There used to be a temple by the roadside here, but now it’s gone. The mountain path is just a dirt road; we can no longer see the red stone slabs we once saw. Everything looks dilapidated, but we don’t care about that. We’re about to leave the mountains, and all the mysteries are about to be revealed—why bother thinking about anything else?

Maybe it’s the excitement of surviving a disaster, or maybe it’s just that we’re full and have nothing to do. A few of us waved our long knives around, digging up some flowers and plants, chopping off branches from the green pines and cypresses, making a racket as we walked. Only the anxious Old Brooks walked ahead with his head down, and the distance between us and him grew wider and wider.

Suddenly, the sound of chaotic hoofbeats came from outside the mountain pass in the distance. We all froze and looked toward the pass. The pass was narrow, and the mountain road turned a corner there, so we couldn’t see what was happening outside from where we stood. We saw Old Brooks excitedly running toward the pass, so we sped up as well—finally, we were about to see people. But then Old Brooks just stood at the pass, not moving, his whole body trembling. It looked like he wanted to hide back in the valley, but his body wouldn’t obey him.

“Something’s up,” I said, taking off my backpack and striding toward Old Brooks with my katana in hand. “Stay there,” I shouted to the other three. Before I could reach the pass, the hoofbeats grew louder, and a rider appeared at the pass. This rider was dressed in a strange outfit, looking like an ancient opera costume, and was waving a broadsword similar to the one Guan Yu used. Filming a movie, I thought to myself. But before I could breathe a sigh of relief, the rider spurred his horse and charged at Old Brooks, swinging his broadsword and chopping off Old Brooks’s head.

Shock. Utter shock. I knew exactly who Old Brooks was—he was definitely not an actor. No one would go so far as to chop off his head for a performance. This couldn’t be a magic trick. I looked down at the head that had rolled to my feet—it was indeed Old Brooks’s head, unmistakably real. His face still showed fear and shock. I bent down to touch Old Brooks’s face, when suddenly I heard the sound of wind behind my head. Instinctively, I dove forward, and a searing pain shot through my back.

Rage. Intense rage. If I hadn’t bent down just then, that blow—delivered with the force of a galloping horse—would have cut me in half. I rolled on the ground, got up, and felt my anger rising. Gripping my katana with both hands, I raised it above my head in a classic kendo stance. Come on, I don’t care if you’re a village tyrant, a county bully, or a party boss—he who kills must pay with his life. If you think I’ll just stand here and wait to die, think again! I refuse to believe there’s no justice left in this world.

The rider adjusted his horse and charged at me again. I fixed my gaze on his swinging broadsword, and my father’s voice echoed in my mind: “Relax your whole body, vibrate your muscles, gather your strength, and strike with all your might in a single blow.” I summoned all my strength and swung my katana at the tip of his broadsword. The phrase “unstoppable momentum” flashed through my mind.

It really was unstoppable. My blade broke the tip off his broadsword and, with undiminished force, slashed toward the rider. I didn’t want to kill anyone, but I had put all my strength into that swing and couldn’t control the blade anymore. My body, too, was out of control as I leapt at the rider, knocking him off his horse.

I rolled on the ground, got up, and looked at the “actor” lying there. I was sure he couldn’t survive—no one could live after being cut halfway open. The head on the ground muttered something in a strange accent, but I think I understood: he said, “Good blade”—and it really was a good blade. I admit it.

At that moment, I heard the hoofbeats outside the pass growing louder. I didn’t have time to worry about the man on the ground. As I ran toward the pass, I shouted to the other three, “Call 110!” William Bennett replied, “There’s still no signal on the phone.”

Damn, we’re already at the pass and there’s still no signal? What kind of service is this? I’m going to file a complaint, I thought as I ran. We absolutely can’t let those village bullies get through the pass. They have horses—our only hope is to block them in this narrow spot. Otherwise, with their fast horses and long blades, and if they have numbers on their side, we’re as good as dead.

“Crossbows ready!” I shouted again without looking back. What kind of law and order is this? Where are the police? How can these “actors” kill people so brazenly and no one does anything about it?

Lost in these thoughts, I suddenly ran into a horse. This horse had just burst out of the pass, and its rider was another ancient-costumed knight, waving a weapon that looked like a ge halberd, its bronze head gleaming. Apparently surprised by my sudden appearance, the rider fumbled to bring his weapon around to attack me.

“At most, he’s just a local thug,” I quickly judged based on the weapon in his hand. Since he’s not a cop disguised as a bandit, what do I have to fear?

I grabbed the rider and pulled him off the horse, shouting without looking back, “Brian Cooper, he’s yours!” I figured hot-tempered Brian Cooper wouldn’t let him off easy—good luck to him. I kept charging toward the pass. Another horse came at me—fine, I’ll go all out. I charged at the horse like a football player.

A home run—the horse was knocked over by my angled charge, and the bandit on its back smashed his head on a rock, blood gushing everywhere. Another one down. I had reached the pass.