Chapter 57: The Town’s Guardian: The Wind Lion, Clash of the Idols

There truly are spirits and deities in this world!

Believers are responsible for offering incense and tribute to the gods and spirits, while the gods in turn shelter their followers—this is the most fundamental contract between mortals and the divine.

Before the Han Dynasty, ghosts and gods were not strictly separated. The spirits above would roam freely, and whether they did good or evil was a matter of a single thought.

Even now, the gods and spirits each bear both divine and ghostly titles—one rewards, the other punishes.

If an ordinary assassin dared to poison or murder under the cover of a spirit, he would surely offend the gods, and his fate would be no better than dancing on a grave; by midnight, he would die a miserable death.

Although the Prince of Jinghai was a gentle advocate for pacification, when it came to the dignity of the gods, he would never show mercy. But if the one offering incense was his own beloved son?

Then there was no issue at all!

His towering anger vanished in an instant, and he even smacked his lips, inwardly praising: "This child has always been clever. This unorthodox way of doing things—just like me! The blood of our old Wang family truly runs strong."

As for the traitors’ subordinates, who first stabbed the Water King’s family in the back, then thought a few sticks of incense would make the Prince of Jing turn the other cheek and shelter them? That was wishful thinking.

Perhaps it was an illusion, but even the smoke from the burning incense seemed to diffuse more evenly.

Moistening everything in silence!

At this moment, it was not only the lower cabins beneath the waterline that were stifling; after all the gun ports were closed, the entire warship’s interior had barely any ventilation.

Moreover, the sailing warship’s decks ran unbroken from bow to stern—there were almost no complete partitions or dead corners inside the cabins.

Thus, the intoxicating incense’s effect was brought to its peak in the sealed environment.

Thud, thud... Layer by layer, the crew collapsed in waves. All their advanced firearms were rendered useless, becoming nothing more than sticks for stoking fires.

In less than half a stick of incense’s time, the surprise attack with the drugged incense had easily neutralized most of the fighting force aboard.

Wang Cheng also realized that he had, by chance, discovered a new frontier: "Sealed sailing warships and the Soul-Drawing Incense at dawn make a perfect match. Next time, I’ll play—no, I’ll honor my father again."

He raised his hand and released a paper crane folded from a talisman, sending word to the Zhang Fushun to come alongside. Then he ascended the stairway to the open deck.

Now he had to face the most arduous task—eliminating the watch crew on duty that night, and the seventh-rank official in command, Censor Cui Sheng!

Perhaps because this air-dropped officer couldn’t integrate with the Wokou circle, he hadn’t joined the celebration in the cabin, but was standing guard on deck with seven or eight of his personal soldiers.

They huddled with their shields in a circle, a brazier before them, wine and meat at hand, cloaked in furs, but the icy wind still bit through to their bones—the conditions were truly harsh.

Luckily, most of these men were well-trained in both internal and external arts, or they would not have endured.

After delivering the New Year’s toast, Cui Sheng saw the morale still flagging, so he raised his cup and encouraged them: “Brothers, the day after we started pursuing those boat people, I already sent word to our collaborators in Yue Port. He said the Han family’s young lady is notorious for losing her way, and the boatman assigned to guide her—the one up ahead—is that damned brat. Without that boy and his star-guiding art, without the needle-path map, the Han Xingfa would never make it back. The ‘Monkey Players’ in Yue Port will handle it; we needn’t worry further.”

“These days have been hard for us, but it’s even worse for that shabby fishing boat ahead. At most, we need to hold out two more days. Once we take care of that fishing boat, we’ll return straight to Yingzhou. Once we’re in port, I’ll find the freshest geishas to reward you all!”

Hearing Cui Sheng’s promises, his personal troops, though not particularly fond of those painted, black-toothed geishas, had been at sea so long that even the sheep in their pens and their own brothers began to look handsome. At that point, just covering a face would make no difference. If that didn’t work, they’d go climbing into respectable women’s windows at night.

No woman in Yingzhou would refuse a tryst with a tall, strong man from the Great Zhao, all hoping for a child to keep. After all, their garrisons in every major port enjoyed the good life.

The soldiers were just about to toast their generous commander when one man, crouched in a corner by the bulwark and keeping watch on the Zhang Fushun, suddenly shouted: “Sir! The fishing boat has changed course and is heading straight for us—fast!”

Everyone leapt up and turned to look.

They saw the Zhang Fushun, which had been sailing parallel with them against the north wind, suddenly slow its sails, then swing about and charge toward them like a knight on horseback.

The boat was wreathed in the scent of incense, its foredeck leader unleashing the “Ghostwind Gale” at full force. The howling whirlwind scattered the snow and filled the sails, giving their ship no chance to avoid.

Just as the soldiers sounded the alarm, the Zhang Fushun was already upon them.

Clang! Clang! Clang!...

But then, something even more unexpected occurred—despite the alarm bells echoing, those celebrating in the cabin below showed no reaction at all. Not even the sound of footsteps could be heard.

Cui Sheng roared furiously: “Go see what’s happened! If they’re drunk on duty and disobeying orders, I’ll have them all disemboweled!”

Two nearby soldiers rushed to the hatch to call for reinforcements.

But as soon as they vanished into the darkness, a blade rang out like a dragon’s roar across the deck.

Two figures were thrown out, tumbling onto the deck, their brows oozing blood—a grisly sight.

Then, from the darkness, came the sound of footsteps, heavy as hammers pounding on their chests.

Everyone’s faces changed drastically.

“Enemy attack! Someone’s already boarded us!”

“Where are the others? Could one person have finished them all? Impossible—absolutely impossible!”

While the troops panicked, the Zhang Fushun crashed into the Ziying with a thunderous boom—side by side, they lashed together and leapt across.

Zhang Wu and Zhang Wen shouted, “Brothers, charge with me—!”

The Ziying’s hull shuddered violently. Taking advantage of Cui Sheng and his soldiers’ unsteady footing, a nimble figure in water gear shot from the hatch.

He joined the boatmen, who swung across on ropes, pulling out their rough, triple-barreled muskets.

“Fire!”

The fuses were already tied together, and gunpowder and iron shot from all three chambers erupted as one.

The shot swept over Cui Sheng’s men, who, startled by the feint, had instinctively clustered together.

At such close range, no amount of armor or ghostly protection could save them—they’d be riddled with holes.

“Aaah! Not so fast!”

Cui Sheng, a seventh-rank official with recognized authority, reacted instantly at the sight of dozens of muskets aimed his way.

He snatched a stone-carved whistle shaped like a standing lion from his sharkskin pouch and blew hard.

With a single glance, Wang Cheng discerned the artifact’s nature—an auxiliary warding talisman of low rank, a county-level “Wind Lion Grandpa.”

It belonged to the cult of Stone Lion Lords in Minzhou, mainly used to ward off evil winds, and typically placed at breezy coastal or island locations as protection.

In the hands of a master of the Luban School, however, it could be used to avoid danger—or to harm.

Whoosh—

A biting wind swept across the deck, carrying dozens of lion-headed, human-bodied spectral figures.

Soft, ghostly arms dissolved in the wind grabbed Cui Sheng’s shoulders and arms, lifting him as if uprooting a radish and depositing him atop a spar thicker and longer than a roof beam.

In the next instant, all his remaining soldiers lay dead in pools of blood below.

The boatmen tossed aside their muskets, now little more than useless clubs, and drew their oared sabers and ring-hilted swords, encircling Cui Sheng.

Especially the brothers Zhang Wu and Zhang Wen, their heart-lamps already ignited, one with blade, one with staff, leading the charge.

Seeing his carefully trained men wiped out in an instant, Cui Sheng’s eyes nearly split with rage: “I’ll kill you all!”

He hurled two clay dolls onto the deck—wild-haired, naked figures locked in combat.

Crack!

The dolls exploded, releasing a host of ashen faces that scrambled to crawl into the corpses.

The bodies opened colorless eyes, jerked to their feet, and drew their swords—outnumbered, they attacked the boatmen.

Malefic Art—Doll Duel!

With this sinister, fearless technique, he managed to hold the boatmen at bay for the moment.

As Cui Sheng prepared another move, Wang Cheng had already raced up the network of side ropes to the mainmast spar.

Without a word, he swung his blade at Cui Sheng, who hastily set aside the Wind Lion Grandpa and twisted three short sticks together to block.

Wang Cheng knew the Luban School’s craftsmen excelled at malefic arts—he’d faced higher-ranked officials in distant duels before, but never in direct combat.

Precisely because he knew direct combat was not the forte of these “carpenters,” “masons,” and “bricklayers,” he dared to challenge him head-on.

Suddenly, knife and staff collided.

Clang—!

Amid the swirling snow, a bolt of lightning exploded atop the thick spar of the sailing warship.