Chapter 34: Must Kill

Chen Shi vaulted over the wall, landing quietly in Fugui’s courtyard. Startled, Fugui stared at him with fear in his eyes, his face marked with whip scars. His legs went weak, and he nearly knelt, trembling at the thought of pleading for mercy.

Unaware of Fugui’s inner turmoil, Chen Shi glanced around and whispered, “Fugui, where are your parents?”

“They’re... they’re outside, cooking,” Fugui stammered, his voice quivering.

“Cooking?” Chen Shi frowned slightly and walked out of the house.

Fugui, seeing him leave, exhaled in relief.

Previously, Fugui had befriended Chen Shi without reservation, grateful for the boy who had saved him. But later, upon learning that Chen Shi was the infamous “dead child,” Fugui’s gratitude turned to dread.

“A child who returns from the dead isn’t human anymore. Who knows whether his body houses his own soul or a ghost?” his mother had warned him. “Even if it’s his soul, it must have been a ghost first before becoming human again!”

Chen Shi stepped onto the street, heading toward the center of Huangyang Village. The silence was punctuated by faint groans coming from the houses lining the road.

Those groaning seemed to want to cry out in pain but dared not, stifling their voices.

Every few steps, Chen Shi passed a Jin Yiwei standing sentinel. Seeing that he was just a child leaving Fugui’s house, they paid him no mind.

The groans grew softer but continued as Chen Shi advanced. When he reached the village center, he came upon an open space. Amid the ruins of the old temple and several large trees whose shade stretched wide, villagers bustled about, preparing food.

Four stoves with iron pots were set up, hot water bubbling inside. Steam wafted from bamboo steamers, and an old man scalded chickens and ducks for plucking. Others stir-fried vegetables, washed ingredients by the well, or diced food at a cutting board.

Despite the lively scene, the villagers bore wounds—scars from whippings on their bodies and faces. The atmosphere was oppressive, the air filled with tension.

It was nearly noon, and the villagers appeared to be preparing a feast, pulling together what little remained of their provisions.

A Jin Yiwei spotted Chen Shi, noted his fair complexion, and barked, “Hey, boy! Over here! You’ll deliver the food.”

Chen Shi walked over.

“When the dishes are ready, take them to the temple,” the Jin Yiwei ordered, leather whip in hand. “Inside are noble guests from the provincial capital. Mind your manners. Don’t ask questions, and don’t eavesdrop. Understand?”

“Yes, yes!” Chen Shi nodded quickly.

The surrounding villagers looked up at the sound of his voice, staring blankly.

The Jin Yiwei cracked his whip with a sneer. “What are you staring at? Get to work! You, over there—cook faster!”

He pointed at Fugui’s father, who scurried over to the stove, glancing nervously at Chen Shi but saying nothing.

Fugui’s father, the village’s go-to chef for weddings and funerals, quickly prepared four dishes within minutes. Though not as refined as food from a city restaurant, his cooking was just as flavorful.

Chen Shi draped a white towel over his wrist, placed the dishes on a tray, and headed toward the temple. Fugui’s father opened his mouth to speak but ultimately remained silent.

At the temple entrance, Chen Shi noticed a body lying in the ruins—face down, blood and brain matter pooling around a gaping hole in the skull. He recognized the half-visible face.

It was Sanwang.

Chen Shi’s chest tightened, blood rushing to his head. Memories of the strange dream from the previous night surged back—Sanwang’s warning to flee.

So it was true... Sanwang was dead.

He stood still for a moment, steadying his emotions before stepping over the threshold into the temple.

Inside, the temple’s original austere layout had been replaced with new furnishings: a Luohan bed, four armchairs, and a central Eight Immortals table surrounded by six chairs.

Sitting on the Luohan bed was Zhao Yue, the Third Young Master of the Zhao family. Opposite him was his sister, Zhao Xue’e, a graceful and dignified young woman, playing a game of chess.

Around them, four other Zhao family members sat in armchairs, drinking tea and snacking on candied fruits. They appeared relaxed and pampered, without the aura of killers.

However, the six Jin Yiwei standing behind them were a stark contrast, exuding palpable menace. Each Jin Yiwei maintained an active shrine, their Divine Embryos seated within, radiating vigilance and power.

Chen Shi recognized them as seasoned combatants, far superior to the Li family’s lackluster guards.

Among them, one stood out—a hulking figure with the build of a bear. His imposing presence, combined with his fierce gaze and bloodstained three-barreled musket, marked him as a battle-hardened killer.

Chen Shi remained calm, silently assessing the situation. The six Jin Yiwei posed a formidable threat, with the bear-like guard, He Lianzheng, clearly the most dangerous.

The guards’ eyes locked onto Chen Shi as he entered, scrutinizing him for any sign of hostility. They were too experienced to miss even the slightest hint of aggression.

A bloated fortune-teller cowered in the corner, muttering frantically, “He’ll kill you all... That’s Chen Shi! He’ll kill every last one of you!”

Only Chen Shi heard his words, which he ignored.

He approached the Eight Immortals table and placed the dishes down, methodically wiping the table and chairs with the towel.

Zhao Yue straightened his posture and inhaled the aroma of the food. “Rustic as they are, this village chef’s dishes smell quite good. Let’s eat.”

Chen Shi silently served, even bowing to wipe the chairs clean. Throughout the process, he felt He Lianzheng’s piercing gaze on him, the man’s hand gripping his musket.

Chen Shi knew any false move would end with his skull shattered by the musket’s heavy barrel.

After ensuring everything was in place, Chen Shi turned to leave.

“Wait!” He Lianzheng’s deep voice rumbled, sending a shiver through Chen Shi.

Chen Shi stopped, his mind racing. What had he done to reveal himself?

“Taste the dishes first,” He Lianzheng commanded.

Zhao Xue’e chuckled. “You’re being overly cautious, He Lianzheng.”

“Better safe than sorry,” He Lianzheng replied. “The villagers were tortured yesterday. Who’s to say they haven’t poisoned the food? Boy, eat from each dish before leaving.”

Chen Shi obeyed, picking up chopsticks to sample each dish. With deliberate calm, he moved to taste the fourth dish.

Zhao Yue suddenly tensed, his eyes narrowing as realization struck. “Why does this boy have no whip marks?”

He Lianzheng also noticed, his hand moving to his musket.

Before Zhao Yue could finish his thought, Chen Shi struck. A chopstick flew from his hand, piercing Zhao Yue’s temple. Blood spurted as the utensil drove through to the opposite side.

In the same instant, Chen Shi’s left hand drove another chopstick into Zhao Xue’e’s chest, puncturing her heart.

Zhao Yue’s dying thought was one of disbelief: Why did he strike now?