Chapter Sixty-Six: Martial Arts Grandmaster, Boundless Freedom!

When the Criminal Scholar arrived with a group to seek out King Zhao, they found him indulging in wine and merriment at the home of a wealthy man.

Do not mistake the situation—King Zhao was no friend of the host. He had killed the man and occupied the estate as his own, like a cuckoo seizing a nest. In West Mountain County, King Zhao’s name was now thunderous with infamy. Reporting him to the authorities was possible, but whether the officials would come, or even dare to come, was another matter altogether.

Finding King Zhao’s whereabouts was hardly difficult; he made no attempt to hide. In fact, blatant defiance of the imperial court and disregard for the law were his pleasures—ones few in the world could comprehend.

As the Criminal Scholar drew near the estate, he saw copper coins flooding out from the front gate, splashing everywhere like water. Mixed among them were occasional treasures of gold and silver, tossed out as though they were refuse.

A burly man, reeking of alcohol yet robust in form, leaned lazily against the doorway. With a casual lift, he hoisted a wooden bucket heavy with coins, then flung it forcefully, scattering coins across the ground.

Passersby stood transfixed. Some, aware of King Zhao’s notorious reputation, dared not linger and hurried away. Yet others, eyes red with greed, gazed at the wealth King Zhao tossed so freely.

“King Zhao, can we take this money?” someone finally asked, unable to resist the lure.

“Money?” the drunken giant replied carelessly, “Just dirt.”

“So, we can take it?”

“Do as you please,” King Zhao said, flinging coins with abandon.

Inside, dozens of servants and the bereaved family of the former owner were nearly faint with grief. Years of accumulated wealth, now thrown out like garbage—it was agony beyond words.

Yet they could do nothing. Even the officials treated King Zhao as a nonentity, powerless against him.

So they could only endure.

After a moment’s hesitation, a few people began to bend down, nervously gathering coins, glancing at King Zhao as they did. When they saw he paid them no mind, some grew bolder: grabbing a handful and dashing away.

King Zhao made no move.

Soon, confidence spread. Onlookers rushed forward, and the scramble for coins began. King Zhao had cast out plenty, but the crowd was even larger. The early opportunists slipped away, but the remaining wealth soon grew scarce. Among the coins were a few pieces of silver and rare gold leaves—their value far from equal.

Those who came away empty-handed, or dissatisfied with their haul, quickly quarreled with those who had enough, and soon scuffles broke out. In the chaos, coins fell like mercury, drawing ever more greedy hands.

King Zhao watched the disorder with raucous laughter, thoroughly entertained. No matter how fierce the brawl, or whether blood was spilled, it all seemed a farcical spectacle to him.

Farther off, the Criminal Scholar approaching felt a chill in his heart.

King Zhao—the title of “King” was not religious, but literal: Heaven first, I second! He disregarded all rules, often performed the unimaginable, and delighted in tormenting others. The “others” could be the imperial court, wealthy families, or mere passersby—as now.

His one redeeming trait was his disdain for bullying the poor. More precisely, he only enjoyed bullying those who themselves oppressed others.

If the Criminal Scholar were to judge, King Zhao was the archetype of a warrior outlaw—though not a true hero, simply a man who wielded his strength against the law for his own amusement.

He had neither family nor friends or followers, and thus feared no retribution.

If you dared to assassinate a martial grandmaster, you were welcome to try. Fail, and expect his savage revenge.

Such a man was what the Criminal Scholar classified as the third type, one he had always avoided.

The Criminal Scholar waited by the street for a long time, until every last coin was gone and only patches of blood remained. Then he stepped forward.

King Zhao still sat by the door, half leaning against the frame, entirely unkempt.

“I am the Criminal Scholar, here to meet King Zhao,” he announced, bowing and offering the alias by which he was known.

His moniker was far more famous than his real name—after all, that was how the authorities had listed him in their wanted notices. Over time, his true name faded from use; few even recognized it.

“Oh? You’re the Criminal Scholar?” King Zhao, having just enjoyed his spectacle, brazenly sized him up. The crude, impolite gaze was deeply uncomfortable; a man of lesser temperament would have been enraged.

The Criminal Scholar stood straight, enduring the scrutiny.

“Why do you look so thin and dark, hardly like a scholar?” King Zhao said at last.

“Long years in the wild, neglecting appearance—naturally so,” the Criminal Scholar replied with neither humility nor arrogance.

“I said last year I wanted to see what the Criminal Scholar looked like. Why only today?”

King Zhao’s brow arched, hinting at dissatisfaction.

“Last year I was leading a band of brothers, preparing for rebellion, and could not spare the time. Now, with nothing pressing, I’ve come to meet you,” said the Criminal Scholar, his tone even.

“I’ve heard the court sent plenty of soldiers to hunt you—more than they sent after me. What of your brothers—are they all dead?”

King Zhao spoke with careless bluntness.

“You!”

Behind the Criminal Scholar, a dozen of his comrades bristled with anger. His reputation among rebels was high—even after defeat, he should not be so insulted.

But the Criminal Scholar waved them aside and said, “I cannot compare to your solitary freedom, King Zhao.”

This subtle, slightly mocking remark made King Zhao’s gaze turn dangerous, a cruel smile rising on his face. “Seems you’re not afraid of death,” he said.

As he spoke, a terrifying aura surged from him, as if mountains of corpses and seas of blood loomed nearby. His great hand reached for the Criminal Scholar.

“I have brought news that may interest you,” the Criminal Scholar responded, unflinching.

King Zhao’s hand paused. “I’ll give you one sentence. If it fails to intrigue me, you can die.”

“The Immortal Trail. What say you?”