In this age, very few would ever know his story. In ages yet to come, perhaps no one would know it at all.

So it may be that after enough time has passed, the protagonist of this story would no longer be a man, but a sword.

And perhaps even that sword would be mythologized — transformed into some sacred relic, a holy weapon capable of soaring ten thousand *li* across mountain and river to slay the Khan-Emperor of Black Wu on its own.

The man, the story — in the end, only a sword would remain.

But at least the sword’s name would endure.

For he had said: *the man has no name, but the sword has one — whatever sword it may be, it is called Chuhan.*

He truly had no name. He held only a title: he was the shadow guard and attack-slave of Dachu’s late emperor, and he had likely long since forgotten whatever name had once been his own.

Few among the common people ever knew that the imperial Yang family was in truth divided into two branches — the inner line and the outer. It had always been the inner line, the blood-true imperial clan, that inherited the great throne.

Some children of the outer line were selected from birth to become shadow guards, trained through methods of extraordinary cruelty. In every generation, the initial selection drew at least several dozen candidates. Through ordeal upon ordeal, only the finest one remained — and his sole purpose in life was to protect the Emperor.

The one who truly mastered the Chuhan Sword Art was never the Emperor himself, but the shadow guard.

He was an anomaly, for from the very beginning he had never been given the Chuhan Sword Manual. It was not until the late emperor died and the new emperor, Yang Jing, ascended the throne, that the manual was finally given to him.

Yang Jing had hoped he would stay — offering the Chuhan Sword Manual as the price of his loyalty. But he could not. There was a threshold within his own heart that he could not cross.

He spent one year in bitter cultivation of the Chuhan Sword Art. In only that one year, he achieved its full mastery.

He was perhaps the greatest genius in all of recorded history — a luminous pearl smothered in dust, hidden away in darkness for many long years.

One year to reach full mastery, and then he turned north.

Before his departure, the Emperor asked him where he was going. He said he was going to face his tribulation.

The Emperor asked: who is your tribulation?

He replied: I am someone else’s tribulation.

The Emperor asked: will you return?

He shook his head.

The Emperor said: what if We compel you to stay?

He said: no one can hold me. Not even Your Majesty.

And so he left the palace. Outside the palace gates, the six subordinates who had followed him for many years knelt to the ground, motionless, without a word.

He understood their intent. After a long silence, he nodded and said: “Very well. Even if you cannot bring back my body, someone must bring word.”

Seven men left the capital, traveling north, and everywhere they went they saw only devastation, and everywhere they went they heard only songs of sorrow.

There was a brooding weight in his chest that would not lift — within his ribcage it felt as though a surging tide of sword intent had nowhere to be released. He thought to himself: this is the parting gift that the Central Plains gives to me.

But even if the rivers and mountains had lost their color, the sword intent still lived within his heart.

When they reached the pass, he left the six behind, saying: the Black Wu capital is still very far from here, but if I succeed, you will hear my story — when that day comes, return to the capital.

The six did not stop him. They watched him go.

After he had departed, the six deliberated and decided to leave one behind to wait for news while the other five followed at a distance. If the chance arose, it was only right that they should at least bring his body home.

In the end the six drew lots — five red, one black. The one who drew black stayed at the border pass to await word; the five who drew red followed on.

He had prepared carefully. He knew he did not speak the Black Wu tongue, and that his features were different — he would be suspected. So he drank a prepared poison that muted his throat, and then he disfigured his own face.

Reaching the Black Wu capital, it was no great feat for a man of his abilities to conceal himself among the cargo of a merchant caravan and slip inside. What was difficult was finding the opportunity.

Once in the city, he understood that even having mastered the Chuhan Sword Art, he could not possibly fight his way into the heavily guarded Black Wu imperial palace.

Ten thousand soldiers in armor — not even an immortal could fly across that barrier.

His only opportunity lay in something he knew: the Black Wu Khan-Emperor was also a disciple of the Sword Gate, and went there several times each year.

So he waited outside the Sword Gate, disguised as a wandering beggar, and at the right moment demonstrated a fraction of his skill — using the reverse-grip blade technique of the Bohai people.

This caught the attention of the Sword Gate’s people, who brought him inside. But he could not speak, and neither could he write.

The Sword Gate’s people prepared to drive him out, until someone said his blade technique was rather interesting and perhaps worth keeping for study.

And so he became a sweeping-slave at the Sword Gate. Each day he ate whatever scraps were left over, sometimes not even that — so long as he was alive.

The people of the Sword Gate would occasionally have him demonstrate the blade technique; when they told him to perform, he performed. When someone tossed him a piece of meat and it fell to the ground, he did not mind the dirt — he ate it with every appearance of joy.

And so the Sword Gate disciples took to calling him the Bohai Dog-Slave.

He did all of this deliberately. During that year of cultivating the Chuhan Sword Art, he had already worked out a complete plan.

He had trained in swordsmanship while also practicing the Bohai blade style, and had even begun learning the Bohai tongue — only to reject that approach himself.

He knew one year was too short. If he ever opened his mouth, exposure would be almost inevitable.

He had also obtained a piece of Bohai craft — a string of ornaments that the Bohai people habitually wore. He deliberately damaged it, left the remaining fragments looking as though they had been knocked and chipped over time, and handled it with oiled fingers every day until it looked filthy and worn beyond redemption.

Over six months, he let the Sword Gate disciples grow accustomed to his presence as the Bohai Dog-Slave.

Anyone could call him over. They could make him bark like a dog. At first he pretended not to understand; eventually the Black Wu men barked first and gestured for him to follow. And so he pretended to understand, and barked as they did.

The Black Wu men roared with laughter, and he laughed with them — though his sounds and his laughter were much alike, both little more than a dry rasp that was barely audible.

Because of the dog-barking, the Black Wu men’s faces lit up with pleasure, and his lit up too — so the Black Wu men thought he was truly a fool.

In time, the Sword Gate disciples acquired a new entertainment: when the mood struck them, they would seek him out, throw something and make him fetch it back in the manner of a dog. Sometimes it was a wooden stick. Sometimes a meatbone. And once, a man threw a spiked ball for him to fetch in his mouth. He did not hesitate — when he brought it back, his mouth was full of blood.

Everyone at the Sword Gate came to know: this was a simpleton who knew Bohai blade work — or rather, a dog who knew Bohai blade work.

He was cautious and clever. He understood that the Black Wu men’s novelty would wear off, and that he would eventually be driven away — after all, someone of his appearance was something of an affront to the dignity of the Sword Gate.

So when he sparred with the Sword Gate disciples, he would occasionally produce a new move in the blade style that sent his opponent to defeat.

That way, he could remain indefinitely.

This went on until eventually even the Sword Gate’s master came to watch his technique in person — had him tested by others, had men watch him day and night — and ultimately concluded that he was indeed simply a fool.

During his long time at the Sword Gate, he learned that Khan-Emperor Kuokedi Dashi came to the Sword Gate once each month.

Around the fifteenth of each month, the Sword Gate held a Moon Reverence Ceremony in honor of the Moon God. Kuokedi Dashi came every month on that day — and during the ceremony, the Khan-Emperor’s personal guards were forbidden from approaching and had to remain outside the ceremonial grounds.

Moreover, during the ceremony, all Sword Gate disciples — except those on duty as guards — were forbidden from carrying weapons.

That day was the day he had decided to act.

On the seventh month of his time at the Sword Gate, he swept the courtyard as usual and chased after flying insects in the manner of a dog.

When Kuokedi Dashi arrived, he was driven off by the Sword Gate disciples, told to crawl back to his kennel.

He returned to that dog’s pen, sat there in silence for a long while, and then — in a moment when no one was watching — turned to face south and prostrated himself nine times.

Three times for his parents. Three times for the late emperor. Three times for his homeland.

He had timed it precisely. When the Moon Reverence Ceremony began, he rose and left the pen.

Not long after, he killed a Sword Gate disciple guarding the outer perimeter, took his white brocade robes, and draped himself in a white cloak.

No one had imagined that anyone would dare commit an act of violence against the Khan-Emperor within the Sword Gate. No one had imagined that the man who did it would be that Bohai Dog-Slave.

If you told a Black Wu man that someone intended to assassinate the Khan-Emperor inside the Sword Gate, the Black Wu man would burst out laughing — to them, it would be the greatest joke in the world.

He made it not a joke.

He struck as the Khan-Emperor descended the altar. A single thrust drove into Kuokedi Dashi’s chest.

But Kuokedi Dashi wore two layers of soft armor beneath his robes. The sword pierced the first; the second held.

A bodyguard rushed forward. He killed the bodyguard with one thrust.

Kuokedi Dashi turned and fled. He killed another sword master, then gave chase, and from behind drove his sword through the back of Kuokedi Dashi’s skull.

The entire Sword Gate erupted in shock.

Until that moment, no one had ever dared to challenge the Sword Gate. Its standing was without equal. By then the Gate had grown powerful over many years, with an abundance of masters: one hundred and seventy-two sword practitioners and thirty-six grand sword masters had gathered for the Moon Reverence Ceremony, along with two patron elders and the Gate Master himself.

After slaying the Khan-Emperor, he immediately fought his way outward. The sword practitioners and grand sword masters of the Sword Gate were unarmed and scrambled to give way.

He cut through to the outer perimeter and was halted there as the Sword Gate disciples surged toward him like a tide.

He threw back his head and roared at the sky — a sound barely audible, yet in that moment, that ragged cry was his pride.

He was the most gifted shadow guard in all of Dachu’s history. Had he begun training the Chuhan Sword ten years earlier, who in all the world would have been a match for him?

He had trained for only one year, yet already he stood beyond all who had come before. He held only one thought in his heart: after him, the Chuhan Sword must not be extinguished. There must be one who comes after.

That night, the self-exalted, peerless men of the Sword Gate — each of them invincible in their own estimation — witnessed the terrible might of that man and that sword.

That complete Chuhan Sword Art eclipsed even the light of the brilliant moon. In the moonlight, those who had come to venerate the moon were slaughtered, and the one who defied the moon reveled in his glory.

He had once said to someone: a sword is not an ornament. A scholar wearing a sword might look dashing, but it is still a desecration of the blade.

A sword is a killing instrument. Sword techniques are killing arts.

People say a saber is the king of a hundred weapons. He said a sword is the sovereign of ten thousand — and with a sovereign’s instrument to kill, one is naturally without equal.

Those lofty sword practitioners and grand sword masters, once they retrieved their weapons and came forward, could not get a single blade near him.

He killed men as though dancing alone with a cup of wine in the moonlight — nothing at all like that crazed and foolish Bohai Dog-Slave.

When the fighting ended at last, he had been struck by dozens of arrows and lay dead — yet there was not a single sword wound on his body.

So long as there was a sword in his hand, he would not permit another sword to run rampant against him.

Not one blade dared to leave a mark upon his body.

That night, the Khan-Emperor was assassinated, and all of Black Wu was shaken.

The Black Wu Imperial Guards were mobilized. They sealed the city overnight and searched for the Bohai Dog-Slave’s accomplices — and found nothing.

The search continued the next day. Anyone who did not have the appearance of a Black Wu person — Bohai, steppe, or Central Plains — was seized on sight.

The worst fate fell upon the Bohai people: those who had so willingly made themselves into dogs for the Black Wu, this time found themselves treated as less than dogs.

On the third day, the Black Wu people set up his corpse on the main street of the city, doused it in pig’s blood, and let wild beasts tear at it.

That afternoon, the sun shone just right. The wind was gentle. It was the most beautiful hour the world could offer — a perfect moment for a song of parting.

Five retainers came with their blades drawn. They knew full well they could not take his body back — but they could not stand by and do nothing.

They too knew how to wield a sword, but they understood his heart, and so they carried sabers instead — the style of blade favored by the Bohai people.

All five died. They slew more than a hundred.

Kuokedi Dashi had been in the prime of his years. His sudden death sent the Black Wu imperial power plunging into turmoil. His children were still young; his brothers eyed the throne with hungry gazes.

The bodies of those six heroes were ultimately consumed entirely by the wild beasts the Black Wu people had set loose — not a single bone remained.

The world kissed them with pain. They answered with a sword ballad.

A sword ballad of killing.

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