Chapter 37: The Pursuer

Night had fallen. The bandit had lounged for a while in the pomelo tree, but when he suddenly opened his eyes to look at the desolate village, it was already ablaze with lights. Yet, where was his own home?

The wind howled incessantly, and the sky—damn it—truly felt as if it were about to snow. The bandit leaned under the pomelo tree, watching the young woman sitting quietly before the scholar’s door, her smile blooming like a flower. He envied this sight, yet sighed deeply; he feared that in this life, such happiness would never be his.

With no other choice, he shouldered his pack, took one last look at the heartwarming scene, and quietly slipped away along the ancient path of the desolate village. As for his departure, the villagers cared not at all. What, in the end, did they truly care about?

He walked for half a day until he reached a place devoid of human presence. In the sky, it sounded as if someone were constantly roaring, yet when he listened closely, there was no one to be seen. The bandit wanted to return to his mountain cave, but the memory of those hunting him kept him from daring to go back. He could only carry his pack and walk along the deserted road.

Rain began to fall, the sound like weeping. The cold of the night was absolute, and upon the distant mountains, ghosts seemed to be cursing the heavens.

The bandit stayed in a dilapidated rock cavern. Alone and friendless, he warmed himself by a small fire. In the distance, in the vast emptiness, it sounded as if people were speaking, but upon listening closely, there was nothing. Could the trees be talking?

He thought of his family. He had been orphaned since childhood, and his only brother had been murdered. His enemies, fearing his vengeance, hunted him day and night; without this, they could never feel at ease. More terrifying still, the bandit did not even know what his enemies looked like, or how many there were.

At this thought, the bandit could not stop the tears from falling. To others, his tears would only invite contempt, perhaps seen as a sign of weakness. Here, in the ruined cave, without a woman or a companion, his only company was the distant cursing of ghosts.

He glanced at the sky. The rain continued to fall outside, but inside the cave, it was surprisingly warm. He roasted a leg of lamb over his fire; the aroma wafted out, making his mouth water.

The lamb was cooked, and he ate it by the dim firelight while the wind roared outside. Rocks tumbled in the gale, rolling away like an angry tide. The howling of wolves was lost in the wind, and the moon emerged, casting light like a woman’s smile.

After eating his fill, the bandit practiced his martial arts in the open space. At midnight, the mountains seemed to applaud him, and the faint weeping from the valley could no longer be heard.

With one strike of his staff, the rocks trembled, shattering and rolling away like a passing breeze, never to be seen again.

He struck a tree with his fist, causing leaves to shower down. A dragon sleeping in the branches was startled, tumbled to the ground, and wandered off, dazed.

The rain fell again. The bandit crawled back into the cave and unrolled his bedding. The night was deep; what else was there to do but sleep?

He lay in the cave, eyes closed, but the torrential rain continued outside the cavern entrance. The wind swept in from somewhere, chilling the ruined space. A loud noise startled him awake. He opened his eyes, but saw nothing unusual—only that across the river, it seemed as if countless people were shouting.

The light of torches illuminated the wilderness, making even the bandit’s own hands clearly visible. Countless torches lined the opposite bank, as if they might swarm across at any moment to slaughter him without mercy.

Those people, to put it plainly, were the husbands or fathers of women. They came to kill the bandit to avenge their wives or daughters. Some of the women the bandit had glimpsed had gone mad, stripping off their clothes whenever they saw a person; others had committed suicide. Naturally, those who had veiled their faces remained unharmed; only those who had been careless were now gone from this world. It was a small matter, but rumors are fearsome, and in the eyes of the world, those women who had suffered such indignity were held in lower regard than refuse. Their descent into the grave was a tragedy of helplessness.

Yet, though they had departed this life, they bore the bandit no grudge, even though he had secretly looked upon their faces when they were unguarded. Had the bandit known, he would have gouged out his own eyes rather than look at them.

"I’ll fuck your mother!" someone shouted from the sea of torches across the river. "And then I’ll butcher you myself, you beast!"

The bandit sat on a rock, burning with anxiety. But with the river between them, he figured they could not cross immediately, so he sat and ate his beef, trying to devise a plan.

Eventually, men began to swim across, torches held high. He could see how blindingly bright the blades in their hands were. Seeing these weapons, the bandit grew angry. He could not sit and wait for death, dying in such an ignorant way at their hands—he was not reconciled to it. But he had no way to counter them. Then, countless others swam across, rushing toward him, brandishing their blades, eager to kill. Faced with this, the bandit had to run; staying there would mean being scared to death, if not hacked to death.

But the rain was still pouring. Where could he run? He could not stay, as they were already upon him, and a long blade had been thrown his way, nearly ending his life.

He ran deep into the mountains. The paths were slick, and with the rain falling like a deluge, he tripped time and again. Yet he dared not stop. The sounds of pursuit were constant, and the thunder in the sky added to his misery, making him feel that his end was truly near.

He had committed no crime; why did they want to kill him? Was there no justice in this world? He didn't know; he only knew he had to run for his life. Otherwise, to die at the hands of this mob would be a meaningless end.

The bandit ran ahead, while the line of torches held by his pursuers stretched for a mile or more. Perhaps by some divine grace, the rain could not extinguish their torches.

"Don't run, you dog! I’ll kill you today!" someone roared, the voice so close behind him that it seemed his time had truly come.

However, a fight broke out among the pursuers. Someone had tripped and fallen onto the person behind him. The man who had been crushed was already furious—his daughter was dead, and now he was being trampled? To make matters worse, the man who fell had defecated in his fear—how humiliating! In a fit of rage, the man who had been crushed stabbed the one who tripped. It was only one stab, but he immediately realized his mistake, though it was too late—the man was dead.