I was there that day. Where I come from, we say there's no such thing as a dead trade until every last trader …
I was there that day.
Where I come from, we say there's no such thing as a dead trade until every last trader is dead.
So what if the battle was lost? Broken swords can be melted down. Jade can be pawned. Armor can be cleaned and sold again. Pull a few wounded men out while you're at it, and they'll call you their savior for the rest of their lives. Only a fool leaves a battlefield empty-handed.
That said, even I knew not to push my luck. If I could come away with a good blade or two and keep breathing, that was good enough.
By the time I reached the north bank of the Hutuo River, rain had started falling. The air smelled of rust, wet dirt, and death. I looked over the bodies and remembered I'd killed men myself before, the foreign invaders, with nothing grander than a woodcutter's knife. People talk as if killing is simple. It isn't. A man's neck is tougher than it looks, and your own hand is softer than you'd think. Never mind that.
I was just about to start picking through the dead when I noticed someone still standing in the rain. He wore Jin armor and stood straight as a spear, but something about him was wrong. Too still. Too stiff.
Then Jiang Yan appeared. I dropped flat immediately. He had spared me once before, and if he caught me still making a living this way, I doubted he'd do it twice. He came through the rain with that plum-blossom sword in his hand. Fine steel. Beautiful blade. If I could get hold of it... well, great men always have more ways to live than the likes of me. Hard times are hard times, and I still had mouths to feed.
So I watched the sword and waited for my chance.
As Jiang Yan came closer, I finally got a clear look at the man in front of him. His eyes were wide open, but the pupils had gone gray. His face had turned a dead blue. He looked worse than the bodies at my feet. Even so, I knew that face.
Then I remembered. Back home once, the whole street had turned out to catch a glimpse of a hero. I'd done the same. It was Wang Qing. The man righteous folk admired, the general ordinary people trusted. That Wang Qing.
And then Jiang Yan drew his sword.
A sword does not leave the sheath for no reason. But seeing a good blade raised against a hero nearly made me break cover. People said Jiang Yan could kill a man in fewer than ten steps. That day, though, he walked so slowly it hurt to watch.
The rain hammered the ground between them. Five steps remained.
On the first step, General Wang shuddered and raised his head. For a moment, he looked almost alive again.
On the second, I heard a wet rasping sound. I couldn't tell where it was coming from. Then I saw something gray-blue moving in his throat.
On the third, his armor split open. That was when I understood. If Jiang Yan waited any longer, there would be nothing left of Wang Qing to save. That was why he had come. But if he drove that sword home, what would be left of Jiang Yan?
On the fourth, Jiang Yan raised the blade. Slowly. Too slowly. And somehow, through the rain, I saw him more clearly than ever. No matter how famous a swordsman becomes, he can still just be a young man. I had never seen a killer's face look like that before. There was no thrill in it. No rage. Only grief. A sword follows the heart, and his heart was shaking. So was the blade.
Then came the fifth step. General Wang moved first. With everything he had left, he stepped forward just enough to meet the sword himself, just enough to guide it into his own heart. He leaned in and said something to Jiang Yan. I strained to hear it, but the rain swallowed every word. All I knew was this: it did not look like murder. It looked like one man placing something precious into another man's hands.
Then General Wang fell, and the rain came down harder still.
That was the day I learned there are different kinds of killing.
Some men kill with tricks, ambushes, and knives in the back. By the time they are done, they've turned themselves into ghosts.
Some men kill by cutting away the cleanest part of their own heart with their own hand. And when it's over, they are still heroes.
The rain stung my face. Everything blurred. I watched Jiang Yan walk away until he was no more than a speck. Where he went after that, I never knew. As for me, a bastard who made his living picking through the dead, I could not get up for the longest time. The rain that day felt too heavy to stand under.
Much later, I finally forced myself up. As I passed General Wang, I looked at that sword again. It really was a beautiful thing. I could take it, sell it, and buy myself comfort for the rest of my life. That was what I was thinking when I bent down and reached out.
What I picked up instead was a tiny wooden sword, barely a handspan long. Round, blunt, childish. A little good-luck knot still hung from the hilt, stained red with blood.
Greedy little thing. Came to a battlefield and still brought this along.
Maybe that was for the best.
I tucked it inside my coat. The sky was still dark, and the rain still had not stopped.