0011. The Murderous Umbrella and the Hundred-Tailed Blade

The two of them took advantage of the cool weather to begin organizing what was now called the Zheng household. There were occasional disagreements, but more often each was busy with their own tasks.

Dongmei worked with great enthusiasm, humming softly a strange song she had learned from Zheng Fanjin.

Zheng Fanjin was in high spirits. After so many years of working for others, he could finally labor for himself, and the feeling was both novel and wonderful.

After half a day, the two sat leisurely in the courtyard, admiring the fruits of their efforts. Of the three thatched rooms, the one with the writing desk had been converted into Zheng Fanjin’s master bedroom, while the original bedroom naturally belonged to the young lady. The third was, strictly speaking, only half a room, as it was missing three walls; only the one wall remained because it was adjacent to Dongmei’s bedroom. Against that wall stood a rustic clay stove, and with a dining table placed in the center, it became the young couple’s kitchen.

The dilapidated picket fence enclosed a small yard, and a couple of paces beyond, a flagpole stood proudly, a large character “Zheng” painted on the flag at its top. Occasionally the wind would make it flutter two or three times.

The feeling in that moment was wonderful—perhaps, many years later, they would both remember this sensation.

…

A slightly chilly evening did nothing to diminish their contentment. The normally quiet Moxi became lively, as a group of men dressed in black and wearing black masks approached this peaceful place.

But someone arrived before them.

A man, appearing about forty years old, holding a cloth umbrella, appeared outside the fence. The cool evening breeze billowed his blue robe with a certain grace. There was no rain, yet he slowly opened the black umbrella, as if he lacked the strength to do so, allowing the wind to sway it gently.

He looked somewhat peculiar, and yet, strangely, nothing about his appearance seemed odd at all. Standing beneath the flagpole, umbrella in hand, he gazed at the grass ahead.

Zheng Fanjin said nothing, merely signaling for Dongmei to go inside.

After a long silence, the man glanced at the character on the flag and smiled. “Your calligraphy is truly impressive.”

Zheng Fanjin remained seated on the rough wooden stool, not rising, replying with self-mockery, “Seems I really should make a living selling my writing.”

“At least I couldn’t write like that.”

“Though I’m making use of you, I don’t intend to gift you a piece.”

The man chuckled quietly and continued, “There’s pride in that writing—at least, I think a man with such pride shouldn’t be asking for my help to kill.”

Zheng Fanjin was silent for a moment, then turned toward the light in Dongmei’s room and replied, “I have a poor memory, so if I’m to take a life, I must do it before I forget why.”

The man gave a wry smile. “There aren’t many as shameless yet proud as you.”

“I agree. Did Zhou Ziwen send only you?”

“He said it would be enough. I don’t know if it will be.”

“Isn’t your humility a bit disingenuous? What should I call you?”

“Han. Han as in the Han people. Why ask my name?”

“It’s a name of universal meaning, I suppose. I want to know who I’m doing business with.”

The wind grew stronger, likely from the gathering dark clouds, and dusk deepened. The man smiled. “I thought you wanted to remember the one who helped you, but it turns out it’s just business.”

Zheng Fanjin became more polite, smiling back. “There’s a fairly sharp blade in my room—should you ever need it, I could lend you a hand or two.”

“Is this how you usually conduct business?”

“Opportunities are rare, but I do like this somewhat shameless manner.”

“Very well! When I need it, you’ll lend a hand or two. And what do you want in return?”

“Cultivation and the like, I suppose you can’t help with. Let’s be practical—one hundred taels per strike.”

“Agreed.”

With that single word, the Han man continued to gaze ahead, resuming his quiet composure as if their conversation had never begun. Zheng Fanjin turned to fetch his blade.

…

Zhou Ziwen’s confidence was unfathomable, but clearly he would not be so easily used—Zheng Fanjin would have to pull his own weight. The young man understood at least that much, though he didn’t know why Zhou Ziwen was so at ease.

None of those who rushed to the place expected what they found: there was no fearsome phalanx of blades, only a man who seemed unreliable, a silent youth standing behind him, and the dim light from within the house.

Then the summer rains of Luocheng fell suddenly, without thunder, making the scene all the more eerie. The howling wind stoked a furious intent to kill.

“I don’t understand, nor do I wish to—why must you protect this boy? Hand him over and we’ll leave at once! There’s no need to offend our Anxi family for his sake.”

Wan Lixing glared coldly at the Han, continuing, “You know what it means to cross the Wan family!”

“Why do I always have to hear such foolish words before I fight? The more I hear, the less sense they make. There’s no need for so much talk when it comes to fighting,” the Han said softly from beneath his umbrella, looking at the supremely confident Wan Lixing.

Of course, these words weren’t meant for Wan Lixing, but for Zheng Fanjin behind him, his voice so low only Zheng Fanjin could hear.

“I thought the princess’s displeasure was not so powerful, but it seems you all fear upsetting her, to the point you dare not abandon me.”

“Before we fight, let me say this: Zhou Ziwen told me I was here for a friend of his. Luckily, you’re shameless enough—otherwise, I’d worry about distracting you.”

Zheng Fanjin, after a pause, drew his blade and said helplessly, “Seems I’ll have to swing it more than a few times.”

The Han said nothing further. He slowly released the umbrella in his hand, and as it slipped from his slender fingers, golden mystical light erupted from his body. Countless raindrops were scattered into fine mist, like a shroud of fog.

That mist enveloped the umbrella, which shot forward at an incredible speed, revealing that the Han was also a mystic weapon master. His weapon was that very umbrella!

Now the umbrella spun rapidly within the thin mist, harvesting heads from the opposing side.

Wan Lixing, the third most talented man in the Anxi Empire, had never witnessed such a senseless ambush. Under his mystical light, the rain became especially red.

In moments, he saw corpses tumbling like lifeless things at his feet. Enraged, he summoned a paper fan, brandishing it furiously in the air.

Soon, the fan blocked most of the umbrella’s paths, though it could not prevent Anxi’s warriors from falling one after another.

Of course, he still managed to create opportunities for some swordsmen to break through.

Yet at that moment, the Han was already sitting cross-legged in midair, fully controlling his mystical weapon—the murderous umbrella! Between his knees rested a sword drawn from the umbrella’s handle, though he did not yet move.

Zheng Fanjin knew that not a single blade could touch the Han, nor could anyone break through—if a blade struck the Han, the umbrella would fall; if anyone broke through, the girl’s life would be forfeit.

The raging rain battered the youth, and he answered with his blade, a trace of nervousness and excitement glinting in his eyes amidst the flashing steel.