He Ping swung his staff with a whirl, and the battlefield behind the stockade wall turned into a scene from a nightmare.
Despite wielding just a humble staff—not a gleaming sword or axe—there was nothing humble about the results. One strike and a skull caved in like a melon dropped from a great height. Another snapped a bandit's neck with a crack that echoed across the battlefield. A third swing sent the staff smashing right into a bandit's groin, and let's just say… that man wasn't thinking about fighting anymore.
Every strike was brutal, savage, and as deadly as a cat chasing a mouse… only in this case, the mouse was the one who never stood a chance.
In mere moments, He Ping—formerly Master Zhan Seng—had dispatched seven or eight hardened bandits who had dared to scramble over the stockade wall. They were dead before they even realized it, their bodies crumpling as if their life force had been sucked out by the pure, unbridled rage in He Ping's eyes.
The villagers behind him watched, wide-eyed and horrified. They had always known Master Zhan Seng as the kind monk who could recite a sutra with the calm of a cloud drifting across the sky. But this? This was something else entirely. The Man-Eating Salt Owl, the ruthless warrior, was in full swing.
Someone whispered in disbelief, "He Ping? Could it be… that He Ping?"
Another villager gasped, "The Man-Eating Salt Owl? No way…"
"Oh my heavens."
"I heard he eats a man for breakfast," someone muttered, voice trembling.
The murmurs spread like wildfire. "Seriously? Holy hell!"
In the span of about thirty seconds, every bandit that had managed to breach the stockade wall was now lying in a bloody heap, their faces frozen in expressions that could only be described as terrified surprise. Not a single soul dared to approach, not after witnessing He Ping's one-man apocalypse.
But then, as if snapping back to his senses, He Ping's bloodshot fury started to fade. His eyes cleared, returning to their usual serene black-and-white. He tilted his head, blinking as if he had just woken up from a nap.
"Wait… What happened?" he mumbled, looking around at the carnage. "Did… did I just kill all these people? So quickly? Amitabha! This poor monk must have blacked out for a moment there. Shan zai! Shan zai!"
The crowd, still frozen, exchanged confused glances. "Did… did he just turn back into Master Zhan Seng?"
It was the most unsettling transformation they'd seen all day. From slaughtering bandits like a vengeful god to a peaceful monk concerned about karmic retribution in the span of seconds.
At that moment, two young monks shouted from the rear, "Master! More bandits are climbing over!"
Zhan Seng spun on his heel with surprising agility. Just as he did, a bandit leader vaulted over the wall like an acrobat who clearly didn't know what he was doing.
With a dramatic flourish, Zhan Seng's staff twirled through the air, and within a few swift, controlled moves, he knocked the bandit leader to the ground, pinning him underfoot.
"Benefactor, lay down your butcher's knife—"
But before he could finish the sentence, a farmer, holding a hoe like a warrior of old, came charging forward and, with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for smashing pumpkins at Halloween, turned the bandit leader's skull into mashed potatoes.
Zhan Seng blinked, clearly stunned. "Wait… did I kill him? This karmic sin of killing… it wasn't committed by me, was it?"
The villagers, sweat dripping from their brows, shook their heads frantically. "No, no, Master! Not you! It wasn't!"
A shout came from further down the wall. "Quick, over here! We can't hold them!"
Zhan Seng's eyes widened. The wall had been breached in multiple places. On one section, a dozen bandits had made it over and were chasing villagers armed with nothing but rakes, hoes, and the occasional wooden spoon. Not the ideal weaponry for repelling armed bandits.
"Lay down your butcher's knives!" Zhan Seng shouted, dashing forward, his staff held in front of him like a shield.
He found himself facing seven or eight bandits, all of whom were looking at him like he was the only obstacle standing between them and the village's food supply. Zhan Seng hesitated. He couldn't use the full force of his staff, not with villagers looking on. He refused to kill, not even these bandits, no matter how ferocious they seemed.
Instead, he danced around them, dodging and parrying, avoiding lethal blows while struggling to maintain control. But his lack of lethal force quickly became his downfall. The bandits, ruthless and unrelenting, pressed their attack. Zhan Seng found himself on the defensive, caught in a series of precarious situations.
"Master, your face is bleeding!" A young monk shouted in panic.
Zhan Seng blinked and absentmindedly touched his face. His fingers came away stained with blood. "Huh?"
His eyes narrowed. A sudden flash of rage shot through him like a bolt of lightning.
"Who?" he snarled, eyes flashing crimson. "Who dared to draw my blood?! Haven't you heard the name of He Ping, the Man-Eating Salt Owl?!"
In the blink of an eye, He Ping was back. He struck without mercy, every swing of his staff a deadly blow. One swing sent a bandit's head exploding like a watermelon under a hammer. A swift reverse swipe and he impaled a bandit's eye socket, sending the eyeball flying like a grotesque cannonball.
The bandits, too stunned to react, were struck down one by one. With a final wham, the last of the attackers fell to the ground with a thud. The stockade wall was once again free of immediate threats.
But He Ping didn't stop there. No, the rage wasn't finished yet. His eyes burned with the desire for retribution, and he stood there, panting, looking at the bloody carnage. His staff was covered in blood, and his breath came in heavy bursts.
"Well…" Zhan Seng said, his voice calmer now. "That… was savage. You killed them so violently their eyeballs popped out? Oh, the karma! Amitabha, this poor monk must recite scriptures for you now to help resolve this bloodshed…"
Meanwhile, the cavalry battalion had still not moved, and the troopers were becoming visibly anxious.
"General," one of the soldiers called out, glancing nervously at the stockade wall, "Are we still waiting? The stockade's in distress! Should we not charge?"
Lao Nanfeng, calm as ever, shook his head. "Don't rush it. There's no real danger. Not many bandits have actually scaled the wall, and the men inside are holding their own. We'll wait."
The cavalry troopers exchanged confused looks, trying to figure out what exactly their general was up to. After all, in every battle they'd been in before, the cavalry was the first to charge. But Lao Nanfeng was a different breed. This was his first time commanding this kind of force, and his patience was starting to pay off.
Elsewhere, the bandit army was beginning to advance in full force. Seeing the tide turn in their favor, Old Zhang Fei, no longer as spry as he once was, decided it was time to join the fray. He wasn't one to lead the charge directly, preferring to command from the rear where he could easily escape should things go wrong. But now, seeing his bandits scaling the stockade and sensing victory in the air, he signaled for his main force to advance.
"Advance!" he bellowed.
But just as the bandits pushed forward, Lao Nanfeng's eyes sharpened. "Cavalry battalion, prepare to charge! On my mark, we open the gate!"
The cavalrymen tensed, eager for action.
At that exact moment, the low rumble of an approaching ship echoed through the valley. A massive vessel appeared, cutting through the water at speed. The cannons on board were trained directly on Old Zhang Fei's advancing bandits.
The captain, a retainer from Bai Family Fortress, grinned broadly. "I've studied the art of Gentlemen—well, at least one-sixth of it—so let's make this count!"
"Fire!" he shouted.
The warship's cannons opened up with a deafening roar.
"Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!"
The cannons fired in perfect synchrony, and Old Zhang Fei's bandit forces, clustered together in tightly packed formations, became prime targets. Cannonballs screamed through the air, tearing into the ranks of the advancing bandits with brutal efficiency. Flesh and bone scattered in all directions, and the bandits were thrown into disarray.
Old Zhang Fei's face went ashen. He had been tricked. The warship had somehow returned earlier than expected, and now his forces were paying the price.
"Damn it!" he shouted.