Chapter Twelve: Crisis at Its Peak (Five Chapters Today—Please Click and Add to Favorites)

Sunlight had slipped in at some point, bathing Song Nianqiang’s face in a gentle warmth that swept away yesterday’s exhaustion. Yet his stomach betrayed him, growling hungrily. He flexed his arms; the pain had lessened from the day before, though they were still stiff and uncooperative. Rising, he walked to the iron walls, knocking on them with his knuckles. The metal wasn’t particularly thick, but it was far sturdier than anything Song Nianqiang could hope to break through.

He was racking his brains for an escape when suddenly the heavy iron door was flung open with a clatter, and a line of men in black filed in. Last to enter was the sorcerer.

“I am Sophoc, an American! It’s a pleasure to meet such a young magician. May I ask who your master is?” The man spoke in halting Chinese, but Song Nianqiang ignored him completely. Sophoc took no offense; he simply waved to his men, who promptly tied Song Nianqiang up again and marched him off to the altar.

There were already quite a few children gathered around the altar, all of them thin as sticks, likely having been held captive for some time. The sorcerer circled the altar, his blackened hands caressing its surface as he muttered incantations. Suddenly, a dense black mist surged up from the altar, and the sorcerer retreated hastily.

After a barrage of English that Song Nianqiang couldn’t understand, one of the burly men grabbed a child and tossed him onto the altar. The child’s anguished screams pierced the air, but the black mist seemed to possess a mysterious force—no matter how the child struggled, he could not escape the one-meter-wide boundary of the altar.

Three children were thrown in before the sorcerer called a halt. When the mist finally dissipated, he shook his head in disappointment, apparently dissatisfied with the result. The three children were covered in blood, but they were still alive.

The sorcerer, in a foul mood, departed without a word, and Song Nianqiang was returned to his iron cell. The night passed quickly. Fortunately, at dawn, someone brought him food; otherwise, he really might have starved.

The plain white steamed buns were, to Song Nianqiang, the finest delicacies in the world at that moment. He devoured four of them in one sitting and washed them down with water, then lay contentedly on the floor, pondering, “How on earth can I get out of this accursed place?”

A flash of lightning split the sky, and a torrential downpour soon battered the earth. The sorcerer was forced to abandon his plans for the day and sulked in his room, plotting how to open the passage between Hell and the mortal world. His men, bored, turned to drinking, keeping at it deep into the night until they all collapsed in a drunken stupor.

As the rain intensified, the basement where the fat man was held flooded with water. Only one light remained on, the rest extinguished by the storm. Taking advantage of this, the fat man took a small knife from Li Runze’s belt and spent nearly ten minutes sawing through the ropes binding Li Runze.

Finding a blind spot in the surveillance, Li Runze quickly untied the fat man. The two waited quietly for the man who would bring food, as was customary. After about an hour, a drunken brute staggered in, intending—as always—to check the ropes.

As the man approached the fat man, Li Runze, standing behind him, leapt up and landed a fierce kick on his head. There was a sickening crack, and the brute’s neck broke. The fat man glanced at the exhausted child collapsed on the floor, then slipped quietly out of the basement.

“Let’s get Qiangzi out first!” the fat man whispered. They’d seen Song Nianqiang before and knew where he was being held. But as they neared the iron room, they ran into trouble: three burly men stood guard at the door, rubber batons in hand. Though obviously drunk, they would not be easy to handle.

Inside, Song Nianqiang, bored out of his mind, was about to ask the guards for a drink when he spotted the fat man and Li Runze hiding in the corner. Instantly, he knew what to do.

“Hey! Give me a drink!” He kicked the iron door so hard it rattled and clanged.

The three guards’ attention was drawn. This was their chance. The fat man and Li Runze crept up quietly, sweat slicking the fat man’s palm as he gripped the knife.

“What are you howling for? You want a drink? Drink my piss!” One of the guards actually unzipped his pants and whipped out his manhood, but before he could relieve himself, a cold blade flashed across his throat.

The other two fared no better—one was knocked flat by a kick from Li Runze, the other was struck by Song Nianqiang’s Five Thunder Spell and nearly died from the jolt. In these dire circumstances, Song Nianqiang’s mastery of the spell had progressed rapidly; if he landed a hit, he could paralyze a man for a short time.

The fat man dashed over to the convulsing guard and slashed his throat. Blood sprayed everywhere. The last brute was easily dispatched by Li Runze. They rifled through his pockets, found a ring of keys, and freed Song Nianqiang.

Grabbing a rubber baton from the floor, they were about to make their escape when the sorcerer and his men arrived in a rush, forcing the trio to retreat back into the iron cell.

At that moment, a beggar trudged past in the rain—a man no less extraordinary than the rest. He’d been looking for shelter, but upon glimpsing the tense standoff, he turned to leave, brushing past the sorcerer as he went. “Catch him!” someone shouted. If they let a beggar slip by with so many people present, they might as well bash their own heads in out of shame.

The sorcerer had originally intended to deal with Song Nianqiang and the others himself, but his grimoire was missing. The grimoire was the source of his power; without it, his magic was greatly diminished. He’d been holding it just a moment ago—how had it vanished?

“It’s the beggar! That beggar!” the sorcerer suddenly realized, seizing the man beside him and exclaiming in English, “You must catch that beggar for me! I’ll grind his bones to dust!” He was livid—someone had snatched his grimoire right from his hands, and he hadn’t even noticed. The thought of it was humiliating beyond words.

He left two squads—ten men in total—to guard Song Nianqiang and his companions, sending the rest after the beggar. But outside, the rain was so heavy that visibility was almost zero, and in the dead of night, nothing beyond three meters could be seen.

With his grimoire stolen, the sorcerer wasn’t about to linger. The two squads, armed and alert, made it nearly impossible for Song Nianqiang and the others to fight their way out.

“This is our only chance! Charge!” Song Nianqiang shouted, leading the way with his rubber baton raised. The fat man and Li Runze followed close behind, the three forming a wedge as they attacked.

Among them, Song Nianqiang had raw strength, the fat man was seasoned in combat, and Li Runze was blindingly fast. For a moment, they held their ground, but the guards were no pushovers—they were highly trained, and Song Nianqiang couldn’t break their line.

Soon, Song Nianqiang took a heavy blow to the back, pain flaring like fire. The others were similarly battered, each sustaining injuries. Though they’d brought down two guards, the effort had cost them dearly. If things continued this way, they’d collapse before they could defeat all their foes.

Worse yet, the guards they’d felled were already staggering to their feet, seemingly unscathed. “Damn it! You two, stick close behind me! One more push!” Gritting his teeth and ignoring the burning pain, Song Nianqiang charged again.

His baton whistled through the air, a one-man barricade. He ducked under a guard’s swing and drove his foot into the man’s abdomen with all his might. The guard doubled over, clutching his stomach, and fell to the ground.