"Ah!"

Peter King let out a miserable scream and lunged forward.

The crossbowman was overjoyed.

However, Peter King didn't stop, bending low and charging ahead like a raging bull.

"Shoot again," William Thompson managed to say.

The crossbowman hurriedly grabbed a bolt to reload.

But it was too late.

Peter King and Frank Miller had already reached them.

"Thud!"

Peter King hurled his saber with thunderous force. At such close range, the single-edged blade was even faster than an arrow, plunging fiercely into the crossbowman's abdomen.

William Thompson's vision blurred—Peter King was already upon them, his fist the size of a bowl crashing down toward William Thompson.

A wild rush, a thrown blade, a charge, a swinging fist—his entire sequence of movements was dazzlingly fast, fierce and unyielding.

This was no contest; it was a fight to the death.

"Your brother, Fish Hawk, is dead! I smashed his skull!"

William Thompson suddenly roared, stepping back and slashing down with his blade.

"Ahhh! Die!" Peter King bellowed in rage.

William Thompson's blade had already come down.

Enraged as he was, Peter King still dodged the blade with reason, closed in again, and threw another punch at William Thompson's chest.

William Thompson stepped back once more, withdrew his blade, and thrust.

He abandoned slashing, using his best move to strike at Peter King.

But it was too late—Peter King quickly pulled back his fist, both hands darting out like lightning to seize William Thompson's knife-wielding hand.

It was a move to disarm an opponent barehanded. William Thompson lacked close-quarters combat experience; caught off guard by Peter King's feint, his grip on the saber was seized, and a sharp pain shot through his hand.

In that instant, William Thompson's situation became dire. One crossbowman was already dead, the enemy still had two men, and now he was about to lose his blade.

But his greatest strength was his ability to react in a split second.

"No, that crossbowman must have seriously wounded him…"

Sure enough, Peter King's shoulder was drenched in blood. His right arm, badly injured, had been forced to exert itself and was nearly useless.

Peter King's gamble was to kill both enemies in a single instant.

And in that instant, William Thompson suddenly let go of his blade, reached for the crossbow bolt in Peter King's shoulder, yanked it out, and stabbed again.

A wet "thud" sounded.

Peter King had already seized William Thompson's saber and even swung it down, the blade less than half an inch from William Thompson's neck.

But the crossbow bolt in William Thompson's hand had already pierced Peter King's throat.

……

William Thompson turned his head and met Frank Miller's gaze.

At that moment, Frank Miller had just finished off the crossbowman with another stab, holding a blade in his hand; while William Thompson was completely spent.

If Frank Miller swung his blade, he could kill William Thompson instantly.

But as their eyes met—perhaps intimidated by William Thompson's fierce stare—Frank Miller quickly turned and bolted toward the end of the path.

Frank Miller had long pictured William Thompson in his mind—a ruthless young man rescued from prison by the Imperial Guards, who had killed Old Six, Fish Hawk, and Peter King with a single sword.

Frank Miller had no desire to risk his life against someone whose martial skills might be so formidable; he never did anything he wasn't sure of.

"Stop!" a voice called from behind.

Frank Miller didn't stop, but soon he heard the sound of a crossbow being drawn.

"If you don't stop, I'll shoot," William Thompson said again.

"Don't."

Frank Miller turned his head and saw William Thompson aiming the crossbow at him.

"Young man, spare me. My mother is over eighty this year, bedridden with illness and no one to care for her. I have four children to feed. I only do this out of desperation."

"You look about thirty to me."

"I'm begging you, spare me. Your great kindness, I, Clever Abacus, will remember for a lifetime."

"Your name is Clever Abacus? You can't even get your mother's age right."

"Young man, killing me won't do you any good. Why not leave a favor…"

In truth, neither of them was thinking much; they were both just making things up as they went.

As Frank Miller spoke, his eyes darted quickly, sizing up William Thompson's eyes, hands, and the movement at the other end of the path.

Suddenly, he spun around and bolted again.

"Your great kindness, Clever Abacus will never forget!"

William Thompson couldn't help but laugh, a little mocking, yet also amused.

With a splash, Frank Miller jumped into the water.

The next moment, John Foster rushed to William Thompson's side and shouted, "Why didn't you fire the crossbow?!"

"Click." William Thompson pulled the crossbow trigger.

No bolt was fired.

"This is my first time using one. I don't know how to load it. I just wanted to scare him until you all arrived."

John Foster didn't answer William Thompson, but snatched the crossbow from his hand, saying, "Don't dry fire it, you'll damage the crossbow."

He crouched down, checked the dead crossbowman's breath, closed his eyes for him, and let out a long sigh.

"That guy just now was called Clever Abacus, quite a character," William Thompson said. "He saw through my bluff, and that last thing he said…"

"I know, he did it on purpose. I wouldn't suspect you over such a petty trick."

"As long as you know…"

William Thompson glanced over and saw John Foster rummaging through Peter King's arms for quite a while, finally pulling out a copper token and tucking it away.

He caught a glimpse—the characters on the token weren't Chinese, making them unreadable.

Presumably, the token originally belonged to Thomas Reed, and the reason John Foster insisted on finding this band of river pirates was to retrieve it…

……

George White was dead, but Henry Clark was still alive.