Flower Stealing Master

Chapter 1123: Until the Third Watch

“The hell I’m bald!” The man erupted at once. “My head is perfectly full of hair — I’m the third brother, so naturally my name is Xiong San.”

Song Qingshu’s expression cooled. “You’d do well to watch your mouth.”

Xiong San opened his own to fire back — and then made the mistake of meeting Song Qingshu’s gaze. Something in it sent an involuntary chill down through him. He retracted his head like a turtle into its shell.

“What are you shrinking from? The man’s been poisoned half to death!” Xiong Er cuffed him across the back of the head.

“I don’t know — there’s just something about his eyes that makes you feel uneasy.” Xiong San looked embarrassed, muttering the words under his breath.

Xiong Da glanced at Song Qingshu with something approaching reluctant admiration. “The Golden Serpent King lives up to his name. Even now, his eyes carry that much force.”

Song Qingshu offered a mild smile. “A tiger brought to the flatlands may be harassed by dogs. But a tiger remains a tiger.”

All three brothers bridled at once, and even Xiong Da’s expression hardened into a cold sneer. “We’ll be taking your head shortly. Let’s see how composed you feel then.”

“We’ll see who takes whose,” Song Qingshu replied, his face entirely calm.

The three brothers exchanged uncertain glances. Could he have somehow recovered his martial arts? Even two or three parts of the Golden Serpent King’s full power would be more than the three of them could manage.

Xiong Da was built like a wall, but his mind was fine where his body was coarse. After a moment’s thought he laughed outright. “Song, there’s no point in bluffing. If you’d truly recovered your power, why bother setting that clumsy needle trap at the entrance?”

The flicker of change in Song Qingshu’s expression confirmed it. Xiong Da’s certainty solidified. He gestured to his brothers and the three of them moved in slowly, arranging themselves into a triangular formation.

“Don’t waste words on him. Cut him down and be done with it — just spare the face. We’ll need his head presentable when we collect the reward.” With Song Qingshu’s helplessness now confirmed, a gleam of pure greed lit Xiong Da’s eyes.

The thought of wealth and privilege for the rest of their lives set identical fire in Xiong Er’s and Xiong San’s eyes as well. They raised their blades and moved in.

Then a cold flash of steel — and all three leapt back sharply. Xiong Er and Xiong San clutched their wrists, faces white with shock.

“Brother — he still has his martial arts! We have to run!”

Xiong Da slapped them both across the head, one after the other. “You’ve let the Golden Serpent King’s reputation scare you witless. If he’d truly recovered, you’d have lost the hands, not just scratched the skin.”

Xiong Er and Xiong San gradually settled themselves and examined their wrists. “Ah — the tendons aren’t cut. It’s just a nick.”

Xiong Da pointed toward Song Qingshu’s position. “Obviously. Are you both blind? I knocked the sword out of his hand — it’s lying ten feet away. I’m completely certain: not a trace of inner energy in him.”

What had happened in that flash of motion: Song Qingshu had managed to thrust his sword and catch both Xiong Er and Xiong San across the wrists — but without inner energy behind it, the speed and force were too shallow. Xiong Da, catching the movement in time, had brought his blade down on Song Qingshu’s sword. Without inner energy to grip it, the sword had been knocked from Song Qingshu’s hand and clattered well out of reach.

“Ba$tard gave us a fright for nothing. We’re going to take our time with him.” Xiong Er and Xiong San recovered their anger and snarled in unison.

Song Qingshu’s face, however, showed not a single trace of panic. Instead, a smile of quiet, unreadable depth settled there. “You must have heard something of my history. You know how I called wind and rain and broke the Qing army?”

Xiong Da gave a dismissive laugh. “Tricks like that might fool country bumpkins. If you truly have power over the divine, go ahead — say a word and have the King of Hell cross our names off. That would save you rather nicely, wouldn’t it?”

To their considerable surprise, Song Qingshu replied with complete seriousness: “That’s nothing difficult.”

Xiong Da stared at him. ‘Is this famous Golden Serpent King actually deranged?’

Song Qingshu ignored him entirely and looked past him at Xiong Er. “Xiong San?”

“Hm?” Xiong San answered without thinking.

Song Qingshu’s voice was flat and utterly without inflection. “You may die now.”

Xiong San’s mouth flew open in fury — and then his eyes went wide and still, and he folded softly to the cave floor.

Xiong Da and Xiong Er rushed to him. He had stopped breathing. Both men recoiled in terror.

“Xiong Er,” Song Qingshu’s voice came again. “You may die as well.”

Xiong Er’s face went to pure horror. He bolted for the cave entrance — took one step — and pitched forward onto the ground.

Xiong Da’s hand trembled as he pressed it beneath his brother’s nose. What breath had been there was gone. He felt his courage dissolve entirely. Two brothers, vigorous and alive moments before — dead at a single word from a poisoned, weaponless man.

He thought of every tale the storytellers told about the Golden Serpent King. His mind gave way. ‘What is this man — god or demon?’

“Xiong Da.” The voice came a third time. “Your turn.”

“My turn? No — I don’t want to die—”

Xiong Da’s limbs had gone to water. He could not stand. He could only drag himself desperately toward the entrance, scrabbling at the ground — until the focus left his eyes by degrees, and at last he too lay on the cave floor with his eyes wide open and unseeing. The cave went quiet.

Song Qingshu let go of the tension all at once, beads of sweat gleaming at his temples.

He had no power over gods or demons. Xiong Er and Xiong San had died because his sword, dipped in the Heavenly Devil Flower’s poisoned blood, had left two small wounds on their wrists. The venom had entered their bodies. Song Qingshu had simply watched the time and played his part as the charlatan-shaman when the moment was right.

From the very beginning, he had understood that his condition left him with little hope of overcoming three capable men by force. So beyond the Jade Bee Needles at the entrance, he had coated the sword’s edge with the poisoned blood as a second preparation. Without inner energy, the wounds he could inflict were shallow at best — but shallow was enough. All he needed was to break the skin.

It had fallen out almost exactly as calculated. He had managed to wound Xiong Er and Xiong San; Xiong Da, ever cautious, had pulled back the instant things looked wrong, causing Song Qingshu’s thrust to miss entirely and his sword to be knocked away. Xiong Da’s caution had spared him from the poisoned blade — but the same caution had made him hesitate when he could have pressed his advantage.

Having failed to wound Xiong Da was a slight disappointment. But Song Qingshu had achieved the essential purpose — because he still had the Soul Capture Technique as his final weapon.

The exertion of fighting the poison had depleted his spirit enormously. He was not confident he could hold three men in the technique simultaneously. But if the Heavenly Devil Flower’s venom disposed of two of them first, leaving only Xiong Da — that was a manageable target.

Even then, Song Qingshu had moved with great care. He had planted the seeds of dread in Xiong Da’s mind first, then used his two brothers’ sudden, inexplicable deaths to shatter whatever remained of his psychological defences — and only then applied the Soul Capture Technique. This time, with his life in the balance, Song Qingshu held nothing back. He did not merely disorient, as he sometimes chose to do. He destroyed. By the standards of modern medicine, Xiong Da was now brain-dead.

From somewhere further off came the faint sounds of soldiers continuing their sweep through the mountain. Song Qingshu’s brow furrowed. He knew that if more men found their way here, his luck would not hold a second time. He looked down at Xiong Da’s body — and an idea began to take shape.