Bandits are on the prowl.

The forest was lush and verdant, vines swaying gently, green mountains and clear waters flanking the path. Gazing at the vast, endless azure sky, one could only find true rest in a comfortable spot if weariness had taken hold—such slumber would bring relief. But if the heart was stifled by emotion, sleep became mere evasion, and the turmoil would only deepen, leaving scars within.

After several days of wandering, Zhang Ling and his companion finally found a secluded inn nestled against the mountain and beside a stream. There, the two slept soundly, their spirits refreshed and no longer burdened by the gloom of previous days. Perhaps it was simply that these two were carefree souls, never letting yesterday’s troubles disturb today’s mood.

Zhang Ling pushed open the door and unlatched the small window in their room on the second floor. From the window, he could see the inn’s courtyard, and beyond it, the breathtaking emerald peaks that lifted his spirits. He gazed for a long while, until the quiet was interrupted by a knock at the door. Judging by the sound, it was the inn’s attendant. Zhang Ling hurried to open the door. The attendant, head lowered, handed him a tray of food, his voice trembling slightly: “Master, here is your breakfast for today. Please enjoy.”

Zhang Ling waved him away. The attendant quickly turned and nearly stumbled on the stairs in his haste. The cause of his nervousness was simple: when Zhang Ling and his companion arrived the previous day, the attendant had initially greeted the two finely dressed gentlemen with enthusiasm. But upon seeing Zhang Ling’s hands stained a peculiar shade of red, his demeanor changed. Zhang Ling offered an explanation, saying he’d run out of provisions on the road and had caught a wild pheasant to eat, staining his hands with blood. Yet the attendant remained half-convinced.

Zhang Ling glanced at his hands, which still retained a faint reddish hue despite many washings. The blood at his neck was long gone, and he had changed into a spare set of clothes. Misunderstood, he could only shake his head and smile.

He closed the door and carried his meal to the window to eat. The tranquil mountains offered little to see besides birds, beasts, and the rustling of wind through grass—pleasing to the eye, but not captivating for long. So Zhang Ling ate quietly. Suddenly, the still scene shifted as several black dots in the distance grew clearer, resolving into more than twenty figures. They approached and entered the inn’s courtyard. The innkeeper immediately went out, bowing and scraping, his face plastered with a sycophantic smile: “Chief Cheng, you’ve arrived. Would you care to come inside and take a seat?”

Twenty-three men, some thin, some burly. At their head was a robust man whose features were not unkind, but his rough attire, the sword at his waist, and fierce expression made him forbidding—clearly, this was a bandit gang. Their leader glanced at the innkeeper, his face still grim but his voice booming: “Cut the nonsense, Innkeeper Huang. You know that running an inn on Oxhorn Mountain requires paying protection fees to my Golden Dragon Fort. I’ve been generous, giving you half a month’s grace since business was slow. Today, I see you’re doing well, so it’s time you paid what you owe.”

The innkeeper carefully produced a bright silver ingot—the very payment Zhang Ling had made the night before, not yet warmed in his hands, and now he had to surrender it. Reluctant but with no choice, he offered it with trembling hands: “Please, Chief, accept this.”

The bandit chief pocketed the silver, dissatisfied: “I gave you plenty of time, and this is all? My brothers in the fort are waiting for wine and meat.”

The innkeeper, face full of anguish, handed over a small bag of copper coins, his heart breaking: “Chief, this is all I have.”

The bandit leader took the bag, slung his sword, and strode into the inn, followed by his gang. The few guests shrank back in alarm, and the frail attendant hid in a corner, looking all the more pitiful. Chief Cheng sat down heavily and signaled to the attendant, while the innkeeper trailed behind, urging him to bring wine and food without delay.

The innkeeper stood obsequiously by Chief Cheng’s side, whispering: “Please wait, Chief. Good wine and meat will be served shortly.”

Chief Cheng surveyed the room, a strange smile on his lips: “Innkeeper Huang, is this all the guests you have? Rather quiet, isn’t it?”

The innkeeper answered honestly: “There are some guests upstairs.”

Chief Cheng grinned: “Call them all down.”

The attendant, after nervously serving the bandits their wine, was pressed by the innkeeper to knock on the guest rooms. Soon, the frightened travelers, fearing for their lives, filed down the stairs, making the spacious inn feel crowded.

Bandits on one side, travelers on the other. Chief Cheng drained a bowl of barley wine, then stood and faced the guests, smiling: “Innkeeper Huang owes me silver and can’t pay, so I’ll need you all to help him out.”

Innkeeper Huang protested: “Chief Cheng, this isn’t right—”

Chief Cheng’s eyes flashed, silencing him at once. He turned back to the travelers: “I’m not an unreasonable man. I have twenty-odd brothers here. Pick any one—if you beat him, you can choose to stay or leave, and I won’t trouble you. If you lose, you’ll leave five taels of silver and an arm behind. Otherwise, leave silver or a hand or foot. If you choose the first and have no silver, then I’ll have to keep your life.”

Minutes later, the table held over a hundred taels of silver, and the floor was littered with bloodied arms—and, of course, two corpses who had overestimated themselves. No one else dared linger; those who could had already fled.

One bandit collected the silver, hugging the heavy bag greedily but not daring to pocket a single copper. Every time they returned to the fort, the chief would inspect the loot. Those who tried to cheat had lost hands or feet, so now he watched the bag anxiously.

Chief Cheng finished his meal, stood, and his followers rose with him. He slapped the innkeeper’s shoulder, nearly knocking him over, and laughed: “Innkeeper Huang, tidy up. Money can always be earned again, but if you lose your guests, what’s left to earn?”

The innkeeper grumbled inwardly—no money, all stolen by these robbers; no guests, all scared away by them. He could only stew in silence, unable to show his anger.

Chief Cheng was about to leave, then paused: “No guests left in the inn, right?”

The innkeeper, trembling, dared not lie: “There are… still two guests.”

Chief Cheng, intrigued, replied: “Even my presence isn’t enough to draw them out. These two must be quite something!”

He was about to head upstairs when two young men descended—one carrying an empty tray, the other yawning. The latter was Song Linjie, who, sleepy-eyed, mumbled: “Sorry, I’m just too tired. Did you need something from me?”

The other, of course, was Zhang Ling. He set the tray down, glanced at the blood and severed limbs on the floor, and said calmly: “I’m eating. I haven’t time.”

Seeing Song Linjie’s nonchalance, Zhang Ling gave him a hard slap on the back of the head. Song Linjie finally snapped to attention, noticing the carnage, his lethargy vanishing at once.

Chief Cheng watched the two unafraid youths, slammed his fist on the table, leaving a deep dent, and burst out laughing: “I’ve been a bandit for over twenty years, and I’ve never seen such bold youngsters. So, tell me—will you leave your silver, your arms, or do you want to end up like those two on the floor and play the hero?”

Zhang Ling smiled apologetically: “People should get along and prosper. Since Chief Cheng makes his living this way, best to hand over the money.”

He took out two five-tael silver notes, placed them on the table, and dragged Song Linjie out with him.