Chapter Thirty-Six: A Night of Whirling Fish and Dancing Dragons (Part Two)

The moment Ning Yi turned his head, a sudden and shocking scene erupted among the crowd just ten meters away, leaving all passersby no time to react.

The street was already bustling with people; though the road, several dozen meters wide, wasn’t yet packed shoulder to shoulder, the clamor was overwhelming. Children darted along the roadside, occasionally setting off firecrackers before fleeing in shrieking delight, prompting laughter and scolding from nearby vendors and pedestrians. From afar, the yellow dragon puppet danced to the deafening beat of drums and gongs. In such an environment, ordinary noises would hardly draw attention. Yet the sound that suddenly rang out was not just loud, but piercingly tragic—it was a scream, the desperate cry of someone at the edge of death, slicing through the chaos like a blade.

Because he had just turned around, Ning Yi saw it clearly—a cold metallic glint flashing among countless lanterns, shooting forth with blinding speed, like the spinning blade of an electric fan, cutting two phantom arcs through the air. Blood sprayed in tandem with the scream, soaring above the heads of the crowd; a severed arm shot skyward.

In that instant, confusion swept through the crowd, mixing those who understood what was happening and those who did not, those who reacted and those who remained frozen.

Shrieks and the clash of metal exploded outward in waves. A black figure spun above the heads of the crowd, while another figure, charging from below with a wild yell, lost control and was flung aside, crashing through a table and bench, sending splinters flying and rolling several meters away in a thunderous tumble.

A stove was smashed, pots and scalding water flew, burning coals erupted like a peacock spreading its tail, scattering terrified diners. The black figure landed again, weapon flashing; two lanterns nearby burst, fire trailing through the air.

It all happened in mere moments—Ning Yi, caught off guard, could do nothing but watch in stunned incomprehension. Only ten meters away, blood and severed limbs soared; someone shouted, rushing at the attacker, who leapt less than three meters into the air, agile as a gymnast, black dress swirling. As another opponent charged, she sent him flying several meters, scattering his possessions.

Now, at last, the crowd began to react. Blood and dismembered flesh rained down; screams erupted. Xiao Chan, still asking, “Master, what’s happening…?” was yanked to Ning Yi’s side as he grabbed her shoulder. A wary pedestrian backed into them, and Ning Yi pushed him aside.

The shouts exploded into the night. Just meters away, the clash of weapons rang out—cries of rage and pain filled the air, the atmosphere thick with violence, like two armies locked in mortal combat. Lanterns hung like a spider’s web overhead; now and then, one would burst or an entire string fall, lanterns crashing down. On the ground, someone was struck and sent flying, clutching a bloody stump, howling in agony.

Though brawls were not uncommon in Jiangning—clashes between escort agencies, gangs, or the guards of wealthy houses for all manner of reasons—what unfolded now was different. The figure who had leapt through the air was a lone woman, while her attackers were all burly men in blue martial attire, exuding the ruthless air of those who lived by the blade. Yet even so, these hardened men failed to gain the upper hand.

Ning Yi watched the chaos ahead as the crowd’s panic spread. Xiao Chan clung desperately to his waist, crying, “Master, they’re fighting!” Her voice trembled with fear as she tried to pull him away, but Ning Yi kept his grip on her shoulder, shielding her; if anyone ran towards them, he pushed them aside. The crowd was thick, figures blurred, but gradually people began to clear out.

A circle of ten meters or more opened up on the street, but the chaos did not abate—screams, the clash of weapons, fire from fallen lanterns, children wailing in the distance, people shouting for lost companions, some scrambling to their feet after being knocked down. Nearby, an old horse tied to a tree panicked and struggled, its neighs piercing the tumult. Suddenly, a voice rang out: “Martial Guards arresting a criminal! Stand aside!” A man’s chest was pierced by the woman’s sword; he staggered back ten paces before collapsing.

Though she faced five or six attackers, the woman held her ground. The fighting was nothing like the elegant duels of television dramas. Her sword was just over half a meter—longer than a dagger or military machete, but shorter than a standard blade, wide and heavy, built for durability. She was tall but slight, dressed all in black, her face veiled. She made few attacks, mostly parrying and dodging in tight circles.

Among her assailants was a giant nearly two meters tall, wielding tables and wooden posts as weapons. She dodged awkwardly at times, but each strike she made hit home. With a sword of that length, piercing a man’s body was no easy feat, but her blows were powerful—her slender frame lunged forward as if crashing headlong into her foes. Thus, when she pierced a man’s chest, he was sent flying several steps before collapsing.

Within moments, her black dress was spattered with blood, most of it not her own, though it was likely she had been wounded earlier—Ning Yi’s hand still bore traces of her blood. Now, as the chaos cleared, Ning Yi saw her dragging a wounded enemy by the hair, retreating. The man kicked and flailed, trying to seize her hand, but failed every time amid the violence.

Two of his companions charged to save him, but were blocked. The giant swung a table overhead; the woman, retreating swiftly, yanked her captive off the ground and threw him into the air. She tumbled aside as the table crashed past her, then rose to her feet. The man landed hard, his hair nearly torn from his scalp, blood gushing as she kicked him in the back.

The two rescuers rushed in; their comrade, kicked upright, staggered forward. The woman’s blade flashed, piercing a man’s chest.

He screamed and stumbled back, dragging his friend with him; the three crashed through a patch of burning lanterns, scattering sparks, and fell in a heap. The woman flipped away, sword in hand. The wounded man pushed the corpse off him, yelling, “Kill her!” Blood streamed from his chest and lower leg, where bamboo skewers had pierced him.

A dart whistled through the air, slashing the woman’s shoulder, blood spurting. A blue-clad man with a broadsword closed in, forcing her to retreat.

Flames licked upward, smoke billowed, the old horse broke free and charged into the crowd, which scattered in panic. As the horse galloped halfway across the street, a flash of steel arced through the air and sank into its skull—the woman had thrown her sword like a dart.

The horse staggered under the blow, inertia carrying it forward a few more paces before it collapsed, blood gushing from its head.

The fight raged on. Now unarmed, the woman dodged desperately. Suddenly, her black skirt spun like a lotus, the broadsword-wielding man stumbled back, clutching his groin in agony. At the same moment, another blue-clad man with twin blades lunged to force her back. She advanced.

His blades swept empty air. The man with the broadsword, realizing he was her target, tried to fend her off, but she caught his wrist, a crack sounded at his knee, and his leg broke, twisting grotesquely. As pain shot through him, a pale hand flashed from her sleeve, fist driving straight for his eye.

A heavy blow landed—force rippled through his skull. The twin-blade fighter tried to rescue him, but the woman moved like lightning, slipping behind her target.

A rapid flurry followed—eyes, nose, throat, temples, spine, skull—her sleeve cracking through the air like a steel whip. She struck the crown of her foe’s head with a resounding slap.

The twin-blade man’s eyes reddened; his swords spun like cartwheels. Ning Yi, watching from afar, could barely make out the movements, only sparks flying as steel clashed. Moments later, a broadsword burst through the man’s back—he collapsed as the slender, blood-soaked woman stood, sword in hand, staring in Ning Yi’s direction.

The giant seized another table, swinging it at her, but she no longer dodged—she caught the blow and redirected it, then charged, dragging the broadsword. The giant barely raised another table before a flash of steel split it apart; the blade crashed into his chest, shattering bone. He was hurled backward, the broadsword embedded in him, his body and the table’s fragments flying. The woman’s long hair flared in the air as she darted toward the fallen horse.

Only two blue-clad men remained—the one with the injured leg barely able to stand, the other, who had wielded the dart, circling warily. As the woman closed in, the dart flew, spinning madly, but she closed the gap, their bodies tangled like a snarl of threads. They tumbled, rolled, she rose, blood whirling around her. The dart-wielder’s throat was slashed, his weapon falling into her hands. With a flick, she flung it across ten meters, the dart embedding itself in the last survivor’s forehead.

The entire battle lasted barely three or four minutes. The crowd had scattered; the clamor faded. A few constables drew their swords but dared not approach. The woman, covered in blood, walked to the horse’s corpse, pulled her sword free, wiped it with a cloth, and sheathed it behind her back.

Ning Yi and Xiao Chan had retreated some distance, but still watched—trembling all over.

This novel’s martial arts style is intentionally more grounded and brutal than those of typical wuxia stories—less elegant, more savage, reminiscent of Tsui Hark’s film "The Blade" starring Vincent Zhao, though with its own unique twists.