Chapter Ninety-One: Encounter with a Villain on the Road

Yang Wenhao had reached the ninth stage of Qi Refinement—calling him a master of martial arts would not be an exaggeration.

To Yang Wenhao, the Drunken Sword style that Yi Xiaochuan practiced seemed like nothing more than a child’s game. Yet, when Yi Xiaochuan asked for his guidance, Yang Wenhao did not hold back in the slightest. As Yi Xiaochuan practiced, Yang Wenhao stood by, pointing out flaws and offering corrections.

Thanks to this, Yi Xiaochuan’s skills improved rapidly; he was now the equal of a top-tier second-rate expert, just a step away from true mastery.

“With Brother Yang’s guidance, my swordsmanship has soared. Come, let’s have a toast,” Yi Xiaochuan said, raising a bowl brimming with Farewell Valley wine toward Yang Wenhao.

Yang Wenhao clinked his bowl and drank.

As the two enjoyed their wine, chatting and exchanging tales of the strange and marvelous, several figures emerged from the side. Leading them was a middle-aged man dressed in an embroidered long robe, accompanied by a retinue of attendants—his bearing was anything but ordinary.

The middle-aged man gave a courteous nod. “Gentlemen, we are a caravan from afar. Just now, we saw you practicing swordplay. May I ask, what style was that?”

Sanbao’s face lit with pride. “Our sword art is of our own invention—it’s called the Drunken Sword.”

The middle-aged man nodded. “I see. So, one must be intoxicated to perform this style?”

Yi Xiaochuan replied, “That’s right. No drink, no practice.”

“So, you two are fond of wine?” the man asked.

“Of course! Our wine is the finest you’ll ever taste,” Sanbao boasted.

The middle-aged man smiled faintly. “In that case, since we have traveled so far, might we ask for a taste to quench our thirst?”

At this, Yi Xiaochuan looked to Yang Wenhao. “Brother Yang, what do you think?”

As Yi Xiaochuan deferred to Yang Wenhao, all eyes turned to him.

Yang Wenhao surveyed the group, his gaze finally settling on the coachman at the middle-aged man’s side, who gripped a long sword. “Since you’ve come from afar, you are most welcome.”

“Since Brother Yang agrees, please, have a seat,” Yi Xiaochuan said.

The middle-aged man sat down, and Sanbao hurried to pour the wine.

The coachman standing by took a deep breath. “What a pure, inviting aroma this wine has.”

Yi Xiaochuan smiled and repeated the story that Cui Wenzi had told him earlier, convincing the travelers of the wine’s virtues.

“Come, have a taste,” Yi Xiaochuan offered, raising a bowl to the coachman.

The coachman hesitated, then quickly demurred, “My master hasn’t had any yet; how could a mere coachman drink first?”

“You people and your rules,” Yi Xiaochuan muttered.

The middle-aged man glanced at the coachman, then raised his own bowl and drank. Afterward, he praised the wine, “An excellent vintage—no ill effects at all.”

There was a veiled meaning in his words. Yi Xiaochuan didn’t notice, but Yang Wenhao did—it was a way of ensuring the wine was free of poison.

Only after hearing this did the coachman drink; he too declared it the best wine he had ever tasted.

But just then, more than a dozen armed bandits burst from the surrounding bamboo grove, their faces fierce and cruel. In an instant, they had the group completely surrounded—it was clear they were well-practiced in such deeds.

“Listen up!” barked the bandit chief. “We want your valuables, not your lives. Hand over your money and goods, and we’ll let you go.”

Had this been any other caravan, they would likely have surrendered their goods at once. But this group was different.

The coachman’s expression was cold. “In the realm of Great Qin, and right under my very nose, you dare commit such acts? You bandits are far too bold.”

The bandit chief sneered, pointing at the coachman. “Just asking to die! Cut him down!”

At this, the middle-aged man hurried to shield the coachman. “No, wait!”

The bandits advanced menacingly, and the middle-aged man whispered urgently to the coachman. But in the end, the coachman gently pushed his master aside, clearly ready to draw his sword and fight.

Seeing this, the bandits rushed forward, weapons raised.

Yi Xiaochuan was about to intervene, but Yang Wenhao stopped him. “Leave this to me.”

Just as the coachman reached for his sword, a shadow flashed before him. In a heartbeat, several bandits fell, each with a single sword stroke to the throat, dead before they hit the ground.

“Yang Wenhao, you—!”

Yi Xiaochuan was stunned—he hadn’t expected Yang Wenhao to be so ruthless.

But Yang Wenhao had no intention of showing mercy; to him, these bandits were simply prey, a chance to hone his skills.

Sword rising and falling, Yang Wenhao cut down the bandits as if they were mere wooden dummies. In moments, the once-arrogant bandits were nothing but corpses.

Everyone was shocked by the scene.

No one could have imagined that the gentle, scholarly Yang Wenhao was so decisive and deadly in action.

“Even General Meng Yi of the Great Qin could do no better,” the middle-aged man whispered in the coachman’s ear.

The coachman nodded. “He is very strong.”

Yang Wenhao flicked his sword, sending a line of blood arcing to the ground.

Yi Xiaochuan had nothing to say—this was someone else’s affair.

He sighed. “You could have shown some restraint.”

Yang Wenhao replied, “You may show mercy, but they will not. Their hands are stained with countless lives. If you’re too kind, you’ll only be taken advantage of.”

He clapped Yi Xiaochuan on the shoulder and walked away.

Back at the tavern, Yang Wenhao encountered Cui Wenzi.

“Where’s Xiaochuan? Why didn’t he come back with you?” Cui Wenzi asked.

“He should be back soon,” Yang Wenhao replied.

Before long, Yi Xiaochuan returned with Sanbao. He paused upon seeing Yang Wenhao, but sat down nonetheless.

Cui Wenzi, ever perceptive, noticed their manner. “What happened between you two?”

Yang Wenhao answered, “We ran into a bandit gang at the Orchid Pond. I killed them all.”

Cui Wenzi drew a sharp breath—even at his age, he was surprised that someone so young could kill so many without hesitation. Yet, apart from his shock, he felt nothing more.

He turned to Yi Xiaochuan. “You don’t approve of what Wenhao did, do you?”

Yi Xiaochuan nodded. “I just think, no matter what, it wasn’t right to kill them all.”

Yang Wenhao said nothing. Instead, Cui Wenzi clapped Yi Xiaochuan’s shoulder. “You’re too soft-hearted. I, for one, think he did the right thing.”

(End of chapter)