In the dead of night, while Lijing Village churned with chaos, Old Xu made his way alone up the back mountain, leaning on his hoe. He followed the winding path through overgrown weeds until a cluster of graves emerged from the darkness — the Yuan family cemetery.
He stopped and peered through the gloom. Just as he expected — a young man in ragged clothes, a beast hide wrapped around his waist, sat lounging against a small headstone, legs splayed, talking to himself.
The youth's ears twitched. He looked up sharply, but upon seeing only a frail, stooped old farmer, he clapped his hands and grinned. "Where are you coming from, old man?"
Old Xu did not answer. He shuffled forward with deliberate slowness, his body swaying with each step, until he stood before the youth. He regarded the young man with a wary, cautious stare, then knelt beside the grave, wrapped his arms around the headstone, and began to weep and pray.
The young man listened closely. The words were indistinct, but he caught fragments — a great vengeance achieved, a master's spirit at rest. His heart stirred.
He had lost his family as a child, wandering homeless for years. His early life was spent as a tenant farmer, but every night he practiced with his dagger, dreaming of the day he would cut off Li Mutian's head to honor his parents.
Now his great revenge was partly fulfilled. The satisfaction was overwhelming, and he ached to share it with someone — anyone. But he was utterly alone. Why not unburden himself to this old man, then silence him before leaving? Two birds, one stone.
"You're crying at the Yuan family graves," the youth said with a grin. "Aren't you afraid the Li family will come after you?"
"I haven't long to live..." Old Xu muttered, wiping his eyes. He glanced at the youth from beneath his hand — and froze. He dropped flat on the ground and cried out: "Young master!"
The youth started. *Does this old man recognize me from the village entrance? Should I just kill him and flee?*
But Old Xu covered his face and continued through his tears: "The lady often brought you to the fields to sit. I recognized you. I still remember — you have three black moles on your foot. I can prove it."
Old Xu had lived over seventy years. He was shrewd beyond measure. By reversing cause and effect — claiming he recognized the boy from infancy — he stunned the youth into scattering his killing intent. The young man's suspicion dissolved into wonder.
"You remember my mother's face?" he asked, voice trembling.
"Of course I remember."
Old Xu pulled a branch from the brush, loosened the soil with his hoe, and began to draw with careful strokes.
The young man watched, trembling with excitement, though dark thoughts flickered behind his eyes — kill him? Or take him along and extract more memories of his mother?
Before long, Old Xu finished and stood. Though he was only a farmer, he had spent years painting door gods and auspicious symbols for the village. Over time, he had developed genuine skill. With a few deft strokes, he had captured a woman's likeness so vividly it seemed to breathe.
"Mother!" The youth dropped to his knees before the drawing. The features — blurred in his dreams for twenty-two years — now stared back at him with startling clarity. Twenty-two years of suppressed anguish surged forth. He wept as though his chest would split open.
Old Xu stood to the side, sighing and murmuring praise for the lady's kindness, pressing tenderly on the youth's grief until the tears flowed even harder.
"I also remember the master's face. Let me draw him," Old Xu said softly.
By now the youth trusted him almost completely. He wiped his face and nodded without looking up.
Old Xu raised his hoe to loosen more soil for drawing. His eyes turned hard and cold. The silver blade of the hoe rose high, catching the moonlight in a brief, gentle flash — then plunged down with terrible force, aimed squarely at the young man's neck.
The youth had spent a full day with the refugees, exhausted himself to assassinate Li Changhu, and then fled through the reeds to lose Tian Shoushui. He was drained beyond measure. Swept up in joy and grief, his legs had gone weak. He had neither the awareness nor the strength to dodge.
Old Xu had farmed for decades — his body was still strong. The hoe struck with a sickening thud, the sound of sinew snapping and bone cracking. The youth pitched forward, head snapping back, eyes rolling white, limbs jerking spasmodically, foam streaming from his mouth.
Before he could recover, Old Xu brought the hoe down again — squarely on the young man's skull. The second strike snuffed out his life.
Still not satisfied, Old Xu struck a dozen more times, until blood and bone sprayed across the earth, red and white mingling on the ground. He turned the body over. No breath. The corpse's face still carried an expression of grief.
Only then did Old Xu's strength fail him. He collapsed onto the ground, pressed his withered hands to his face, and wept with raw, shuddering sobs.
"Sinful bonds... sinful bonds..."