Chapter 71: Scissor Lock

When it comes to love and hate, the tangled web of passions and grudges, that phrase is hopelessly cliché. In Zhang He’s mind, it’s no different from the likes of wine, lust, wealth, and temper—if anything, it’s on par with eating, drinking, whoring, and gambling, all cut from the same cloth of banality. Judging from his current circumstances, Zhang He finds himself untouched by the first three of those passions, though he certainly has his share of enemies. Unfortunately, he has neither the opportunity nor the strength for revenge. As for wine, women, and money, he has none; temper, perhaps, for he’s brimming with indignation. Eating, drinking, and whoring have never enticed him, and gambling, well, there’s nothing worth risking right now. And so, Zhang He makes his way slowly toward Cypress Mountain in the southwest.

He moves deliberately, never using his lightness skill to hurry. He has always been reluctant to waste his attributes on rushing from place to place; besides, the act of walking, the coordination of limbs, keeps the blood flowing and the mind clear. This good habit quickly yields results. The stony path atop the mountain seems to tremble ever so slightly. Zhang He halts, pricks up his ears, and listens intently. With a constitution of sixty-eight points, he can sense activity more than a hundred meters away—provided, of course, he sticks to the old method: lying flat on the ground, ear pressed to the earth.

After a moment’s listening, Zhang He decisively slips into the thicket between several large trees. Soon, footsteps echo from a distance along the mountain path.

Who would venture into such wilds? NPCs or players?

Within minutes, Zhang He is certain—they are players, not NPCs, for their voices precede their arrival.

A woman says, “Boss, we’ve been walking for days. Not only haven’t we found the place, but even monsters are getting scarce.”

A man chimes in, “Yeah, chief, could we have taken the wrong route?”

The leader—presumably the ‘boss’—replies, “How could we be lost? I conducted thorough research on the forum’s map guides, formulated a detailed project analysis, and we’ve followed the plan step by step. Now we’re at stage four; the first three went without a hitch. There’s no reason to doubt this phase. You must understand, work requires patience. Rushing only leads to mistakes.”

The woman assures him, “Don’t worry, boss, we believe in you.”

The man echoes, “That’s right, chief. You’ve prepared thoroughly—there’s no reason to turn back.”

The leader laughs. “Heh, as long as the three of us, siblings in arms, work together, we’ll certainly make a success of this economic development project.”

...

Behind the trees, Zhang He can’t help but laugh and cry at once. Dynasty is a game steeped in the atmosphere of Eastern martial arts; any player would be immersed in its ancient, poetic ambiance. Yet these three sound as if they’re delivering a government work report.

As they draw nearer, Zhang He peeks out quietly. The trio—two men and a woman—looks much like himself.

At the front is their leader. Zhang He is certain of this, for the man is burly and imposing, walking with his hands clasped behind his back, chin raised high, exuding authority. Were it not for the hefty hooked spear slung across his back, Zhang He would have taken him for a bureaucrat rather than a player.

Behind him, the female companion is strikingly ugly, unarmed, yet her steps are steady and her stance low—clearly a player skilled in lower-body techniques. The male companion grips a staff as tall as himself, veins bulging on the backs of his hands, evidently versed in upper-body staff techniques.

All three share one thing in common—or, more precisely, all four of them, including Zhang He, share it: their clothes are tattered, their faces smeared with dirt, resembling wild men emerged from the depths of the mountains. Clearly, they’ve been scrambling through the peaks of Golden Buddha Mountain for days, their clothes in rags, their stomachs empty.

But what are these three doing here?

Zhang He barely has time to wonder when the leader suddenly shouts, “Who’s hiding there? Come out!”

Startled, Zhang He realizes that even though he’s hidden well and holding his breath, he’s still been discovered. Are these three truly experts?

Since he’s been exposed, Zhang He steps out openly.

Before he can speak, the female companion snaps, “This sneaky, filthy, ragged fellow can’t be up to any good, boss. Let me teach him a lesson.”

Zhang He nearly chokes. Filthy? Ragged? Compared to you? Look at that blue-and-white blouse—originally pale green, now black as soot. At least my white scholar’s robe still hints at its original color.

He wants to protest, but it’s too late. The woman charges forward, launching a kick at his chest.

Her attack isn’t fast, but it’s powerful; wind whistles heavily through her clothes before she’s even upon him. Zhang He dares not meet the blow head-on.

He retreats, sidestepping, and her kick lands in vain. She plants a boot on a tree trunk, reversing midair and swinging her other leg around.

Only now does Zhang He startle—this woman knows a chained-kick technique. There are many styles, but their principle is the same: an unbroken chain of attacks, each kick forcing the opponent into the next trap. If she lands the first strike, she can follow with a flurry, leaving her foe battered and breathless.

As her second kick whirls toward him, she spins through the air in a scissor-like motion. Caught unprepared, Zhang He takes the boot squarely in the face—a red “-12” damage value pops above his head.

The woman is stunned; she hadn’t expected such high defense. More bewildering is how Zhang He, struck, flings himself backward, rolling away down the gravelly path.

Her chained-kick style is much like a chess master’s opening gambit: with each move, she predicts her opponent’s possible counters, ready to pursue with successive kicks. But Zhang He’s abrupt “flight” throws her off, leaving her momentarily at a loss.

Unbeknownst to her, Zhang He’s extraordinary experience and reflexes are beyond the grasp of most players. As she charges again, seeing him sprawled on the stony path, she instinctively presses her attack.

This time, the woman makes a grave mistake. Rising swiftly, Zhang He stamps his foot—there’s a dull thud as several stone slabs shatter beneath him, cracks spreading like a spider’s web, fragments sent flying by a surge of internal force.

This is Zhang He’s new martial skill, “Shattering Stone Kick.” Strictly speaking, it’s an auxiliary move; while it can attack directly, it lacks formal sequences—just a single, powerful stomp. But its real value lies in support: by smashing the ground, it causes area damage and makes footing treacherous for nearby foes.

Yet the woman’s specialty is lower-body kung fu—her stance is not so easily disrupted. She sways only slightly as the stones crack, quickly regaining balance and continuing her assault.

At this moment, Zhang He suddenly thrusts his palm forward. The fragments rising from his stomp are swept up by the wind of his “Flying Rock Palm,” shooting toward her like a hail of sharp blades.

His recent training has not been in vain. At grandmaster level, “Flying Rock Palm” can generate gusts strong enough to propel the shards—not enough to injure, but sufficient to obscure an opponent’s sight.

Now the woman is truly alarmed. She had never imagined this ragged figure to wield such formidable martial arts. She’s charged in too recklessly; now, as the stone shards fly, she sees his hand darting among them, snake-like.

With agile precision, Zhang He’s “Five Elements Grip” seizes her wrist, then her elbow, then her bicep, finally locking her shoulder—a succession of moves too swift to counter.

She feels her strength drain away, as if punctured and leaking. Then, a cold glint flashes before her eyes—a short, icy dagger presses to her throat.

The seamless flow of techniques—the swift attack, the flawless defense, the rapid transition—leaves even the leader and male companion dumbstruck.

“Com—comrade…” the male companion stammers, “Spare him—spare her, please…”

Zhang He fixes the woman with a cold stare; she feels as though his gaze could kill. Fear grips her heart—should his hand tremble, her neck would surely bleed.

“B-brother, you, you, you…” she stammers, paralyzed with terror.

The leader coughs awkwardly. “A misunderstanding, a misunderstanding, that’s all.”

Before Zhang He can respond, the male companion blurts, “Friend, it’s better to make friends than enemies. We’re all headed to Bluewater Pool in search of that treasure. One more ally means more strength—why draw weapons?”

A thought stirs in Zhang He’s mind. The Lyric Fairy had sent him to Bluewater Pool for the phosphorescent grass, but these three mention a treasure. What connection could there be? What kind of treasure is it?

The leader, plainly anxious for his companion’s safety, pleads carefully, “Yes, let’s talk this over. Friend, put down the knife and we can discuss everything.”

Zhang He understands well the perils of the martial world. If he releases her, the three might attack together—he’d be hard pressed to defend himself. But his training has improved his agility; he could probably outrun them, especially since the leader and the male companion are burdened by their heavy weapons.

After he releases the dagger, the leader and the male companion rush over—not to attack Zhang He, but to help the woman up. She seems shaken, her gaze now tinged with fear as she mutters, “This guy… this guy, he, he, he…”

She can barely speak. She knows it’s not difficult for a player to master several martial arts, but what unsettles her is how this man seems to know everything—blade techniques, grappling, unarmed combat, strange palms and kicks—all switching so fluidly and swiftly. She finds it hard to believe, stammering, “He… he… is he a technical middle manager?”

Zhang He nearly faints.