Chapter 227: Storm (I)

Fog hides the towers, the moon loses its way at the ferry dock.

The port of Tongzhou opened at 5:30 AM each morning, so at this hour, a few laborers were already bustling around the docks.

The thick fog hung like a curtain, hiding the sky and moon. The laborers had to use long bamboo poles to hang windproof lanterns along the shore.

But the light they cast was pitifully weak.

The dim yellow glow spread through the mist like badly dyed cloth, giving off an eerie greenish tint, barely enough to light the path underfoot so the workers wouldn't trip and fall into the water.

The laborers were busy at their tasks when one suddenly yelled in alarm: "Who's there?"

The others tensed up, stopped working, and looked toward the sound: "What's wrong? What happened?"

A young laborer carrying a lantern and patrolling the sea defenses hurried forward, straining to raise his lantern high, trying to cut through the dense fog with its weak light.

Just as his lantern revealed the corner of a soaked black shoe tip, a soft thud sounded behind him—a lantern that had just been hung fell for no reason.

With that light gone, the shoe disappeared from the young laborer's sight.

Drawn by the noise, the crowd turned to look at the burning lantern.

By the time the young laborer turned back to look, the spot was empty, leaving only trails of water winding like snakes across the ground.

Complaints spread across the dock.

"Who hung that lantern so carelessly?"

"You think lanterns cost nothing to burn?"

"What did you see? Speak up!"

Amid the noise, the young laborer muttered to himself: "Strange..."

The light had been too dim to tell, but he was pretty sure he'd seen something crawl ashore.

...Could it be a water ghost using the fog to come ashore?

The thought spooked the young laborer.

He muttered a quick prayer to ward off evil and turned to leave.

But after two steps back, his toe hit a sharp, hard object.

Assuming it was just regular dock debris, he didn't give it a second thought—just kicked it into the sea so nobody would trip.

If he'd bothered to raise his lantern for a closer look, he would've seen it was a gleaming hand-dart.

It was this dart, flying from the shadows, that had cut the lantern's cord, buying precious escape time for a comrade who'd nearly been spotted.

A dozen soaked black figures, like water ghosts crawling out of the deep sea, slipped silently into the marketplace through the surging fog.

They stepped high and landed light; the faint sounds of their feet on dew-covered flagstones were swallowed up by the swirling mist, as if they'd never existed.

One group crept quietly to the door of a tofu shop.

Making tofu meant getting up early, and the young couple had already started their work.

The wife scooped up soybeans that had soaked overnight—each one plump and shiny, glinting faintly in the lamplight.

She sprinkled the beans into the mill's eye and said: "Grind extra today. I hear new ships are coming to the dock in the next couple days; the workers will be up early, so business should be good."

Her husband, a man of few words, just grunted and threw his weight into turning the stone mill.

The wife smiled, adding beans in rhythm with his grinding while reaching up with the sweat cloth around her neck to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

The rumble of the millstone mixed with the smell of soybeans, wrapping the shop in a peaceful, cozy atmosphere.

Outside, the uninvited guests crouched in wait—one keeping watch, the other eyeing a pile of junk stacked by the shop's entrance.

He pulled a flint wrapped in waterproof paper from his chest, struck it twice in the air, and the dry stone instantly sparked.

A smug grin had just started to curl at the corner of his mouth when a hand clamped over it from behind.

Another ghostly figure appeared and brought a club down hard on his head.

Before the would-be arsonist went limp and passed out, his peripheral vision caught sight of his companion—already collapsed in a pool of blood, throat slit, staining the flagstones red.

Having taken down the would-be arsonist, the two exchanged a knowing glance and split up with practiced coordination.

One dragged the prisoner quickly into the thick fog, while the other took the flint and sprinted toward a warehouse in the distance.

Beside the warehouse sat a pile of something covered in oilcloth, probably goods.

But when the cloth was pulled back, it revealed several battered wooden crates filled with straw soaked in lamp oil.

Without hesitation, the man lit this perfect fuel.

In an instant, orange-red flames leaped into the sky, licking at the heavens and lighting up the man's face.

...It was garrison soldier Lu Ming.

He pulled a small bronze gong from his chest, struck it with the flint, and the sound rang out across the land.

He shouted at the top of his lungs: "Fire! Help put out the fire!"

The blaze was fierce, billowing thick smoke that quickly woke up the entire street.

Other teams tasked with starting fires—some still looking for good spots, others having just lit their flames before they could spread—were stunned by the sudden blaze:

Who moved first? How did it catch so fast?

Yet their mission was to sow chaos in the city, and with the fire already burning, half the job was done.

Doubt flickered through their minds, then vanished as quickly as the wind.

Soon, a second great fire shot into the sky.

Again, someone was beating a gong and shouting: "Fire! Help!"

The sleeping city of Tongcheng was jolted awake.

Many residents, fearing the flames would reach their own homes, jumped out of bed, threw on clothes, grabbed buckets, and rushed out to fight the fire.

Others, not wanting to go back to sleep, decided to come out and watch the commotion.

But the streets getting lively made it harder for the other advance scouts to keep working.

Their only task right now was to set fires. Though they carried daggers, their own cannons hadn't sounded yet, so they didn't dare rock the boat.

So these men tried to slip into the alleys, to lay low for a bit.

But when they found the alleys that usually connected everywhere now sealed tight with heavy sandbags, it was already too late to turn tail and run.

Their hearts in their throats, they spun around to see several garrison soldiers, big blades in hand, circling them, closing the net.

Lu Ming, at the lead, flashed a grin that didn't touch his eyes: "Boys, since you're here, might as well stay."

...

But the cannons those scouts were dying to hear stayed quiet.

The reason was simple.

Out of thirty cannon mounts, more than twenty wouldn't hold.

Without proper mounts, missing the target was the least of their problems—if the recoil tipped a cannon sideways and hit their own ships, they'd be losing more than they'd gain!

Fukami Shitaro was boiling with rage, dead sure this had to be his own men's sticky fingers.

These cannons had been bought and delivered by Zhang Kai, and Master Xi had personally sailed the ship into open waters for test firing—they'd worked flawlessly then!

Fearing the sea's damp would corrode the barrels, he'd had them packed up tight in wooden crates, wrapped in layers of cotton to keep the damp out and preserve accuracy.

How could parts go missing just from sitting in a warehouse?

Those guards must've been slacking on the job!

Yet the guards, facing Fukami Shitaro's cold, grim stare, even though they bowed their heads, playing dumb, had their own beef with this:

As small fry, if they didn't want to end up with blood clots, they had to look out for number one!

Master Xi ran a tight ship. Fortunately, that Wen Ren had arranged to buy iron nails in Tongzhou City, giving them a side hustle.

Nails were perfect—small and easy to hide.

Like they say, even a wrecked ship's got three thousand nails.

Some, during ship repairs, snuck nails, tucking them in their insoles and pockets, handing them to scouts heading into Tongzhou City to chip in for some fruit. When they got back to the island, they'd slip a few to the guys doing the pat-downs, begging them to look the other way—slick as could be.

But the supply guards, unlike the handy shipwrights who could swipe a pile of nails in a single shift, had to kick in something to get others to bring back fruit.

How were they supposed to know missing mounts would mess up the cannons' aim?

Fukami Shitaro choked back his rage.

With things at a critical point, this was no time to go hunting for rats.

The arrow was already in flight; no turning back now.

Supplies were running low on the island, and nerves were shot—the longer they waited, the more things could go sideways.

It had to happen today, or not at all!

Since he needed all hands on deck, Master Xi couldn't just chop off these thieving guards' heads one by one. Faking calm, he ordered his trembling, scared-rabbit men: "Tear apart some crates, use thick posts and rope to rig the mounts, and put two men on each cannon to hold the barrels steady!"

He watched the fires in the city die down, his face blank while his gut was on fire.

No more stalling!

A few soldiers scrambled to rig up makeshift mounts, while Fukami Shitaro called up the supply guards and dragged them forward—two assigned to each cannon, told to brace the barrels with their bodies and wooden beams.

The cannons finally roared—late as hell!

The first shot seemed to hit a ship.

A huge fireball blew up deep in the fog—whether that ship was hauling oil or not, a pillar of flame shot straight up, settling Fukami Shitaro's jittery nerves for a second.

The docks went dead quiet for a beat, then all hell broke loose.

Someone rang the alarm bell, and a shrill cry echoed across the sea: "We're screwed! Japanese pirates are here!!"

But without proper mounts, the cannons were shaky, and these thirty pieces were old geezers at that. Firing five rounds in a row, at least a hundred thirty shells dove nose-first into the shallows, throwing up giant water spouts and killing a bunch of fish—basically just putting on a show.

Master Xi wasn't exactly thrilled with that.

But at least...

Before he could even finish the thought, a sharp cannon crack ripped through the air, a streak of fire screaming toward a support ship next to him.

With a deafening boom, the ship blew apart and went under.

Master Xi: "..."

He broke out in a cold sweat.

How the hell could they counterattack that fast?

Had the shore been ready for them this whole time?

...Was this some kind of trap to reel them in?!

Yet when he figured out what had really happened, his chill was gone, replaced by white-hot fury:

The guy who'd blown up their own ship was one of their own!

A kid, forced to act as a human cannon mount, couldn't have been more than sixteen or seventeen. A ronin was barking at him to hold the wooden beam steady.

He was scrawny, didn't have the muscle to keep it steady, and had already caught two kicks to the ribs from the ronin.

Everything he did was wrong. All rattled and panicked, he accidentally burned his shoulder on the scorching barrel.

He screamed in pain, grabbed his shoulder, and rolled away.

With one side of the cannon losing its balance, it tipped over, scoring a "first blood" on their own ship.

The ronin, seeing the mess he'd made and scared of taking the fall, whipped out his long blade and, without a second thought, lopped the kid's head off in one swing.

He snatched up the head and roared: "This guy's a spy for Wen Ren, a traitor! Someone string his head up on the mast as a warning! Anybody who even thinks about betraying us—this is what they get!"

Fukami Shitaro looked away from the circus act, jaw clenched, a cold glint in his eye.

He'd settle all the scores later.

He waved his flag, bitter as hell.

For a moment, all that remained between heaven and earth was the fierce, murderous rhythm of oars striking water, bearing down on Tongzhou dock.

And the blood-drenched head of the young soldier, hanging from the mast at the bow, its eyes half-open, like they were still blinking in a daze.

...

The moment Le Wuya heard the fire alarm gong, it was like a bugle sounding the charge.

He was in full armor, having slept in his gear, sword hugged to his chest through a rough night, but now he was wide awake, not a hint of tiredness on his face.

Xiang Zhi hadn't gotten a wink of sleep either. When he heard the ruckus outside, he knew something was up. He threw on his clothes and, the second he shoved the door open, saw Le Wuya already heading out.

A weird panic grabbed him, and before he knew it, he was rushing forward and grabbing hold of Le Wuya's sleeve: "Where are you going?"

"Can't you tell from what I'm wearing?" Le Wuya said with utter nonchalance. "Going to kill some folks."

Xiang Zhi, usually so laid-back and easygoing, was now totally losing it. He hung on to Le Wuya's sleeve for dear life, his voice sharp with a rare fury: "Why must you go? Why not stay at the camp and run the attack? Isn't that better?!"

"No."

"You've got maybe five hundred men at most! And you've got to leave garrison troops to keep order in the city—how many can you actually bring to fight? Three hundred? Do you know how many men the enemy has?"

Le Wuya didn't even blink. "Yeah. A little over a thousand."

Xiang Zhi froze, about to say something, but Le Wuya had already reached out and patted his cheek, smiling: "Little Seven, don't sell me short. I've even tracked down their water supply, and I've got a few plague-ridden corpses ready to go. If the Emperor's guys had shown up even ten or fifteen days later, they wouldn't be laying siege—I'd be out there reaping them myself."

As he talked, he put his hand on Xiang Zhi's head and felt his hair was damp—probably from fear. His heart went soft with pity, and he rubbed his head firmly, his voice gentle but firm: "Think about it—what did your teacher do before he became your teacher?"

A memory from childhood suddenly popped into Xiang Zhi's head.

On the imperial horse grounds, a hundred acres big, Le Wuya had first taught him archery and horsemanship, hoisting him onto the saddle, glancing around, and sighing: "Man, this is tiny. How's a horse supposed to get any running in here?"

Xiang Zhi sat up straight and looked around—lush green grass stretching as far as the eye could see—and asked curiously: "Teacher, what do you mean it's small?"

Le Wuya didn't answer, just patted the horse's flank and said, "I've seen bigger."

Snapping out of the memory, Xiang Zhi was at a loss for words, but his grip tightened once more. Even with his palms sweating and his fingers aching, he stubbornly refused to let go: "No."

He'd seen Le Wuya fighting for his life—plenty of times.

He'd rather die than watch that again.

Le Wuya wouldn't shove his own student aside, but he wasn't about to waste the moment either.

He suddenly leaned in and whispered, "Hey. What if I told you I'm hooking up with Xiaoliu—would you let me go?"

Xiang Zhi looked up at him, confused.

"Then go be with him—you two have always been tight," he muttered. "I'm not letting you go. Don't leave me."

Le Wuya chuckled softly. "I won't leave you."

"You're just messing with me!" Xiang Zhi suddenly grew agitated. "You've already made our birthday presents! You don't even know if you're coming back, do you?!"

Le Wuya beamed. "That's right. On the battlefield, bullets and shells don't have eyes."

Xiang Zhi: "Then you—"

"This is what I came back to this life for. Live or die, it's all on my own terms." Le Wuya pulled a blank jade chess piece from his robes and flashed it in front of Xiang Zhi like it was a prize: "Today, I'm the cheapest pawn on the board."

Xiang Zhi was so frustrated he almost laughed. "Isn't that still a chess piece?!"

Le Wuya: "It's different. Yesterday I was a counselor, today I'm a soldier, and tomorrow I might be a general or a prime minister again."

He patted Xiang Zhi's head gently. "Bottom line, Little Seven, you can't hold me back. You're not the one calling my moves."

With that, he grabbed Xiang Zhi by the wrist and tugged him along. "Come on—let me show you my men!"

Xiang Zhi hadn't expected to be dragged along, and before he knew it, he was being led out of the courtyard.

Outside, the garrison troops, who'd been tipped off ahead of time and were sleeping with their weapons, had already polished their gear and were standing at the ready, awaiting Le Wuya's arrival.

Le Wuya raised Xiang Zhi's hand: "The Special Envoy from the capital, the Emperor's seventh son, is here to oversee the battle. Today's fight is about vengeance—to purge Tongzhou inside and out and put an end to the wokou threat for good!"

The garrison troops roared as one: "Hell yeah! Hell yeah! Hell yeah!"

Le Wuya's burning gaze swept the crowd before landing on Zong Yao, who stood fully geared up off to the side: "Zong Yao!"

Zong Yao stepped forward, barely holding back his emotions: "Here!"

"You stay at the government office and guard the Special Envoy, in case any stragglers slip through and cause trouble!"

Zong Yao's eyes got a little red, his voice shaky: "Yes, sir!"

"Mu Jiazhi!"

Mu Jiazhi stepped forward too, clasping his hands in salute: "Here!"

"I'll hold the bandits at the dock—there's only one main road into the city. I need you to keep order in the city. Nobody's allowed to use this chaos to loot or mess with our rear!"

"Yes, sir! I won't let you down!"

Xiang Zhi watched in awe as Le Wuya gave out orders, his heart pounding, at a loss for words. Without realizing it, he let go.

Le Wuya noticed, turned back to flash him a grin, and without another word, swung onto his horse, sword in hand, a real sight to behold.

His face caught the faint light—fire that burns like a blaze, wind that moves like a gust.

"Let's go!" Le Wuya shouted, his voice clear and sharp, ringing like metal on stone, sending chills down the spine. "My brothers, come with me to protect our homes and our land!"

Xiang Zhi stood there frozen, his heart slamming in his chest, skipping a beat.

So this... is who he really is?

Is this the true Le Wuya?

Or... is there still more to him?

It wasn't until Le Wuya rode out of the courtyard and disappeared into the thick fog that Xiang Zhi, amid a thousand scattered thoughts, finally latched onto one thing.

—Wait, what did he just say?

Who was he going to hook up with?