The Golden City Palace was a palace without night, its halls perpetually illuminated by lanterns—Emperor Xu could not bear a moment without light. Tall candles were no longer sufficient; the palace employed specially crafted floor lanterns, placed every fifteen paces. These lanterns stood nearly twice a man’s height, shaped like elongated drums, each covered entirely with a single sheet of white cowhide, seamless and unstitched. The gold used to forge and seal their openings was intricately patterned with hollow floral motifs, and inside, steel lamps crafted by He Luo artisans burned whale-fat candles with sisal wicks—smokeless, heatless, brilliantly luminous, and long-lasting. These hundreds of lanterns ensured that the Golden City Palace held no shadows, leaving no place for secrets to hide.
The corridor stretched long and silent, flanked by two rows of white cowhide lanterns that cast a stark, unwavering brightness. At the far end stood two palace attendants, motionless as statues, their features pale and indistinct, like a pair of porcelain figurines. The trailing hem of an imperial robe, black as midnight and embroidered with golden coiling dragons, whispered softly against the white jade floor. Step by step, unhurried and deliberate, it seemed as though time itself was endless, and life nothing but a tedious expanse.
Suddenly, the footsteps paused, as if lost in thought. "Tell me," the figure spoke without turning, lifting its head with an air of detached curiosity, "how do you suppose I will die?" The question was posed to no one in particular.
The voice, once clear and resonant as jade, now carried the grit of exhaustion and ennui, like a brittle lute string on the verge of snapping into dissonance.
Of the two behind him, the younger kept his eyes lowered in silence, while the elder lifted his gaze. "Your Majesty, may you live ten thousand—" "Ten thousand years, ageless and undying?" A melodious yet icy voice cut him off. The speaker whirled around, the sweeping sleeves of his magnificent black robe stirring the air. "Jianming, have I grown so foolish that you feel the need to deceive me?" Fang Zhu fell silent, retreating a step and bowing his head in apology.
Emperor Xu had not been the most handsome of Emperor Xiu’s four sons, yet there was an uncommon sharpness and cold elegance to his features. During the eight years of turmoil, many had likened the young Prince Xu to the reincarnation of the founding emperor, Chu Jing. He alone had turned the tide in a chaotic era, commanding armies with awe-inspiring authority. On the day of his coronation, surrounded by the Six-Winged Generals, he had appeared as majestic as a deity descended from heaven. Fourteen years on, time had not marred his face or form—he remained the very image of his prime as depicted in the Scroll of the War God. Yet, he had aged nonetheless—not in appearance, but in spirit. The fleeting years had washed away all his sharpness and vigor, leaving behind an indescribable weariness and decay.
"Zhuoying, what do you think? What end would suit me best? Drunken stupor? A fall from a horse? Or perhaps dying in Tilan’s bed?" Emperor Xu watched as the faces of the two before him tightened, his smile deepening. Just then, the constant, pure white light shifted—the lanterns of the Golden City Palace were unshaken by wind, yet now, within that brilliance, shadows began to form.
The shadows emerged from the white light of the lantern behind Emperor Xu. They took human form. Like phantoms against a window, they grew from faint to solid, from intangible to real. Then, in a flash of light, the white cowhide covering split from within, and a figure burst forth in a swift, lethal strike.Zhuoying unsheathed his sword with a resonant ring, leaping up to place himself before Emperor Xu, blade held horizontally as a shield. Fangzhu, with one arm wrapped around the emperor’s waist, swiftly retreated backward. In an instant, the two had moved more than two zhang away before landing. Just then, a nearby lantern burst open with a sharp hiss. This time, Fangzhu saw clearly: the assailant had been hiding behind a steel lantern concealed within a leather casing, pressed flat against the wall. The external glow of the lantern had masked their presence. A blade of air, sharp and invisible, shot out from the lantern, sweeping toward them. Fangzhu pushed Emperor Xu sideways to safety and ducked low, striking the hidden figure’s elbow through the white leather casing. A cry of pain echoed as the figure stumbled backward into the flames. Trapped in the narrow confines of the lantern, they had no room to evade. Yet, with remarkable fortitude, they endured the pain, released their grip, and muttered foreign incantations. With several swift, slicing motions, the leather was torn open as if by an unseen blade, and the figure emerged.
Like the earlier assassin, this one was clad in white, with golden hair and blue eyes—a foreign appearance. Empty-handed, they cradled a swirling sphere of wind, moving so rapidly it seemed almost solid. This was a wind-summoner. Folklore spoke of such individuals, but most known wind-summoners could, at best, conjure a gentle breeze for a brief moment, often as a gimmick for street performances. The majority were mere charlatans roaming the lands to swindle money. One capable of shaping wind into a blade and wielding it with such mastery was likely unparalleled in the world.
Meanwhile, the first assassin remained unarmed, advancing relentlessly through Zhuoying’s impenetrable swordplay like a moth drawn to flame, fearless of death. Seeing the assassin’s defenses wide open, Zhuoying seized the moment, tilting his blade upward in a swift thrust aimed at the throat—a strike meant to pierce through the skull. Yet, the sword clanged sharply as if hitting metal! The tip had barely indented the foreigner’s throat but could penetrate no further. A chill ran through Zhuoying. He twisted his wrist, redirecting the thrust toward the softest part under the chin. This time, the blade slid sideways as if striking something unyieldingly hard. “Ivané!” Zhuoying exclaimed.
Ivané, a secret technique of the Huku Qingxiu sect, meant “gold within blood.” It originated from a branch of Heluo alchemy dedicated to extracting gold from animal blood—a centuries-old endeavor that had failed, yielding only refined iron and thus fading into obscurity. Somehow, Ivané had evolved into a martial art that transformed the body into iron. Practitioners, also called Ivané, appeared ordinary but could harden their skin like metal. In his youth, Zhuoying had encountered a Heluo monk who had trained for two or three decades, yet could only turn his palms to iron, producing metallic clangs when struck. This Ivané before him had not only hardened his throat but also the delicate skin beneath his chin, as if clad head-to-toe in impenetrable armor, impervious to weapons.Hearing the name "Ivané," the man showed a startled expression, then fixed his gaze on Zhuoying's face and exclaimed in disbelief, "Dorlosa!" "I am Dorhan," Zhuoying replied with a light scoff, thrusting his sword toward the barbarian's blue-green eyes. The barbarian tilted his head to dodge, the blade scraping sparks across his cheek, yet he seemed unbothered as he wiped his face with a hand, appearing utterly unfazed. As he raised his hand, Zhuoying caught sight of a thick iron ring deeply embedded in the flesh of his right middle finger, and his expression turned grave. With no time to check the situation behind him, he could only shout, "Foster Father!" But there was no response from behind.
In the windless corridor, the sound of airflow gradually arose. At first, it was sparse and faint, like one or two withered leaves drifting leisurely in the wind, lightly touching the ground, then it grew into a harsh, howling gale sweeping through a forest, with countless leaves rustling as they fell. Zhuoying listened as the sound shifted from slow to rapid, and suddenly a gust of wind brushed past his ears, stirring the hem of his robe and sleeves. Before him, Ivané's golden hair also fluttered in the wind, his blue-green eyes holding a faint trace of a smile. Zhuoying's brows furrowed tightly, knowing that Fangzhu and Emperor Xu had encountered formidable foes. For now, his only option was to desperately hold off this one Ivané to prevent them from joining forces. Since this Ivané had already reached the pinnacle of his cultivation, swords and blades would only be a hindrance. With his mind set, a sharp golden light ignited in his pure black pupils. He tossed his longsword backward, calling out, "Your Majesty." A light, nimble sound followed as Emperor Xu caught the sword, its blade humming with resonant energy.
A faint, disdainful smile curled at the corners of Zhuoying's sharply defined, handsome lips. He extended his right hand, palm down, neither attacking nor defending, simply holding it out.
Every man on the grasslands knew the meaning of this gesture—from childhood to adulthood, to their prime, and even gray-haired elders, they often extended their hands this way.
Let's wrestle.
The opponent was taken aback but then smiled, placing his right hand over the back of Zhuoying's hand. The cold, rigid palm touched Zhuoying's warm skin, emitting a metallic scent. In one swift motion, Zhuoying reversed his grip on the hand, driving his left elbow forcefully forward. The Ivané hadn't anticipated such speed and stumbled forward uncontrollably. Zhuoying lowered his stance, bracing his shoulder against the Ivané's waist, and with a low shout, straightened up, hoisting the large man over his shoulder. Seizing the momentum, he hurled him toward the end of the corridor. Khüke wrestling had no fixed rules or techniques, relying solely on agility and strength to decide the outcome. Though Zhuoying had been young during his time in Khüke, he had constantly sparred with the burly men in the army, honing a body full of clever adaptability. As he grew, he gained exceptional physical strength, becoming an unparalleled master of wrestling. In contrast, the Ivané's arts emphasized secluded, pure cultivation and abstained from conflict. As a leading figure among them, this man was likely unskilled in combat. Zhuoying's mind was clear and sharp; after a moment's thought, he had devised this strategy of pitting his own strengths against the opponent's weaknesses.Ivan slammed heavily against the wall with a metallic clang, as if clad in heavy armor, then tumbled down and collided with the palace attendant standing nearby—a palace attendant! Zhuoying’s heart tightened in shock. Behind those two attendants was the door to the imperial study of the Golden City Palace. If they could just slip inside, they could summon the imperial guards through a side door. Yet, why had they remained utterly motionless for so long? The only explanation was—they were already dead. The attendant struck by Ivan slowly slid down the white jade wall behind her, leaving a sticky, crimson trail at the back of her head. The other attendant still stood upright, her eyes lowered, but the golden pearls in her hair continued to tremble from the vibrations of Ivan’s fall.
"Your Majesty, please go ahead," Fang Zhu said. His usually gentle voice had turned resolute, echoing like a bell in the enclosed corridor.
"No," replied a cold, detached voice tinged with amusement. It was Emperor Xu. As if time had abruptly reversed by twenty years, his voice carried an indescribable authority and a rebellious, untamed arrogance.
The wind rustled fiercely, the dense forest surging like raging waves, as if migratory birds were urgently seeking shelter and wild beasts were fleeing in mournful cries.
"Wings Hanging to the South—the art of summoning the wind was said to have vanished from the world, yet its inheritor turns out to be among the barbarians," Emperor Xu remarked, sounding both wistful and pleased. "Jianming, life still holds some interest after all." The man guarding him in front smiled faintly and advanced side by side with Emperor Xu.
A gale had already swept through the corridor, pressing down so hard that it was difficult to keep one’s eyes open. The lantern flames flickered, casting a hundred swaying shadows, and the clashing of swords against wind blades rang out sharply behind them.
Hearing their exchange, Zhuoying felt slightly reassured. Without waiting for Ivan to straighten up, he lunged forward and pinned him down firmly. But Ivan raised his head and gave a cold smile. Zhuoying understood his meaning—even if you knock me down, you cannot kill me. Zhuoying smirked in return, using his left hand to wrench Ivan’s face aside while driving his right elbow with focused strength into the joint of Ivan’s jaw. A grinding sound, like crumpling tin, echoed faintly. Under the pressure on his joint, Ivan’s mouth involuntarily fell open, and as if realizing something, his expression shifted abruptly, and he let out ragged, guttural sounds.
"Not convinced? Did I say I would fight you bare-handed? You may have a fine physique, but your mind is utterly foolish," Zhuoying said with a smile, applying more force with his legs to suppress Ivan’s struggling limbs.
Ivan frantically twisted his head, but it was too late. A swift, brilliant flash of gold and emerald shot straight into his gaping mouth, piercing through his palate and into his brain. His pupils instantly dilated. Blood and saliva mixed as they trickled from the corners of his mouth, revealing an intricately inlaid pomegranate and peridot necklace within.
Zhuoying reached in and pulled out the golden hairpin, now stained with blood and brain matter. From Ivan’s mouth, the flowing blood gradually mingled with white, thread-like strands.
Meanwhile, Emperor Xu and Fang Zhu fought fiercely alongside each other against another barbarian. The three of them swirled together in the howling wind, rising and falling in rapid succession, with occasional flashes of sword gleams. Earlier, Emperor Xu had mentioned that the barbarian’s wind-summoning technique was called "Wings Hanging to the South." Zhuoying had also heard Fang Zhu speak of it—a secret art passed down from the previous dynasty, named after the roc’s majestic and swift flight against the wind. When Emperor Chu Jing, the founding emperor of the Chu dynasty, rose from humble origins and established the nation through countless battles, a general from the former dynasty refused to surrender. In a desperate fight amidst ten thousand troops, he employed this technique, killing and injuring over two hundred men before finally succumbing to exhaustion and dying in battle.Emperor Xu was suddenly thrown out of the combat circle, his three-foot sword shattering inch by inch as he collapsed beside Yiwa’ne’s corpse. The barbarian charged straight toward him, completely disregarding his own exposed back to Fang Zhu’s palms. Emperor Xu grabbed Yiwa’ne’s corpse and held it in front of him as a shield. The barbarian abandoned his sword and struck with his palm, aiming directly for the corpse’s back. However, Zhuo Ying leaped forward, shoving Emperor Xu aside. With one hand, he twisted the corpse’s shoulder and struck its back with his palm. Instantly, the corpse’s limbs twitched, and over a dozen diamond-shaped iron spikes shot out from acupoints across its chest and shoulders.
The barbarian roared in fury, flicking his fingers to release an invisible current of air that deflected the spikes in an instant. But he failed to guard against Fang Zhu’s palm strike from behind. The blow was not particularly fast, but it was steady and forceful, landing squarely on the barbarian’s neck with a sharp cracking sound. The barbarian’s spine crumbled, and he slumped to the ground.
Ignoring the barbarian’s fate, Fang Zhu rushed to Emperor Xu’s side and helped him up. Zhuo Ying also rose and approached the barbarian. Though his spine was shattered and he writhed in agony, the barbarian did not die immediately. His eyes widened with fury, nearly splitting at the corners. Zhuo Ying crouched down, gazing into the barbarian’s murky blue eyes. The barbarian looked back, a final glimmer of azure light flickering in his gaze. Struggling, he gasped out fragmented words that faintly formed a sentence: “Zhuo Yin·Hancha Nutabayin…” It was the final utterance of many Huku men in their last moments.
No matter how deep the enmity, the victor would not deny such a request.
Zhuo Yin·Hancha Nutabayin—Kill me, grant me the honor of a warrior. To die in fierce battle, accepting victory or defeat with equanimity, is the ultimate glory. These were also the first words the young Duo Han had spoken to Fang Jianming, the origin of his Eastern Land name.
Zhuo Ying’s lips moved, but no sound emerged.
Wu Ji Ta Na—We shall meet again in the afterlife.
The barbarian read his silent words and closed his eyes peacefully, awaiting the fatal blow. With his back turned, Zhuo Ying calmly drove a golden hairpin into the barbarian’s Zhongting acupoint. The barbarian’s expression eased, the pain vanishing from his brow as he relaxed.
The sound of hurried footsteps echoed as the imperial guards finally sensed something amiss. Zhuo Ying stood and went to assist Emperor Xu. The emperor was uninjured, but his right eye was blurred with the barbarian’s blood. Seeing Zhuo Ying approach, he smiled faintly and said, “Zhuo Ying, though young, you are skilled. What reward do you desire?” Zhuo Ying smiled in return, his eyes deep and unfathomable, shimmering under the lamplight. “Your servant fears overstepping his bounds.” “It matters not. If it exists within the kingdom, you may take it.” Leaning on Zhuo Ying’s shoulder, Emperor Xu wiped the blood from his right eye.
“Then, I beg your pardon,” Zhuo Ying said. With a flick of his fingers, a golden light flashed like a treacherous rainbow, plunging straight into Emperor Xu’s chest as swiftly as an arrow.
Emperor Xu had no time to evade, not even to wipe the smile from his face. He was about to meet his end at the tip of a hairpin.
So this was it—two assassins: one skilled in wind manipulation, the other forging blood into iron, concealing it at the junctions of his meridians. Even if wind blades failed to kill Emperor Xu, the corpse could still deliver the fatal blow. Even if both assassins fell, with Emperor Xu and Fang Zhu weakened and injured, they would never suspect Zhuo Ying’s sudden attack. There was still one final, deadly strike—a scheme within a scheme, a kill within a kill.
Blood spurted, rapidly spreading into a dark stain across the emerald silk robe. The hairpin plunged deep into flesh and bone, its tasseled ornaments still tinkling softly, the pearls emitting a clear, melodious sound."Jianming!" Emperor Xi exclaimed in shock. Dozens of imperial guards arrived with drawn blades, only to freeze in astonishment at the scene.
The emperor sat slumped on the ground, his face smeared with blood. Fang Zhu, Chief of the Phoenix Court, stood shielding the emperor despite blood gushing from his shoulder. Fang Zhuoying of the Imperial Cavalry kicked up a sword from the ground and charged into the guards with dazzling swiftness.
Fang Zhu, pale and pressing his wound tightly, shouted sternly, "Zhuoying!" Blood spurted from between his fingers.
Zhuoying had already fought his way to the corridor exit, battling as he retreated. Amid the clashing of blades, he coldly declared, "There never was a Zhuoying. I am Duo Han." In the next moment, he leaped over the crowd, vaulted onto the multi-eaved roof of the Golden City Palace, and vanished.
"Your Majesty, my adopted son has rebelled. I..." Fang Zhu's clear brows furrowed slightly as he whispered.
Emperor Xi shook his head and murmured, "The bond between us was forged on the battlefield, trading life for life. I understand that well. Besides, if I die, you cannot live either. It's just—" he said mockingly, "I thought this Golden City Palace was a shadowless palace where nothing could be hidden. Yet in the end, it was these eternal lamps that nearly cost me my life." Fang Zhu was drenched in cold sweat, the scar by his lips twitching faintly. "Your Majesty, please take care of your sacred self." "I won't die... I will wait right here. When will this heaven and earth finally punish me? When will they succeed in killing me? I await divine retribution." He snorted lightly, "Until then, I will not die." Emperor Xi's gaze burned with wild defiance as he stared upward. There was no vast, profound sky above—only an indifferent white jade dome, brilliantly illuminated by lamplight.
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