Bright Sword: Conquer the monk at the beginning and take down Zhou Weiguo

After finishing his drink, he leaned against the hay and closed his eyes, his breathing finally gradually becoming steady. Liu San sat beside him, looking at his pale face, his heart filled with indescribable complex emotions.

“You are not a god,” he said softly, as if speaking to Qin Cang, but also as if reminding himself, “You also feel pain, you also get poisoned, you also hide in a corner… so why should I give up on myself?”

He suddenly realized that his perceived strength was not invincible. Qin Cang wasn't immune to falling; he simply gritted his teeth and got back up after falling. Even though he was in so much pain he was about to faint, he wouldn't allow himself to show the slightest weakness—that was true ruthlessness, true composure.

Liu San sat quietly for a long time, until the starlight outside the window faded and the night slowly receded. He turned to Qin Cang and said in a low voice, "You rest first. I'll handle the rest."

Qin Cang leaned against an old locust tree, sitting there all night. His clothes were soaked with cold sweat, clinging to his body, cold and stiff like iron. The effects of the medicine last night had entered his body like fire and ice, first burning his internal organs, then eroding his bones and muscles, his meridians feeling as if pierced by a thousand needles, sweat pouring down his face, his blood churning. He even thought for a moment that he would die, without even leaving Liu San a word.

But he gritted his teeth and persevered, just like he always had. He couldn't die; he still had things to do.

He slowly stood up, a pulling pain shooting through his back, as if his muscles were struggling to piece his body back together. He was used to this feeling; his body was no longer a complete, unyielding vessel of iron and stone, but rather an old weapon, repeatedly forged, patched, and reshaped, rusty yet still sharp at its edges. He walked out of the forest, his steps slow yet steady. His footsteps left a trail of uneven footprints on the damp earth.

Just as he rounded a small path at the foot of the mountain, he saw a figure trudging along in the distance. The person carried a heavy basket on their back, their steps slow and deliberate, each step leaving a dent in the rocks. The sunlight hadn't fully penetrated, so the figure was just a blurry gray blur. He had originally intended to pass by silently—he disliked contact with people, especially now that he was weak, and didn't want to cause any trouble.

But he saw the person clearly.

He was a middle-aged man with dark, rough skin and a long scar on his face, running diagonally from his left cheekbone to his ear, a souvenir of surviving some chaotic battle years ago. A tattered cloth covered the basket on his shoulder, revealing several worn-out hoes and a machete, along with a few unshaven wooden sticks, suggesting he was preparing to repair something.

Qin Cang should have turned and left, but he didn't move. He stared at the man's back, and a night from several years ago slowly surfaced in his mind—a rainy night, bloodshed, and raging fire. He had seen this man before, with the exact same scar and the exact same back.

In the firelight that night, the man knelt on the ground, cradling a charred corpse in his arms, hissing out a name as if his cries could summon the dead back to life. His shoulders trembled violently in the rain, yet he held the mangled body tightly in his arms. He didn't know the man's name, only that he hadn't fled that night, facing the fire and the blades, clinging to the corpse and refusing to let go, until finally he was dragged away.

Qin Cang approached, his steps not deliberately lowered. He disliked sneaky approaches; he was never afraid of being recognized, and sometimes, he even longed for those who had once harmed him to come looking for him, even if it meant severing all ties.

The man seemed to hear footsteps, turned around, glanced back, and narrowed his eyes, clearly not recognizing him. Qin Cang had changed drastically in the past few years; his once handsome face was now full of scars and weariness, like an old stone tablet crushed by time, even his expression was as cold as a knife.

"Good morning." The man's voice was hoarse, clearly someone who hadn't spoken in a long time. He raised his hand to press down on the basket to prevent it from tipping over, but his smile carried a hint of unease. "Where are you from? This road is not easy to travel."

"Just wandering around on the street," Qin Cang replied coldly, his gaze never leaving the other person's face.

The man nodded, seemingly unconcerned, and simply placed the basket on a nearby stone, taking a breath. His hands were rough and calloused, with prominent knuckles, clearly the work of a laborer.

“The well up ahead has collapsed, I have to fix it.” The man pointed to the slope not far ahead, his tone tired but with a sense of determination. “The old well can’t be shut down. Even if it’s about to collapse, we have to keep it going. Several people in the village rely on it for drinking water.”

Qin Cang remained silent, simply watching him quietly.

"Look at you..." The man seemed to suddenly notice the old scars on his face, and asked hesitantly, "What kind of work do you do?"

Qin Cang tilted his head slightly, avoiding his probing gaze: "I fell on the way."

The man didn't press further. He simply sat down, took out a hard, dry bun, took a bite, and said with a smile as he chewed, "You don't look like you fell; you look like you walked down a knife's edge. I lived like that when I was young. Back then, I was chasing debts, fighting, escorting guards, and killing people day and night. Later, when I got older, my knife wasn't sharp anymore, so I started farming."

He spoke lightly, as if recounting a trivial old dream, but Qin Cang could hear the weariness and self-mockery behind his words.

“Killing people keeps them awake at night.” The man swallowed the last bite of his steamed bun and said calmly, gazing into the distance, “But being killed leaves you with nothing. So we all endure, live, eat dry, hard steamed buns, repair broken wells, watch over the mountains, and raise chickens and dogs.”

Qin Cang remained silent. He disliked this kind of conversation and was not used to speaking about the past. He preferred to let those images hidden in his dreams at night rot away.

But he knew that the person in front of him was neither an enemy nor a friend, but an old bone that had once walked the same path as him.

The man took another bite of his dry rations and suddenly whispered, "I recognize your scent. It's not blood, it's a... the scent of someone who's about to go mad."

Qin Cang was slightly taken aback, his brows twitching almost imperceptibly.

“If you hold your breath too long, the air will be too strong and you could burn yourself up.” The man sighed, said nothing more, picked up the basket, slung it over his shoulder, and walked step by step toward the well platform.

Qin Cang stood there, watching his retreating figure recede into the distance, his gaze suddenly flickering slightly. He didn't move; his feet seemed rooted to the ground, yet for some reason, his fingertips slowly tightened.

The man was right; he did indeed have a burning resentment within him, a resentment that kept him awake at night and made him feel like his mind was on fire. He had thought he could suppress it indefinitely, but now even his body was beginning to turn against him. This resentment was no longer just an obsession, but a poison.

He withdrew his gaze, coughed lightly, a metallic taste rising in his throat, which he swallowed forcefully. He touched his abdomen; the cramping pain had eased slightly, but the burning sensation remained. He couldn't stay any longer tonight; he had to get back before nightfall.