Chapter Sixty-Two: Butcher Ding’s Dissection, Axiao Steals the Prize (Please Keep Reading)

“Ah—! Help me!”

Xie He was drenched in the blood of his personal attendant, his legs trembling so badly he couldn’t even muster the strength to run. All he could do was let out a shrill, ear-splitting wail.

The elite guards of the Xie Family Merchant Guild, who had accompanied him on this mission, were also thrown into utter chaos by the explosion.

Even with knives and guns in hand, there was not the faintest sense of security to be found.

Their mission was no more than to deal with a few boat temples and some minor temple keepers. They’d done this several times around the turn of the year, and there had never been any mention of naval cannons in the hypothetical scenarios!

But the Xie family still had some resources left.

The hatch of the cabin swung open. A lower-ranking official dressed as a pastry chef—one of the kitchen staff—charged out through the booming cannon fire.

He threw a white cloth, used for steaming buns, over both himself and Xie He.

Strangely enough, those whistling cast iron cannonballs, the splintering wooden debris, and the flying fragments of flesh and bone all veered away at bizarre angles as soon as they neared the two of them, or even passed straight through harmlessly.

Hidden under the cloth, the chef kept chanting incantations.

But these were not orthodox Daoist mantras; they sounded more like snatches of street rhymes. He sang:

“Old Zhang’s filling, tell me, where is your hometown?”
“My home is at the center, thirty li from the folds. When diners take a bite, a stone stele appears, reading: ‘Here there are still thirty li to the filling...’”

Diners often found themselves betrayed by unscrupulous bun sellers—bun after bun, all skin and no filling, and no matter how many bites, the filling never materialized.

In truth, this was the special skill of the white pastry chefs, a branch of the kitchen staff: hidden worlds within the bun’s folds, so near yet so far!

When diners couldn’t find the filling, it wasn’t just because the owner was stingy—sometimes, it meant a master chef was playing his game among mortals.

“Young Master, come with me!”

The seventh-grade chef, Qiu Zhushui, desperately employed his art to shield Xie He, dragging him back toward the cabin.

To be the chef for someone of importance was to be utterly trustworthy.

This chef was a hereditary servant of the Xie family; his ancestors had served the family for generations, unwavering in their loyalty.

Now, with the Xie family reduced to mere shadows of its former self, he was one of their last remaining officials.

No matter how arrogant or unruly Xie He might be in daily life, he always treated this old family retainer with respect.

At this moment, the old adage—never offend the cook—had never rung truer.

“Switch to grapeshot, sweep the deck! Aim for the chef!”

Zhang Wu, the deputy at the bow, relayed Wang Cheng’s orders to the artillerymen on the lower gundeck:

“Switch to grapeshot, depress the barrels, sweep the deck!”

Apart from a handful of sailors needed to keep the ship running, most hands had gone below to man the larger twelve-pounder cannons.

Upon receiving the order, the crew deftly swapped out the rounds for grapeshot, devastating against personnel.

These cannonballs were essentially clusters of lead shot or small iron balls, bound together around an iron rod with a turtle-shell pattern of ropework—the earliest form of canister shot.

Using crowbars, they levered up the barrels’ breech, lowered the muzzles, and from the towering height of the sailing warship, poured death down onto the deck below.

Countless iron balls erupted into a storm of death the moment they left the barrels.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!...

A broadside of fire—there was now nowhere on deck to hide.

Qiu Zhushui was only a seventh-grade chef, and though his skill was remarkable, how long could he possibly endure?

In this age of great voyages, with fleets of warships and heavy artillery, not even ghosts or gods dared stand against them; those who did, perished!

“Young Master, jump!”

Qiu Zhushui, his view obscured by swirling mist, couldn’t see the attackers.

But after two volleys he saw the situation clearly enough, and immediately steered Xie He to the opposite, unscathed side of the ship and leapt into the sea.

With his free hand, he hooked a finger into his knife sheath at his waist, drew out a bull’s-ear-tipped blade, and, without hesitation, plunged it into his own chest.

Passing from existence to nonexistence, he deftly sliced away a piece of his own liver.

A crimson magical glow suffused the blade, and with a faint gnawing sound, the liver vanished in a flash. Qiu Zhushui himself, however, looked instantly revitalized, his face flushed with energy.

The two of them sped across the waves, each stride covering several yards, gradually transforming into two blurred shadows racing across the sea.

This was the secret art of bodily transformation, passed down from the legendary butcher-chef: by sacrificing a part of oneself, one could gain a surge of power for a short time.

Since the liver can regenerate—being the organ with the greatest regenerative capacity—afterwards, one need only take some high-grade medicinal pills from a doctor or alchemist to restore it, making it the ideal offering.

Many chefs had made this skill part of their regular repertoire.

It was said that in Zhigu, the roughest of the street toughs used this very trick when fighting—no blood shed at all.

“Lower the boat, follow me!”

By now the merchant vessel was riddled with holes; Wang Cheng could not allow his two main targets to escape.

Both sides had been sailing close along the coast—if he let them reach shore, capturing them would become near impossible.

He leapt into the sea first, borrowing the power of the Turtle-Headed Spirit, and skimmed across the waves in pursuit.

Behind him, Zhang Wu, Zhang Wen, and others prepared to lower a lighter boat and follow swiftly.

Bang!

But Qiu Zhushui and Xie He were a step ahead, plunging into a sudden patch of milky-white mist that appeared on the sea.

The fog billowed and contracted, and then began to drift swiftly along the water’s surface.

Wang Cheng, already closing in fast, instinctively assumed they were being aided by an accomplice and shouted:

“Stop! Leave them behind!”

His Mind’s Eye immediately locked onto three blurred silhouettes within the fog.

He whipped his right hand through the air.

The Azure Dragon in the Sleeve!

The Cloud Dragon’s Claw!

His draw was as swift as lightning—the blade’s razor-edged arc forming a line of cold light, ready in a heartbeat to slice through both fog and those hiding within.

Clang!

But in the next instant, Wang Cheng felt no satisfying resistance of flesh or bone—his treasured blade, Chimu, was blocked utterly by another sharp weapon.

In a fleeting glance through his Mind’s Eye, he saw what looked like a brilliant silver hairpin, gripped by a slender, white hand—a weapon both hairpin and blade.

“Is that one of the Three Pins of Minzhou?”

The Three Pins of Minzhou were adornments worn exclusively by the women of the region—hairpins that doubled as short defensive blades.

From such subtle weapons, the female officers had developed their signature external martial art, Swallows Before the Court.

Its moves were swift and perilous; at its highest level, wielding a pair of pin-blades, one could even glide for short distances, darting between the sails of a warship.

The opponent’s speed was astonishing.

After their blades clashed, a streak of silver light sprang away, then flicked gently at the side of Wang Cheng’s blade, parrying Chimu with ease.

A corner of a silver-white skirt blossomed like a flower, and the long, powerful legs beneath snapped upward with a fierce whistle, aiming a vicious kick at Wang Cheng’s head.

Whoosh!

With a twist, Wang Cheng spun away like a wisp of smoke, choosing not to counterattack.

In that brief encounter within the mist, he saw through the illusion and recognized his adversary.

Her features were exquisite, her skin pale as jade, her beauty remote and cold—clad in a gown of silver frost, she resembled a celestial maiden descended to earth.

Her striking heterochromatic eyes, one brown and one blue, were the perfect finishing touch, lending her an air of humanity—a reminder that she truly belonged to the mortal world, not some immortal fairy poised to ride the wind away.

Through the Mind’s Eye, he could see faint, shimmering scales fading from her cheeks and arms, adding a further touch of otherworldly beauty.

Wang Cheng blurted out:

“Sister Axiao, what are you doing here?”

This unexpected “interceptor” was none other than the temple attendant he’d planned to visit on his very first stop—the Pearl Diver, Axiao!