"Didn't find them." John Foster said, "I searched downstream along the Yangtze River, but found nothing. Bandits are rampant around here, and I can't tell which gang of river pirates it was, nor can I find out where their hideout is."

William Thompson thought for a moment and asked, "Do you have paper and a pen?"

"What for?"

"I want to do some calculations. Maybe I can figure out where they left the Yangtze..."

John Foster then went to fetch paper and a pen.

After that, William Thompson buried his head in writing and calculating, drawing symbols that no one could understand.

After quite a while, William Thompson looked up, spread his hands about a meter apart, and asked, "This long—how many li is that?"

John Foster replied, "Three hundred big steps make one li. What you have there is three chi."

"Hmm."

"When did you see that boat disappear from your sight..."

William Thompson asked a few questions, then lowered his head again to write and calculate on the paper. Finally, he said, "About thirty to forty li downstream from Caishi Rock, is there a tributary that flows into the Yangtze?"

John Foster went to find Andrew Scott, and brought a map as well.

Andrew Scott squinted his old eyes and searched the map for a while, then said, "On the south bank, there's a river called the Cihu River, which flows into the Yangtze below Maozi Mountain."

"Then the river pirates must have rowed the boat into the Cihu River."

"How do you know?"

"Calculated it," William Thompson said.

He knew his own swimming and walking speed, so he could figure out how far he swam yesterday, and from that deduce the speed of the riverboat. Then, based on the time the boat disappeared from John Foster's sight and from his own, he could roughly calculate how far it traveled before leaving the Yangtze.

A very simple formula.

John Foster was completely lost, and in the end didn't bother to ask how William Thompson had calculated it. Instead, he asked, "How do you know they rowed the boat into a tributary, and didn't just abandon it on the shore?"

William Thompson said, "They're professionals—they wouldn't just throw away their means of making a living."

Of course John Foster understood the logic; he had just asked instinctively, to steer the conversation away from the calculations he didn't understand at all.

He stood up, his eyes full of a chilling aura, and said, "Let's go back and finish them off..."

...

Xiaoliangtang.

Here, mountains and water surround the area, with Daishan, Niangniangshan, and Jishan encircling a lake.

The lake connects to the Cihu River via a small stream, and the Cihu River then flows into the Yangtze.

The water stronghold of the Eighteen Freaks of Jiangpu was hidden here.

The stronghold wasn't large, because they were bandits, not rebels. They kept their numbers small and elite—only eighteen desperate men, fearing that a larger group would attract attention.

"Why isn't the Cormorant back yet?"

The speaker was a middle-aged man dressed like a scholar, about thirty years old, with three long, neatly groomed beards.

His name was Frank Miller, nicknamed "Marvelous Abacus," and he was the second-in-command among these river pirates.

For this boat heist, Frank Miller was one of the three left behind to guard the stronghold, but the entire plan had been arranged by him.

"Yeah, why isn't the Cormorant back yet?" someone echoed. "Could he have been taken out by that brat?"

Peter King said, "How could that be? With the Cormorant's swimming and fighting skills, even ten of those brats couldn't take him down."

Frank Miller frowned and picked up a crossbow to examine it carefully.

Peter King sat down with a swagger and asked, "So? Do you think this thing is worth money?"

"It's not about whether it's worth money."

"Then is it hard to sell?"

"I'm worried these people are not ordinary," Frank Miller said. "This belongs to the Imperial Guards."

Peter King said, "Then it should be worth a lot, right?"

Frank Miller ignored that, picked up a captured saber, and compared it to another saber with a nicked blade, clicking his tongue in admiration. "Unusual, very unusual... That White-haired Rat confessed those people were government officers. I think they're not just officers—they're Imperial Guards."

Peter King slapped his thigh and shouted, "So what? Even if they're damn Imperial Guards, I think these so-called Imperial Guards are no different from the regular guards we've killed before!"

"Didn't we lose two brothers this time?" Frank Miller said. "All these years, when have we ever suffered such a big loss?"

Peter King was stunned, then thought of the two dead brothers, his eyes reddened, and he cried, "My poor brothers..."

As he cried, he opened a jar of wine and poured it on the ground.

"Old Six, drink as much as you want..."

Listening to this muttering, Frank Miller recalled the information he had gotten from interrogating Bai Mao—some government officers had taken a ruthless young man out of prison...

Was it this young man who killed Old Six with a single sword strike?

He turned to look at the sky, and saw that only the last rays of the setting sun remained atop Daishan; it was about to get dark again.

Frank Miller couldn't help but mutter again, "The Cormorant still isn't back."

"Yeah, why isn't he back? Did he go to the brothel or something?"

"Old Snake, I'm afraid the Cormorant is gone," Frank Miller said thoughtfully. "That kid is no ordinary person."

"What did you say?" Peter King said. "Then aren't we the Fifteen Freaks of Jiangpu now..."

...

"Thirteen left."

John Foster pressed his hand over a river pirate's mouth, swiftly drew his blade across the man's throat, and saw that a soldier had taken down another one nearby.