The next day, early morning.
After rising, Yang Jing first practiced the Collapsing Mountain Fist for an hour in his room before leaving the courtyard.
He did not head to Chengping Ward where the Sun Clan Martial Arts Hall was located. Instead, he went straight south out of the city.
Yuhe County governed nine townships. Among them, Wazi Township lay to the southwest of the county seat, roughly thirty li away.
Now that Yang Jing practiced martial arts, his body was strong and his pace was swift. Traveling back was far faster than his journey here by ox cart.
Exiting the city gate, he followed the official road southwest.
Weeds flanked the road, growing past his ankles. Wind swept dust across the road surface, scattering a few withered leaves and carrying faint, distant wails.
Along the way, Yang Jing saw many refugees. Most were dressed in rags. Some carried cloth bundles on their backs; others bore crude bamboo baskets on shoulder poles, inside which sallow, emaciated children curled up. They shuffled forward, one laborious step at a time, their gazes as empty as dust-choked dry wells.
"The refugees have grown even more numerous."
Yang Jing frowned.
The world was growing ever more chaotic.
Half a month ago, when he had returned to the city from Wazi Township, there had not been so many refugees on the road.
Judging by their accents, Yang Jing reckoned most of these refugees had fled from Cao Prefecture to the west.
"I wonder how Father and First Uncle are faring now?" Yang Jing's heart grew heavy.
First Uncle Yang Guang and his father had signed up with the local militia to earn a bit more silver and had followed the grain convoy to Cao Prefecture. To this day, no news had returned.
Just as Yang Jing was mulling this over, a sudden commotion erupted up ahead.
Three masked men wielding short blades burst from the woods beside the road, blocking a group of refugees pushing wheelbarrows.
The wheelbarrows held nothing but half a sack of moldy brown rice, yet the men's eyes gleamed with vicious intent. They kicked over a wheelbarrow, scattering the rice across the ground. Immediately, refugees lunged to scoop it into their bosoms, only to be kicked aside by the masked men.
The owner was a middle-aged man with red-rimmed eyes who tried to fight desperately. He had just raised his carrying pole when a slash opened his arm. Blood instantly dyed his tattered sleeve red. He collapsed to the ground in pain, forced to watch helplessly as the three masked men made off with that last bit of food.
Yang Jing halted in the distance. He watched the bandits finish their robbery and slip back into the woods. The refugees on the road either lowered their heads and hurried past or made wide detours around the scene. No one dared make a sound.
Let alone bailiffs—there was not even the shadow of a proper patrol soldier.
Yang Jing did not interfere. Although he counted as a martial practitioner now, he had yet to develop internal force. The gap between him and ordinary people was not significant.
If he rashly stepped in to fight someone else's battle, he might well lose his own life instead. After all, those three masked men were armed with blades.
Yang Jing still had a large family to protect behind him. Naturally, he wouldn't commit "heroic acts of chivalric justice" without confidence. That was the prerogative of great heroes and experts. He was still far from that level.
Yang Jing lowered his head and continued hurrying on his way.
Besides the scent of dust, the wind also carried a faint, barely perceptible bloody odor.
Yang Jing quickened his pace, doing his best to avoid the gathered refugees as well as the corpses and signs of fighting along the roadside.
The road beneath his feet was pitted and uneven, whether crushed by cart wheels or trampled by countless feet.
Two hours after leaving the county seat, Yang Jing finally returned to Yang Family Village in Wazi Township.
Along the way, he had sensed some appraising gazes. But having trained in martial arts for a long time—especially having cultivated with near-mad intensity for the past half month—his physique was far stronger than that of ordinary commoners, not to mention the sallow, emaciated refugees surrounding him. Even dressed in coarse cloth work clothes, he could not hide the strength contained within his body. The outlines of his shoulder and back muscles were faintly visible beneath the fabric.
Even if someone harbored ill intentions, the sight of Yang Jing's stalwart frame and brisk stride dispelled such notions.
"Yang Jing is back?"
"Little Jing."
"Little Jing truly lives up to being a martial practitioner. That build of his is far sturdier than us farming folk."
"I heard many martial practitioners only look sturdy but actually have dead muscle. Little Jing, let Auntie feel whether that's dead muscle on you or not?"
The village neighbors all greeted Yang Jing warmly.
Only after he had walked far past did someone curl their lips in disdain. "What's the use of practicing martial arts? Their family used to rank among the best in our village. Look at them now—selling oxen, selling land, all to support his training. What has their life come to?"
This remark earned agreement from some and opposition from others.
Beneath the poplar tree at the head of the village, several farmwives sat on square stools chatting.
Yang Jing did not know what the others were saying about him. He quickly followed the village path to his doorstep.
"Hmm?"
Yang Jing froze slightly at the scene before his gate.
Grandmother Qin and his mother, Liu Cuiling, were standing at the courtyard gate scrubbing something.
His mother stood on tiptoe, vigorously wiping the door with a rag, while his grandmother stooped over, sweeping filth from the doorstep with a broom. Both moved with urgent haste, fine beads of sweat at their temples.
"Mother, what are you doing?" Yang Jing asked with a frown. Drawing closer, he caught a pungent stench—the mingled reek of latrine excrement and earthy grime.
"Jing'er is back?"
Grandmother and mother turned from the gate, hurriedly setting down their broom and wet rag as they came toward him.
Yang Jing went around them to the gate.
Several dark stains were clearly visible on the courtyard door, as if someone had forcefully splashed them on. His mother had probably scrubbed for quite a while, managing only to remove the surface filth and leaving ugly streaks behind.
"Mother, Grandmother, what happened?"
Yang Jing's voice sank. His gaze swept across the filthy door, and his heart suddenly tightened.
His mother's hand froze. She hurriedly hid the rag behind her back and forced a smile. "It's nothing. Just... just some blind stray dog that rubbed filth on the door. Your grandmother and I will clean it up."
Grandmother nodded as well, coughing twice. "Yes, yes. There are many stray dogs in the countryside. It's nothing serious."
But her hand sweeping the filth on the ground trembled slightly.
"Can stray dogs fling feces this high?" Yang Jing stared at the shoulder-height stain on the door, his tone carrying an unyielding harshness. "Who exactly did this?"
His mother opened her mouth to speak.
Yang Jing waved his hand to interrupt, turning to Grandmother Qin—honest and proper her entire life, incapable of lying. "Grandmother, you tell me."
Qin's lips moved. Her eyes dodged his, not daring to meet his gaze. After a long moment, her eyes reddened, and her voice took on a sobbing tone. "Jing'er, don't ask. Let's... let's endure it for now. Your grandfather has already gone to find your uncle-in-law. We'll sell those two mu of upper-grade fields north of the village to Master Ning."
"Endure?" Yang Jing's eyes narrowed slightly. His fist clenched at his side, knuckles turning white. A surge of fury shot up from his chest, burning so fiercely his temples throbbed.
"Jing'er?" Liu Cuiling asked worriedly.
"Mother, I'm fine."
Yang Jing shook his head. His expression quickly calmed. Then he snatched the rag from his mother's hand, dipped it in water, and scrubbed the door panel with force.
The stain on the rag made the stench even stronger, yet the force in his hands grew heavier and heavier.
"Cuiling, go tell your sister-in-law that Jing'er is back. Have her send the dog over. We'll stew it tonight." Grandmother quietly told his mother.
That night.
In the Yang family main room.
Everyone sat around the Eight Immortals table. Upon it rested two basins of steaming dog meat.
Grandfather Yang the Old Master naturally occupied the main seat. To his left and right sat Uncle-in-law Shi Yunlin and Yang Jing.
Yang Jing looked at the dog meat on the table, then glanced at his elder cousin Yang An beside him, whose eyes were red-rimmed. The hand beneath the table involuntarily clenched into a fist.
The dog was called Heizi, a fine guard dog that had been raised at First Uncle's house for many years. The day before yesterday, Feng Lei had brought men to the village and kicked Heizi into the courtyard wall with one blow, killing him on the spot.
Aunt-in-law had waited until Yang Jing returned to stew the meat, resulting in tonight's meal of dog meat.