xymnovel Chapter 578 All Killed
Chapter 578 All Killed
Seven or eight men dressed in old armor from the Northern Barbarian border army sat around the fire.
Some had their chests open, revealing their bodies blackened by the smoke.
Some had taken off their boots, rested their feet on the wooden crates, and were using a short knife to pick the bits of meat out of their teeth.
The campfire reflected off their faces, making them gleam with oil, like overcooked pigskin.
Wine jars and gnawed bones were scattered on the ground. Someone was hugging a wine jar and tilting his head back to drink, the wine dripping down his chin and into his collar, but he was completely unaware.
Three women were tied to a row of wooden stakes against the wall.
Their hair hung loosely in front of their faces, obscuring their features, but their exposed arms were covered with bruises.
The fabric was torn to shreds, revealing large areas of skin that appeared unnaturally pale in the firelight.
They lowered their heads, their shoulders trembling slightly, like three butterflies pinned to the wall.
Several corpses lay piled in the shadows by the courtyard wall, their clothes stripped off. They looked as if they had been killed that afternoon, the bloodstains not yet completely dry, gleaming a dark red in the firelight.
A burly man with a fierce face stood up, carrying a wine bag, and staggered to the wall. He squatted down, grabbed the chin of one of the bound women, and turned her face towards him.
The firelight illuminated that pale face, with dried bloodstains still clinging to the corners of his mouth, his eyes tightly closed, and his eyelashes trembling violently.
"This one's not bad," the man grinned, "but it's a shame it died so quickly."
A man picking his teeth nearby said without looking up, "Don't kill it, we can still use it tomorrow."
The burly man released his grip, and the woman's head drooped limply, like a flower with a broken stem.
He stood up, returned to the fire, took another swig of wine, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve: "I'll go to that village to the south tomorrow and bring back a few more. Damn it, there are fewer and fewer people coming from the south lately."
The man at the head of the group sat in the center of the fire. He was more muscular than the others, with broad shoulders and a thick back, and a heavy ghost-head knife hung at his waist.
Unlike the others, he didn't bare his chest; instead, he wore a worn-out leather armor with dark brown bloodstains still visible on the plates.
In front of him was a chipped, coarse porcelain bowl, the wine inside of which was almost gone. He was slowly turning the rim of the bowl with a greasy finger, as if he was thinking about something.
Everyone around him was laughing and drinking loudly, but he remained silent, his gaze fixed on the campfire, lost in thought.
"General, drink up!" The burly man leaned over, holding up his wine flask.
The burly man known as "General" slightly raised his eyelids, did not take the drink, and simply shook his head: "Drink less. We have to travel tomorrow."
The burly man pursed his lips, took a big gulp, and then went back to the fire to chat and laugh with the others.
Laughter mixed with the smell of alcohol surged in the twilight, like a pot of dirty water being boiled.
The evening breeze stirred up the ashes on the ground, blowing them onto the silent figures in the corner before they fell back to the ground.
Just as the laughter was at its loudest, the gates of the military camp were pushed open.
The door was made of wooden fencing and had long since become quite unreliable. When pushed open, it made a long, drawn-out creaking sound, like a piece of old wood that had been repeatedly crushed and finally could no longer bear the weight.
The men sitting around the fire stopped at the same time.
Some people were still holding wine flasks, some were still clutching half a gnawed lamb leg, and some were bending over to reach for the dice that had rolled far away on the ground. All their movements were frozen in mid-air, like a painting that had been suddenly frozen in time.
Then they saw the two figures.
A young man dressed in a gray cloth robe, tall and slender, walked with a leisurely gait and a calm expression, as if he were simply walking into his own courtyard.
Behind him followed a woman dressed in dark, close-fitting clothes. Her hand rested on the hilt of her sword, her face was cold and stern, and her gaze swept over the faces of the people without any ripples.
The courtyard was quiet for a moment.
Then someone realized what was happening.
A burly man with a face full of scars suddenly stood up, his hand already on the hilt of his knife, his voice hoarse: "Who goes there?! Do you know where you are?"
He shouted loudly, as if trying to force the other person back with his voice.
But the two people didn't stop. The young man continued walking forward at a leisurely pace, and the woman behind him followed him, their movements synchronized, as if they hadn't heard him at all.
Another man stood up, taller and stronger than the first. He carried a short-handled iron axe, his eyes narrowed to slits in the firelight: "Stop! Take one more step and I'll chop you all down!"
The young man finally stopped.
He stood not far from the fire, his hands behind his back, the hem of his moon-white robe fluttering gently in the night breeze.
He seemed to only then notice the men's presence, his gaze sweeping over their greasy faces by the fire, a slight smile playing on his lips: "I heard you're collecting grain. I just happened to be passing by and thought I'd take a look."
The burly man finally spoke.
He didn't get up, but slowly lowered his fingers that were turning the rim of the bowl, and raised his gaze from the fire to Qin Mu.
He looked at him for a moment, then said, "You're not from the North; you're from the South, aren't you?"
Qin Mu smiled and nodded: "Yes."
"So you know, in the territory of Northern Wilderness, people who come from the south..." The burly man slowly stood up, his movements unhurried, like a slowly moving mountain, "...usually don't survive past today?"
As he stood up, the men behind him also stood up at the same time. Wine flasks were put down, dice were swept aside, and short knives, iron axes, and ghost-head knives were untied from their waists, gleaming coldly in the firelight.
The firewood crackled, sending sparks flying.
Then, their gaze fell on the young woman.
The wind blew the woman's robes close to her body, outlining her sleek waistline.
She stood there like a sword sheathed in its sheath, quiet, sharp, and unmoved, yet the very silence itself possessed a sense of awe.
The burly man was the first to narrow his eyes.
His gaze slid from the woman's face to her waistline, and then from her waistline to the hand resting on the hilt of her sword: "Damn... this little wench is really pretty."
A tall, thin man next to him licked his lips and said, "I'm in luck tonight."
"Keep this girl alive." The tall, thin man's voice carried a hint of barely suppressed excitement. "Let her know what the Northern Barbarians' hospitality is all about."
The burly man took a step forward: "Little lady, put down your sword, and we brothers will treat you well. We promise you'll be better served than your young master."
A rough laugh rang out behind him.
Yunluan did not look at them.
Her gaze remained fixed on Qin Mu's back, as if she were waiting for an instruction.
Qin Mu happened to turn his head slightly and glance at her.
There was no anger, no murderous intent, not even any extra emotion in his eyes. He just glanced at her calmly—like someone who had been silent for a long time finally deciding to speak.
She neither nodded nor spoke, but her fingers tightened slightly as she gripped the sword for a moment.
Then her sword was already drawn.
The first sword strike landed on the burly man's neck.
The dark silver sword light, illuminated by the firelight, resembled a bent moonlight as it slid from her palm and precisely sliced into the throat of the burly man.
He didn't see how his blood spurted out; he only felt a strange chill spread from his neck to his chest, then he heard a "hoarse" sound coming from his throat, and then he saw the figure in dark robes sweep past him.
When the second sword pierced the wrist of the tall, thin man holding the knife, he hadn't even firmly gripped the hilt. He looked down at his falling hand, his mouth agape, but before he could utter a sound, the blade had already spun around and sliced across his throat. He fell backward like a sawed log, crashing into the edge of the fire, scattering a cluster of ash and sparks.
The third, fourth, and fifth swords fell almost simultaneously.
Yunluan's figure moved like a long shadow between the firelight and the night. Wherever her sword passed, withered leaves fell one after another, as if swept by the autumn wind.
Some tried to parry with their knives before falling, some tried to back away, and some tried to shout, but all of them were a beat too slow—that half a beat was enough for the sword to find the most precise angle.
The burly man finally moved when the fifth person fell.
He suddenly grabbed the ghost-head knife on the table, the blade drawing a heavy arc in the firelight, and slashed it towards Qin Mu.
His sword strikes were heavy and fierce, a style he had honed on the battlefield. He had slashed countless times, and he knew that with this strike, his opponent would either retreat or die—then he saw Qin Mu raise his hand.
Qin Mu's movements were slow, and he even looked somewhat casual.
He simply raised his right hand, extended two fingers, and gently pinched the falling ghost-head blade.
The knife stopped in mid-air.
The blade was less than three inches from Qin Mu's head, but it couldn't fall any further.
He held the knife firmly between his two fingers, as if catching a falling leaf.
The burly man's pupils suddenly contracted, and he abruptly drew his knife, remaining motionless.
He took a deep breath and tried to draw again with all his might—but still nothing.
Those two fingers, as if cast in iron, held the heavy demon-headed sword in mid-air, like nailing a cloud to the sky.
Only then did he truly feel a chill that sent shivers down his spine, like a bear preparing to tear apart a rabbit that suddenly finds itself standing on an entire mountain.
Then he felt the force travel along the blade to his palm, and his hand went numb. The short knife slipped from his hand, was gently turned by those two fingers, and landed in Qin Mu's palm.
Qin Mu glanced down at the ghost-headed knife. Dried bloodstains still clung to the blade, making it look like an old, repeatedly used weapon in the firelight.
His gaze lingered for a moment on the dark brown, old bloodstains, then he looked up, his eyes landing on the burly man's face, slightly contorted with fear: "Those people, you killed them?"
The burly man didn't answer. He took a step back, his left hand still trembling slightly, as if he wasn't sure which direction to run.
Then he saw Qin Mu's eyes.
There was no smile, no anger, no emotion he expected to see in those eyes, only a cold calm like the surface of a deep winter lake—the kind of calm one feels when something that should end finally comes to an end.
Qin Mu spoke, his voice still very soft, as if he were saying that the moonlight was nice tonight: "These people are all my subjects."
His gaze swept over the women bound in the corner—they were raising their heads, their faces, illuminated by the firelight, still showing fear and confusion—his gaze swept over them and then returned to the burly man's face. His voice did not rise, but the calmness itself was more chilling than any roar.
"You've killed people on my land. Don't blame me for that."
The moment he finished speaking, the burly man felt the entire courtyard suddenly light up.
It wasn't a campfire, but another kind of light—a light that emanated from Qin Mu, seeped through the folds of his gray robe, and overflowed from between his fingers hanging at his sides, like an underground river that had finally found its outlet.
The light rose slowly in the twilight, spreading outwards from his body like ripples blown by the wind.
Wherever it passed, the air became heavy, the ground trembled slightly, as if the whole world tilted slightly in its light.
The ghost-headed saber held in Qin Mu's hand gradually turned into fine dust in the light, falling through his fingers like a handful of ashes being blown away by the wind.
The burly man froze on the spot, his legs lost all strength, and he felt as if he were nailed to the ground. Fear seeped into every inch of his skin like a plague. Then the light converged into a thin silver line and swept past his eyes. He only felt something gently touch his chest. There was no pain, no impact, only a strange coolness, like an autumn breeze suddenly passing through a well. Then his body slowly fell backward.
The last survivor braced himself on his hands, knees sinking into the ashes, his body curled up like an insect trying to hide in a crevice: "Don't...don't kill me..."
His mouth was open, his voice hoarse and broken. He kowtowed, his forehead hitting the ashes and gravel heavily with a dull thud. Blood quickly seeped from his forehead, smearing his face.
He thought kowtowing would be useful, that as long as he kowtowed hard enough and loudly enough, the light would move away from him.
Qin Mu looked down at the person who was kowtowing and begging for mercy, and the silver line trembled slightly in the air.
His gaze fell on the man, on his wide eyes filled with fear, on his face contorted with pleading.
He didn't speak, he just stood there, like a tree that had stood in the wind for many years, with firm roots and graceful branches, neither in a hurry to grow nor in a hurry to wither.
The last silver line slipped gently down, like a drop of water falling from the tip of a leaf back into the soil.
The sound stopped.
Finally, it quieted down.
Yunluan had already sheathed her sword. The blade made a very soft "click" as it slid into the scabbard. She walked toward the women who were tied up in the corner, squatted down, and used the blade of her sword to cut the ropes on their wrists.
The movements were very light, as if avoiding something fragile.
Qin Mu stood still, looking down at the figures lying in the ashes on the ground.
He stood there for a long time, so long that the light on his robes completely faded, so long that the campfire returned to its usual temperature.
Then he turned around and walked towards the gate of the military camp.
His pace remained unhurried, as if nothing had happened.
"Take them with you. Take them with you." His voice came from ahead, carried by the night wind, and reached Yunluan's ears.
Yunluan responded and helped the last bound woman up. The woman's legs were still weak, but her hands had stopped trembling.
The night wind blew across the open field, stirring up the embers of the campfire and scattering them in the greyish-white moonlight.
The three women who were tied to the wooden stakes had their ropes cut by Yunluan. Deep red marks remained on their wrists, but they were no longer trembling.
They stood together like three blades of grass that had just struggled out of a storm; their roots were not yet fully established, but they were already able to straighten up again.
Qin Mu stood at the courtyard gate, his gaze sweeping over the three thin figures. His voice was softer than before: "You can go home now."