Chapter 26: The Trickle Becomes a Flood

Song Huiya sat cross-legged on a sturdy tree branch, positioned comfortably despite the precarious height. She unscrewed the cap of her water kettle with practiced ease, took a small, measured sip, and through the sparse shadows cast by leaves and branches, heard the anxious voices of a group of people who had arrived too late to the scene below. Their frustration carried clearly through the morning air.

"How could she suddenly disappear like smoke? Does Song Huiya possess some kind of divine eye that sees all paths? We couldn't even manage to catch up with the young sect leader, so how could she possibly have intercepted him?"

"The young sect leader's horse turned too quickly at that intersection—we were stopped halfway by that interfering old man who blocked the entire road."

"I didn't dare follow too closely behind, fearing the young sect leader's punishment if we ruined his carefully laid plans by being too obvious. When I finally chased after them and arrived at the location, I only saw Elder Ji standing there looking confused. No sign of anyone else."

"It seems she lost her trail somewhere around this general area. Song Huiya must have somehow escaped completely. Let's return to the sect and report this failure to the sect leader."

This course of action was quickly agreed upon by everyone present, and the group of would-be heroes departed in a disorganized throng, their footsteps gradually fading into the distance.

Not long after their voices had completely disappeared, the old scholar also emerged from the hidden cave entrance, staring intently in the direction the search party had gone with an expression of profound disbelief. Then he looked upward, his gaze sweeping the branches above, and met Song Huiya's eyes with an expression that mixed shock with grudging admiration.

Song Huiya shrugged innocently from her perch, the gesture accompanied by a slight smile that suggested she found the entire situation amusing.

The old scholar grumbled with genuine irritation, his voice carrying the particular exasperation of someone who couldn't decide whether to be impressed or offended. "These people wandering the martial world, claiming to be heroes—don't they have functioning eyes in their heads? Completely useless! Bah!"

"If not having eyes somehow makes you an unharmed hero who survives through luck rather than skill, then fine, perhaps it's better they don't bother developing observation abilities," Song Huiya laughed, her voice light and unconcerned. "You can afford to be generous with other people's lives when assessing their choices, but you absolutely cannot be generous with your own survival. After all, Ye Guanda doesn't strike me as the kind of person who remembers kindness or feels grateful for mercy shown."

Seeing that there was no more excitement to observe, no additional entertainment to be gleaned from the situation, the old scholar turned and walked away with visible sullenness, flicking his wide sleeves in a gesture of dismissal that was probably more theatrical than his mood actually warranted.

Bei Tu then stepped forward from where he'd been standing in the shadows, his sword carried across his back. His weathered brow furrowed deeply as he looked at the unconscious figure Song Huiya had bound and deposited on the ground like a sack of grain. "Why are you bothering to tie up this particularly unlucky creature?" he asked with genuine confusion.

Song Huiya reached out and patted the man beside her—Ye Guanda, still deeply unconscious—with the casual dismissiveness of someone tapping a melon to test its ripeness, then casually tossed him aside. "Just a whim, really. I wanted to see those self-righteous hypocrites put on their performance. Here—he's all yours now if you want him."

Bei Tu, visibly disgusted by the accumulated dirt and blood on his hands from the morning's activities, merely offered Ye Guanda's prone form a contemptuous footrest, stepping over him without ceremony. He thought to himself that this particular scourge would die sooner or later anyway—probably sooner, given Song Huiya's involvement—so the precise timing didn't matter tremendously. He didn't even bother to glance down at the unconscious man. Seeing that Song Huiya was preparing to leave, sword already shifting on her back, he asked with the tone of someone who already suspected the answer, "Where are you going now?"

Song Huiya replied with studied nonchalance, as though discussing something as mundane as a trip to the market. "Naturally, I'm going up the mountain to hunt dogs. If Ye Wenmao learned he'd lost his precious son and heir, he might do something genuinely desperate in response." She paused, her expression growing slightly more serious. "What would be the point of giving him three days to prepare, then another three days to refine his preparations, just to see whether he'd actually set an elaborate trap designed to harm me? Besides, I fundamentally don't trust the heartless and treacherous nature inherent in the Duanyan Sect disciples. If they decide to use the innocent people of the city to coerce me into compliance—threatening civilian lives unless I surrender—should I flee to save my own life or kill everyone involved? Either option leaves a terrible taste. Better to end things quickly."

Bei Tu released a scoff that carried decades of accumulated cynicism. "I just finished praising you for finally being clever and strategic, and now you're preparing to repeat the same impulsive mistakes? Didn't you specifically tell that woman you wanted them to come begging to you for help?"

Song Huiya laughed loudly, the sound echoing off the mountainside with genuine amusement. "So what if I did? Do you actually think I'll truly ignore them if they don't come crawling? I was just saying that casually to frighten them into action, to make them understand their position. Empty threats designed to motivate."

She laughed twice more, and seeing that Bei Tu remained silent and deliberately unresponsive to her explanation, she allowed some of her practiced cynicism to drop away. Looking out at the vast expanse of mountains before them—the interplay of light and shadow across peaks and valleys, the morning mist still clinging to the lower elevations—she found herself lost in contemplation for a moment. She reached back and unsheathed the sword from its position across her shoulders, gripping its familiar weight in her hand. Then she laughed again, but this time the sound carried a different quality—something more carefree, more genuinely liberated. "I am disappointed in them, in all these people who claim righteousness but cower when action is required. But I have no regrets about my own choices, because the path I've chosen to walk has never been dictated by anyone else's approval or concern. It's mine alone."

Song Huiya pointed her sword directly at Bei Tu, the blade catching the morning light, and said with magnificent, almost theatrical generosity, "Senior, I genuinely want to see with my own eyes what you've described as 'back then'—that era you remember. I want to witness a time when people all over the world shared similar minds and hearts, when they were 'truly brave and martial, ultimately strong and unyielding' in their commitment to principles." She paused, her expression growing fiercer. "Even if pursuing this vision really does lead us to see 'white blades spilling blood' across battlefields, even if it ends in death—it would be a worthy death. A death with meaning."

Bei Tu, who rarely allowed his carefully maintained stern expression to crack, actually smiled. The network of wrinkles covering his weathered face smoothed out momentarily, revealing beneath the always harsh and complex lines a touch of awkward gentleness—something softer than he usually permitted himself to show.

This old, decaying man who had somehow survived countless cycles of heroic and tragic songs throughout his long life, who had witnessed far too much blood and fire, too much senseless death and loss, now possessed only an empty ambition that felt perpetually out of step with the cynical, compromised world around him.

But those dead dreams—those bizarre and fantastical old visions of what the martial world could be—now seemed to have been resurrected and given new life in Song Huiya's fierce determination.

Bei Tu spoke with rare sincerity, his voice carrying genuine emotion rather than his usual sardonic detachment. "If you had been born back then, in that earlier era, you would have been recognized as a rare and genuinely outstanding figure. Someone people would have followed."

Song Huiya appeared visibly flattered by this assessment, her entire face brightening with pleasure. She smiled with unguarded delight. "Since you're saying something that generous, I'd like to compete for first place among those outstanding figures you remember. When I return victorious from this mountain, I'll treat you to proper drinks and we'll celebrate together."

Song Huiya stopped her preparations to depart and thought for a moment, her expression growing more serious as she considered practical contingencies. Then she instructed Bei Tu, "Please tell my cheap apprentice—you know, the irritating one who follows me around—that if I'm not back by tomorrow morning when the sun rises, she should immediately go find Lu Xiangze and accept his protection. Tell her to live a life of luxury and comfort under his patronage rather than pursuing pointless revenge."

Bei Tu's expression changed immediately and dramatically, shifting from contemplative to actively irritated. He said with visible annoyance, "I already sent her to an abandoned house on the city's outskirts for her own safety. You can deliver that melodramatic message yourself when you return. I'm not your messenger service."

He bent down and picked up Ye Guanda's unconscious body with one hand, hoisting the dead weight onto his shoulder with the casual ease of someone accustomed to carrying bodies. Then he declared, "I'll return briefly to retrieve my proper sword—the one I actually want to fight with—and then we'll go up the mountain together. You're not doing this alone."

The sun climbed higher in the vast sky, but the light it provided carried little genuine warmth. The persistent north wind carried moisture that seemed to have materialized from nowhere—dew that felt colder than frost or snow, cutting through clothing with ease.

Bei Tu entered through the city gate, moving with swift, deliberate purpose. He killed Ye Guanda directly and efficiently—no ceremony, no speech, just the quick dispatch of someone who had caused too much suffering. Then he hung the corpse prominently on the city wall where it would be visible to everyone passing through, a clear message that couldn't be misinterpreted. He ignored the screams of fear and shock erupting from the surrounding people who witnessed this public execution, and quickly made his way back toward Kite Lane.

Just after turning the corner into the familiar street, he saw Second Aunt walking slowly along the road. She was kneeling with each labored step, her body bent almost double with the effort. She held a piece of white cloth clutched against her chest. She was accompanied by more than ten other people—all of them clearly impoverished and ragged, their clothing worn to threads. Their backs were perpetually hunched, their necks bent forward, their entire bearing that of people who had been beaten down by life and the wind made it almost impossible for them to straighten their spines.

Second Aunt's health had deteriorated with shocking rapidity. She appeared to be nearing the absolute end of her life, her body failing catastrophically. She needed two people supporting her on either side just to remain upright and continue moving forward at all.

None of the men in the group were literate—they couldn't write down the extensive crimes of the Duanyan Sect in proper characters, nor were they eloquent enough to know how to frame formal accusations in the language that officials and educated people would take seriously. They could only hold up that piece of white cloth and press their blood-stained fingerprints onto its surface—each print a testament, each mark a voice that couldn't otherwise be heard.

Upon seeing Bei Tu appear, Second Aunt immediately burst into wracking tears. Unable to support herself any longer under the combined weight of grief, exhaustion, and terminal illness, she collapsed forward. She bowed her head in profound shame, her voice breaking as she said, "Great hero… I am so utterly useless… I cannot even do this one thing properly…"

Bei Tu felt himself overwhelmed by a complex tangle of emotions—grief, rage, admiration, and something close to hope all competing for dominance. He stepped forward quickly, helped her rise to her feet with gentle hands that contradicted his usual gruff manner, nodded to her with genuine respect, and said simply, "That's enough. What you've done is enough."

He then proceeded into the house, threw away the broken, inadequate knife he'd been carrying, and dragged a heavy wooden box out from its long-term storage position under his bed. He opened it with hands that trembled slightly—not from age but from emotion—and carefully lifted out a three-foot-nine-inch-long ring-pommel sword that he hadn't touched in two decades.

He gripped the blade in one weathered hand and wiped away the accumulated dust with slow, reverent movements. Years—so many years—had passed since this weapon was last drawn in actual combat, yet when he finally examined the blade itself, it remained as sharp and unblemished as the day it was forged. Time had not diminished it.

Bei Tu stared at his own reflection captured in the polished silver surface of the blade. He attempted a smile, forcing his stiff facial muscles into the unfamiliar expression, then immediately found the result unbearably ugly and forced himself to stop. He pursed his lips instead, settling his features back into their habitual stern lines. Just as he was preparing to rise and leave, he heard a sudden commotion erupting outside—a jumble of many footsteps approaching, a sound that was powerful and imposing in its collective force.

Bei Tu immediately assumed this was the disciples of the Duanyan Sect arriving for revenge, coming to punish him for his role in Ye Guanda's capture and execution. Filled with fresh murderous intent and actually welcoming the confrontation, he kicked open his door with tremendous force and strode out, fully intending to simply cut them all down and use their corpses as weapons if necessary.

The dilapidated wooden door crashed down with a tremendous bang, torn completely from its hinges by the violence of his kick.

But the scene that greeted him outside was entirely, completely different from what he had anticipated.

A group of young men—scholars by their dress and bearing—held papers and scrolls aloft like banners as they rushed toward his doorway. They were shouting with tremendous force, their voices carrying across the entire street: "The crimes of the Duanyan Sect—we've come to write them all down! Every single one!"

The group was led by these young scholars, their ink-stained fingers and educated voices providing structure to the rage. They were followed by a much larger crowd of barefoot or straw-shoe-wearing commoners—farmers, laborers, street vendors, a diverse mix representing virtually all walks of ordinary life.

They gathered behind Second Aunt's small, breaking form. Each man spoke in his own words when his turn came, but their voices rang out with shared purpose—a fervent, indignant, unified accusation.

"Many of the officials currently serving in the government office are direct disciples of the Duanyan Sect or owe them favors. Talented people with genuine ability are systematically excluded from positions while incompetent clerks abuse whatever small power they possess. The sect fills governmental positions specifically to create vacancies they can exploit, and they actively persecute any official who shows integrity or independence. Countless innocent people have been wrongfully beaten to death by the government on fabricated charges. Here—" He held up his papers. "Here are the names of twenty-six households, all willing to guarantee with their lives that every single word we're saying is completely true!"

Another voice rose, belonging to a middle-aged man whose hands were calloused from labor. "The private schools and medical clinics throughout the city are also mostly Duanyan Sect businesses operated for profit rather than service. To study and learn to read—basic literacy that should be available to all—one must pay two full taels of silver per month. Ordinary people can tighten their belts for an entire year and still not accumulate two taels! People dare not seek medical help when they fall ill because they know the cost will bankrupt them, and even if they somehow manage to pay, they receive only perfunctory treatment that does nothing. How is this any different from treating human life like worthless dirt?"

A younger voice joined in, trembling with righteous fury. "Travelers from distant places who must pass through Duanyan Mountain are required to hire disciples of the mountain gate as 'escorts'—forced payment for protection from the very people who would rob them otherwise. Even ordinary people living within the city who have disputes over land boundaries or property rights must offer substantial portions of their wealth to the sect's disciples in exchange for having their cases decided. It's no different than the saying about plucking feathers from every passing goose!"

An elderly voice, cracked with age and emotion, added its testimony. "Even cats and dogs living in our homes need food to survive. When the Duanyan Sect sees people literally starving to death on the roads, have they ever shown the slightest compassion? Have they ever offered even a single bowl of porridge or half a meal to those dying from hunger?"

"After taking countless lives through their exploitation and cruelty, they dare to claim they're merciful, that they're protecting us!" Another man's voice rose in outrage. "Do they really think we're born inherently lowly, that we deserve this treatment? We may be ashamed before Heaven for our failures and before our parents for our weakness, but we will never, never be ashamed before these absolute traitors of the Duanyan Sect!"

"What meaningful difference exists between their despicable methods and those of the northern barbarians everyone claims to fear?" The question rang out with devastating clarity. "The barbarians are not of our kind by blood, yes—but the Duanyan Sect is utterly inhuman by choice!"

The final shout came from a young man whose eyes blazed with something that looked very much like hope discovering itself for the first time. "I would rather travel to the borderlands and fight the barbarians directly, die a quick death in honest combat! At least then I could hold my head high when I eventually meet my ancestors in the afterlife, rather than dying an unjust death from a casual slap delivered by some Duanyan Sect disciple who doesn't even remember my name!"

The young scholar who had been organizing this demonstration, disregarding his own safety and the consequences to his comfortable life, suddenly knelt directly before Bei Tu.

The leader raised his voice in a plea that carried across the gathered crowd and seemed to echo off the very walls of the city: "We beg our benefactor to kill Ye Wenmao!"

"We beg all the heroes of the world to destroy Duanyan Sect completely!"

The crowd immediately echoed in perfect, thunderous unison, their voices merging into a single roar: "Destroy Duanyan Sect! Kill Ye Wenmao!"

Bei Tu looked at the people assembled before him—really looked at them, seeing not the usual cowering masses but something else entirely. His face remained outwardly calm, maintaining the stern composure he'd worn for decades. But beneath that carefully controlled surface, an indescribable undercurrent surged with tremendous force. It broke through the heavy accumulated ashes that had been smothering his heart for twenty years, like the ring-pommel sword now gripped in his hand—finally, impossibly, regaining the glory and purpose it had possessed two decades ago.

His pupils trembled slightly with the intensity of what he was feeling. He wanted desperately to call Song Huiya back from wherever she'd gone, to make her return immediately and witness this moment—

"Water from broken cliffs and shattered rocks originates from a single trickle; trees that eventually reach the clouds and block out the sun rise from tiny verdant shoots."

This rotten, compromised, cynical world that he'd given up on—it might truly be coming to an end after all. And something new might actually be beginning.

Bei Tu slowly stepped forward through the gathered crowd, reached out, and took the petitions from the trembling hands of the men who had risked everything to write them. He carefully folded the papers and stuffed them securely into his robes, close to his heart. Without uttering a single word of response—because no words could adequately capture what he was feeling—he turned resolutely and left, his ancient sword gripped firmly in his weathered hand, finally walking toward the purpose he'd thought was lost forever.

Thoughts:

What began with Second Aunt's individual transformation has now sparked a genuine popular uprising. The chapter opens with Song Huiya having successfully intercepted Ye Guanda, demonstrating her superior tactical abilities while the Duanyan Sect's disciples bumble uselessly below. Her casual discussion with Bei Tu about "hunting dogs" reveals how far she's evolved from impulsive warrior to strategic revolutionary—she no longer waits passively for enemies to act but seizes initiative. Bei Tu's initial criticism that she's "repeating the same mistake" highlights the tension between her stated principles (demanding people beg for help) and her actual nature (unable to abandon those in need). Song Huiya's response—that she was "just saying it casually to scare them"—reveals the performative aspect of her earlier ultimatum, but her deeper explanation shows genuine philosophical evolution: she's disappointed in people's cowardice but has no regrets because her path is her own. 

The pivotal moment arrives when Bei Tu returns to find not cowering victims but organized resistance. The literate scholars writing down accusations, the commoners pressing bloody fingerprints as testimony, the specific enumeration of Duanyan Sect's crimes—all of this represents exactly what Song Huiya demanded: active participation rather than passive victimhood. The parallel between Bei Tu's sword (unused for twenty years but still sharp) and his rekindled hope (buried but not dead) provides powerful symbolism. His recognition of the ancient saying about water and trees—that great things begin from small sources—captures the chapter's central theme: revolutions don't require perfect people, just people willing to finally stand up. The collective cry of "Destroy Duanyan Sect! Kill Ye Wenmao!" represents not mob violence but genuine popular will finally finding its voice.