98."Are you county soldiers?"
He questioned the three about their identities.
"Are you county soldiers?"
"…"
"If you don't answer, I'll beat you."
"...…."
They were not the sort who would speak just because they were asked. To force a mouth open, the rod was best. Yi Hee had them stripped and hung up, then beat them with a stick. He did not order his subordinates to do it, fearing later repercussions; he did it himself. Any attempt at suicide was prevented from the start. He asked no questions. He simply beat them. They were men trained for such work—men who ruled above officials with greater cruelty than the law itself. Each time the stick struck, they fought desperately not to scream, which only made them easier to beat. Dozens of blows fell, and still no one spoke. Yi Hee did not speak either. He just kept beating them.
He had the two who had been hiding brought in and hung up as well. He beat them, and beat them again. If he kept beating them long enough, they would eventually speak of their own accord. There were five here; there would be five more. The purpose was to beat five and draw out the other five. He chose an exposed place, fully visible. Anyone passing could see them. It was not far from the main road; with the slightest attention, anyone could glimpse their naked bodies. The information they could provide would likely be trivial. At minimum, he thought he should learn how many there were, what their objective was, who had given the order, and who led them—but perhaps even that was unnecessary. Even if their comrades hung dying, perhaps no one would come.
Their martial skill was weak, yet their training was firm. No one spoke. After roughly one shijin, one of them finally opened his mouth. They were truly hardened men. They endured that long. An ordinary man could not withstand even a short while, yet they bore the time in silence.
"Why?"
"Just kill me instead."
Yi Hee shook his head.
"Why would I commit murder, you idiot? I'm not like you. I don't kill. I fight, but I don't murder. If you want to die, kill yourself. Hurry up. I'm getting tired too."
He beat him harder. If he crushed that one, something might come out. The one who spoke was the weaker one. The fearful one.
"Damn, I'm tired. Let's rest a bit."
Yi Hee was the first to grow weary. He walked a short distance from where the five hung and sat down. Only then did two of them close their eyes and exhale, thinking they might finally rest. But the instant their eyes shut, a sharp crack sounded against a skull. Something flew in and struck a forehead before dropping. Behind them lay a stone slightly smaller than a fist.
"Bastards. Who said you could rest?"
Two more stones struck foreheads. It was Yi Hee's most formidable art—the thrown stone. A master of the despicable craft of striking only the head. Foreheads split, blood flowed down into their eyes, and grief deepened. The sensation of blood was worse than the pain of the blow. News must already have spread, yet no one came.
How long passed? Darkness fell, and Yi Hee grew bored of throwing stones. Then he sensed it—the approach of death, silent, felt rather than heard. Crawling low along the ground, a narrow blade shot toward the left side of his neck. It was too fast to evade. They must have waited for him to tire. They had crept in quietly, closing the distance before thrusting once they were within killing range. It resembled the charge line of heavy cavalry advancing into strike distance.
An inescapable angle. An inescapable speed. Yi Hee smiled faintly. He tightened his grip on the stone in his hand. On either side of the charging man, two more rushed in close, calculating angles of escape and leaping as if in flight. Identical movements, drilled for over a decade. They were certain of success. The other two who had been hiding did not even bother to attack. As if unnecessary, they rose lazily from the ground and folded their arms. One attacked, two sealed the retreat, and the other two simply stood, waiting for the result.
But as three narrow blades converged on Yi Hee's neck and blocked his retreat, something rose from the ground. A loose net wrapped around the crouching bodies charging low, lifting them high into the air. They struggled to cut free, yet the net continued upward and caught in a tree.
A trap.
When an army camps, it sets various traps to prevent intrusion. This kind was crude, yet unfamiliar to assassins. Woven from natural materials and shaped to blend with the terrain, even keen-sensed beasts would struggle to detect it. There are many forms such traps can take. They had stepped onto the net laid across the ground. The moment they crossed its edge, it sprang upward, limbs entangled, movement impossible.
Yi Hee had prepared it in advance.
Now his stones flew toward the men caught in the net, striking three faces. This time, the malice was deliberate. It was not merely blood and noise—he threw harder. One lost consciousness. A stone missed and struck the net. He threw another. A man turning his head in confusion collapsed with a sharp crack.
The two who had avoided the net unfolded their arms and drew their blades. Fearsome in ambush, they were nothing once exposed. Yi Hee's body spun like a windmill. As he turned, his weapon extended from inside to outside. The spear blade, flung by rotational force, cut outward with centrifugal momentum. Before the two could close in, the spinning thrust lashed out. He did not intend to kill with the blade. He brought the shaft down in a strike. The narrow blade attempted to block, but under long-range force it snapped, and the man, struck across shoulder and neck, collapsed. If stabbing, evading, and parrying were their specialty, then the army's method was to cleave through armor and weapon alike. Against the violent force of a long weapon driven by strength, they could not respond. Hidden and striking by surprise, they might catch a careless man. Exposed, they had no chance.
Yi Hee spun again, sweeping beneath the legs of the one turning back toward him. The force was immense. The thin blade could not block; the man leapt instinctively. There was the opening. As the spearhead passed, Yi Hee's leg followed through in a half-rotation, kicking upward into the man's groin. Struck in the vital point, he jumped once, then fell. He rolled on the ground, staggered up again, then collapsed without strength. His face turned pale blue.