XIAHOU LIAN WAS IN THE KITCHEN ladling himself some water while Tang Shiqi lounged against the doorframe, idly poking at the small holes worms had eaten in the wood.
"Chiyan's gone missing up north, Boss," Tang Shiqi said casually.
Xiahou Lian froze, his back still turned. The room fell into silence, quiet but for the faint buzz of insects in the dark night where sparse stars twinkled faintly. The breeze carried the earthy scent of soil mixed with hints of grass and flowers.
Unsettled, Tang Shiqi rambled on to fill the silence. "Oh—and, Boss, you should probably avoid going out for a few days. The Garden's been hit hard—a lot of people have been captured recently. Word is that Shen Jue's arrests are so quick and precise because he's got a mole inside the Garden. You've made it onto the wanted list, by the way. Seen your portrait on the city walls yet? A few months ago, I got careless and ran into the Eastern Depot. Ended up taking an arrow and nearly bit the dust, but hey, luck was on my side." He tugged at his collar, revealing the scar on his shoulder. "You're quite the celebrity, to have the top spot on the Eastern Depot's hit list."
Xiahou Lian glanced at Tang Shiqi's scar. The wound had scabbed over, but the danger Tang Shiqi had been in was obvious. Xiahou Lian had known for some time that the Eastern Depot was hunting him; how could he not, when posters of his face were plastered across every town he'd passed through on his journey back from the Tian Shan mountains? Unlike the other Eight Legions assassins, whose identities remained hidden, Xiahou Lian's image stood out boldly; that made him the easiest target.
He'd been wise to avoid the Garden's relay stations throughout his travels. He'd passed one surrounded by depot agents; they'd been hauling people out into the sunlight one by one and tearing off their human-skin masks, while a crowd of onlookers watched from a distance, held back by a wall of agents. A eunuch on horseback rode around the crowd, cold and aloof. "By order of the depot chief, leave no Qiye Garden rebel alive!"
Captured agents were brought to the riverbank and thrown into the raging waters one after another. Their bodies sank into the surging rapids, some bobbing up momentarily before being swallowed whole.
As the eunuch rode past him, Xiahou Lian had asked, "Sir, may I inquire—did the depot chief also issue the warrant for the Wuminggui?"
The eunuch glanced at him with disdain and tossed a wanted poster at his face. "Personally signed by the depot chief. Do you doubt it?"
Xiahou Lian picked up the poster and stared at an artist's image of his own face, smeared with the word kill in glaring red ink. It looked as though it had been painted in blood, the script ominous and cruel.
Now, staring at Tang Shiqi's scar, Xiahou Lian couldn't deny the truth any longer: The order to "leave no Qiye Garden rebel alive" clearly included him.
Would Shen Jue come for him personally? Xiahou Lian considered it. Shen Jue had to know that Xiahou Lian couldn't leave the Garden for long; he wouldn't survive without the antidote to Seven Fifteen.
Time changes everything, Xiahou Lian thought. Even the people you trust. Uncle Duan, who'd cared for him as a child, had killed Xiahou Lian's mother. His oldest friend had become his enemy.
Without a word, Xiahou Lian set the ladle down on the table. His hand brushed a tray of dishes and knocked them to the floor. The sharp clatter of shattering ceramics echoed through the quiet. He knelt and began picking up the jagged pieces, seeming not to notice when one cut his hand. Tang Shiqi hurried over to stop him, but he froze as Xiahou Lian began to mutter in a hoarse voice.
"There's something you don't know. Shen Jue and I—we've been through life and death together. We were brothers."
Tang Shiqi was stunned for a moment, then slammed his hand on the table. "Shen Jue? How could he do this to you?! Sure, he's an imperial lapdog and you're a rebel assassin, but if you went through life and death together? Talk about poor judgment! Forget him, Boss. We don't need to grovel to power-hungry traitors. Maybe someday history will remember us as heroes who fought back against corruption!"
Xiahou Lian remained silent as he sat down on the doorstep to bandage his injured hand. Tang Shiqi hesitated, sensing a heaviness in the air around Xiahou Lian as if the weight of the night sky itself pressed down on his shoulders. The wind rustled the leaves, their shadows flickering chaotically across the ground. Tang Shiqi picked up some plantain leaves near his feet and shredded them to pieces.
"The Eastern Depot and Qiye Garden have been enemies for years," Xiahou Lian said softly, his head lowered. "We've killed plenty of them, and they've done the same to us. I'm the Garden's top assassin, and he's the Eastern Depot's chief. It's only natural he'd want me dead." Xiahou Lian chuckled bitterly. "My master once said I had a glimmer of hope. But hope—assassins don't have that."
Stumbling over his words, Tang Shiqi tried to comfort Xiahou Lian. "Boss, don't think like that!"
"When I return to the Garden this time, I probably won't come out alive," Xiahou Lian continued. "The silver in the dens in Liuzhou, Suzhou, Hangzhou, and the banks is yours—take it all. Do it quickly—once I kill Shixin, you won't be able to get to it."
"Boss, that's way too much—"
"After the Garden falls, go to the mountains and find my body, if you can. Take my head and hand it over to the Eastern Depot." Xiahou Lian gave these instructions matter-of-factly, as if describing the weather.
"Have you gone mad?!" Tang Shiqi shouted.
Xiahou Lian flexed his bandaged hand, the dressing tight and uncomfortable. He felt a faint ache that mirrored the hollow pang in his heart—subtle, constant, and unquestionably real.
"When Shen Jue first entered the palace, all I wanted was to get him out. I wanted him to keep studying, take the imperial exams and become someone important. When I first met Chiyan, I wanted to bring him down from that cursed Heimianfo and teach him about the world so he wouldn't be reduced to a weapon. But now…now I know I can't do shit," Xiahou Lian said, smiling faintly, his voice as soft as the wind brushing through the withered branches. "Shen Jue's enemies are powerful. There's not much I can do to help him. But whatever I can do, I will."
Tang Shiqi sighed deeply. "Boss, I don't even know what to say to that. Giving away your money is one thing, but your head? Don't you at least want to keep your corpse intact?"
"That doesn't matter for a sinner like me, does it?" Xiahou Lian stood and waved Tang Shiqi off. "I'm going to bed."
Tang Shiqi opened his mouth to protest but closed it again, leaving his words unvoiced. Fugitives like them lived one day at a time and didn't much worry about gods or Buddhas. But for those who walked the path of darkness long enough, a faint sense of dread began to linger. Some wore prayer beads and others left donations at temples, praying they wouldn't be condemned to endless torment after death.
The lowest level of hell awaited those who committed patricide, one of the gravest sins. But Tang Shiqi knew that Xiahou Lian didn't lack either faith or fear—he'd simply accepted his fate. He knew his bones would be scattered on the frozen plains, his soul drifting like a wind.
Xiahou Lian had given up on this life—and the next.
***
THE MOUNTAIN TEMPLE HAD fallen even further into disrepair. Half the roof tiles were missing, the rotting beams exposed beneath resembled the bones of a decaying corpse. The walls, once painted yellow and adorned with red-ink inscriptions of Buddhist scriptures, were now peeling and mottled like an aging woman's heavily powdered face. Scattered across the walls were countless black footprints, large and small, high and low—half of them had been the handiwork of a young Xiahou Lian. A line of weeds and a few tiny red and yellow wildflowers sprouted along the base of the wall.
Under the wide eaves sat a low red-lacquered table and two small stools. The lacquer was chipped in a number of places, and one leg of the table was shorter than the others; it had been propped up with a few bricks to steady the surface. Atop the table rested a small purple clay teapot and two chipped blue-and-white porcelain bowls—the abbot's most prized possessions. Xiahou Lian rarely saw him use them; like many people accustomed to poverty, he hoarded his treasures like sacred relics, as if afraid that their loss would render his life even poorer.
As always, Shixin sat on one stool with his hands folded in his lap, dressed in a monk's black robe. He looked as though he'd been waiting for a long time. Xiahou Lian sat opposite him. The abbot picked up the teapot and poured tea into a bowl for Xiahou Lian, foam swirling in the steaming liquid.
"Do you know why I'm here?" Xiahou Lian asked quietly. "Were you waiting for me?"
Shixin's answer was indirect. "I was having tea," he replied, reaching down to lift a copper pipe from the ground. The pipe was old but well-maintained, its long stem polished to a glossy shine. Shixin packed tobacco into the bowl, took a puff, and exhaled a cloud of white smoke.
Xiahou Lian was surprised. He'd never known that the abbot smoked.
He drank his tea like water, not bothering to savor it. The bitter liquid flowed down his throat and into his chest, his heart pounding with its heat. Outside, a fine, needle-like rain began to fall, the drizzle typical of autumn in the mountains. Drinking tea and smoking together, Xiahou Lian and the abbot sat face to face for the first time. The tobacco's aroma was sweet and not at all harsh. To an outsider, the men might've looked like any ordinary father and son sharing a moment of quiet intimacy, rather than two enemies bound by deep hatred.
Xiahou Lian studied the man across from him. Shixin's features were sharp and deep-set; his white beard and deeply etched wrinkles betrayed years of heavy contemplation. Xiahou Lian felt surprisingly calm, as though he were here simply to make small talk about the rainy weather.
"You originally chose me. Why did you send Chiyan instead?" Xiahou Lian asked.
Shixin raised his head, gazing at the misty rain that blanketed the mountains. "Remember this: When you set down your burdens, someone else must carry them for you. In the past, that person was your mother: You let the young master of the Xie family escape, and she bore the punishment in your place. Now, it's your brother: You refused to go to the northern frontier, so he went to battle in your place. That foolish boy lied to me to fulfill your wish." Shixin exhaled a smoke ring, his tone blending pride and disappointment. "Lied to me. Imagine that."
Xiahou Lian felt a dull ache in his chest. He remembered the day Chiyan had asked him if he wanted to be abbot. He remembered Chiyan sitting alone atop Heimianfo, playing his xun. He recalled the sorrow in Chiyan's eyes, the way the wind tugged at the sleeves of the lonely assassin's robe, making them flutter like the wings of a pale moth. How had he failed to see that the scatterbrained fool was saying goodbye?
"How did you know that I was coming to kill you?" Xiahou Lian asked, his voice hoarse.
"You're still young, and you're not careful enough. You must work on that. The archives in the document room haven't been touched in years. They're covered in dust. Yet the Garuda's file is clean. Who but you would bother to look at it?" Shixin explained. "I know you, Xiahou Lian. I knew you'd come for me. As for Chiyan, he wanted to go, so I let him."
"So that's how it is," Xiahou Lian said with a bitter laugh. "From the moment you saw that file, you knew I'd come to kill you. You've been waiting for me all this time. You're too arrogant, you old bald donkey. Maybe I couldn't beat you before, but now, who knows?"
"I don't want you to die by my hand. After all, you're my child," Shixin sighed. "I only hope you'll grow strong enough to do what you must. The Garden holds many secrets, Xiao-Lian. If you kill me today, it will prove you are strong enough for those secrets to be revealed to you."
Anger surged in Xiahou Lian's chest, but he forced it back down. "Secrets? About your enemies in the northern frontier, you mean? That's your problem, not mine! It was your cowardice that doomed your predecessors, so why should Chiyan and I pay for your mistakes? Because we're your sons? Ridiculous! I, Xiahou Lian, have no father. I had only my mother: Xiahou Pei, master of Hengbo, the greatest blade in the world. My name is Xiahou Lian—my surname is Xiahou!"
Xiahou Lian stood, and Hengbo left its black sheath like a stream of quicksilver. Xiahou Lian raised the blade, and the fine drizzle pattered its edge, the tiny, scattered droplets shimmering like stars. "Enough talk. Everyone has their debts, and today, I've come to collect yours. Draw Bushenglian, Shixin!"
"No need," Shixin replied. "I'm old. An old man should just drink tea and smoke, so I'll use my pipe instead—it's an old friend. Let's see just how far your swordplay has come."
Shixin's eyes suddenly snapped upward, and the veins on his aged forehead bulged. With a powerful slap, he shattered the low table into splinters, sending shards of wood flying through the air. The purple clay teapot and two small cups were flung skyward.
Xiahou Lian's blade flashed, slicing through the teapot and cups with deadly precision. The severed pieces fell neatly apart, and Hengbo's razor-sharp edge passed just before Shixin's face.
Shixin quickly retreated, stepping into the rain. With his soaked black robe clinging to his thin frame, he looked like a solitary, withered bamboo stalk. He let out a soft sigh, as though lamenting the loss of his treasured teapot.
Xiahou Lian stepped into the rain as well, both hands gripping Hengbo. His own black robes fluttered as he moved. He carefully regulated his breathing. With one step, he breathed in; with the next step, he exhaled. With each step, his pace quickened, and his breath matched its rhythm. Within the sound of the drizzle, he heard his own labored breathing. It hit the perfect rhythm on his fifth step. Instantly, Xiahou Lian launched forward, cutting through the cold rain toward the black-robed monk. His sleeves billowed behind him like a dark butterfly's trembling wings.
Clang! The sharp, clear sound of metal meeting metal echoed as Shixin casually raised his worn copper pipe to block Hengbo's fierce strike. Shixin shook his head slightly, pressing the pipe down on Hengbo's blade and gliding it over Xiahou Lian's right wrist before striking the acupoint in his shoulder.
Xiahou Lian felt as if he'd been stung by a wasp. Numbness and pain spread down his arm, and he nearly lost his grip on Hengbo. He gritted his teeth, tightening his hold on the blade. But he didn't have time to deliver his next strike before Shixin reversed his grip on his pipe, then landed a punch directly in Xiahou Lian's face.
The world spun as Xiahou Lian fell, He tasted dirt and the metallic tang of blood. Cold raindrops splattered his face and chilled him to the bone. I didn't last a single move against Shixin—even though his only weapon is an old pipe!
Shixin stood where he was, watching Xiahou Lian with pity. "See now, Xiao-Lian? That's the difference between us. You seem to have forgotten that I trained Chiyan in swordplay. You also forgot that even your mother couldn't best Bushenglian. Even with my injured right hand, I can defeat you effortlessly. Your skills with the saber truly fall short!"
"Shut up!"
Xiahou Lian struggled to his feet, wiping the blood and water from his face, and charged again. Rainwater splashed beneath his feet, mud staining his shoes and socks. His eyes burned with fierce, unyielding determination as he swung his blade at Shixin, undaunted in the face of death.
Hengbo turned and spun in his hands, its powerful glare enveloping both fighters. The clash of steel rang out like twanging zither strings—not just from the brute force of two weapons clashing, but from Shixin blocking Xiahou Lian's every blow. Rain and falling leaves swirled around them as they fought fiercely. Xiahou Lian launched a rapid series of attacks, forcing Shixin to parry and retreat. They circled the courtyard once, but Xiahou Lian had yet to touch even the hem of Shixin's robe!
He realized then that his relentless attacks had nearly exhausted him while Shixin moved as calmly as if he were strolling through a garden.
At the start of the next round, a withered yellow leaf drifted between them. Xiahou Lian's blade sliced through it, and at the same moment, a sharp whistle cut through the air. Xiahou Lian saw Shixin's pipe pierce the gap between the two halves of the leaf before it struck his head; the heavy blow rang like a bell in his brain.
His head spun, his vision blurring as the tolling bell echoed in his ears, heavy and slow. It felt as if his heartbeat had grown slow too. He dropped to his knees, then collapsed forward. Cold leaves stuck to his cheek—bone-chillingly cold.
"Your bladework has always been lacking," Shixin sighed. "Xiahou Pei spoiled you—while others practiced their swordplay, you were out climbing trees, robbing nests, and burning down my mountain temple. I schemed and plotted, I even killed Xiahou Pei, all to make you stronger. And you did improve…just not enough."
Xiahou Lian coughed up blood, pushed himself off the ground, and stood again. Blood streamed from his forehead. His face was smeared with dirt and ash, and he looked like a mangy kicked dog.
"Screw you!" he roared, spitting out a mouthful of blood. "Again!"
Their third charge began. Xiahou Lian lunged at Shixin. Their figures merged into one, tall, lean, and clad in black like two ink strokes bleeding together. Xiahou Lian struck with all his might—Swallow's Swoop, Moon Cleave, Serpent Step—the cold light of the blade enveloping them and weaving a dense net. Yet Shixin's pipe seemed to descend from the heavens, appearing like a ghost from unexpected angles to strike Xiahou Lian's pressure points with precision—first his thighs, then his knees, then his chest, elbows, wrists, and back. No part of him was spared.
The pain! He felt as if a boulder were crushing his chest, suffocating him. Xiahou Lian spat out blood, roaring as he delivered a vertical slash. Shixin's pipe slid along Hengbo's blade with a grating sound, then struck Xiahou Lian's arm. Hengbo slipped from the younger man's grasp as he fell to the ground, gasping for breath.
Shixin looked down at him. "You can't defeat me. Will you keep going?"
Xiahou Lian didn't have the strength to respond. He stretched out his hand to reach for Hengbo's hilt; mud and blood, sticky and slick, covered his hand. The pain in his legs spread as he pushed himself up, but he gritted his teeth and didn't let out a single groan. When he couldn't stand the first time, he tried again. It took him three attempts, but he finally stood, leaning on Hengbo.
"Again!" Xiahou Lian roared hoarsely.
And so he charged over and over, only for Shixin to knock him down each time. Xiahou Lian was like a stubborn child, a headstrong calf, refusing to adapt, surrender, or yield. Even after being beaten, he would bite back. Knocked down for the twenty-sixth time, he ate another mouthful of dirty leaves, the metallic taste overwhelming his brain. Shixin's pipe had struck pressure points on all his limbs, leaving them weak and numb, as if countless tiny insects were burrowing through his veins.
Get up! Get up! Xiahou Lian clenched his teeth, tears in his eyes, and stood for the twenty-sixth time, dragging Hengbo behind him as he stumbled toward Shixin.
The Garden's Moon Cleave saber art!
The light of Hengbo's blade surged like a tidal wave, crashing toward Shixin with overwhelming force. Shixin remained expressionless, only drawing his pipe once the blade's momentum was directly in front of him, as heavy as a mountain and as cold as the moon. He struck Xiahou Lian's elbow, sending Hengbo clattering to the ground. Then Shixin swung his fist, landing the blow in Xiahou Lian's face.
Blood spurted from the young man's nose as his body fell backward in the rain. Every part of him ached as if it had been shattered—as if the slightest movement would make his bones creak and groan.
"You're too weak, Xiahou Lian," Shixin said, his eyes full of deep disappointment. "I thought you were the Garden's hope, but it turns out you're just a fragile child. Give up. It's fine. I overestimated you."
Xiahou Lian gasped for breath, his right eye swollen, half his face bruised and bloody. His entire visage was a patchwork of greens and purples; his head resembled that of a battered pig. He swayed on his feet but managed to stand and force his chin up to glare hatefully at Shixin.
"You're right, you old old bald donkey. My bladework sucks. Maybe when my mother had me and Chiyan, she gave him all her talent for the blade, and all I got was her taste for food, booze, and mischief." Xiahou Lian wiped blood from the corner of his mouth. "But heaven never seals every exit. Open your dull eyes, old man. What do you think this is?"
With that, Xiahou Lian raised his right hand, which now wore a silver glove that glimmered in the rain.
Shixin's pupils contracted.
As Xiahou Lian flexed his fingers, fallen leaves on the ground stirred. Then, a net like a giant spiderweb rose from the earth, silently ensnaring Shixin. The net was nearly invisible to the naked eye, but fine raindrops clung to the threads and flowed along them, revealing their presence. Countless leaves swirled and tumbled in the air, only to be abruptly sliced into halves, or thirds, or even smaller pieces.
"Qianji Thread," Shixin murmured. "To think that you managed to rediscover Qianji Thread!"
Dashing around the courtyard had been a ruse that allowed Xiahou Lian to set up this inescapable net. It now surrounded Shixin on all sides; the abbot had no way to retreat.
Xiahou Lian looked at him. "Do you have any last words, Shixin?" he asked softly.
Shixin lightly brushed his finger against one of the silken threads, and a hair-thin cut appeared immediately; a single crimson bead of blood welled up. A faint smile curled his lips, and he gazed into the distant heavens. "The peerless blade is forged at last," he murmured.
He looked back at Xiahou Lian, his eyes brimming with sorrow that Xiahou Lian couldn't understand. "Xiao-Lian, your seniors opened the gates for you. The road ahead you must walk alone… We'll…never meet again."
Xiahou Lian froze, his fingers stiffening. For a moment, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Then he thought of his mother and Chiyan, and hatred surged within him again. Clenching his teeth, he crooked his fingers.
The silk threads stretched taut, tension traveling up the countless filaments as the enormous net began to shrink. Raindrops raced along the nearly invisible strands like liquid silver. The dazzling lines flashed before Shixin's eyes as dull pain blossomed across his body. Something pierced his skull, and the world spun and upended. He watched himself drift away from his body as the black-robed form fragmented into countless cubical segments awash in blood. Then, he collapsed in pieces to the ground, like a child's toppled tower of blocks.
In his final moments, his gaze fell upon the boy clad in coarse black hemp who stood frozen in the distance, tears etching silent paths down his cheeks. Suddenly, it was decades earlier. A child with Xiahou Lian's eyes ran toward the temple gates wearing scuffed grass sandals. He was only a little taller than the threshold. Sucking his thumb, he stared up at Shixin.
After a moment of hesitation, Shixin took a piece of candy from the altar. "Want one?" he asked.
The boy's eyes burned with unmistakable longing, but he forced a proud expression onto his face. "No!"
A hollow thud echoed in Shixin's ears—the sound of his own head hitting the ground. The boy in the distance still wept silently. Shixin tried to speak. "Don't cry, Xiao-Lian," he wanted to say. "You shouldn't. You're a big boy now."
But Shixin couldn't speak; he no longer had a throat nor a way to make sound. Everything faded away, sinking into the silent darkness like water.
His life had finally come to an end.
***
XIAHOU LIAN SAT ON THE THRESHOLD, staring blankly at the long set of stairs.
He'd killed those he needed to kill, avenged all that needed avenging. His affairs were settled. The forest was dense, and morning glories climbed the steps, blooming brilliantly.
Feeling something sticky on his hand, he looked down to see that he was still bleeding. He put pressure on the wound, picked up Hengbo, set fire to Heimianfo, and stumbled back to his bamboo hut.
Behind him, a man in a black cloak emerged from the shadows—Duan Jiu. He watched Xiahou Lian retreat, then turned to look at the Qianji Thread draped like a spiderweb across the courtyard.
"What a stunning, deadly weapon," Duan Jiu murmured with a soft laugh before turning to disappear into the darkness.
Xiahou Lian's bamboo hut stood alone in the forest, surrounded by live bamboo and trees, wildflowers blooming all around. Xiahou Lian pushed open the door and entered his room. It was quiet but for the floor creaking under his feet. He was so tired; he just wanted to rest. He didn't bother bandaging his wounds. He knew the bleeding would take his life, but his affairs were finally settled.
As he sat on the heated bed, he noticed the corner of a letter peeking from under his pillow. Frowning in confusion, he pulled it out and opened it.
My brother,
I am headed north, and I do not know when I will return. In Jinling, I owe Auntie at the Confucius Temple three taels of silver for her crab-roe buns. Please repay her on my behalf. Also, a stray cat lives under the western side of Wanxiang Tower. I promised it some cake but never provided it. Please give the cat cake for me.
The road north is long. Do not worry about me. I do not fear the hardships of life and death, only that you might worry. I have lived on the mountain for so long and never fully experienced the world. I have heard of the autumn frost at Fengqiao, the evening bells of Hanshan Temple, and the songs of Wu River, all renowned. I often wished to visit those places with you, but there was never time. You and I share the same voice and appearance. I hope you will walk the world in my stead and see it with your eyes so that I may have no regrets.
May you live year after year in peace and joy, free from worry.
Your brother,
Chiyan
Chiyan's handwriting was as precise as his personality—calm and clear. Xiahou Lian traced the characters, his tears falling and smudging the ink. He coughed up blood, tucked the letter over his chest, and took Hengbo with him as he stumbled out the door again, headed for the Blade Cemetery. He bled the whole way, leaving a bloody footprint with every step. Sometimes he paused to lean against a bamboo stalk and rest, leaving behind a crimson handprint. After a dozen yards or so, his legs gave out, and he tumbled down the slope, rolling all the way to the bottom.
He didn't plan to go any farther. He lay in the bamboo forest, looking up at the sky. The rain had just stopped, the wind had lightened, and the clouds had thinned. Sunbeams filtered through the bamboo leaves and cast dappled shadows that danced over his body. He raised his hand, reaching for the brilliant sunlight.
In this life, his mother had died, and his master had perished; his childhood friend now saw him as an enemy; and his elder brother and shidi were nowhere to be found. His loved ones, his friends…they were all gone. The only companions seeing him off were the sky, the clouds, and the rustling bamboo sea.
It wasn't so bad. After all, his hands were stained with blood; his crimes were heinous, and he deserved no forgiveness.
Those who killed would be killed in turn.
Retribution upon him had come at just the right time.