Chapter Thirty-Seven: Declaration of War

“Hurry up, all of you! Kill everyone except the women!” the leader barked incessantly at the bandits behind him, yet he himself slowed his pace cautiously, falling to the rear of the group.

Just as the bandits were about to reach the village entrance, a sudden scream tore through the air. One of them plunged straight into a trench that had split open beneath his feet, letting out a heart-wrenching cry much like the one “Scrawny Monkey” had given earlier.

Those behind him, unable to stop in time due to their momentum, tumbled in after him, while others who managed to halt at the edge were shoved in by their companions pressing forward from behind.

In an instant, the narrow pit was packed with bodies—around a dozen bandits, dead or wounded, their corpses nearly filling the waist-deep trench. The leader sucked in a cold breath, his heart pounding. If he hadn’t deliberately hung back, he thought, he would be lying in that pit himself.

“If only we’d dug it deeper, we could have buried the whole lot!” Liu Biao, hidden among the trees, watched with a touch of regret, wishing the trench had been dug deeper.

Seeing his men paralyzed by shock, the leader barked again, “What the hell are you idiots standing around for? Scared by a damned dirt pit? Get into the village and avenge your brothers!”

The bandits hesitated only a moment. Ignoring the groans of the wounded, they clambered over their fallen comrades and charged forward again, albeit with noticeably less ferocity and confidence than before. The more quick-witted among them, after enduring two such traps, now felt a deep and abiding sense of dread.

Liu Biao watched as the last of the bandits entered the village, anxiety gnawing at him—could Qi Jun and the others handle what was to come?

Once inside, the bandits scattered in groups of two or three, going door to door much like marauding soldiers in later ages. But disappointment awaited them; after searching several houses, they found neither people nor anything of value. From the moment the leader entered the village, Qi Jun had him in his sights. Against such a disorderly rabble, he knew the swiftest way to victory was to strike at the head—to slay the leader.

“Damn it, this village is dirt poor,” the leader muttered bitterly after kicking open a door and surveying the barren room with his two trusted cronies. As they turned to leave, a scholarly figure, crossbow in hand, had somehow appeared atop a neighboring roof.

Sensing a murderous intent in the air, the leader jerked his head up just in time to see the scholar grin and let loose a bolt.

His pupils contracted; the last thing he ever saw was the arrow flying straight toward him.

With a sickening thud, the bolt pierced his skull—there was little blood, no final cry of defiance. Compared to the evil he had wrought, his end was almost dignified.

“Tiger!” his two henchmen cried in shock, but their leader was already dead. By the time they turned to look for the archer, no one was to be seen.

“Show yourself if you dare! Give my brother back!” one bandit yelled, eyes bloodshot with rage, and charged outside with his blade. A moment later, he too was felled by an arrow to the head, collapsing lifeless at the threshold.

By now, any brotherhood forged over wine and meat had utterly collapsed.

The last of the trio, seeing his companions fall before his eyes, fled back into the house in terror, cowering in a corner and praying desperately for mercy.

When a villain lays down his blade and turns to prayer, it is never out of remorse, but only because he has met someone even more ruthless, someone who now holds his life in their hands. In the face of overwhelming power and fear of the unknown, every evildoer becomes a sudden convert.

“When you committed your crimes, did you ever wonder what the gods would think?” came a cold voice from outside, footsteps drawing nearer.

“Who are you? Don’t kill me, please!” The bandit, trembling, dropped to his knees in supplication.

His hand closed loosely around his knife, and he stole a glance upward. Upon seeing that his adversary was only a young scholar, a vicious gleam flashed in his eyes—he was ready to spring up and strike. But before he could move, the knife slipped from his grasp, and he toppled over, a crossbow bolt buried in his chest.

Other bandits, hearing the commotion, rushed to the courtyard, only to find bodies at the door, in the yard, and in the house’s corner.

Panic spread swiftly through their ranks. Those who broke into other homes fared no better than their leader—some triggered traps the moment they lifted a curtain, impaling themselves on sharpened branches; others fell into pits just outside the doors, suffering the same fate as “Scrawny Monkey.”

Cries of agony echoed through the village, and with the leader gone, the rabble plunged into utter chaos.

Those who tried to rush to their fellows’ aid often met the same grisly fate along the way.

After several futile, frantic dashes back and forth, the few remaining bandits gazed upon the corpses of their comrades scattered everywhere and finally broke down completely.

This place, once their playground for plunder, had become a merciless hell, devouring lives without pity.

One bandit, unable to endure the terror any longer, threw down his blade and ran madly for the village gate. His panic was contagious; the others also bolted for the road out.

For these bandits, who had preyed upon countless villagers, it was now they who were being hunted. Gone was any concern for reputation or status among thieves—there were times, even for the likes of Panlong Ridge, when they met their match.

As they staggered out in small groups, there was no time to celebrate survival. Liu Biao and his men, who had been lying in wait by the grove at the village entrance, surged out from both sides, thrusting sharpened bamboo poles through the fleeing bandits’ bodies.

Some villagers hesitated, hands trembling on their bamboo spears, for this was their first time killing a living person. Earlier, when they’d attacked the minor leader, it had been a group effort—now, faced with the task of killing alone, many faltered.

The villagers, at heart, were good people.

“Don’t be afraid!” Liu Biao called out, felling a bandit with his spear. “Imagine they’re wild boars—stab them dead! Every one of these animals has killed before. Killing them is a service to the people!” He urged those behind him on.

Spurred by Liu Biao and by their own memories of suffering under the bandits, the villagers’ anger flared anew. The earth at the gate was soon soaked with bandit blood; Liu Biao and his men were spattered with it, faces and clothes marked.

Any bandit who managed to stagger to the gate and saw Liu Biao and the others now quaked as if before devils, collapsing to their knees, awaiting judgment from these new lords of death.

By sundown, the thick stench of blood had attracted circling vultures overhead. The villagers hauled the last of the bodies out to the gate and heaped them into a pile.

Others brought dry wood to scatter atop the corpses. In the sweltering midsummer heat, the bodies would rot quickly, threatening a plague if not dealt with at once.

“We can’t let these scum harm anyone, even in death! Hurry up and burn them!” Liu Kui called out as he tossed a bundle of kindling onto the pile.

The thick smoke and crackling flames lit up Dongling Village after sunset, burning away not only the bandits’ bodies but also the shackles that had weighed on the villagers’ hearts.

These fierce, dancing flames proclaimed that the people of Dongling Village had finally declared war on Panlong Ridge to seize control of their own fate.