Jian Zhi and Captain Zhào stood frozen, their eyes locked in a silent battle of wills. Jian Zhi’s gaze burned with a devilish intensity, his mind already running simulations: Who is this man? Ally or enemy? Will he strike first? A punch from the right? Left? A low kick? Every muscle in his body was coiled, ready to react to the slightest movement.

  Across from him, Captain Zhào’s own thoughts churned. So this is the Mountain’s Devil. Not just a myth—he stands here drenched in blood, more force of nature than man. But his eyes… they’re not mindless. There’s calculation there. Purpose. Is he truly only a killer?

  Jian Zhi was the one to break the silence, his voice cold and sharp as a winter wind. “Who are you?”

  “I am Zhào. Captain of the district’s army,” Zhào replied, standing firm despite the tension thrumming in the air. “And you are?”

  The captain. The man who commanded the soldiers who stood by and did nothing while women were trafficked, while the weak suffered. Rage, hot and immediate, surged through Jian Zhi. Without a word, he moved.

  The heart he had just crushed still dripped from his clenched fist as he launched a punch straight at Zhào’s face—fast as a striking viper.

  Mei Lin, recognizing the captain’s voice, whirled around. “General, no! He’s on our side!”

  But her cry came too late.

  Jian Zhi’s fist connected. Zhào managed to jerk his head aside at the final instant, but the blow still grazed him, slicing a thin line of blood beneath his right eye.

  Zhào stumbled back, anger flashing in his own eyes. “You reckless brat! Think before you swing! Is this how you greet everyone?” He dropped into a defensive stance, voice tight with pain and fury. “Fine. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Jian Zhi didn’t speak. He only cracked his neck slightly and settled into his own stance—arms guarding his jaw, eyes fixed on Zhào’s shoulders, body poised like a wolf about to lunge.

  Zhào moved first, ducking low to tackle Jian Zhi’s waist and throw him to the ground. But Jian Zhi had already predicted it. The moment Zhào dipped, Jian Zhi’s knee snapped up—hardened by years of shattering bamboo and breaking bone—and met Zhào’s forehead with a sickening crack.

  The captain crumpled, unconscious before he hit the dirt.

  Jian Zhi stepped forward, intent on ending the threat for good, but Mei Lin lunged and wrapped her arms around him from behind, holding on tightly.

  The embrace—not an attack, but a plea—stilled him. He stood rigid, unfamiliar with such a gesture.

  “General, please,” she begged, her voice desperate. “I know him! He’s an ally! He and his father have been plotting against the magistrate for five years! The soldiers who do nothing… they aren’t his men. The ones who help us—they follow him. Trust me.”

  She slowly released him and bowed deeply. “I apologize for my disrespect, General. I didn’t know how else to stop you.”

  Jian Zhi looked from her earnest face to the unconscious man on the ground. “You did right. Thank you. I would have killed him.” His voice was quieter now, the cold fury receding. “Let’s bring him inside.”

  Together, they carried Captain Zhào into the safehouse and laid him on a bed. “Let him rest. He’ll wake soon,” Jian Zhi said. “Everyone, eat.”

  When Zhào finally stirred, it was to the sound of laughter. He opened his eyes to see the house full of people—women, children, elders—all eating together, talking freely. For a moment, it looked like a scene from another world: a place without fear.

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  A young woman noticed him awake and approached. “Captain? Are you alright? Can I get you water? Something to eat?”

  “No… thank you,” he said, sitting up slowly. “Where is… that brat? Is it safe here?”

  Lin Wei overheard and came over. “Uncle, I don’t know what you think of my brother, but he’s the safest person I’ve ever known.”

  Another woman, Lian, nodded firmly. “He is our savior and our teacher. Where he is—that’s the safest place for us.”

  Hearing the name, Zhào’s breath caught. “Did you say… Lin Wei?” He managed a faint, bittersweet smile. “That was my sister’s name, too.”

  “Where is she now?” Lin Wei asked innocently.

  “She’s somewhere she can finally be free and happy,” Zhào said softly. “Somewhere no one can hurt her ever again.”

  Just then, Mei Lin returned with Jian Zhi. The two men’s eyes met again—but this time, the tension had shifted.

  Jian Zhi spoke first. “I apologize for my impulsiveness. I did not understand your true intentions.”

  Hearing the apology from someone so fierce and unwavering shifted something in Zhào. This was no arrogant brat; this was a man of principle. “It’s alright. I should have identified myself more clearly.”

  “I do not like small talk,” Jian Zhi said. “So I will be direct. You and your father have been gathering intelligence on the magistrate for five years. Tell me everything you know.”

  Seeing this as the critical chance to form an alliance, Zhào nodded. He began to speak, his voice low and serious.

  “My father has connections with scribes and clerks across the province. Two years ago, we found a man—a former clerk of the Lǐ clan. He was a witness to the massacre that happened there 28 years ago.”

  He took a steadying breath.

  “Magistrate Lǐ Wěi had an older brother named Lǐ Róng. In their clan, the firstborn son is everything—the heir, the legacy. Lǐ Wěi, born second, was nothing. An afterthought. His father, Lǐ Zhìyōng, saw him only as a spare tool. His mother, Wáng Měilíng, was elegant but distant, pouring all her love into Lǐ Róng.”

  “Lǐ Wěi craved their recognition. He mastered the sword by seventeen and never lost a duel—except to his brother. No matter how strong he became, his parents only saw him as his brother’s shadow.”

  “For years, he played the part of the loyal second son. But underneath, resentment festered. He spent eight years building connections, bribing officials, and planning his move. He saw the clan’s traditions not as honor, but as chains.”

  “Then, on a moonless night, he made his move.”

  Zhào’s voice grew heavier.

  “He went to his parents’ chambers. ‘Father. Mother. Look at me, just once. I am your son, too. If you wanted to ignore me, why did you bring me into this world?’”

  “His father, Lǐ Zhìyōng, replied coldly, ‘Lǐ Wěi, you were a mistake. We only wanted one son.’”

  “Lǐ Wěi laughed—a sound full of madness and pain. When his mother, Wáng Měilíng, begged for mercy, he showed none.”

  “‘A mistake?’ he said. ‘You ruined my life at birth. You don’t get to ruin my mind, too.’"

  “With the very skills he’d honed to win their praise, he killed them. He cut off their heads and said to their lifeless bodies, ‘Finally… you see what I can do.’”

  “He didn’t stop there. He went room to room and slaughtered fifty members of the Lǐ clan that night.”

  “Only one person could have stopped him: his brother, Lǐ Róng. But even after all his training, Lǐ Wěi still could not defeat him. Their duel left Lǐ Wěi with a scar across his chest—and his brother alive. Lǐ Róng broke Lǐ Wěi’s sword and escaped.”

  “Covered in the blood of his family, Lǐ Wěi fled the provincial capital. He used his remaining influence and wealth to buy his way into power here—in Liánhuā District—where he became the magistrate.”

  As the story ended, a grim silence settled over the room.

  Jian Zhi closed his eyes. In his mind, he simulated not combat, but a different kind of calculation. He pictured himself in Lǐ Wěi’s place—a man shaped by rejection, cruelty, and a bottomless hunger for recognition.

  So this is the Sly Fox, he thought. Not born evil… but created.

  He opened his eyes. The emotional rawness was gone, replaced by cold, sharp focus.

  “Now I understand him,” Jian Zhi said quietly. “A man who believes the world denied him his value will burn it all down to feel worthy.”

  He looked at Zhào, then at the others—Mei Lin, Lian, little Lin Wei.

  “He will not send more men. Not after this. He will plan something personal. Something that strikes not at my body, but at my purpose.”

  Jian Zhi’s voice was low, certain, and devoid of mercy.

  “We won’t wait for his move. We will remind him that some things cannot be bought, some people cannot be broken, and some debts…”

  He looked down at his hands, still stained with blood.

  “…can only be paid in hell.”