The young beggar boy, not very old, carried a torn sack along the wall of Quanhou Street, his fingers running along the cracks in the wall bit by bit, working his way toward Sanli Academy.

He seemed utterly bored, tracing his way along the street wall the whole time, then hopping off and away.

But inside Sanli Academy, someone took up a strip of cloth and hurried in small steps into the inner hall, presenting it with both hands to She Qingling.

She Qingling glanced at the characters on the cloth strip: The third watch drum will startle the nine heavens.

Having read it, he passed the cloth strip to Qiqian’er. His own daughter-in-law only glanced at it briefly before turning to the Tang family’s wife and saying, “It’s confirmed, little sister-in-law. The enemy attack tonight will likely be around midnight — have the ladies hurry and speed things up.”

Li’s face went pale on hearing this, and it took her a long moment before she said, “I’ll go now, I’ll go now…”

With that she strode quickly out, tripping on her long skirt as she crossed the threshold — not the first time either. Steadying herself, she pulled a hairpin from her hair; the pin’s body was thick and hollow. She casually twisted off the phoenix head, and out of it slid a double-edged blade. Bending down, she cut straight through her own thick brocade skirt, then gave it a tug, turning the long skirt into a short one.

She left in a whirlwind, brisk and efficient.

With Li leading the way, the other matriarchs stood and used their own hidden blades, cutting away their long skirts one strip at a time, as if severing burdens from their lives.

Among the men still next door, praying to the divine oracle and pretending not to exist, someone muttered irritably, “Outrageous! A gentleman should not look upon impropriety…”

But before he’d even finished the sentence, among the women out in the courtyard twisting rope snares, an elderly matron stood up and strode into the room with forceful steps — no one knew how much strength she’d put into it, but the floorboards seemed to shake.

The old woman walked straight into the crowd of men, found her own useless son unerringly, raised her arm high, and slapped him hard across the face.

The whole room froze in shock.

The man, furious and humiliated, clutched his face and cried out, “Mother—!”

Smack—!

The old woman struck again, gritting her teeth as she scolded, “All of you shirking your duties! Even fools have some sense — they know to just play dead. But not you, oh no, you had to be the clever one, the capable one, the one who had to speak up! My son, you’ve never had a proper job in your life, forty-some years old and still eating off your mother’s rice, and you dare open your mouth? Did you swallow a turtle shell and think you’re some kind of tortoise-grandson?”

The man grew even more frightened, slumping to the ground, lips trembling as he cried out again: “…Mother?”

The old woman raised her hand again for another slap, saying bitterly, “No guts, so hide — do you think others don’t already know you’re a coward?”

Ashamed, the man bowed his head, not daring to say another word.

Dead silence surrounded him — the others really were playing dead now.

The old madam turned to leave, still fuming inside, then turned back and delivered one more furious slap before finally storming out.

The courtyard was in a great rush — some sticking steel needles into blocks of tofu, some grinding medicine underfoot with a mortar wheel, some tearing thin gauze from the lining of their robes…

Physician Cheng stood and went off to a hidden chamber to prepare medicine.

That left Qiqian’er and She Qingling.

Qiqian’er looked over toward the corner where the men were still divining, watching them earnestly cast another hexagram, then lowered her head and said quietly to She Qingling, “Father, the ones coming tonight will be difficult to deal with — not ordinary martial folk. Things here should be manageable, but I’m afraid the capital may be in real trouble right now.”

She Qingling looked at his daughter-in-law in astonishment, as if seeing an entirely different face.

In the room next door sat daughters of prestigious clans, descendants of renowned families, daughters of officials, along with seasoned matriarchs who had managed their households’ inner affairs for half a lifetime.

And yet when she had sat down, everyone had oddly pushed her toward the center, and she hadn’t seemed the least bit hesitant about taking that central seat — as if to say, since you’ve asked me to sit here, then you’ll listen to me.

And so she had begun arranging the defenses.

That alone wasn’t the most alarming part. What was most alarming was that Xu Ximei had once been a garrison commander, someone who knew how to deploy troops and formations — and yet even she had naturally fallen into step with her own daughter-in-law’s arrangements.

That phrase on the cloth strip had clearly been an underworld code — and she’d understood it too.

She Qingling lowered his head and said nothing for a long while before finally speaking. “Dasheng can protect himself, that’s not in question. When great disaster strikes, everyone looks after their own — that’s already doing right by them.”

Qiqian’er nodded, her expression showing no worry.

She Qingling looked out at the courtyard, his heart churning with undercurrents. A force capable of alarming the nine heavens — and all they had out there were women and children twisting rabbit snares?

Seeing his father’s grave expression, Qiqian’er lowered her head and comforted him. “Father! Look at it from the broader view — where there’s a path, there’s nothing to fear. Rest easy, old man, you have me.”

She Qingling reached out, grabbed a handful of chess pieces, then dropped them back into the wooden box, nodding quietly. “This old man has seen storms and calm alike in this life — high points and low, wealth and poverty. I ask for nothing more now. Just look after yourself.”

In Yandu, fire broke out in a side hall of the Daliang Palace, yet no one came to put it out. Chen Dasheng, with Lao Dao, guarded the Emperor, along with Imperial Prince Xuan He who happened to be nearby, retreating together down a corridor he knew well.

This corridor was about two and a half carriage-widths wide, leading out through a side passage of the palace. Facing forward meant not having to confront a large number of enemies at once — entering the corridor meant only needing to guard front, back, and overhead. For this reason, two generations of emperors had both chosen this route when in danger.

Pursuers behind, assassins raining down from above.

When had the Daliang Palace become this compromised? Emperor Wu’s heart burned with fury, yet he had no choice but to maintain an air of composure.

Several aged voices roared from above the Daliang Palace: “Yang Zao claims descent from a noble house, yet he is nothing but a treacherous, ungrateful little upstart! His family received the Emperor’s grace for generations, yet he bred a wolf’s heart to seize the throne, betraying our former state. Since Zao the traitor ascended, he has brought calamity upon all the world, favoring treacherous eunuchs and persecuting the loyal and virtuous…”

Yang Zao’s expression stiffened; with one arm he held the terrified Xuan He, and with the other he raised his sword, sneering coldly, “Tell me — who wrote that proclamation for them?”

Several figures came flying down onto the glazed tiles of the wall, blades flashing coldly overhead. Chen Dasheng stepped forward, shifting formation together with Lao Dao, and before those men had even landed, muffled grunts sounded — they had already been sliced into countless pieces in rapid succession.

In an instant!

Blood soaked the ground, entrails flew, and someone shrieked in agony: “You blade-wielding bandits, today I’ll see you hacked into a thousand pieces!”

Chen Dasheng stepped back, blade in hand, and without turning said to the Emperor, “Your Majesty, forgive us — we are incompetent, please retreat further!”

Yang Zao raised his eyes and looked around, closing them briefly, then retreated another twenty paces.

For a sovereign, every step back was a mark of his officials’ incompetence!

But was the ruler truly without fault?

In the end, Yang Zao had been too rash this time. He hadn’t heeded the old ministers’ counsel to proceed slowly and carefully, and his purges against the noble clans had been too ruthless, driving them into total opposition — he’d never expected their counterattack to stir up a force this vast.

Nine years since the founding of Jiu Si Tang, and the underworld that Meng Dichen had kept suppressed all this time — was tonight the night it had finally broken loose?

If Lao Dao hadn’t been at his side, he didn’t even dare imagine the outcome.

Tonight, Daliang Palace had already been swiftly carved into isolated fragments — the enemy was picking them off one by one — and he didn’t even know how his own women and children were faring right now.

He didn’t dare think further; even the thought alone tore at his gut.

A group of underworld fighters carried a massive rockery stone, ramming it repeatedly against the corridor wall, and with a thunderous crash, a gap opened in the wall. The murderous crowd let out a cheer and moved to rush through, when someone suddenly cried out: “Fear not, my lord! Yuwen Chongde brings troops to your rescue, fear not! The Yuwen clan will surely protect you from harm…”

Amid the shouting, shrieks and clashing steel erupted from beyond the gap. A few nimble men leapt onto the palace wall, drawing hidden weapons to strike.

But the Lao Dao operatives all reached out together, revealing small crossbows they’d had ready all along, and with the mechanism triggered, bolts flew — several cries rang out as men clutched their throats and fell.

Who said the Lao Dao only knew how to kill with blades? They’d served as scouts for years — their skill at assassination far surpassed the enemy’s.

From beyond the gap, a woman’s laughter rang out heartily: “Hahaha, thank you, thank you! Yougui! Where are you, Yougui, I’ve come to save you…”

That was unmistakably Yuwen Xiaoqiao.

Though everyone had been tense, on hearing this, smiles broke out as they looked toward Hu Yougui. Hu Yougui, mortified, shouted back angrily, “Yuwen Xiaoqiao, shut your mouth!”

From the other side came an obedient shout in reply: “Got it!”

Then someone else came leaping down from the high wall, their sword strike like a river crashing over a cliff, an unstoppable torrent.

Chen Dasheng’s expression turned grim, and he switched immediately to the short blade at his waist, shouting, “Break!”

This was the formation where the lead blade absorbed the danger alone, sacrificing himself to shield the brothers behind — Daliang had known seven years of peace, but through years of coordinated training, their bodies moved faster than thought. From tower formation they instantly merged into one, leaving only their chief to leap up alone, resolute, to face the enemy single-handed.

Everyone was struck with alarm.

Then came the clash — dang dang dang dang, pa pa pa pa pa!

Metal sparked in the firelight; the old man was already locked in combat with Chen Dasheng, but Chen Dasheng’s movements were lightning-fast, striking from the front like piercing a horse in battle, with no flashy technique at all — a few crisp strikes and his short blade had drawn lines of blood across several throats. His own chest had been grazed open by a blade’s edge, blood instantly soaking through his cloth armor.

A long blade simply wasn’t suited to fighting this kind of short weapon.

One fierce-looking old man, clutching his throat, glared at Chen Dasheng and struggled to ask, “Whose disciple… are you?”

Chen Dasheng’s mouth twitched, and he raised an eyebrow with feigned innocence. “My wife’s.”

“Lies—”

A jet of blood sprayed from the old man’s throat up the wall, and he collapsed, eyes wide open in death.

Chen Dasheng looked down at him. “Go ask around — we’re honest folk.”

None of them knew that this old man had once come from the Nine Regions to rescue someone from prison — by now the world had long forgotten his name, but back when he’d made his reputation, there had been no such person as Chen Dasheng in this world yet.

He never could have imagined that after decades away from the martial world, he would die alongside three of his own direct disciples at the hands of some unknown minor guard.

Once this fiercest wave had passed, the pressure around them eased.

Yuwen Xiaoqiao, holding a pair of blades, stumbled out from the rubble. She looked back down the corridor — corpses already littered the ground, and among them, not a single body remained whole except for four.

The sun was setting, and figures still stood in the flickering firelight next door.

They’d fought this fiercely.

Yuwen Xiaoqiao wasn’t frightened by the sight — instead, after taking it in, she called out in a bit of a panic, “Hu Yougui!!!”

Are you hurt?

For someone who’d always been as unruly as a boy, there was suddenly a distinctly feminine note in her voice.

Hu Yougui, exasperated, could only call back weakly, “Ah, I’m fine.”

From beyond the gap, Yuwen Chongde called out, “Qiao…”

Ungrateful girl, hurry back — her old father was struggling to hold up the formation.

She wanted to go check on him but couldn’t. Yuwen Xiaoqiao stamped her foot, flicked the blood off her twin blades, and pointed one toward the voice, threatening, “You’re mine! You are absolutely not allowed to be hurt!”

A moment later, a muffled reply came back: “Ah, so are you.”

A flower-like smile slowly bloomed across Yuwen Xiaoqiao’s face; she gave a whoop and charged off with her blade toward that direction again.

At the end of the corridor, no one dared look at Hu Yougui — instead they cautiously watched the Emperor’s expression.

With a true living Buddha this close by, these two really carried on as if no one else existed.

The Emperor’s mouth twitched for a long while before he finally said helplessly, “Well… quite the pair of lovestruck fools…”

But before he’d even finished speaking, a thick black smoke suddenly rose from a building in the rear palace, followed swiftly by roaring flames.

Guan Si’er cried out hoarsely, “Your Majesty, brother! It’s — it’s Jingfu Palace, it’s Jingfu Palace… Brother!”

Tears spilled from his eyes at once.

Consort Xiao had treated him like a mother — even knitting socks for the Sixth Prince, she’d think of him too.

Tonight the Emperor’s expression had stayed composed the whole time, but seeing this, it finally cracked, and he murmured, “A’Duo…”

Inside Jingfu Hall, eunuchs and palace maids lay fallen everywhere. The Sixth Prince and Consort Xiao huddled by a window lattice, looking out, as several men in black splashed tung oil against the hall walls…

Finally someone approached carrying a torch, and by its light, the Sixth Prince, startled, was about to cry out when Empress Xiao clamped a hand over his mouth and dragged him back toward the inner bedchamber.

The Sixth Prince, face streaked with tears, pointed silently outside, screaming without sound — Mother, that’s Second Brother!

That’s Second Brother, Mother!

Consort Xiao’s expression turned resolute; she forced him to the edge of the kang, threw open the bedding, lifted a thick wooden board, and pointed inside. “Go!”

The Sixth Prince shook his head over and over, only to receive a slap.

Terrified, he was pushed down into the narrow hollow beneath the kang.

Seeing her chubby son’s face streaked with tears, Consort Xiao held his head and pressed a hard kiss to his forehead. “Silly boy. I never had the fortune of children in this life, but from the moment you came to me, I thought — what a fun little chubby thing, just something extra to dote on.

Who would have thought I’d grow to love you more and more?

They always said you weren’t born of me. Later I thought — what does ‘born of me’ even mean? I suppose it must mean feeling pain like your heart’s being torn out, like flesh being cut, at least once — that’s what makes it real.

Don’t cry, my child. This time, I finally get to hurt for you once. After this pain, we’ll truly be mother and son. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Yang Qian’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly, until finally he cried out, “Mo— Mother!”

“Yes, Mother’s here. Mother loves you, truly loves you.”

Tears spilled from Consort Xiao’s eyes; then she smiled again, tenderly stroking his hair. “Tomorrow, if by some blessing my child survives, you must remember — never tell your father it was your sixth brother who set the fire.”

Yang Qian was furious and about to protest, but Consort Xiao continued, “Think carefully about how he got in — even your father wasn’t prepared for it. Think again — since the founding of Daliang, how many mistakes has he made? Blood is blood no matter which hand, but you’re young and out in the world, and your bond with him just isn’t as deep, nor your standing as strong — and you lack that support within the army too! My child has nothing at all — what would you fight him with? Even compared to a temple, he has the Southern Guo Temple behind him that no one dares topple. My child, listen to your mother. Be good, live a long life. Tomorrow you’re best off going back to your grandmother’s side…”

Outside, the torch was finally thrown against the wall, and flames erupted at once.

Too late… the child looked at his own mother one last time, then smiled and closed the wooden panel. The world went dark from then on.

Countless men trampled the shattered glazed roof tiles as another wave of the assault passed. Guan Si’er suddenly stepped out from the ranks and knelt before the Emperor, pleading, “Your Majesty! You can flay me alive afterward if you must, but today I have to go — I must go!”

The Emperor looked at him and said nothing.

Guan Si’er drew his own saber and offered it up above his head. “Either kill me, or let me go…”

Everyone knew how close he and the Sixth Prince were, but to put a prince before the Emperor’s own life like this, in front of His Majesty — that truly was raw, unguarded feeling.

Emperor Wu, Yang Zao, closed his eyes briefly, A’Duo’s laughter ringing in his ears, along with his big chubby son pointing outside and saying to him, “Father, just wait, I’ll transform into an immortal and fly off for you — who knows, maybe I’ll steal you back a peach…”

The Lao Dao men remembered the southern gate, a group of down-and-out, ignorant bond-servants who couldn’t even read many characters and knew few people — others looked down on them, but this little chubby boy used to come and tell them stories.

Whenever he came, everyone’s eyes would fill with admiration as the little chubby fellow gestured animatedly and said, “Do you all know what that is?”

He’d point at the fearsome beast on the hilt of a weapon, looking utterly pleased with himself.

Guan Si’er, eyes shining, asked him, “Sixth Master, we don’t know — tell us!”

The Sixth Prince, not one to make things difficult, put his hands behind his back, doing his best impression of a great scholar, and said with a nod of his head, “Long ago, the Dragon King had nine sons. This one has a leopard’s body and a dragon’s shape, the fiercest-looking and most hot-tempered of them all, always loving to fight, and no one could ever tame it. Among the ancient gods it was said this beast could change color; its nature was wild and it never backed down from a fight. It’s called… Yazi!”