Rain lashed down in torrents, the storm raging at full force. The roofs of sheds creaked pitifully beneath the battering wind, while Zhang Ming’s men scurried like ants from the gates into the house, loading the carts with plunder. Once everything of value had been carried out, the bandits dragged the carts away along the dark street toward the port, where a ship he had chartered in advance was waiting.

  Before leaving, Zhang Ming made one last round of the estate and saw that the raiders had obeyed his order and spared the servants who had not resisted. Though some casualties had been unavoidable, most had survived and now lay bound inside an outbuilding. There were enough witnesses. The bandits and raiders hurried from the compound. Zhang Ming the only one who remained behind. With sword in hand, he bent toward the terrified maids.

  “If you chatter about what you saw, the Earth Dragon Gang will find you and cut out your tongues,” he rasped hoarsely, then vanished from where he stood.

  “Close the gates!” Lu Piao shouted when he saw his commander emerging from the estate.

  “Move on!” Zhang Ming ordered.

  “Sir, the next estate belongs to relatives of the city chief. Let’s at least not touch them?” the bandit pleaded.

  “We’re wearing masks. Everything will be fine.” Zhang Ming waved him off. “We deliberately chose houses whose masters are away. Fewer guards. Pity we can’t rob the Hengyang Clan itself,” he said dreamily. “There must be mountains of treasure there.”

  “Heh-heh, good joke, sir. They’re certainly rich, but they have their own army.”

  True. Compared to them, my strength is nothing, he sighed. Perhaps I should build an army of my own… or at least a proper fighting force.

  Lightning split the sky, illuminating several dozen raiders racing down the street. Thunder and the roar of rain swallowed the sound of their steps, concealing them from the townsfolk. Puddles burst beneath their boots in sprays of water, and the downpour lashed their faces. After a few blocks, the squad of cutthroats reached the targeted estate and, forming a living ladder, climbed over one another and scaled the wall.

  Two guards behind the gates rubbed their frozen hands and shifted from foot to foot, cursing the weather. Only a small awning shielded them from the deluge. Suddenly, a masked figure emerged from the curtain of rain before them. They did not even manage to draw their swords before collapsing to the ground. The gates swung open, and black shadows flooded into the courtyard.

  Lights still burned in the rooms. The master’s children, unsettled by the thunder, were awake, and servants lingered nearby, yawning as they kept watch outside the chambers. None expected bandits to appear. Some did not even have time to cry out before they crumpled, gasping for air. To avoid unnecessary deaths, Zhang Ming went first, knocking servants unconscious with precise blows to the solar plexus. In all other parts of the estate, aside from the main residence, people slept soundly. They were seized in their beds, bound, and locked inside a shed.

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  “Wouldn’t it be easier to just slit all their throats?” one bandit complained.

  “It wouldn’t,” Zhang Ming shot him a cold glare.

  He strode through the main house in wide steps when two bodyguards assigned to the children blocked his path. By their bearing and the way they carried themselves, both were martial practitioners. Zhang Ming prepared to fight at full strength. With all the speed he could muster, he lunged forward, took a long sliding step just before the clash, skimming low over the floor, then his body straightened like a drawn bow releasing its arrow, and his sword carved a whistling arc from below upward.

  With a clang of steel, the bodyguard’s weapon flew into the air, and a red line appeared across its owner’s face, from chin to crown. Blood began to seep from it slowly. The man’s arms fell limp at his sides, and a heartbeat later he collapsed dead. The victory had come so swiftly that Zhang Ming stood stunned for several breaths, staring at the fallen foe, expecting a trick. A roar from the second bodyguard snapped him back to reality. Dodging the incoming blade, he drove his fist with full force into the attacker’s chest. The man was hurled down the corridor. Coughing blood, he tried to rise, snarling in fury, but soon lay still upon the floor.

  I’m not complaining, but where are all the strong warriors? Zhang Ming thought. He glanced at his hand and clenched his fist. The third stage feels different… as if I’ve been reborn.

  The five-pavilion estate, not counting the auxiliary buildings, fell within minutes. The master’s children, relatives of the city chief, were tied to pillars on the veranda of the main house, their mouths stuffed with cloth. They were unharmed; Zhang Ming personally checked. Yet the message was unmistakable.

  While part of the group bound the servants, the rest searched the estate, combing every corner for hidden caches, rifling through belongings. They turned each room upside down, took money and jewelry, found several bolts of expensive fabric, then departed as swiftly as they had come.

  The third estate was still awake. Light burned in the master’s study, and voices drifted from the servants’ quarters, but the downpour veiled everything behind a wall of water and swallowed all sound. No one noticed the raiders breaking in. The bandits scattered across the courtyard as if performing a well-practiced routine.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Zhang Ming caught movement and, unwilling to risk his men, went to investigate himself. Through the curtain of rain emerged a lean, sinewy man in a gray robe, a spear resting upon his shoulder, its tip shaped like a willow leaf. The man stopped ten paces away, relaxed as though merely passing by, yet Zhang Ming immediately sensed an experienced fighter and drew his sword from its scabbard.

  “Hah. Didn’t expect thieves to crawl in here?” the spearman said with a smirk, though tension edged his voice. “Do you even know where you’ve broken into? If you’re that eager to die, you’d have been better off drowning in the river. Leave now, and I’ll pretend I saw nothing.”

  “Hm.” Zhang Ming snorted softly and signaled his men to continue. “Pity I can’t offer you the same…”

  He had not finished speaking when the spear flashed through the air, thrusting for his throat. Zhang Ming jerked back, nearly losing his footing on the wet grass. The point withdrew, only to strike again from below, darting toward his abdomen. He knocked it aside with his sword, but the shaft bent like a serpent, and the tip traced an arc above Zhang Ming’s ducking head.

  Damn. I’ve never fought against a spear before, he thought, weaving away from the bloodthirsty sting.