Chapter 120: Open Assassination, Who Is the Culprit? (Second Update)

Dust kicked up from the ground obscured the view, and the raft of wooden spikes, utilizing the elasticity of the old bamboo in the roadside grove, struck with shocking force and speed.

The two Imperial Guards in the lead, along with their warhorses, were instantly knocked over. The two men immediately behind them saw it coming, but it was too late; they were caught in the momentum of the front rank and sent tumbling in a heap of men and horses.

Hearing the roar ahead, Wu Qinglin grabbed his sword from the saddle in one motion while pushing off with his left hand to vault into the air. He only had time to kick the two men directly in front of him out of the way before the impact.

As those soldiers flew back, Mu Song also managed to tumble from his horse, shouting a warning to the others: "Ambush! Protect the prisoner carriage!"

Before his voice had faded, seven or eight men in black appeared from behind the small hill on the right, bows and crossbows raised, firing a volley of arrows at the airborne Wu Qinglin. They had not been hidden in front of the formation, but rather positioned about ten yards behind where Wu Qinglin was currently suspended—all of them locked onto a single target: Wu Qinglin.

The power of the heavy crossbows was formidable, and the bolts came from behind. Mu Song’s eyes nearly split with rage; he wanted to rush forward to help, but it was too late. In his desperation, he could only roar, "Young Master! Behind you!"

Wu Qinglin had seen battle; his experience and ability to react were not to be underestimated. Initially, after kicking the soldiers away, he had intended to land and charge back toward the rear. Now, finding his retreat cut off and seeing the wooden spike raft—though its speed had slowed—still bearing down on him, he realized he was caught in a pincer. Being in mid-air with no leverage to dodge, he made a split-second decision: he stepped directly onto the wooden spikes as they reached him.

The rain of arrows behind him missed their mark. Wu Qinglin climbed several steps up the raft and vaulted over the top. However, his eyesight was keen; as he landed, he noticed that the tips of the spikes, where they had pierced the horses and soldiers, were stained black.

They were poisoned!

A chill ran through Wu Qinglin. As his feet hit the ground, he turned to warn Mu Song, but before he could steady himself, a figure lunged from beneath the dense weeds in a nearby ditch. The man slid toward him like a loach, a short blade aiming straight for his ankles.

Wu Qinglin did not dare to be careless. He side-stepped and retreated several paces, narrowly avoiding the strike. Before the man could recover, two more swordsmen, camouflaged with tree branches tied to their bodies, leapt down from the dense canopy above. They moved in perfect coordination, wielding twin blades that wove a dense, lethal web of steel, descending upon him. The man on the ground did not give up, following the attack with another swift, sliding lunge.

Seeing the blade edge closing in on his feet, Wu Qinglin pushed off the ground. The man on the ground, thinking he was going to clash head-on with the two from above, sprang up to form a pincer. But Wu Qinglin didn't go straight up; he jumped only half a man's height, then used his waist strength to dive back down, reversing his momentum.

The man, caught mid-rise, never expected this feint and reacted sluggishly, instinctively thrusting his blade at an awkward angle. Knowing the spikes were poisoned, Wu Qinglin didn't dare risk a direct hit, even if a minor cut wouldn't be fatal. He shifted his longsword, which had been aimed at the man's throat, and parried.

With a metallic clash, their blades locked. In this life-or-death moment, he held nothing back, pouring his internal energy into the strike. The man’s wrist buckled, his grip softening.

The two from above were closing in. Wu Qinglin caught a glimpse of their progress out of the corner of his eye and felt a surge of grim satisfaction. Just as he prepared to strike, he suddenly withdrew his force, dropped back to the ground, and sidestepped.

The sword web from above plummeted down. The man on the ground, failing to withdraw in time, realized he was doomed. Instead of retreating, Wu Qinglin grabbed the man’s belt, yanked him back, and held him up like a shield.

"Ah—ah—" A heart-wrenching shriek tore through the air as blood and gore sprayed everywhere. The two attackers from above, having committed to their dive with no room for error, could not halt their momentum. Seeing they had struck their own comrade, they were caught in a moment of panic.

Wu Qinglin, having bought himself a moment, abandoned the dying man and flashed forward like a ghost. At point-blank range, he thrust his sword through the throat of one of the aerial attackers. As he withdrew the blade, a fountain of blood erupted; he didn't retreat, but stepped forward to strike again.

The last attacker had landed and raised his sword to block. *Bang!* The blades collided. The man pushed with all his might, but Wu Qinglin’s focus wasn't on the swords; he drove his left fist into the man’s chest. The impact shattered the man's heart. However, in doing so, his right hand lacked the strength to hold the parry, and the man’s blade grazed his left arm and chest, leaving a long, bleeding gash.

The wound was inflicted by his own blade, and unsure if the enemy's steel was poisoned, Wu Qinglin kicked the man away. The assailant flew five or six yards, landing in a cloud of dust before his eyes widened and he expired in a pool of blood.

Though the skirmish seemed drawn out, the entire sequence of reversals occurred in the blink of an eye. As Wu Qinglin kicked the final assassin away, the wooden spike raft behind him finally lost its momentum and collapsed with a thunderous crash.

The archers on the hill were stunned. Their mission had been to cut off Wu Qinglin's retreat; if he were poisoned, all the better, but even if he survived, forcing him into the encirclement should have meant certain death. Yet, his reflexes and combat prowess had exceeded all expectations.

Seeing their double-layered trap fail, the archers hesitated, unsure whether to continue or retreat. In that moment of indecision, Mu Song, seeing Wu Qinglin was safe, snatched a bow from a soldier and fired back. "Take them alive if you can, but kill them on the spot if you must! Don't let a single one escape!"

His arrow brought one of them down. The soldiers, emboldened, charged up the hill with spears and sabers. The hilly terrain was treacherous, and the dense foliage made it easy for the attackers to vanish.

Mu Song led the charge, cursing under his breath, when suddenly, several screams erupted from behind the slope. Everyone tensed, rushing forward to find the archers lying on the ground, clutching their knees or legs.

Nearby was a small grove. Mu Song scanned the area and caught a fleeting glimpse of a shadow, but it vanished too quickly—too fast to discern height, gender, or build. It felt like a hallucination. Realizing he couldn't catch them, he ordered his men, "Tie them all up and bring them to the main road."

On the road, Wu Qinglin had returned after finishing off the three assassins. His wounds were not fatal, but the long gash was bleeding profusely, looking quite gruesome. His personal guards hurriedly applied medicinal powder and bandaged him with clean cloth.

"General, bear with it," a guard warned as the powder stung.

"I know," Wu Qinglin replied calmly. Seeing soldiers about to clear the road, he warned, "Be careful! The spikes on that raft are heavily poisoned. Don't touch them, and be cautious with the assassins' weapons as well."

The soldiers hesitated, realizing the danger. Sure enough, the horses and men struck by the spikes were already dead, their wounds blackened. They felt a chill—these bastards were truly ruthless.

Mu Song approached, looking thoughtful. Wu Qinglin called out to him, "How did it go?"

"Oh!" Mu Song gathered his thoughts. "There were seven archers. I shot one, and the other six are alive." He hesitated, then added with a frown, "The person who incapacitated them had incredible martial arts. I didn't see who it was; they just vanished."

Wu Qinglin understood immediately. If the person had been an accomplice, they would have silenced the archers permanently rather than just wounding their knees. Whoever it was had helped them keep the prisoners alive.

"I understand," Wu Qinglin said. He changed into a fresh robe, his composure entirely restored. To the soldiers, he was still the same calm, elegant young general.

A soldier brought over the items recovered from the assassins. "General, as you suspected, their weapons were poisoned, including the arrows."

Wu Qinglin’s lips thinned. He knew better than anyone how lethal those attacks had been. The prisoner in the carriage was the second-in-command of the mountain bandits, but these attackers hadn't tried to rescue him—they were there specifically for Wu Qinglin.

"What of the captives?" he asked.

The six archers were dragged down, limping from their leg wounds. Wu Qinglin scanned them, not recognizing any. "Do you know me?"

One man, a bearded fellow in his thirties, rasped, "We aren't with those other guys. We’re just drifters from the Jiangbei region. A few weeks ago, we were hired for a thousand taels of gold to help ambush a government official. We were told you were coming to suppress the local寨. We didn't know anything else."

"Who hired you?" Wu Qinglin asked.

"Don't know! We only saw him three times. He wore a bamboo hat and a wide robe; we never saw his face. He wasn't old, but not young either. Damn it, we were played by that bastard!"

Wu Qinglin turned away, dismissing the matter. "They are remnants of the Siping寨. Get extra carriages at the next post station and escort them to the capital."

Mu Song wanted to speak, but Wu Qinglin silenced him with a glance. He inspected the weapons—nothing but standard-issue steel. Another soldier brought two purses found on the assassins, containing only bits of silver and a small gourd filled with a minty-smelling ointment.

"Mosquito repellent?" Mu Song wondered.

Wu Qinglin’s eyes flickered; he tucked the gourd into his sleeve. "It’s nearly noon. Let’s get back on the road."

Two days later, at dawn, the Emperor was awakened by Tao Renzhi. A guard in imperial livery knelt, trembling: "Your Majesty, please forgive me. The task you entrusted to me... has encountered an accident."