Chapter 13 — A Hundred Blows of a Wooden Stick Sever the Thread of Life

Senior Brother Qu was finally seized with terror. "He means to use this little wooden stick to beat me to death, to keep beating me until I die!" He genuinely wished the other man held a knife, even a dull one. Of course, the little stick was not very powerful, but by now Senior Brother Qu's head and face had swollen into bruised, pus-filled lumps; the swelling had squeezed his eyes into two thin slits, and his sight was growing ever blurrier. The skin over his body was purple and blue, some of his muscles had been pounded into paste, and his joints had received Shen Mu's special attention. Shen Mu was not going for the bones of the joints but for the ligaments and fascia; the ligaments and fascia at every joint had snapped under that small wooden stick, and the slightest movement brought a tearing agony. To be killed a bit at a time by a little wooden stick was the most terrifying thing imaginable, for the agony and the fear were stretched out untold times, yet death would not come anytime soon. By then the herd that had been galloping above their heads had vanished; the two had fought their way out of the ruins' gate, and the beasts had scattered. Shen Mu's strength was ebbing too. After one slashing stroke after another, so many that he had lost count, he also could not hold on much longer. He had been running and fighting under the great beasts' bellies with Senior Brother Qu, dodging both his opponent's sword and the beasts' hooves and claws; the ceaseless changes of footwork had left his legs swollen and sore. When the Butcher trained him, mad as the Butcher often was, he still knew how to set limits and never drove Shen Mu past exhaustion. Now Shen Mu no longer had the strength to keep swinging, and only sheer will kept him going. He knew that if he stopped, even a single breath of vital energy might let Senior Brother Qu move, and Shen Mu would be cut down, head and body split apart. He could only keep on beating him until Qu died. Thump. Senior Brother Qu finally could not hold on any longer and pitched face-first to the ground; his precious sword fell with a clatter. Shen Mu threw away the stick and grabbed the sword, but he could not lift it; his arms did not even have that last bit of strength. He lifted his foot and kicked the hilt a little at a time, turning the point toward Senior Brother Qu. Qu could barely make out the sight and tried to squirm away, but his bones and fascia were almost entirely destroyed, and even his muscles could no longer move him. He could not move an inch and could only watch Shen Mu, with immense effort, adjust the angle of the sword bit by bit, then kick it forward bit by bit, driving the blade slowly into his throat. At last the sword pierced his throat; gurgling sounds came from his neck, bubbles rose among the blood, and before long he breathed his last. Shen Mu was relieved and sank to the ground, limp. It had been too hard; he had never been this exhausted. A corpse lay beside him, and the feeling was far from pleasant. He tried to move his body, but he truly could not, so he gave up the attempt. This was not his first corpse. The woman who had crawled out of an oxhide by the river had turned into a corpse, and so had Senior Brother Qu's two junior apprentice brothers. Once Granny Zhu had taken him to a neighboring village to help a woman in labor—aside from tailoring clothes, Granny Zhu also served as a midwife and delivered babies for the women of nearby villages. When they arrived there, the villagers were all dead, men and women, old and young, including the woman who had been waiting to give birth. At the time Shen Mu's mind had gone blank; he had felt himself drifting through the air, floating weightlessly above the village, looking down at the horror. It was Granny Zhu who had woken him. She said he had been so frightened that his soul had left his body, and she had pulled it back and stuffed it in. She did not say who had killed the villagers; she only told him such things were very common in the ruins, and so—"Never leave your enemy any chance," Granny Zhu said to him with great gravity. Senior Brother Qu's corpse made him uneasy, but the ruins were exactly such a place: the strong preyed on the weak and the fittest survived. Shen Mu had grown up here, used to seeing strange beasts fight and kill one another in the ruins; Qu's corpse was no different from any other beast's corpse. He was still steadying his breathing when footsteps suddenly sounded. Shen Mu strained to turn his head toward the sound and was startled to see Senior Sister Qing limping his way, a sword in her hand and her face swollen like a pig's head, beyond recognition. He struggled to rise, but every limb, joint, and muscle ached and swelled, so he could only stop and pant, silently driving the Three-Pellet Mystic Body Art. His vital essence slowly grew lively, welled up, and flowed toward aching muscles and torn sinews and bones. Where it passed, the swelling eased, but his senses sharpened and a fiery, scorching pain rushed in. Senior Sister Qing kept limping closer. This woman had fought Shen Mu with her leg arts, and he had kicked both her legs half to ruin; her face had taken no one knew how many kicks, and the worst had been the final one, which Shen Mu had delivered with all his strength. That kick had been like a poisonous dragon lashing its tail, flattening her pretty features, and now her face was swollen, puffed up like overnight dough left to rise. The teeth in her mouth had likely all been knocked out; from the corners of her lips saliva mixed with blood was dripping endlessly. But her hand was steady, and the sword in it still shone with cold light. Clearly her heart held towering hatred, and she wanted to cut Shen Mu into ten thousand pieces. Shen Mu quickened the Three-Pellet Mystic Body Art, trying to recover some strength, but the fierce battle had left his body far too worn out. Only one who had opened the Spirit Embryo Wall and absorbed the Spirit-Soul Palace could be called a true martial artist. He was not yet a true martial artist, yet he had been able to beat a martial artist like Senior Brother Qu to death—that was already an extraordinary accomplishment. But no more than that. He had no strength left to go on fighting Senior Sister Qing. At last Senior Sister Qing reached Shen Mu. She tried to speak, but her mouth and throat were too swollen to make a sound, so she raised the sword and drove it viciously down at him! "What an adorable little girl. Granny has taken a real fancy to you." Senior Sister Qing's body suddenly froze; the sword hit an invisible obstruction and could not come down. Terror appeared in her eyes as she saw a little old woman with a basket on her arm, tottering over on tiny bound feet. Shivering from head to foot, Senior Sister Qing retreated, when a resonant voice sounded from behind her: "Mu-er, my Beast-Butchering Saber Art became a little wooden stick in your hands! It took you five thousand four hundred and seventy-six strokes to bring this boy down, and the one who finally killed the little bastard was a sword!" Senior Sister Qing turned her head with difficulty and saw several misshapen people approaching: a blind old man holding a staff to feel his way, a lame old man with one leg missing, a freak with all four limbs hacked off, and a burly, ferocious-faced man who was nothing but an upper torso. The torso man had been packed into a bamboo basket and carried all the way, while the limbless freak had been borne along by the others. Every one of them looked horrifically mangled. The only one who appeared normal was the middle-aged man carrying the bamboo basket, but his face had been completely destroyed, the skin pared flat, making him the most ghastly and savage sight of all. The one who had spoken was the torso man, ferocious-faced, sitting in the basket. He was so angry that his beard bristled and his eyes bulged, and he began to scold Shen Mu from across the distance: