Chapter Forty-Five: The Unexpected

"It's over..."
Right now, only that thought filled the minds of Song Nianqiang and the big fat man. They wanted to dodge, but their bodies wouldn't obey, and all they could do was watch helplessly as the Maoshan sorcerer's attack came down upon them.

Yet, in that moment of crisis, Song Nianqiang sensed the Maoshan sorcerer's energy loosen. Overjoyed, he jerked his body forward, placing himself squarely in front of the fat man.

"Qiangzi! Are you out of your mind!?"
The fat man was stunned at first, but quickly understood, his chubby hand looping swiftly around Song Nianqiang's neck, trying to push him aside. But Song Nianqiang seemed determined, unmoved no matter how hard the fat man tried, standing steadfast as the Maoshan sorcerer's attack drew ever closer.

"Fatty! If I don't make it, take care of my mother for me!"
Perhaps that was Song Nianqiang's final request. As soon as the words left his lips, a surge of strength rose from somewhere within him, and he shoved the fat man aside with all his might.

"No—!"
The fat man's eyes reddened. He reached, trying to grab Song Nianqiang, but his arms were too short. Dust still billowed all around. Before the fat man's shout had faded, the Maoshan sorcerer's figure appeared before Song Nianqiang, and his skeletal hand struck Song Nianqiang squarely in the chest.

Three seconds. For three silent seconds, time seemed to freeze.

Looking down at the hand pressed to his chest, then at the Maoshan sorcerer collapsed on the ground, Song Nianqiang was dumbfounded. Not only him—the fat man and the two middle-aged men in Taoist robes were equally stunned.

"What... what just happened...?"
By all logic, Song Nianqiang should have been a dead man. But everything had happened so suddenly—he was unharmed, and it was the Maoshan sorcerer who lay on the ground. "Did my luck just go off the charts?" Song Nianqiang couldn't think of any other explanation.

"Damn!"
The fat man snapped back to himself. "Qiangzi, hit him!" At this crucial moment, it was the fat man who reminded Song Nianqiang, who immediately leapt atop the fallen Maoshan sorcerer. But before he could act, a foot crashed into his back—the two middle-aged Taoists had rushed over, seeing their master collapse.

Judging by their build, Song Nianqiang, already gravely wounded, was no match for them. But by now, the nearby village was ablaze with light; several quick-tempered villagers had already come out, grabbing whatever weapons were at hand.

Realizing the situation had turned, the two Taoists hoisted their unconscious master and darted into the fields. Within minutes, they vanished. Song Nianqiang and the fat man, meanwhile, remained sprawled on the ground, unable to rise.

Five minutes later, the villagers arrived in droves—some wielding spades, others sickles, still others hefting poles, and one even brandishing a kitchen cleaver. Most impressive of all was Second Rascal, who carried a large iron pot slung over his shoulder.

"You two lads, what happened here?"
An older man pushed through the crowd, shocked to see Song Nianqiang and the fat man filthy and sitting in the dirt. He hurried to ask.

"Don't ask—ran into someone nasty!"
Song Nianqiang spat, though it came out yellow with earth—he'd clearly eaten plenty of dirt in that fight. The fat man, seeing help arrive, finally relaxed, nerves unwinding as he sprawled comfortably on the ground.

At this point, they were no different from mud monkeys, covered in dirt from head to toe. Even the blood on Song Nianqiang's face had mixed with the soil. Only now, with the danger past, did he realize how much his nose hurt.

He recounted the night's events to the villagers as best he could—not for lack of will, but because his body simply couldn't manage more detail. Pain stabbed through him from every limb; he couldn't even tell where it hurt most. The fat man was in even worse shape, lying flat and refusing to move.

The villagers were stunned by the story, though a few sheepishly admitted, "I thought it was just those cat-ghosts again, so I didn't come out."

"You could hear it?" Song Nianqiang asked in surprise. To his astonishment, not only that man, but many villagers nodded—they had all heard the commotion, but lacked the courage to investigate. Only when the ghostly howling grew so piercing they couldn't stand it did they finally emerge.

Hearing this, Song Nianqiang was speechless. He didn't blame them for coming late, but rather himself for being too careless, for believing the old Taoist. After all, such scenes belonged in fantasy novels, not real life. He bitterly regretted his earlier gullibility.

As for why the Maoshan sorcerer had suddenly collapsed, Song Nianqiang had no idea—except he was certain the old Taoist had simply exhausted his strength, or perhaps his magical power. When dodging their attacks, the strange light in his eyes must have been some forbidden art, and using it twice in a row had pushed him to his limits. Then he unleashed his ultimate technique, only to faint at the crucial moment.

"Hurry! Get these two lads back!"
Seeing how badly they were hurt, the older man called for help. Several strong young men carefully lifted Song Nianqiang and the fat man, carrying them step by step toward the village's only clinic.

The clinic belonged to an old man in his sixties. He showed no surprise at their injuries. "Don't worry, they'll both be fine with me here," he said, rubbing his hands as he approached the fat man.

People said the old man treated not just people but animals too. Any sick animal brought to him would recover after a few doses of his medicine. Healing people, however, was a messier affair.

"Grandpa, please be gentle! I'm too fragile for rough treatment!" the fat man pleaded.
"Heh heh, relax—you won't die," the old man grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth and a peculiar odor. Song Nianqiang instantly guessed what he'd had for dinner: chive buns, and, crucially, garlic.

Despite his age, the old man's hands were deft. He examined the fat man's body thoroughly, then wrapped him haphazardly with bandages—yet all the wounds were properly tended, so his skills were not to be underestimated.

After a dozen minutes, the fat man was swaddled like a big white dumpling. Then it was Song Nianqiang's turn. "Just patch me up a bit, Grandpa—I'm not too badly hurt," he said, nervous after seeing the fat man's fate. But the old man was having none of it.

"Quit joking! Get down!"
Given his injuries, Song Nianqiang had no choice but to obey.

Seven or eight minutes later, his more serious wounds were treated. Compared to the fat man, he was fairly lucky. "You might not look as battered as the fat one, but you’ve got more bruises. Spend the night here—I'll treat the bruises tomorrow," the old man said, pulling a pipe from his pocket and lighting it.

Seeing the two were out of danger, the villagers gradually dispersed. To be safe, though, the older man left Second Rascal and another young fellow behind to keep Song Nianqiang and the fat man company through the night.

Cock-a-doodle-doo!

The rooster's crow woke Song Nianqiang from his dreams, though darkness still blanketed the village. He wanted to go back to sleep, but a terrifying sight jolted him fully awake, banishing all thought of slumber.