Qiang Ming had learned one hard truth in Slaughter Barony's crucible: there was no rest for the hunted. Three nights after the Brain Explosion, he strode through the midnight streets toward the Black Column, every sense alive to whispers in the dark. The stench of refuse mingled with torch smoke; rats scuttled through the cracks in the broken cobblestones. He was halfway down a narrow alley when the first trap snapped.
A weighted net—knotted rope smeared with grease—dropped from a hidden balcony, entangling his legs. Before he could fully react, a heavy boot connected with his knee, sending him sprawling. Four shapes emerged from the gloom, stepping into the half‐light: lithe forms cloaked in tattered black, the same dark robes he'd seen Fen Luo wear. Each carried a different weapon: twin daggers, a brutal-looking wrench, a barbed chain, and a short spear.
"Thought you could kill our mistress and walk free?" snarled the tallest one, his voice muffled by a skull‐mask. "Time to pay for that sin."
Qiang Ming rolled with the landing, trading his grip on the hammer strapped to his back for his sheer will. He landed on one knee, yanking at the net until several knots gave way—but not before the blade‐wielder darted in, copper dagger flashing toward his ribs. Qiang Ming twisted aside, the steel grazing his side and hissing in pain. He caught the youth's wrist, spun him around, and drove his knee into the boy's stomach with such force the dagger clattered across the stones—and the youth crumpled gasping.
Two more attackers—one wielding a wrench—closed in. Qiang Ming feinted left, drawing the wrench‐man to overcommit, then ducked under a clumsy swing. He hefted the youth by the collar, slammed him headfirst into the wall, and watched as the man's skull echo‐cracked against the stone. Before the body could slump entirely, Qiang Ming kicked off the wall, somersaulted over the corpse, and wrenched away the weighted net, freeing his legs. He lashed the net at the fourth attacker, tangling him mid‐stride.
The remaining two—dagger and spear—paused only briefly before lunging in unison. Qiang Ming evaluated them: the spearman's thrust was linear but deadly in narrow spaces; the lunatic with chain could ensnare and rip flesh. The dagger‐flinger circled behind Qiang Ming's left shoulder while the spear‐man jabbed low. Qiang Ming dropped his weight, dodging the spear. Shoving off the spearman's chest, he vaulted backward, planting his feet firmly. The spearman stumbled and Qiang Ming drove a side‐fist into the man's solar plexus. Ribs exploded like dry wood; the spearman doubled over and collapsed amid silent finality.
Now only the chain‐wielder remained. He circled, barbed links clinking. Qiang Ming, chest heaving, knew exhaustion had set in—each breath was fire in his lungs. He backed toward the chained net still draped over a broken crate. The man swung his chain in wide arcs, the barbs ready to shred. Qiang Ming leaned forward, baiting a swing, then slipped left under the arc, snatching up the net as he passed. The trap fell around the chain‐wielder's legs. Qiang Ming tugged, pulling the man off his feet; the chain‐wielder screamed as the net tightened. Seizing the moment, Qiang Ming stepped inside the netted circle, yanked at the man's shoulders, and slammed him into the wall. Bone and rope protested in the same crack. The man slumped, the chain clattering against the stones.
Only one remained: the dagger‐flinger who had paused, watching. He lunged with desperate speed, but Qiang Ming's eyes had sharpened through every fight. Qiang Ming sidestepped at the last heartbeat, grabbed the youth's wrist as the blade thrust past, and spun him into the netted body of his comrade. The two collapsed together, entangled in net and chain and dagger. Qiang Ming delivered a final crushing blow—a hammer‐fist strike to the back of the dagger‐flinger's skull that sent him mercifully limp.
In the echoing silence, Qiang Ming knelt among the bodies, chest heaving, mind spinning. Four corpses lay strewn across the alley. The only sound was his own ragged breaths and the distant drip of water.
By torchlight, he worked quickly and methodically. Dragging bodies was no small task, but Qiang Ming had learned to prize efficiency. He hauled the first two into a hastily dug pit he'd prepared—a shallow grave behind a collapsed wall where the rubble had been cleared days before. Then the next two joined them. Their robes and weapons were stripped away and stacked neatly beside the pit; only blank straw tarps lay over the bodies.
When it was done, Qiang Ming stood at the edge of the grave, shoulders trembling with exhaustion and emotion. He removed the tarps and paused: the faces of the fallen youth, the wrench‐man, the spearman, and the chain‐wielder all stared up in twisted repose. None had spoken a name. None deserved one here. With a solemn nod, he pushed the tarps back into place, then shoveled rubble—broken cobblestones and shards of wood—over them until the pit was level with the alley floor.
Qiang Ming paused, hand on the hilt of his hammer, and surveyed the burial mound—a grisly cairn in the moonlit alley. The Barony did not weep for traitors, nor mark their passing with tears. Instead, it swallowed their bodies and moved on, leaving only the echoes of violence behind. Qiang Ming straightened, wiping sweat and grime from his brow, and touched the loose stone covering the grave.
He turned and vanished into the shadows, footsteps light but determined. Slaughter Barony demanded savagery, and he had delivered. Yet even as he walked away, he felt the heavy weight of four lost lives pressing on his conscience—fuel for the hammer and fire for his will. The street swallowed him whole, leaving only the silent grave as testament to the night's brutal lesson.