Meanwhile, the other two ruffians were tussling with a young woman dressed as an entertainer, viciously knocking her to the ground and snatching the bundle from her arms.

Seeing Philip Brooks and his group approaching, the two ruffians' eyes lit up. With a sharp whistle, seven or eight people immediately broke off from the group battering the door and surged toward them.

Section Five: As If Falling Into an Ice Cellar

At any other time, even if these people rushed at him all at once, they would be no match for Philip Brooks.

Having braved wind and rain on the frontier, such scuffles hardly counted as real combat for him; dealing with these petty thugs was a piece of cake.

But the problem was that the situation was growing increasingly chaotic. Clearly, the earlier assumption that this was just a tax riot forcing the tax monitors to back down was off the mark.

There were already bandits besieging the city from outside, and the situation inside was even more chaotic. More crucially, the city guards were nowhere to be seen, which was highly suspicious.

If they got bogged down here and were surrounded by the bandits, Philip Brooks himself could handle it, but it would be trouble for Little Ethan.

Before Philip Brooks could think further, the two ruffians at the front charged at him—one wielding a staff as tall as a man, the other brandishing a bamboo pole as thick as an arm and ten feet long.

Philip Brooks knew this was no time for mercy. He leapt down from the carriage shaft, sidestepped forward, and easily dodged the fierce downward swing of the staff. With a swift upward flick of the narrow-bladed waist knife at his side, he struck.

Where the blade passed, blood spurted more than a foot high from the man's neck, splattering the white wall beside them—a shocking sight.

Before the bamboo pole could sweep across, Philip Brooks closed in, hooked his left arm around the man's head, and with a twist, flung him aside.

With a crack, the man's head slammed into the white wall. He collapsed to the ground without a sound.

The four or five men following behind were terrified, stopping in their tracks and waving their clubs and bamboo poles, shouting. The one in front even had a wooden spear tipped with iron, blustering, "Hey you! Drop your knife now if you want to keep your corpse in one piece!"

"Hmph, if you're not afraid to die, come at me! When I was killing Tartars in Datong Prefecture, you lot were probably still suckling at your mothers' breasts!"

Philip Brooks pressed forward with his blade, unconcerned. The cold, murderous intent radiating from the blade made his opponents freeze in fear. Instinctively, one dropped his bamboo spear and turned to run.

The whole gang scattered in panic. Philip Brooks knew this was no place to linger. These petty thugs were nothing, but the bandits flooding in from outside the city were another matter.

With just a quick glance, Philip Brooks could tell that, though the thousand-odd men were a ragtag bunch, numbers made them powerful—like a pack of dogs overwhelming the strong. He could also see that the leaders looked formidable; if they got into the city, there would be real trouble.

Yet there was still no sign of the city guards, and chaos reigned inside the city. The merchant guilds should have had some guards, but surprisingly, there were hardly any to be seen—at most, a few men with knives or guns guarding shop entrances.

But against the clearly organized bandits outside the city, what good would these scattered, piecemeal guards do?

"Hurry, let's go! Take the side street through the firewood market, cut through the cotton market, and head toward Binyang Gate," Philip Brooks said, not daring to hesitate. If the bandits outside got into the city, it would be hard to find another chance to escape.

"We can't go!"

Brian Brooks and Philip Brooks both froze. They hadn't noticed when a skinny, dark-skinned youth had slipped out from between the side walls. His greasy, mud-stained, sleeveless short jacket was so dirty its original color was unrecognizable, and one pant leg was torn to shreds—he looked like he'd just run out from somewhere.

The skinny youth gave a vicious kick to the ruffian Philip Brooks had knocked half-dead against the wall, then rummaged through his clothes and found a silver ingot. He stuffed it into his own shirt, then picked up a brick from beside the wall and smashed it down hard on the man's head. Blood and brains spilled out—the man was clearly done for.

Philip Brooks didn't mind. He'd seen plenty of life-and-death struggles on the frontier, things ten times more brutal than this were commonplace to him. He was only slightly surprised at how ruthless this little beggar was. But Brian Brooks had never witnessed such a bloody scene.

Philip Brooks's earlier knife strike had already left him cold all over. Now, right in front of him, a beggar boy who looked a year or two younger than himself dared to kill without hesitation. It suddenly made him realize that everything he was seeing today might be the truest side of this world, and that the leisurely days he'd spent recuperating at The Brooks Residence were nothing but a comforting illusion.

"Little beggar, why can't we go?" Philip Brooks asked, growing more anxious.

The mounting sense of danger made him desperate to leave this perilous place.

Though the ruffians had retreated, they weren't far away. If they got any backup, they'd be back to surround them. Escaping himself wouldn't be hard, but it would be trouble for Little Ethan and Nathaniel.

"I'm not a beggar! The cotton market has already been taken over by those ruthless kiln workers. If you go that way, you're just looking for death."

The skinny youth stuffed the silver into his shirt, then picked up the bundle the ruffian had snatched from the entertainer. He seemed a bit hesitant, which greatly puzzled both Philip Brooks and Brian Brooks.