Chapter 87: The Tavern

The main hall of the tavern was crowded; out of thirty tables, more than half were occupied by people of all ages—men, women, the elderly, children, the frail and the robust alike—but, unexpectedly, the place was unusually quiet. Apart from the occasional clatter of dishes, hardly a word was spoken.

Footsteps sounded again. This time, seven or eight burly men entered, each carrying a broadsword with a wicked, skull-shaped hilt and a chain-linked rifle. The leader was a man with a face like a crab shell and a body shaped like a winter melon. A large black scar marred his scalp, and his eyes slanted upward, filled with an undisguised ferocity. He glanced around, gave a cold snort, and strode toward an empty table.

The previously silent atmosphere grew restless, whispers breaking out in low tones:

“Those are the bandits from West Sichuan. Isn’t that Black Demon leading them? He hasn’t left his mountain lair for years, has he?”

“What, not only has the Blood Banner been raised, but even the Joyous Forest has called for blood?”

“Heh, it’s peacetime now—banditry’s a tough business. They have to come from afar just to get a bite.”

Black Demon suddenly turned his head, clenching his fist—knuckles taut, sinews binding the bones. He spat out viciously, “Locals, what business is it of yours?”

“Why wouldn’t it be my business? I’m a master from the Cantonese Guild. Do you believe I can keep you from leaving Canton today?” The man across from him, in his thirties, sneered, seemingly unafraid.

“Brother, that’s Bai Yisheng of the Bai family style.”

Though Bai Yisheng was not the next head of his family, he had already made a name for himself among the Bai fighters, mastering two branches of their style and said to be on the verge of full mastery.

Black Demon, too, had trained a boxing style to proficiency, and was even more adept with blade and spear, skilled in deadly escort work. In a fight to the death, he might not lose to this opponent. But his adversary was from a prominent local martial clan, with Master Bai presiding over the guild—a man not to be crossed lightly. If things turned ugly and the Bai family’s influence came into play, they would surely make good on their threats.

Black Demon chose to back down, withdrawing his gaze and muttering, “Cantonese fighting among themselves—what a disgrace.”

“That’s not right, brother,” another at a nearby table chimed in. “The Burnt-Body Martial Hall never joined the Cantonese Guild. How can you say it’s brothers fighting brothers?”

This man looked peculiar: his neck was long and thin, his eyes bulged, his arms hung past his knees, and his thick fingers seemed fused together.

“Right, Old Zhou?”

“Mm, mm,” responded the man beside him, listlessly. He looked equally odd—though he seemed young, his hair was streaked with white, his forehead ringed with wrinkles. Sipping tea in small mouthfuls, he’d cough occasionally, like one with consumption.

This time, the vicious Black Demon didn’t respond at all. He was impulsive, but not stupid. The most important rule for a bandit was knowing the difference between easy prey and hard targets.

He didn’t know these men, but he could tell: the one with the toad-like face had boxing skills surpassing even Bai Yisheng—the peculiar look was a mark of mastery, his body already transformed by years of training. He was likely at the level of full mastery, perhaps even a practitioner of a form-style school. As for the other, his depth was unfathomable—his skills seemed both profound and elusive.

“Toad Boxing Brother Liu, and this gentleman—are you here for the excitement as well?” called out a jovial, rotund man by the window. He was surrounded by the largest group—robust, fierce-looking men filling four tables.

“President Hu, how is a big merchant like you here to make money risking your life?” Toad-face’s neck twitched in surprise. President Hu was famed as the head of the Canton Ironworkers’ Guild, which dealt in far more than farm tools—mining, smelting, armor, arms, both state and private business. Rumor had it he trafficked with pirates, his wealth overflowing. Why would he stoop to this?

“No choice, old friend—the business has been tough lately. And with a hundred thousand silver taels at stake, I couldn’t resist. Brought my best guards and martial instructors from the barracks, hoping for a share of the spoils,” President Hu replied with a show of nonchalance, though he was clearly boasting.

Toad-face narrowed his eyes. Of these twenty or thirty men, few had reached true mastery, but seven or eight were clearly skilled, and the military men were especially known for their lethality—their true combat power was considerable.

No one in this tavern was here for a tea party. Everyone’s intentions were murky, and the crowd was loosely grouped in three factions. The locals sat together—sun-darkened skin, roughened by sea winds. Another group was made up of out-of-town martial artists—bandits like Black Demon, seasoned fighters, minor school heirs—watchful and wary, for martial artists were rarely wealthy unless backed by a patron. The third group, the smallest, filled only four or five tables: an odd assortment of elders with children, disabled men, old women with infants, and mysterious men in bamboo hats. None looked like fighters, but everyone treated them with wariness—they were likely Blood Banner assassins, or masters of the more unsavory trades: thieves, kidnappers, swindlers, and worse. Compared to them, even Black Demon seemed a paragon of virtue.

President Hu surveyed the room, then stood up and addressed everyone: “Brothers, especially my fellow locals—you all know me, and know I never speak idly. Let’s get to the point. Right now, we’re all scattered. If any one of us tried to take the hundred thousand tael prize alone, we likely wouldn’t live to see the sun rise. And besides those inside this inn, there are surely more lurking outside.”

“A prize this big—I suspect it’s just bait from the real player. They want us as cannon fodder, so their own men can sweep in for the kill. Do you really think they’ll leave the destruction of one of Canton’s three great martial halls to the hands of outsiders?”

“What are you getting at, President Hu?” Bai Yisheng asked, frowning.

“My suggestion, brothers, is that we locals band together for one job. If we get lucky, we split the prize. If we come up empty, at least with numbers we’ll be safe. This place is crawling with all sorts—who knows who might turn on whom? Here at home, we all have reputations and families—no one wants to lose face over dirty business.”

President Hu’s words struck just the right balance—soft and hard, appealing to both pride and self-interest. No wonder he was a leader of his trade.

In the tavern, local martial artists were the majority. The prize was tempting, but the odds slim. United, though, as President Hu suggested, they could at least protect themselves.

“I agree,” said two brothers from the Hong family style.

“Count me in,” added Zhao Yier of Kunlun Boxing. He wasn’t technically a local, his style brought south by refugees from Henan, but he’d run an injury clinic in the city for five years—close enough.

“I’ll support Brother Hu.”

“All right, Cantonese take care of their own—everyone else, out!”

The sturdy, broad-shouldered local fighters chimed in, at least outwardly united.

“What about you two, brothers?” President Hu smiled, his eyes lingering on Toad-face and the sickly man—they were the ones he regarded most highly. Toad Boxing might sound odd, but it was an ancient style, and few here could match its power. As for the other, he was a mystery. President Hu had dealt with all sorts in the province, and knew every member of the local guild—he’d never heard of this man. Yet his face was vaguely familiar, reminiscent of a legendary figure from over a decade ago—though that man was said to have been beaten to death by Luo Yanzong, the senior disciple of Burnt-Body Martial Hall, ten years back.

Toad-face was about to answer when the sickly man patted his shoulder and rasped, “Thank you for your kindness, President Hu, but we’re just here to watch the excitement. We won’t be joining in.”

Soon, under President Hu’s leadership, the thirty-odd local martial artists set off in a grand procession.

One after another, the outsiders, the Blood Banner men, and the underworld specialists also left the tavern, until only the two men remained.

“Why not go? Following Old Hu would be an easy way to fish in troubled waters,” Toad-face asked, puzzled.

“Tall trees catch the wind.”

“Speak plainly,” Toad-face grumbled. “You used to be the head of the Southern Branch Martial Sect. Luo Yanzong challenged your whole school, and it was you who wanted revenge—so why are you holding back now?”

“There’s a master here,” the sickly man said after another bout of coughing, his brow furrowed. “And he’s got his eye on Old Zhou’s crew.”

“A master? How skilled?”

“So much so that he reminds me of someone. Come, let’s go watch the show—it’s about time,” the sickly man replied, a shadow passing over his face.