Chapter Thirteen: Leave None Behind

Puhai, Old Zha Police Station.

“You mean to say you were beaten this badly by a yellow-skinned monkey?”

Mr. Albert, Chief Inspector of the British Concession and distant kin to the royal family, was now seething with fury.

The men before him, conscripted from Hindustan to serve as constables in Xinghan, lay sprawled on the ground, broken-limbed and bruised, as limp as their infamous curry stew—like squashed, fetid horse dung in the street, groaning and drawing attention.

“Sir, this was no ordinary yellow-skinned monkey. He’s the one who can sink warships.”

“He is Hanuman! Son of the Wind God!”

“No mortal weapon can catch a god. Hanuman disappears with the wind and reappears at our side in a flash. Forgive us, Hanuman!”

Hanuman—the monkey god of Hindustani legend.

The Hindustani constables had mistaken Huo Yuanjia and Lan Yi for one another.

With a red turban wrapped about his head, the Hindustani constable’s speech reeked of curry, so strongly that even his English seemed to twist and curl from his mouth. It took repeated questions from old Albert—a proper white man—to finally grasp a rough sense of what this dark and dim-witted ape was trying to say.

Damn it, these Hindustanis were as dull-witted, lecherous, and incompetent as their African cousins.

Albert cursed them inwardly, his eyes nearly flashing with flames.

He had not become Chief Inspector through stupidity, after all. He never really expected these lowly monkeys to bring back the target; anyone who could sink an ironclad and soar freely through the skies was certainly beyond the means of such Hindustani apes.

But that they returned without even a shred of useful intelligence was enough to make anyone’s blood boil.

Albert conveniently ignored the fact that a squad of pure-blooded British lads were also present at the scene, and had proved just as useless.

“Cheer up, Albert, treat it as a bit of fun.”

Beside him, a burly, bearded man in military uniform was carefully polishing his saber—the same blade that had lopped off many a braided head, each one a source of grim respect.

“Colonel Kent, if Downing Street starts poking around, you may well enjoy yourself, but your dear uncle, our beloved Secretary to the Prime Minister, will surely pay me a visit, whip in hand,” Albert retorted, drawing a deep breath.

“Once I’m sacked and sent home, that is!”

“Anyway, the ship’s sunk, and those damned Junkers and Frenchies lost even more vessels.” Kent sneered, his saber now gleaming.

“...Well, put that way, I suppose it is amusing after all.”

The British hated the French above all.

Years of bloody war and the later beheading and aid of the French king had left them with a deep, abiding enmity. As for the Junkers, they simply stood in the way of the next grand feast.

So the thought that their rivals were suffering just as they were made Albert considerably happier.

“Worldly-wise Colonel Kent, what do you think could possibly fly through the sky?”

Albert’s question made Kent, usually calm and collected, furrow his brow.

This expert—veteran of many continents, who had battled Negro tribesmen, Hindustani warriors, Yin soldiers, and fanatical boxers, and who specialized in “native management”—had never before encountered a being that could fly, conjure lightning, and sink ironclads.

He had seen things beyond science in his time. In Africa, posing as an explorer, he’d hunted giant anacondas, monstrous crocodiles, and witnessed witch doctors’ petty tricks.

Such creatures, though troublesome, all fell to gunfire.

But this “Angel of Thunder” of the Far East was something else entirely—immune to bullets and shells, and possibly capable of summoning other supernatural beings.

“Perhaps an alien visitor,” Kent mused, his wild guess not far from the truth.

“And why would aliens help these yellow-skinned monkeys?”

“Maybe they’re in a good mood. Or a bad one. When I hunted in the Amazon, sometimes I helped a band of cannibals out of whim—or wiped them all out instead.”

Now, the hunt was on.

Kent dearly hoped to add an alien trophy to his private collection; that would far outshine any anaconda or crocodile.

Just then, a red-turbaned constable hurried over to report.

“The Dongyang forces have mobilized.”

Among the warships sunk in the river, some belonged to Dongyang. Now, having finally risen to power, the Dongyang were sending troops from the concession, loudly declaring they would severely punish the rebellious savages.

“Let the Dongyang go first—let them fight,” Albert ordered.

This same command was echoed by the other great powers.

In Far Eastern affairs, their minds were always clear.

The Dongyang were the dogs on a chain, the savages cowed by those dogs, and the civilized held the knives and forks. Should the banquet require a change, then the leash would be loosened, and the Dongyang—most afraid of reprisal—would be sent ahead to test the waters.

This was a force of several hundred, armed with guns and artillery, well-trained and strictly disciplined.

If even this “Angel of Thunder” could handle such a force with ease...

The great powers would have to reconsider their aims and policies in the Far East.

In this era, “well-trained and disciplined” meant small units could be mobilized in a matter of hours, and on this broken-backed land, officers would deliberately indulge their troops’ cruelty and ferocity to keep their fighting spirit sharp.

In short, it all came down to twelve words: burn, kill, loot, ravage, rape, pillage—no evil left undone.

If soldiers were not allowed to vent their bloodlust, they would turn their guns on their own officers.

Sixteen hours had passed since Lan Yi had sunk the warship and the Dongyang had resolved to punish the rebels. For the era of empire and colonies, sixteen hours to muster and deploy was lightning-fast—especially when, in that time, the decrepit ministers of the old court might still be bickering and trading insults in the imperial hall.

But for Lan Yi, sixteen hours was enough.

In that time, he had created two hundred cultivators at the Qi Training level and four at the peak of Qi Training.

And of those four, one had already broken through to the Spirit Refinement stage.

Unexpectedly for Lan Yi, the first to reach this realm was not Huo Yuanjia nor Zhao Jian.

But a rickshaw man.

His name was Geng Liangchen. Handsome, sharp-eyed, he was a lowly rickshaw puller but radiated a fierce, fearless energy. It was said he had come from Tianjin out of admiration for Huo Yuanjia, to join the Jingwu Athletic Association.

He had not expected to encounter Lan Yi and be granted martial power.

“One at Spirit Refinement, three at peak Qi Training, and two hundred at Qi Training.”

“You also have the Vital Cluster I activated within you.”

“Go. Leave not a single Dongyang alive. If you cannot do even this...”

Lan Yi, unfurling the Canghua and quietly drawing in spiritual energy in the dawn, left the sentence unfinished; but the air itself grew several degrees colder and more dangerous.

Geng Liangchen, his complexion pale and aura uncanny, a terrifying darkness swirling behind his head, bowed deeply with utmost respect.

“By the immortal’s command—not a single one left alive!”