A chaotic swarm of arrows rained down upon the waterside pavilion, the sharp whistle of their flight filling the air without cease. The force behind the arrows was terrifying—when they struck, one could hear the shattering of bones.
"Fall back behind the screen!" Tang Qianzi commanded. Five or six of them had been hit. The youths tugged at one another, retreating behind the screen, gritting their teeth as they broke off the arrow shafts embedded in their bodies. Pursuing arrows thudded into the screen, shattering the mica inlays with a series of crisp cracks. Sparks of iridescent light scattered like ice crystals, rising in fine clouds of dust as the dark, refined iron arrowheads pierced nearly an inch through the torn holes. Amid the net of flying arrows, only the blind girl remained outside the screen, her heart-rending screams rising one after another. The infant in her arms wailed until its voice grew hoarse, yet like a dying animal clinging to its last breath, it continued without pause. Tang Qianzi closed his eyes, straining to listen, hoping to estimate the number of enemies. But all he could hear were the cries of the girl and the infant—like two knives, one swift and gleaming, the other dull and chipped, cutting into him in turns. He had only counted to seventeen when he could bear it no longer. Abruptly, he stood up, crouched low, and swiftly darted around the front of the screen.
Everyone stared at him in shock, yet one by one, they lowered their heads, unable to utter a word. They were all still untested youths—killing to save their own lives was one thing, but standing by and watching someone die without lifting a hand was another. Who among them could bear to listen to the girl’s agonized cries outside? The girl lay where he had thrown her earlier, arrows having grazed her leg and shoulder, dark red blood pooling around the wounds. She curled into a ball, clutching the infant tightly against her body—perhaps not to protect it, but out of sheer terror, needing to hold onto something. Tang Qianzi swung his scabbard fiercely, knocking aside two or three arrows, then scooped the girl up with one arm. Risking exposure, he leaped sideways toward their original path, rolled several times, and without regard for her scrapes and bruises, shoved her forcefully behind the screen before swiftly following.
Before he could even catch his breath, Tang Qianzi was immediately filled with regret. If he had left the girl alone, she would surely have died within moments. Yet even after saving her, in the end, he would still have to be the one to end her life—was that not hypocritical? "Zhenchu, did you see what’s happening outside?" Ji Chang asked in a low voice.
"There are about twenty men out there now. They probably don’t dare charge in recklessly and are only firing crossbows from outside. If reinforcements arrive soon, I’m afraid..." Ji Chang suddenly waved a hand at him, his expression shifting to one of alarm and uncertainty. Outside, the torrent of arrows gradually thinned, then ceased altogether. Only then could they faintly hear a coarse, intermittent sound in the distance, like the grinding of a blade. Tang Qianzi furrowed his brow and leaned out once more to take a look. There were no reinforcements in sight, but the ground was littered with discarded torches. The twenty or so royal guards, seeing that their arrow assault had yielded little effect, were now preparing to storm inside.
"Why... why aren’t they waiting for reinforcements?" one of the youths asked, clutching a wound at his side, his voice trembling with pain.
Tang Qianzi let out a cold laugh. His father had been one of the deputy commanders at Huangquan Pass. Tang Qianzi was born there and grew up amidst blades and arrows. It was only last year, after his father fell in battle, that he returned to his ancestral home in Qiuye, Lanzhou. He had seen all the tricks these soldiers played."They are fighting for credit. They shot arrows earlier because they coveted the reward money and didn't want to request reinforcements, yet their forces were too weak to dare approach us. Now they're risking a charge because they fear that if they delay too long, we might escape and become someone else's prize." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the faces of the twenty young men before him, each unconsciously straightening their backs with solemn resolve.
Tang Qianzi drew his blade with a sharp ring, its tip tracing a straight line in the air three feet behind the screen. "All of you, stand here," he commanded. His twenty soldiers silently rose, leaning on their swords and staggering to their feet, then retreated to the imaginary line. Beyond the water behind them, the golden silhouette of the sacrificial tower wavered in the turbulent flames, like a reflection on the water's surface or tall gilded spire-candles melting as they burned. The scorching, foul heat surged across the water to sear everyone's backs.
Like distant, muffled thunder from the horizon, over twenty metallic clangs rang out from afar, swiftly skimming the ground and advancing toward the screen in sequence. These were the long-handled black iron broadswords commonly used by Chola infantry. During charges, to avoid hindering movement, the soldiers dragged the blades sideways along the ground. From a distance at night, the blades were invisible, but a line of sparks danced on the earth, earning the technique the name "Ghost Dragging." The momentum of these Ghost Dragging blades was immensely heavy; without extraordinary brute strength, one couldn't lift them overhead. Yet, by harnessing the force of a sprint and suddenly swinging the grounded blade upward diagonally, the strike became both swift and devastating, mowing down enemies like ripe grain. Even a fine steed from the Northern Plains could be felled in one blow. In contrast, the sabers used by Eastern Army soldiers, though as long as a grown man's arm and weighty in hand, were mere toy blades compared to the Ghost Dragging swords.
The sound of the long blades scraping the ground grew clearer, a straight, unyielding line advancing with lightning speed, soon closing in. The Chola soldiers, fearing an ambush, intended to rely on the ferocious power of their Ghost Dragging blades to cleave through the thirty-two heavy screens and engage in full combat.
The usually gentle and handsome youth, his hairline and the corners of his eyes caked with blood, resolutely rose, supporting himself with his sword.
Against the backdrop of the city's blazing flames, he stood as a slender, dark silhouette, save for the old army saber passed down from his father, which reflected the inferno like molten iron freshly poured from a HeLuo forge, radiating scorching heat and light.
"As for those who greedily seek glory and refuse to stand with their comrades in battle," he paused, his voice suddenly rising like a banner in a gale, "show them with the blades in your hands what fate awaits!" Driven to the brink, the young men could no longer suppress the surging bloodlust in their hearts. They roared like wild beasts and hurled themselves against the screens with all their might. The row of thirty-two mica-inlaid, gold-embossed, garnet-studded screens, already severely damaged, collapsed forward with a thunderous crash under their desperate assault.
The art of wielding the Ghost Dragging blade emphasized only weight and speed, devoid of agility or variation, relying solely on fierce courage. Once the blade-wielders began their charge, they shot toward their target like arrows from a bow, unstoppable. By the time they realized something was amiss, it was already too late to evade.The screen, as heavy as a wall, came crashing down upon them, instantly flattening seven or eight Zhui guards. One of them had his ribs shattered by the impact of his own long blade.
The youths from the Eastern Continent charged out with fierce cries.
Though the Guituo blades were unstoppable, the confined space of the waterside pavilion limited their effectiveness. After the first strike failed to land a blow, the heavy weapons became cumbersome to wield. These twenty youths, not yet fully grown, retained the suppleness of children. They darted, rolled, and leaped through the gaps in the fierce onslaught of the Guituo blades, seizing every opportunity to deliver a swift slash. Surprisingly, they managed to hold their own.
Ji Chang, terrified, scrambled on all fours to a corner, clutching the little girl tightly. The girl, in turn, held the infant in her arms, biting down on Ji Chang's sleeve to stifle her cries. The bells on her wrists trembled incessantly, jingling softly.
The crimson sky continued to weep rain, each drop illuminated by the towering flames, appearing briefly before vanishing like fleeting sparks of blood. It was as if a burning royal city existed in the heavens, its streets awash with blood, until the celestial rivers could no longer contain the deluge, spilling it down upon the mortal world. The city below echoed with the clamor of battle and agonized screams, war drums shaking the very foundations of the buildings, causing beams and pillars to groan and shudder. No one noticed the two small forces locked in a desperate, life-and-death struggle within the darkened pavilion.
More than half of the Zhui warriors had fallen, and five or six of Ji Chang's guards lay dead. The cold, metallic scent of blood, like rust, permeated the air silently. Lifeless bodies slumped to the ground, revealing gruesome wounds where bone and flesh were torn asunder. The youths formed a defensive arc, shielding the two children in the corner as they withstood the relentless assault of the Zhui long blades. The flashing steel resembled countless shattering waves crashing against a rocky shore.
Amid the wreckage of the screen, a Zhui guard struggled to his feet from the pile of corpses. His left eye was a bloody mess, the pupil rolling menacingly in the crimson-stained white. He scanned the crowd until his gaze fixed on his target. With a roar, he dragged his long blade across the lotus-patterned stone floor, sending sparks flying as he charged straight into the fray. The Imperial Guards, preoccupied with the ongoing battle, could not intercept him in time. In an instant, he closed in on Ji Chang. With a metallic ring, his blade lifted from the ground, a sudden flash of lethal intent cutting through the darkness as it swept toward the huddled children. The sheer force behind the strike was terrifying—if it landed, it would shatter their internal organs.
Ji Chang knew there was no time to evade. He shut his eyes tightly and buried his face in the girl's long hair.
At the critical moment, a figure burst forth from the side, placing himself between them and the oncoming Guituo blade. He stood firm, gripping his own slender saber with both hands—a desperate, almost futile stance, like a mantis trying to stop a chariot, yet he did not yield.
A mocking, triumphant smile twisted the blood-red eyes of the Zhui warrior. He could already envision the clash of blades: how the delicate Imperial saber would spin from its wielder's grasp, how its owner would fall, bleeding, into the dust. With the newcomer's weary, unsteady steps and mediocre swordsmanship, there was no way he could withstand the overwhelming force of the Guituo blade.Yet, the anticipated sound of clashing steel and shattering metal never came. In that fleeting moment before the blades met, the wielder of the Eastern Land steel blade subtly shifted his strength, twisting his wrists inward. The edge of his blade turned silently, no longer aimed at the shaft of the Oni-Drag Longsword but instead targeting the wrist of the Chola swordsman.
The blade was as fine as a thread.
Flesh and blood, driven by immense force, collided with the razor-thin edge. In an instant, cloth, skin, and bone were severed one after another, as effortlessly as splitting bamboo. A clean, sharp swish echoed, and the Oni-Drag Longsword was flung sideways, a severed hand still stubbornly clinging to its hilt, trailing a line of blood as it flew through the air.
The Chola swordsman clutched his severed wrist, letting out a pained cry. The Oni-Drag Longsword, as long as a man is tall, spun uncontrollably in the air before crashing heavily into the left shoulder of a figure nearby. Staggering from the impact, the figure nearly fell but gritted through the pain, twisting the blade in his hand. With a swift, upward slash, he struck the soft area beneath the swordsman’s chin, and the man collapsed instantly.
The Oni-Drag Longsword fell heavily before Ji Chang and the young girl, bounced twice on the ground, and then rolled into the pool of its owner’s blood.
"Your Highness, are you alright?" the man gasped, his breath ragged.
Ji Chang trembled from head to toe and opened his eyes, only to find his face streaked with tears he hadn’t realized he’d shed. Tang Qianzi stood before him, his left shoulder sagging weakly, still gripping his blade. His once-elegant face was now crisscrossed with bloodstains.
Though trembling too much to speak, Ji Chang managed a nod in response.
The young man hastily wiped Ji Chang’s tears with the back of his hand, unintentionally smearing blood across his face. Startled by this, he paused briefly but had no time to attend to it further. Frowning, he rose abruptly and plunged back into the fray.
Only five or six Chola fighters remained capable of battle, while Ji Chang’s Imperial Guard outnumbered them nearly two to one. Seeing the tide turn, the Chola fighters lost their will to fight, retreating as they battled. Tang Qianzi ordered his subordinates not to pursue. He walked over to Ji Chang and extended his hand, saying, "Your Highness, let’s go."
Ji Chang, as if frightened out of his wits, remained seated on the ground, looking up in confusion. "...Where to?"
"We must find a way to leave the royal city first. Once we reach the port, we can board a familiar merchant ship and set sail. We’ll make further plans once the situation stabilizes." The young man’s hand trembled from exhaustion after the fierce battle, yet it remained resolutely extended toward the child.
Slowly, Ji Chang released the girl he had been holding and took Tang Qianzi’s hand, rising to his feet, his knees still shaking. "What about her?" he asked.
The little girl sat alone on the ground, clutching an infant. Her crimson robe, embroidered with gold and silver thread, was already partially soaked in the blood pooling around her. Her unnaturally large, blind eyes stared vacantly into the void, filled with confusion.
Tang Qianzi took a deep, heavy breath and shook his head slowly. "Your Highness, we cannot spare her life."
Ji Chang’s face turned deathly pale, likely from fear. Pressing his lips together, he watched as fresh tears washed the bloodstains from his cheeks. Without a word, he nodded, burying his face against Tang Qianzi’s side, unable to bear looking any longer.
A single drop of blood hung precariously from the tip of the blade, poised to fall. As the sword was raised, the droplet splattered onto the girl’s face. She flinched in surprise.The youth held his blade aloft, yet could not bring it down immediately. In the distance, war drums thundered, their rhythm causing delicate ripples to form on the water's surface. Through the swirling sparks of fire and curtain of rain, the silhouettes of pavilions and towers revealed hundreds of torches reflected upon the water, winding their way closer. Soon, they would be discovered.
"Mother... Brother..." The little girl, unable to comprehend why everyone around her had abandoned her, murmured their names and stretched out a hand, searching as if hoping to find Ji Chang. When her search yielded nothing, she groped the ground instead, only to find her hand coated in cold, sticky blood. She froze, and after a moment, as if jolted awake, an unbelievably piercing shriek erupted from her small frame.
The cry tore through the crimson veil of rain, as if heralding the true beginning of the night's chaos.
The torchlight flickered wildly. From all directions within the royal city came the roar of clamoring voices. The thunder of war drums intensified abruptly, closing in at an astonishing speed. The small river beneath the waterside pavilion churned with layers of fine waves, crashing against the shore as if the very earth trembled in response.
Tang Qianzi stared in shock toward the source of the light. The sensation felt familiar, something often encountered in the streets near the harbor, yet this time, it was so ferocious it defied belief. Unconsciously, he took a step back. Ji Chang, startled, opened his eyes wide.
The drumbeats were now upon them, mingled with the clashing of metal, as if countless cymbals followed in their wake. Dust and wood chips rained down from the beams and pillars, as though the entire pavilion had been jolted into the air, only for the rafters, tenons, eaves, and tiles to fall back into place, reassembling as before. The vibrations beneath their feet crept upward through their bones, and the waves beneath the pavilion grew more frequent. Every person instinctively tightened their grip on their blades.
Most of the bridges leading to the waterside pavilion had either collapsed or burned away. The Zhunian soldiers, holding pine torches high above their heads, leaped into the riverbed and surged toward them through the water, their shouts merging into a deafening roar. The river flowed with blazing orange flames, illuminating a massive dark figure charging at the forefront of the crowd.
His form seemed as if freshly forged from the anvils of the river spirits, his steel armor revealing glimpses of copper-toned muscles. The night rain sizzled against his body, rising in golden-red steam. Each drop of sweat that trickled from his thick, dark hair was as hot and bright as molten lava. As he ran, the river, which reached chest-height for humans, only came up to his knees. With each step he took, the water level dropped several inches. Ornate bridges shattered against his ribs. There were no war drums—it was his footsteps that made the earth tremble, the clanging of his greatsword and armor echoing like hundreds of warriors striking their shields in unison. None of his kin scattered across the land of Leizhou stood taller than his armpits.
Beyond the heartlands of Hanzhou, no one had ever seen a Kua-Fu warrior of such immense stature. As he ran, everything in his path trembled and crumbled.
No one thought to flee, just as no one could escape from a mountain, an ocean, or the sky. Steel blades clattered to the ground one after another, their edges still stained with congealed blood. Before this eighteen-foot-tall giant, human weapons seemed pitifully frail and absurd.With Kuafu's steps, the river's surge grew higher and swifter, until it abruptly flooded into the waterside pavilion. The ground shook so violently that it was hard to stand, as if an unstoppable army was charging toward them with a roar. Yet Ji Chang did not close his eyes, nor did he weep any longer. He stared blankly as the enormous shadow swiftly enveloped them, like a dark moon devouring the bright one. The city's flames were instantly shut out, plunging the pavilion into darkness.
Suddenly, everything fell silent. The thunderous clamor of countless marching feet and the roaring voices, like a tidal wave, vanished in an instant. Were it not for the crackling flames still burning around them, one might have thought they had gone deaf. The surge gradually subsided but did not recede, its lingering ripples lapping against their military boots.
With astonishing agility, Kuafu halted his steps, standing firm in the river outside the pavilion. Behind him, an army of several hundred stopped in awe some ten feet away, their torchlights entirely blocked by the giant's body, not a single ray penetrating the darkness. The youths stood in the shadow, able to see only his legs, thick as pillars, clad in trousers stitched together from whole rhinoceros hides. A massive steel sword, as tall as a man, hung at his waist. Knee guards, large as heavy shields, were strapped to his knees with two-inch-wide straps made of bìliáo leather, faintly reflecting the distorted faces of the youths. In the deathly silence, the water beneath their feet began to rise again, slowly and noticeably, with faint ochre-colored streams spreading through it, soon reaching calf-height. Ji Chang lunged forward, pulling up the dazed girl who had fallen to the ground, and retreated into the crowd. Tang Qianzi abruptly raised his head, his brow slightly furrowed, but he refused to take another step back. Ji Chang and the girl stood behind him, and among the dozen or so survivors, only he still held his sword.
Kuafu lowered his body, kneeling on one knee in the river before the pavilion, yet still standing as tall as a building. The pavilion trembled slightly, and in the water around the giant, the ochre streams rapidly spread into a vivid, billowing red, churning up from the depths. What had seemed like reddish-brown greaves now revealed a pale blue luster, the mottled red and black stains revealed to be dried blood. How many people's blood had been drained to dye this giant crimson from head to toe? Kuafu bent his head, gazing down at them. His face, narrow and stern compared to his massive frame, had pure black eyes the size of teacups, as if filled with thick ink, brimming with a fierce, sharp, and violent expression akin to that of a wild beast. None but his own kind dared to meet such a gaze. It was a legacy of blood and spirit inherited from ancient ancestors, echoing like the drumbeats from the depths of the wilderness.
"Tilan..." a hoarse voice whispered in the darkness, "Tilan, ah." A silver bell on a wrist jingled softly. The girl in Ji Chang's arms lifted her head like a wary young animal, gauging the source of the voice.
The youths turned to look and only then noticed that there was someone seated on Kuafu's left shoulder. Against the light, the small, gaunt figure sat quietly on the giant's armor, which sloped like the eaves of a house, inconspicuous, like a raised decorative beast-head ring.
Could it be a Heluo? Each of the youths wondered silently to themselves.The little girl sprang up, shaking off Ji Chang's hand, and dashed forward through the crowd, screaming through her tears, "Uncle! Mother is dying—save her, please save her!" "Your Highness, Your Highness!" Several soldiers from Zhuodian splashed through the water and rushed over, catching the girl around the waist. The child's small limbs flailed desperately, and the embroidered swaddling clothes in her arms nearly flew out.
"Tilan! Do not act recklessly!" a stern voice scolded. "What you hold in your arms now is the Crown Prince of our Zhuodian." The girl named Tilan suddenly clutched the crying infant tighter and ceased her struggles.
"Has... has Jielan brother died?" Tilan lifted her head toward the empty air, but no answer came.
After a moment, the dark figure on Kua Fu's shoulder seemed to sigh, his already hoarse voice growing even more weary. "I couldn't save your mother... Ling Jia is no longer with us." Tilann suddenly went limp, devoid of all vitality, her heavy hair cascading like waves onto the water's surface. Were it not for her faint breathing, Tang Qianzi might have thought the soldier was holding nothing more than an exquisite, empty little garment adorned with silver bells, which emitted two cold, fragmented chimes in the gloom.
"Gowutu," the shadow said, making a gesture.
The Kua Fu warrior reached into the pavilion, poking the soldier holding Tilann with a finger thicker than a spear shaft. The soldier respectfully handed over both Tilann and the infant. The giant's enormous hands, over two feet long, gently closed, carefully holding Tilann by the waist as if afraid of crushing her, and lifted her to his left shoulder, beside the shadow.
The shadow drew Tilann close and spoke down to the figures below. "You must be Prince Chang of Dazheng." Ji Chang stared up at the Kua Fu warrior, still speechless and unsure how to respond with proper etiquette.
The shadow let out a low, rasping laugh. "Our country has failed in its hospitality, allowing you to be frightened tonight. We are deeply ashamed. The filth within the royal city may take a few days to cleanse, and I fear it may offend Your Highness. Perhaps we could arrange another residence for you to stay in temporarily?" Ji Chang blinked, uncertain how to reply, his face flushing bright red. Even the Kua Fu's lips, carved like stone, hinted at a smile.
Tang Qianzi stepped forward, kneeling on one knee in the shallow water, and replied clearly in the language of Zhu Nian, "We are overwhelmed by Lord Yingjia's generosity. Prince Chang's Imperial Guard has encamped near the harbor, and I was just preparing to escort His Highness there." The shadow on the Kua Fu's shoulder paused slightly, as if surprised to be recognized by a youth he had never met, a hint of amusement in his tone. "Then let a few men escort Your Highness to the harbor. You have brought a fine general with you to Zhu Nian." He nodded to the stunned eleven-year-old boy and called the Kua Fu warrior's name again, "Gowutu, let's go." The giant stood, sending torrents of water splashing like a downpour, and strode away, his steps shaking the ground. The crimson flames, no longer blocked, poured in abruptly, nearly blinding the youths. Hundreds of Zhu Nian soldiers followed the Kua Fu, leaving only about thirty behind to escort them to the harbor. These soldiers had indigo dog-tooth emblems of the Five Southern Counties embroidered on their waist sashes, and their dagger handles were wrapped in coarse indigo silk threaded with gold—clear marks of Lord Yingjia's personal guard.
In the moment the Kua Fu turned, surrounded by the continuous flames, Tang Qianzi caught a clear glimpse of the shadow's appearance. He must have been a handsome youth once, but now he was gaunt and ill, his features marred, leaving only the deep, striking eyes unique to the people of Zhu Nian, which still held a clear light amid the chaos of war. Beneath his pine-green robe edged with gold, his legs hung limp, the soles of his shoes pristine white, as if they had never touched the ground. It was said that Lord Yingjia, at seventeen, had been thrown from his horse during a hunt in the Southern Counties when his steed stepped on a snake and reared in panic, leaving him unable to walk thereafter—and indeed, it seemed to be true.The sky was a deep crimson, descending like a cage over the city of Pippala. In the night wind, the thick scent of blood lingered and drifted sluggishly. Rain beat upon the charred remains of the palace walls, stirring up a faintly warm, acrid smoke. Desolation stretched as far as the eye could see. Corpses bobbed and swirled in the water, their pale, stiffened hands gently knocking against the stone foundations of the palace.
The main force of the Chola people had long since departed, yet Ji Chang remained standing in place, silent and unmoving, his face flushed with a feverish hue.
"Your Highness?" Tang Qianzi bent down and scooped him up in his arms. "What's wrong?" Ji Chang turned his gaze toward him, and for a moment, Tang Qianzi was startled by the expression in those beautiful, phoenix-like eyes. The light tea-colored irises of the eleven-year-old boy had deepened into a somber black, like swirling storm clouds before a downpour, with flashes of fierce, serpentine lightning flickering within. "Zhenchu, I no longer wish to practice martial arts," Ji Chang murmured softly, his arms wrapped around Tang's neck. "I used to think that to become a hero, one needed courage, martial prowess, and outstanding military achievements, just like King Yulie in the legends. But Zhenchu, look at that man—he has no martial skills, no battle accomplishments, not even the ability to walk. Yet with a single word, he can command the mighty Kua Fu to bow and obey. There is something about him... I want that! With it, I could decide life and death, issue commands that are instantly obeyed. No one would dare bully me again, and everything in the world would bend to my will." His voice, once sweet and childish, tightened as he buried his face in Tang's shoulder, speaking each word in a low, hoarse tone. "One day, everyone across the Nine Provinces and Ten Kingdoms will know me, Chu Ji Chang." The soldiers of both nations marched in orderly formation around them, but none heard the child's words.
According to later historical records, on that night, a retainer of King Junliang of Chola plotted rebellion. Seizing the opportunity while the king was feasting with Lord Yingjia, the traitor attempted regicide at the banquet. Princess Lingjia and Crown Prince Jielan shielded the king with their bodies, dying in each other's embrace. Lord Yingjia's personal guards rose up and slew the rebel, but King Junliang was gravely wounded and unable to rule, while the crown prince had also perished abruptly. Thus, Lord Yingjia temporarily assumed the regency. Princess Tilan, the daughter left behind by Princess Lingjia, was not yet six years old, and her infant son, Suolan, was only three months old. Both were placed under Lord Yingjia's care, with Suolan designated as the new crown prince. Over three hundred palace attendants, inner ministers, and city guards were implicated in the crime. Though it was said to be a rebellion by treacherous subjects, why did the palace guards and Lord Yingjia's personal forces engage in a fierce battle beneath the banquet hall and wind terrace that night? Why did Lord Yingjia's Kua Fu guards storm into the inner palace? These intricate details remained unverifiable from that day onward. It was late summer, and the oppressive heat lingered. Carrion-feeding blue-feathered owls circled the palace day and night for half a month without dispersing, earning the incident the name "The Owl Rebellion." King Junliang's injuries persisted for over thirty years, never healing until the day of his death. Lord Yingjia's regency likewise endured for more than three decades.
Through the vast, misty veil of smoke and rain, Tang Qianzi faintly saw the young princess on the Kua Fu's shoulder turn her head toward them. Her dull, blind eyes shifted emptily in the chaotic, turbulent night, as if searching for someone. A vivid crimson spot stained her cheek—a drop of blood he had flicked from his blade earlier.
It would be two or three years before he saw that little girl again.The red-lacquered table, aged with years, bore countless overlapping white rings from scalding hot plates and bowls, perpetually coated with a thin layer of grease that left a fingerprint at the slightest touch. A gold coin spun and stood upright on the grimy surface, becoming a small, whirling golden shadow.
Blond and dark-haired sailors loudly debated what seemed to be the scandal of a companion being thrown out of a second-floor window by a brothel madam in Qicheng Harbor. They burst into raucous laughter at the amusing parts, overturning coarse ceramic cups and dishes across the table.
Sitting alone in a dim corner, a young man watched the spinning gold coin with disinterest, the wine by his hand long gone cold. A large, soft, muted gray satin cloth enveloped him from head to waist, leaving only half of a handsome chin and thin, cold lips visible to others. Such attire was common on the harsh, sandy trade routes of Hanzhou, but in this perpetually warm and humid city, it stood out conspicuously.
This was an utterly ordinary tavern near Bipoluo Harbor, filled with coarse language, the sounds of retching, the pungent aroma of cheap liquor, and the greasy, salty scent of bar snacks. Sailors flocked to such places for a drink as soon as they disembarked, their faces flushing and bodies loosening up before heading out arm-in-arm for other amusements—though some drank themselves into a stupor and collapsed under the tables. Merchants, too, favored these dim, noisy spots, ideal for concealing illicit small-scale business dealings.
The young man suddenly lifted his head. A stout figure hopped onto the chair opposite him and unceremoniously spread a tattered oilcloth before him, revealing three to five pale blue, translucent dried flowers, delicate as if cut from thin silk.
"Young man, want some Dreamweaver flowers?" the Ho'lo woman rasped. When he didn’t respond, she pressed on eagerly, "They’re the real deal! Sourced from Minzhong Mountain. Steep one in wine, and you’ll dream for a full day and night—becoming an emperor, marrying a beauty, mountains of gold and silver, all vivid and just as you wish! Normally, they’re one and a half gold coins each, but I’ll give you one for a single coin—what a steal!" As she spoke, she deftly picked out a dried flower to toss into his cup and reached for the spinning gold coin on the table.
But the young man was quicker. His right hand covered the wooden cup, while his left index finger pressed down firmly, pinning the coin to the grimy table. "Sister, don’t try to fool me," he said, a hint of laughter in his voice. "Aren’t these just Xieluo flowers? Dried and steeped in wine, they do bring a day of dreams, but only of one’s own past. They’d be better sold to homesick sailors. I still have use for this gold coin—don’t set your sights on it." Unfazed, the Ho'lo woman showed no shame, swiftly gathering her wares, wrapping them in the oilcloth, and hopping off the chair to leave.
As the young man withdrew his hand from the cup, he felt the building begin to tremble. Red dust drifted from the ceiling, sprinkling onto the clear surface of his wine—likely a Kuafu passing by on the street. Frowning in the shadows, he let his right hand drop casually into the folds of the satin cloth draped over his head.Kua Fu's footsteps halted outside. After a moment, a bamboo-thick finger reached in, pulling aside the greasy black curtain for its owner. The employer, a middle-aged Zhu'nian man dressed as a merchant, blocked the doorway, scanned the room, and headed straight for the young man's table.
The young man lifted his head slightly, saying nothing, his indifferent gaze hidden beneath the satin already sizing up the merchant from head to toe. The merchant, sensing this, felt deeply offended. His slender frame stiffened further, and his voice turned rigid.
"Young master, your actions this time are far from honorable." The young man let out a soft, derisive laugh. "You went through such convoluted channels to arrange a meeting in a place like this. Surely it wasn't for anything honorable either?" The Zhu'nian merchant's face darkened, but he suppressed his anger, pulling over a chair to sit down. Leaning in close, he lowered his voice. "The night before last, our warehouse was set ablaze, and a batch of premium brocade from Huan Shuang City was stolen. The two dozen night raiders all wielded blades, moving in perfect coordination. We pursued them to the edge of the military camp, but they vanished without a trace. This matter, I suspect, is not unrelated to you, young master."
"Have you calculated the losses?" The young man calmly tossed the gold coin in his left hand, his tone steady.
"Huan Shuang brocade has been scarce in the market lately, as you well know. This batch was crafted by a master artisan, of the finest quality—worth a full eight thousand gold coins!" The Zhu'nian merchant struggled to keep his voice down, his breath hissing as it hit the young man's face.
The young man leaned back in his chair and drawled, "That would be enough to cover five hundred Heluo curved blades and half a ship's keel, wouldn't it?" Only then did the Zhu'nian man's face turn completely ashen.
"Last month, the merchant ship Feng Yuan encountered pirates in the Yingge Strait. Five hundred Heluo curved blades, urgently ordered at a high price, were seized, and the ship was nearly scuttled, almost unable to return. And just by chance, your establishment happened to acquire five hundred identical curved blades, filling the gap and turning a tidy profit." From beneath the ash-gray satin, the young man's clear, smooth laughter rang out. "Since the Pan Xiao incident, our organization has been overseeing the warehouses and ships of the Eastern Lu Zheng Dynasty's merchant guild at Bipoluo Port. Though it's not exactly aboveboard, our peers have shown us respect for over two years. We may not be able to guarantee safety at sea, but we can certainly seek restitution."
The table began to tremble with a creaking sound. The Zhu'nian merchant stared at the young man, his forehead beaded with glistening sweat, veins bulging as if straining with immense effort, yet he could not utter a word.
The young man raised a hand and called for the waiter. The tavern waiter, sharp as they come, had been hovering nearby, sensing the tension between the two. Seeing the young man's gesture, he hurried over with an ingratiating smile. Without a word, the young man handed him the gold coin and said, "Settle the bill."
The waiter hesitated, then tried to return it with a cheeky grin. "Sir, this is enough to buy seventeen or eighteen barrels of wine. You've only had two cups—it's far too much." But the young man seized the waiter's hand, pressed the coin into his palm, folded his fingers over it, and patted them. "It's not too much, not too much at all." The waiter understood, on the verge of tears in his panic, but the young man rose gracefully, adjusted the satin covering his head, and strode out without a backward glance.The Chui man across the table seemed to have caught his breath by now. He too leaped up, shouting into the air, "Apen! Come here!" Everyone in the room was startled, glancing around, but no one answered. The tavern fell silent for a moment before the clamor resumed—fists were thrown in drinking games, and laughter and chatter filled the air. Yet before a single drop of wine could reach their throats, they all understood—the man called Apen had been waiting outside.
In all the Chui port cities along the shores of the Chuliao Sea, there was always a spacious area where tall twelve-cornered leather tents were erected. One side of these tents remained open, allowing chariots and paired horses to pass through. During festivals, they hosted storytelling and theatrical performances; on ordinary days, they served as gathering places for Kuafu to drink. As for the average taverns in the city, they neither provided long tables and large chairs nor bucket-sized cups and shield-like plates. The buildings were narrow and cramped, never catering to Kuafu, so the doors were naturally built low—this establishment was no exception.
But now, the bricks and stones beside the door began to writhe and shift, streams of gray dust flowing in like water.
The young man halted his steps, while the Chui merchant behind him let out a cold laugh.
His thin lips, hidden in the shadows, pressed into an even colder, straighter line as he shook his head slightly, as if unwilling to engage further.
The building shook more violently, cups skittering across the tables, and the walls seemed to burst as bricks jostled and squeezed against one another. Through the cracks, blinding daylight from the street outside pierced through.
Yet the young man did not retreat, standing silently in place.
Finally, more than half of the tavern's street-facing wall collapsed inward with a roar, leaving a jagged gap where the door had been. Bits of brick and wood continued to trickle down. Sunlight abruptly flooded into the swirling dust, splitting into sharp, chilling rays like countless sword auras. The youth stood amidst the billowing dust and light, his old, soft satin cloak fluttering in the air, revealing a gentle face beneath.
Lifting his head, the young man came face to face with the towering Kuafu standing outside the gap. At seventeen, he was considered tall among his peers, yet compared to the giant's rock-like frame, he appeared as slender as a reed.
"Apen, what are you waiting for? Crush him!" the Chui man shouted, stamping his feet. "Do you still want your pay or not?" The Kuafu scratched the back of his neck and grunted, "Oh," then truly extended a hand as large as a gong toward the young man's head and neck.
But the youth did not evade, his satin cloak still fluttering down to his waist.
The cold smirk on the Chui merchant's face froze mid-formation. Someone from behind lifted his chin forcefully, followed by the cold press of a short curved blade against the taut skin of his throat. Straining his eyes to look back, he caught a glimpse of a middle-aged man with brilliant golden hair holding the knife. The sailors who had been drinking and laughing nearby also drew their blades and stepped forward, and he was instantly filled with regret.
Two years ago, a group of green-clad night bandits began to appear in the Port of Bipolo. They were clearly hired by the merchant guilds of the Zhen Dynasty from the Eastern Continent. They did not typically guard the guilds' warehouses or shops, and their numbers seemed small, always under thirty, but their movements were extremely swift. Whenever there was an attempt to steal large quantities of goods or rob and kill merchants, these masked night bandits would arrive instantly, providing seamless protection. Gradually, those who had designs on the Zhen Dynasty merchant guilds grew scarce.Pippala Harbor was originally a port city teeming with all sorts of people. Countless goods, information, weapons, and even human cargo arrived by sea, flowing silently into the labyrinthine depths of the city before converging and dispersing again in an unending cycle day and night. This languid yet vibrant city absorbed excessive wealth, desire, and greed, swelling like a plump tuber, nurturing a dazzling yet sinister prosperity. The drowsy pawnshop clerk by day might be a cold, calculating pirate contact; the nimble-footed thief scaling rooftops with ease could, with a change of clothes and a flower in her hair, become the young woman next door. In this city, theft and deceit were not shameful—only failure was.
For today's meeting, the Chola merchant had personally visited the Kua Fu Tavern to select Aban, who appeared the tallest and fiercest, hiring him at a high price. He had even sent scouts to inspect the tavern beforehand, confident that he had made foolproof preparations. The young leader of the Night Bandits, arrogant and self-assured, had indeed come alone. Even if the goods couldn't be recovered, Aban's brute strength should have been enough to eliminate the bandit leader, leaving his remaining twenty or thirty followers as no significant threat. Who could have predicted such an outcome?
If all the sailors in the tavern had been dark-haired Easterners, the scouts would have been wary of an ambush. But with a few winged folk mixed in, the scouts had let their guard down. In truth, it wasn't uncommon for lower-status Sui Yu and rootless folk to mingle with humans, and summoning a few temporarily was all too easy.
"Aban, save me!" the Chola man shrieked in a panicked, shrill voice, but his Kua Fu bodyguard was already surrounded by a thicket of blades. "We agreed no one else would come! How can you go back on your word?" The youth laughed. "Were you alone, then?" With that, he pulled the satin cloth back over his face and stepped out through a gap in the wall. The sweltering southern heat, carrying the buzzing hum of the market like mosquitoes, hit him head-on.
During the rainy season, the only part of Pippala that still resembled a proper city was the harbor district. The streets here were rarely flooded, the land was relatively orderly, and there were far fewer winding rivers. The red dirt roads, trodden hard as iron by years of merchants and their Kua Fu guards, wouldn't even absorb a spoonful of oil poured onto them.
He hadn't gone far when a dull, thunderous crash echoed behind him. Turning to look, he saw a cloud of red dust billowing two streets away—right where the tavern had been. A faint smile touched the youth's thin lips.
The sky stretched vast and empty, the late summer sun bleaching the bustling streets of their color. To the north lay one of Pippala Harbor's wharves, where the masts of countless merchant ships rose above the rooftops, and circling seabirds dotted the sky like specks of grayish-blue. The youth let out a sharp whistle, and one of the seabirds broke from the flock, darting toward him.
He extended his right arm without breaking stride, and the bird folded its wings, plummeting straight down. Only when it was ten feet from the ground did it spread its wings, circling once before alighting on his arm—a blue-feathered, hook-beaked Santu falcon. The youth stroked its resilient, glossy tail feathers, then reached under its wing to untie a small leather pouch. As he walked, he gave a slight flick of his wrist, and the falcon leaped into the air, settling on his right shoulder, freeing his hand to open the pouch and retrieve a finger-width scroll of paper.
His light footsteps came to an abrupt halt.The three-path falcon let out a hoarse cry and pecked at its master.
The sea wind howled through the streets, rustling the narrow rice paper rolls trembling in the gusts. The silk cloth covering the face fluttered wildly. Amid the clamor of the crowd and the long wind whistling past his ears, only the young man remained as still as stone.
Slowly, the paper roll was crumpled into a small, hard ball.
The raptor let out a long cry, flapping its wings and lifting off from its master’s shoulder as the young man began to sprint—silently, desperately, as though trying to shake off his own body. He veered from the main road, leaped over a foul-smelling ditch, and wove through narrow alleyways, one hand clutching tightly at the cloth wrapped around his head. The winding, maze-like lanes were littered with heaps of refuse and filth, twisting and turning unpredictably, with unexpected forks and dead ends at every corner. Yet the youth seemed to know them by heart. After rounding a hundred bends, he reached the end of a cramped alley and slipped behind the door of a modest dwelling.
Though it was still daylight outside, the interior was dim and cluttered. A small lamp flickered on a low table in one corner, casting the only faint glow upon a statue of the Dragon-Tailed God, revered by the people of Chola. Crates were haphazardly stacked with spices, their musty fragrance mingling with the raw scent of silk. Without pausing, the youth dashed up the stairs. He leaped over large bundles wrapped in rawhide, accidentally kicking open one that had been unsealed. A dozen or so steel leek-leaf blades clattered to the floor, their polished surfaces reflecting a dim light across the room. Not bothering to retrieve them, he hurried to the third floor, pushed open a narrow window, and leaped across the less-than-three-foot gap into the window of the neighboring house.
This building was even more dilapidated, seemingly uninhabited, yet similarly stocked with weapons, armor, bows, crossbows, precious goods, and fine wines. He descended into the wine cellar, pushed aside two enormous empty barrels, and, drawing the dagger from his waist, pried open a broad, thin slab of stone to reveal a staircase below, with a faint glimmer of firelight at its end.
The youth continued his frantic dash down the underground passage, tearing the satin cloth from his shoulders as he ran. Never before had he run so fast or so long without rest. Sweat streamed into his eyes, and the dim yellow lanterns hanging on the stone walls blurred into rainbow halos, obscuring his vision. After what felt like a quarter of an hour, the stairs began to ascend, marking the end of the tunnel. He rapped on the overhead trapdoor with the hilt of his dagger, and soon someone unlocked it from the outside, lifting the door to let him through.
"Bring my clothes. Quickly," he said, struggling to suppress his panting as he addressed the young apprentice from the Eastern Lands. The apprentice bowed silently and departed.
The room was cool, one wall densely hung with samples of gold, jade, crimson, and azure fabrics. A small table in the center held tea and snacks, while an expensive, large mercury mirror stood against the opposite wall—evidently a fitting room for distinguished clients in a tailor’s shop. The youth stripped off his sweat-soaked shirt, wiped himself roughly, and tossed it to the floor. Pacing restlessly like a caged animal, he took a few agitated steps before the apprentice returned, bearing his official headdress, military robe, and boots. He dressed swiftly, fastening his buttons as he strode out, murmuring to the apprentice, "Inform the camp—I’m heading to the palace." The apprentice followed closely, offering another silent cupped-hand salute, escorting him to the shop’s entrance and holding the curtain aside as he called out loudly, "General Tang, take care! We’ll deliver your altered garments as soon as they’re ready."
The straight underground path, barely over two li long, had cut diagonally across half of the narrow port district, bringing him to the northwest side of Pippala Harbor, near the encampment where five thousand feather forest guards of the Zheng Dynasty were stationed.Tang Qianzhi wiped the sweat from his forehead. After the frantic dash, his heart pounded violently against his eardrums, and his vision blurred slightly at the edges.
He reached into his robe and retrieved the scroll of cotton paper. Sweat had soaked through, blurring one line of ink, yet the words remained stark and vivid.
"On the thirtieth day of the seventh month, Emperor Xiu passed away. On the third day of the eighth month, Prince Yi besieged Tianqi. By midnight on the fifth, Prince Chang broke through the encirclement and fled. The city fell, and the imperial clan was wiped out." It was the late summer of the twenty-seventh year of the Lintai era of the Zheng dynasty. Across the vast sea, on the Eastern Continent, the eight-year-long Rebellion of Prince Yi had only just begun to unfold. In those eight years, the hundreds of thousands of commoners and soldiers destined to be marked for death were still immersed in their daily cycles of life and lament, unaware of the dark path that lay ahead.
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