Chapter 1598 - A Clean Sweep

Zhuo Yifan watched helplessly as Sima Qiudao sprinted diagonally toward the hillside on the left. His strides were long, his footwork light—flowing like clouds and water. With a few leaps, he had already covered seven or eight zhang.

Almost simultaneously, the dogs across the way erupted into furious barking, and the others joined in. The Shorn Bandits' officer waved his hand, and the chains were released from the four massive hounds. Four black shapes shot forward like arrows, howling as they charged.

Zhuo Yifan's heart leapt to his throat. At that same instant, the Shorn Bandits' muskets cracked in a thunderous volley, and smoke quickly shrouded the opposite hillside.

Stone chips flew and dirt erupted all around Sima Qiudao. He didn't slow at all, leaping nimbly between grass, rocks, and brush like an agile ape. The bullets seemed unable to touch him. In the blink of an eye, he had descended the hill, crossed two field ridges, and was about to reach the forest on the left slope.

Run! Zhuo Yifan shouted silently. As if hearing him, Sima Qiudao ran faster still.

Then Zhuo Yifan saw something tug at Sima Qiudao's trouser leg from the left, and fine debris flew out. He watched Sima Qiudao's whole body stiffen before he tumbled into the field. Before his body had even settled, the four calf-sized mastiffs were upon him with howling fury.

"It's over!" Ice water seemed to pour through Zhuo Yifan's veins. He had been shot himself and knew that once hit, without help, a man couldn't even crawl—let alone with four ferocious dogs attacking.

Sima Qiudao was still a martial artist with quick reflexes. He rolled over and drew the dagger from his waist to stab at the attacking dogs, but with two wounds in his body, he simply couldn't muster the strength. The first dog clamped down on his wrist, sending excruciating pain shooting through him, and the dagger fell from his hand. In an instant, the second, third, and fourth dogs were upon him. Fortunately, they were trained police dogs; seeing that Sima Qiudao had lost his ability to resist, they didn't all pile on to tear him apart. Even so, his screams were blood-curdling.

His clothes were already torn to shreds, his body bloody and lacerated. Several Shorn Bandits soldiers slowed their pace, approaching with raised muskets, apparently still wary that their quarry might suddenly spring up and attack.

The soldiers surrounded Sima Qiudao, loudly speaking in some language Zhuo Yifan couldn't understand. They seemed very pleased with themselves. Watching this, Zhuo Yifan's eyes blazed with fury. He spat out two words: "Beasts!" One day, I will avenge you. He slammed his palm against the rock.

Taking advantage of the moment when the Shorn Bandits were gathered around Sima Qiudao, Zhuo Yifan ignored the pain wracking his body, rose, and ran up the hill. At this point, he could only get as far as possible. But before he had taken two steps, the youth shouted from behind: "There's another one on the hill!" Before the words had faded, muskets cracked behind him. The Shorn Bandits below all fired at Zhuo Yifan. Bullets whistled past, sending leaves and branches showering down around him. He ran with all his might and somehow managed to crest the hill in one desperate surge.

Having barely cleared the hilltop on his last reserves of strength, Zhuo Yifan's pace slowed as he descended. His wounds screamed in agony; even the gentlest breath sent stabbing pain through his ribs. He was desperately thirsty, his throat burning as if on fire. Unable to move his feet properly, he could only lunge toward a tree, pause briefly to catch his breath, then lunge to the next, and so on. Gradually, the valley floor came into view. As he reached for one last tree, his foot caught on a vine and his leg buckled. He tumbled down the slope, finally slamming his wounded left leg hard against a rock, and blacked out.

He was jolted awake by pain after a short while. His head spun dizzily; looking back, he saw that he had rolled all the way down and now lay in the grass at the bottom of the valley. Faint barking drifted from the hilltop above. He tried to stand but couldn't rise, so he rolled onto his side and used his right elbow to drag himself toward the sea. Every movement of his left leg and ribs sent involuntary spasms of pain through his body.

The sky was a deep blue, the clouds pure white. He thought of the sea of clouds on Wudang Mountain, clouds just as white... His vision began to blur. Dimly, he thought he saw a boat floating among the clouds, with several people standing on it. He tried to see clearly but couldn't make them out, so he called to them. Suddenly he seemed to recognize them—standing on the boat were his junior disciples, all smiling at him. Junior Brother Zhao was shouting: Come on! Hurry, we're almost there. Senior Brother, we're almost there...

But there was also a young woman in white clothes and a blue skirt, standing motionless, watching him with a face full of sorrow—this was Lian Nishang. Had she come to capture him too? Zhuo Yifan looked into her eyes, which seemed to brim with tears...

Three or four security soldiers charged down the hill after him. Their steps were swift, and in an instant they had caught up. The lead soldier, seeing that their target had collapsed in the grass and was barely crawling, slung his bayoneted musket over his shoulder, drew his katana from his waist, and slowly advanced.

But Zhuo Yifan was completely unaware of him. The soldier stared curiously at this obviously severely wounded man, still struggling to crawl toward the hillside, clutching at grass and brush to move himself. This man who had been protected so closely—even if not a general, he must be an important warrior. Taking his head would be a great achievement. He shifted into a slight forward stance, gripped the sword with both hands overhead, and was about to bring it down on the back of Zhuo Yifan's neck...

"止めろ!" (Yamero! — Stop!)

A rough shout came from behind. The soldier hesitated and looked at the officer who had caught up.

"バカ!" (Baka! — Fool!) The officer looked as though he wanted to thrash the soldier. But he was clearly more concerned about Zhuo Yifan's fate.

The soldier muttered in annoyance: "何?" (Nani?! — What?)

But he immediately sheathed his katana, turned to face the officer, stood at attention, and gave a slight bow: "はい!" (Hai! — Yes, sir!)

This prompted one of the nearby security soldiers to slam his rifle butt into Zhuo Yifan's back, knocking him flat into the grass, motionless.

Okamoto Makoto had been shaken by the assassination attempt and hadn't slept well the previous night. He rose early that morning. The rehearsal had been disrupted, and word was that the Cultural Festival would be postponed—even if it were held on schedule, they couldn't perform now, since the folk music troupe had all been taken into temporary custody for "questioning." All this had put him in a terrible mood.

What's the point of being in the arts if we can't even perform? His frustration was still simmering when he heard some fellow Elders complaining on the internal network—remarks like "artists are just entertainers" and "they can't be eaten or drunk; all flash and no substance, just wasting food."

"Doing real work is hard. Doing real work in the arts is even harder," Okamoto grumbled as a maid helped him wash up. He had once been a cultural critic who enjoyed being "anti-establishment"—the type who, if a rat were killed in the cafeteria, would write: "One cannot help but ask: what drove this rat to a life of stealing food?" But ever since becoming head of an arts organization, he had tasted what it was like to be on the receiving end of criticism, and lately his appetite for such things had soured considerably.

After washing, he sat down to breakfast, which the maid had prepared. He opened the newspaper that had just been delivered. As expected, The Lingao Daily was filled with news of the foiled terrorist plot. The front page even featured two news photographs—a rare occurrence.

The first was captioned: Ringleader Captured at Nanbao at the End of His Rope. The photograph showed Sima Qiudao and Zhuo Yifan seated cross-legged on the ground in the front row, bound hand and foot, with several knives, swords, and daggers laid out before them. Behind them stood a row of security soldiers, rifles butted to the ground, standing ramrod straight, every pair of eyes opened wide as if staring bullets. Zhuo Yifan's eyes were closed, blood-stained bandages wrapped around his legs. A soldier behind him braced his rifle with one hand while using the other to yank Zhuo Yifan's hair back, fully exposing his face to the camera. Beside him, Sima Qiudao sat slumped, head lolling on his shoulder, eyes vacant and staring ahead. Below the photo was a caption: Bandit Zhuo Yifan and Bandit Sima Qiudao—Captured! The accompanying text briefly described how the security forces had heroically pursued and bravely captured the two desperadoes.

The next photograph showed more than a dozen variously dressed men and women, their right arms bound together with rope in a line. They all hung their heads, expressions dejected and haggard; some were visibly wounded. They were surrounded by fully armed police and soldiers. The caption read: The captured male and female terrorists.

"Some of those women are actually quite good-looking..." In truth, the faces weren't visible in the blurry photograph, but their figures were clearly more shapely than the average local. "Nice faces and nice figures!"

Okamoto took a sip of soy milk and continued reading. The accompanying article was long, and he read it carefully. Though this kind of official prose followed a predictable template—leaders providing wise guidance, cadres working diligently, the masses throwing themselves into the effort—the writing was polished and airtight, a classic example of "advancing from victory to ever greater victory." Despite the excess verbiage, the entire reconnaissance and arrest operation was clearly described. At the end was a complete tally of results: thirty prisoners captured, eighteen killed, no one currently at large.

Below that was a shorter column: Seeing the Light: A Terrorist Surrenders Voluntarily, Admits Loss of Faith in the Ming Dynasty. Okamoto wasn't interested in this and turned the page.

The back of the front page featured: Fleas May Leap High, but Can They Knock Off the Pot Lid? — Interview with Director Wu Mu of the Political Security General Administration... Wu Mu revealed that terrorists, escaped remnants of suppression, and feudal cult members had never ceased their attempts at infiltration and sabotage. The composition of the recently uncovered cell was a case in point...