Volume One: The Thousand-Year Stream Chapter Five: The Path of the Malevolent Slayer

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For every ten deaths, atop the perilous peak, a statue of a mud Buddha was crafted from earth and stone. Gouzi’s body was left outside—an unavoidable fate for the gatekeepers—and his wife packed up their belongings and returned to the city to live with their child. She bore no grudge against Sun Zikai; women like her were always prepared for such outcomes, fully understanding that no gatekeeper met a peaceful end. Her day of reckoning was inevitable.

Sun Zikai and Old Zhang molded the mud Buddha together, inscribing the names of the ten gatekeepers upon it. Only then did Sun Zikai realize that Gouzi shared his surname—he was a relative.

Old Zhang patted Sun Zikai’s shoulder reassuringly. “It’s not your fault—you’re still young. But you must carry this grudge. You owe him that.”

Sun Zikai’s expression was calm. “Old Zhang, does the city care about this place?”

“It does. They provide food, drink, all supplies. We can go to the city and eat as much as we want without paying. When someone dies, the city is informed, and soon enough, new people arrive to take their place.”

Outside Ansheng Pass, hundreds of barbarians had gathered, furious over the slaughter of their families. They shouted at the gate but lacked siege weapons and had only a few bows, so their threats were mostly bluster. Still, the gatekeepers dared not relax, all standing watch on the walls.

Sun Zikai said, “The gate will be broken sooner or later. They have numbers, and they’ll use fire and stones to smash it open.”

Old Zhang replied, “The situation’s been reported. Reinforcements will come.”

Sun Zikai walked to the cliff’s edge, coldly surveying the scene beyond the gate. He crouched, picked up a stone, and lightly tossed it. The stone flew farther and faster, finally striking a barbarian’s head, piercing it through. The barbarians’ anger intensified—they surged against the gate. The gatekeepers desperately fired arrows, while the barbarians held grass mats above their heads, which not only blocked the arrows but captured them, turning the arrows back toward the walls.

Old Zhang glanced anxiously at the child sitting on the cliff’s edge, then worried about the precarious situation on the walls. Lao Yang had personally gone back to the city to summon help. At this critical moment, Old Zhang knew he must stand with his men. After a few more instructions, he hurried down from the peak.

Sun Zikai sat dangling his legs into the void. The wind seemed ready to topple him from the precipice. His gaze fixed on the cliff face below. After a long while, his eyes suddenly hardened as he leapt down.

But he wasn’t committing suicide. Instead, he caught hold of the cliffside, then began climbing down step by step along the crevices. Everyone’s attention was on the gate; no one noticed the child scaling the sheer cliffs more than fifty feet high on either side of the wall. The child’s well-trained muscles, honed over two years, seemed made for this very moment.

An hour later, he reached the bottom. Calmly, he glanced toward the gate and then headed toward the low thickets, unnoticed by anyone. Midway, at a small hillock, he hid in the grass. He was not hurried; he was composed. Having just expended most of his strength, he needed rest. He lay there until nightfall.

When darkness fell, Old Zhang ordered fires to be set. It was a desperate measure—arrows were running low, and fire was the key to dealing with the layers of grass mats the barbarians used. They hadn’t used fire earlier because it was a double-edged sword. As expected, the barbarians charged the gate with burning mats. The gate would be breached eventually. None would sleep tonight. The women behind the walls had packed and fled to the city. Lao Yang was still missing. The siege from decades ago seemed destined to repeat itself.

In the darkness, Sun Zikai rose and crept toward the thickets. The old, weak, women, and children of the barbarians had just buried their dead and were exhausted, resting. Outside the thickets stood a wooden frame, on which hung a bloodied, dismembered body—Gouzi.

Sun Zikai’s face was calm. Drawing a dagger from his leg, he silently climbed a tree. A barbarian woman and child came beneath it to relieve themselves. Seizing the moment, Sun Zikai dropped silently, landing atop the woman. His dagger plunged deep into her neck. She made no sound and collapsed. Behind her, the child’s mouth opened in shock, but the cold blade pierced his throat before he could scream.

Completed, Sun Zikai moved calmly among the resting barbarians. They were so weary from the day’s events they closed their eyes, unaware that this closure would be permanent.

Having studied medicine, he knew exactly where to strike—quietly, with minimal reaction, and swift death. One by one, he slit their throats without a single one noticing their companion’s slaughter. Soon, only the warm remains lay near the burning fire.

Yet he had not found his true target. Killing as he searched, striking down every breathing figure he saw, until about a hundred paces away, he spotted a small donkey. The girl was no ordinary figure—likely the daughter of the barbarian tribal leader. She sat alone by a fire with a cotton blanket, guarded by two men and a woman.

From the shadows, Sun Zikai emerged. The barbarians were momentarily stunned.

Sheathed dagger replaced by a long, sharp blade drawn from his waist, his half-lidded eyes seemed listless but carried the aura of a killing god. Before the barbarians could react, he charged. One man, unable to draw his weapon in time, had his throat slashed open, blood spraying a full yard.

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The girl’s scream echoed through the thicket, but no one came to answer.

The remaining man no longer underestimated the child barely knee-high. Drawing his sword, he charged. Sun Zikai retreated swiftly into the darkness. The man pursued but saw no sign. Moments later, a scream rang out behind him. Turning, he found the girl sitting stunned on her blanket by the fire; the woman beside her had her throat slashed. The girl had urinated in terror.

Enraged, the man charged back, but Sun Zikai vanished into the shadows again. The man shouted for his tribe, but no one answered.

Rustling noises arose nearby, as if many were present. The man’s heart sank—could it be the gatekeepers had come? His tribe might be wiped out. Panic took hold, and despair filled his eyes as he plunged into the darkness. Moments later, a thud signaled his fall.

The girl trembled, unable to move. She saw the boy of similar age emerge from the darkness, blade in hand. She tried to grab her crossbow but her arms were too weak.

“Please... please…” she begged, her mind blank from fear. But the blade showed no mercy. It rested against her throat; a flash of cold steel, and the firelight died as blood painted a tree dark in the night.

Sun Zikai picked up the girl’s head, tied it with rope, and slung it over his back. As he prepared to leave, he noticed movement behind a box—a small child, just a few years old, resembling the girl when he first saw her.

This child knew nothing yet. But when he grew, when he began eating meat, he would eat the flesh of those within the gate, skinning gatekeepers alive. The cold blade showed no feeling. One swift slash severed the head, which he also tied and carried on his back. Then, outside the thicket, he wrapped Gouzi’s head in cloth and hung it at his waist.

Having done all this, he quietly walked back to the cliff’s edge. Too exhausted to climb again, he lay down in the grass and slept for over an hour. When the sounds of the barbarians striking the gate diminished, he awoke, looked up at the peak piercing the night sky with no emotion, and climbed to his feet.

Three and a half hours later, dawn broke. He had climbed back to the top. The barbarians gradually retreated; the gatekeepers were exhausted, but Old Zhang urged them not to relax. When the barbarians charged again, the fight would be fiercer. The women had fled; no one prepared meals. The men rested hungry against the wall.

At that moment, a bloodied figure climbed the stone steps.

“Xiao Kai? What happened to you...?”

Sun Zikai stood before them and dropped two heads—both children’s—and unwrapped a bloodied bundle: Gouzi’s head. Calmly, he said, “I slipped out at night and killed everyone in the thickets. Gouzi’s body was dismembered. I’m too weak to carry it, so I only brought his head.”

Everyone was stunned. Liuzi asked, “Last night the gate was tightly sealed. How... how did you get out?”

Sun Zikai pointed to the cliff over fifty feet high. “I climbed down there and came back the same way.”

None of the gatekeepers had ever been so shocked. No one dared climb that peak in centuries. No barbarian had ever thought of that route. Yet the child had not only made the climb twice but single-handedly killed every barbarian in the thicket.

Seeing their incredulous expressions, Sun Zikai explained, “The barbarians in the thicket were mostly old, weak, women, and children. After the day’s massacre, they were exhausted. They’d buried their dead and had no guard while the men blocked the gate. They fell asleep unguarded. I took advantage of that one chance last night. Otherwise, so weak as I am, I couldn’t have killed them all. If the gate breaks, they’ll slaughter many. I killed their families first so they’d lose something too. It’s worth it.”

They looked at the boy like the grim reaper himself. Old Zhang finally understood what Lao Yang had said: this child would not die. He would become the nightmare of all barbarians beyond the gate.

Sun Zikai continued, “Old Zhang, the barbarians will charge again soon, recklessly. We only need four or five on the wall. The rest go up to the peaks, using flags as signals to hurl stones down.”

“No,” Old Zhang said. “There aren’t large stones on the peaks, and it’s easy to throw too short or too far. Let’s wait for reinforcements.”

“It’s too late. They make bows in the thickets and saved many arrows last night. We don’t need big stones—small ones will do. The peaks are high enough. I tested it yesterday. You can kill with little effort. When you throw, imagine you are me, a child. Just a light toss. Watch my signals. The second method needs only twice the effort of the first.”

Old Zhang gave the order. Seven or eight men climbed each peak; six remained on the wall—these were all the gatekeepers. Soon, the barbarians charged madly, smashing at the gate, cursing, and shooting their new bows—around a dozen.

The gatekeepers sat close to the wall. Sun Zikai signaled with a flag, and dozens of stones rained down from the peaks. At first, the gatekeepers misjudged their strength—stones fell too close or too far—but gradually they learned the child’s force and aimed all stones beyond the gate.

Such heights made the stones unstoppable by grass mats. The barbarians pressed against the gate, but whenever they came near, Sun Zikai ordered fires set. The gate and mats burned fiercely. Many barbarians crowded inside, trapped and burned alive. Unable to withstand the pressure, the barbarians fled, only to be crushed by more stones.

After one or two rounds, dozens were dead. The barbarians fled farther. Then a whistle blew from the walls. Upon the flag’s signal, the stone hail ceased.

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The barbarians turned and saw two heads hanging on the wall. Sun Zikai sat on the wall, legs dangling, coldly watching. Seeing the heads, they erupted in fury and charged again, determined to smash the gate even with their heads.

When they reached the gate, Sun Zikai ordered fire again—pots of wine smashed, torches thrown. Flames soared. Many barbarians were trapped inside and burned alive. The barbarians finally broke and fled.

The flag signal came again. The gatekeepers on the peaks, who had just gathered new stones, hurled them once more with childlike force. The panicked barbarians forgot the peril above; many were struck through the head, killing dozens more.

Their momentum weakened. The left peak stopped throwing, but the right kept going. Barbarians were forced to flee left. The six men remaining on the wall quickly drew arrows and fired; the barbarians clustered together with no chance to dodge, losing dozens more.

Many barbarians tried to shoot back with their bows but, confused and crowded, even missed the gate.

The gatekeepers withdrew their arrows. Just as the barbarians caught a breath, large stones collected on the left peak were dropped in three waves, each landing slightly farther out. Barbarians struck fled outward only to be hit by the next wave. By the end of three waves, many were crushed to death. When the barbarians swarmed beneath the right peak, the gatekeepers unleashed another volley.

Without bloodshed, over 120 barbarians died. Their morale shattered, they fled in panic.

Sun Zikai shouted, “Open the gate! Kill them!”

The gatekeepers shouted in unison. One ran behind the gate, pounding the door. The barbarians, fooled, thought the gate was open. With no hope left for their families, they charged. Eighty or more rushed the gate, which seemed ajar but was not.

When they gathered at the gate, they looked up and saw the gatekeepers set fires again.

The blaze confused them. Sun Zikai had Liuzi, disguised as a barbarian, shout amid the chaos, “Fall back to the right!”

The barbarians, careless of who spoke, fled right into the trap. From the right peak, massive stones fell all at once.

More than thirty barbarians stood bewildered amid the corpses, unaware of their true fate. Their leaders were dead. One large clan was reduced to just thirty survivors.

Sun Zikai ordered the gatekeepers to pick off the stragglers one by one. With the few arrows left, the barbarians were reduced to fifteen or sixteen.

The gatekeepers drew their blades and prepared to charge out and kill, but Sun Zikai refused, saying, “No need to risk lives when the enemy is already defeated. Let those on the peaks keep throwing stones. If they can kill from above, we won’t go out.”

Old Zhang remarked, “These creatures are strange. They won’t die away from this gate, nor retreat.”

Sun Zikai said calmly, “I slaughtered their families so they’d lose their hopes and escape routes. Their minds are filled with hatred. This is the best time to kill them. They could have waited to make hundreds of bows or ladders, but they lost their reason and rushed us first.”

The gatekeepers stayed put, minimizing their risk. The stones on the peaks were nearly all thrown. After all barbarians were dead, they waited a full hour.

Then Liuzi and two others tied ropes and descended to collect arrows, bringing bundles back to the wall and finishing off any survivors. Only after ensuring all were dead did they finally relax.

In the time it took to burn incense, Lao Yang arrived with reinforcements, each ready to die. Seeing the bloodied corpse heap outside the wall chilled everyone, but not a single gatekeeper was harmed. Old Zhang leaned against the wall, smiled at Lao Yang, pointed to Sun Zikai, and said nothing.

Then a voice came from below. Liuzi shouted, “Two are alive!”

They looked out and saw two men hiding among the corpses. Though wounded, they could still move. Captured beneath the wall, they hung their heads in despair.

Old Zhang stood and said, “One of you may live. Go back and tell all barbarians: this path is closed. Your king of the dead is here!”

The gatekeepers raised their arms in victory—a triumph unmatched in all their years, their proudest moment.

Suddenly, one barbarian struck a fellow captive, snapping his neck. Old Zhang was silent for a moment before nodding. Liuzi released the man.

Sun Zikai coldly said, “Liu Ge, kill him!”

Liuzi raised his blade and severed the man’s head.

Sun Zikai said, “No one will return to spread word. No returnees make the best warning.”