Before the thick-walled tower, lights began to flicker on one after another. The pace of the palace attendants’ footsteps grew increasingly hurried; hushed voices wove among them; the people in the tower had already sensed that something was closing in, and were anxious over a dawn that seemed as though it would never arrive.

The earth trembled faintly, as though a hundred beasts were about to surge out from the edge of that black forest.

And yet the quietest tent on the thick-walled tower maintained its silence.

The Beast-Taming Platform in the night, gleaming bright under the rain, had been built upon the ruins of an ancient square beacon tower as its foundation, yet it had been expanded to three times the original size. Above it there was little ornamentation — only one layer of heavy square stone bricks, each brick separated from the next by a half-finger gap, designed so that rainwater and animal blood could drain through and not accumulate. At the very center stood one especially square and broad stone brick that had originally been meant to display the prey of the hunt’s champion; in its place now stood an enormous bronze screen.

The screen was approximately six or seven zhang in height. From a hundred paces away it looked like a city wall rising straight from the earth, its surface cast with rows upon rows of bronze studs, each one hollow on the inside — when struck, the sound produced could carry a hundred li.

A stooped figure slowly climbed the steps and arrived at the very center of the Beast-Taming Platform.

It was an elderly ritual official dressed in plain hemp-white robes, his hair and beard entirely white. The hands that clasped the thick bamboo register were deeply furrowed with wrinkles, like a section of dry branch.

The fine rain soaked his shoulders, and he was entirely unaware of it; his steps remained unhurried, and at last he settled, trembling, to sit cross-legged before the central stone brick.

He had not sat in this way for a very long time, but when he was young, they would often sit together, a hundred people in the great hall, chanting the sacrificial text all through the night until dawn.

He had barely settled himself when another equally aged white-robed ritual official had already made his way up the stone steps. Their eyes met briefly, then shifted away; the newcomer nodded a trembling greeting, and sat down beside the one who had arrived first.

A third figure appeared at the foot of the steps.

Three people, four people, five — ten, scores of them, a hundred.

A hundred ritual officials sat in orderly rows on the Beast-Taming Platform — white-robed, white-haired, shining against the night sky as one continuous expanse of light.

For a single instant, heaven and earth held perfectly still — even the falling rain seemed to slow.

Then soldiers in heavy armor carrying long polearms poured from the darkness at the forest’s edge like a flood, their bloodshot eyes fixed unblinking on the thick-walled tower behind the Beast-Taming Platform; war cries shook the heavens, and murderous intent blanketed the earth.

The ritual official seated at the center of the stone brick finally moved.

He appeared to have gone both blind and deaf — he could neither see the enemy forces closing in from every direction, nor hear the battle cries that shook heaven and earth or the trembling of the ground. His aged hands slowly opened the first scroll of the bamboo register; the slender bamboo slips had already yellowed and been eaten by insects, and the characters on them were as small as a fly’s head.

Then his dim eyes focused on those tiny characters, and the mouth beneath his whiskers began to move in a murmur:

“Sealed Archive, Volume 22, Section Ding, First Entry. Xu Shi of Three Peach Lane, Biancheng, Kunzhou: female, aged sixty-nine, military household. Adult males: none. Minor children: one. Arable land: three mu. Tiled dwelling: half a room. Name entered in the registry at Quecheng. Household contract verified and confirmed, for purposes of record and reference.”

The moment his voice fell, a hundred ritual officials behind him opened their mouths in unison — drawing on the full strength of years of chanting sacrificial texts, each voice resonant as a great bell.

The aged chorus was gathered by the massive bronze screen and then, with the Beast-Taming Platform as its center, radiated outward in all directions — surging in layer upon layer, like waves spreading across a lake’s surface after a wind rises, carrying its sound into the distance.

At the same time, a deep, low rumbling arose — coming from directly beneath the Beast-Taming Platform.

On each side, three supply soldiers engaged the gears and turned the cranks; the heavy stone slabs beneath the platform were pushed open from within, revealing a stone door.

The door hinges creaked and groaned, exposing the vast and deep space behind it.

The moment the ritual officials’ chanting ceased, the first figure walked out from behind the stone door beneath the Beast-Taming Platform.

It was an elderly woman dressed in a plain pleated skirt, holding an oil lamp in her hand. Her face still held the bewildered expression of someone who had just heard their own household registration read aloud. She hesitated at the threshold and stepped forward, walking into the darkness ahead of her.

“Sealed Archive, Volume 22, Section Ding, Third Entry. Zhang Shi of Qingyi Village, Zhangcheng, Minzhou: male, aged seventy-three, artisan household. Adult males: one. Minor children: three. Tiled dwelling: two rooms. Iron workshop on Tongming Street: one. Name entered in the registry at Quecheng. Household contract verified and confirmed, for purposes of record and reference.”

With the chanting of a hundred voices, the second figure emerged from behind the stone door beneath the platform — an old man with a grizzled, bushy beard, holding only a single oil lamp in his hand, looking about in panic. One of his eyes was clouded and white, seeming to have been blind for quite some time.

The endless recitation of household registrations echoed through the plain; figure after figure emerged from beneath the platform — there were more than a thousand of them. Old and young, women and children — their faces carried bewilderment, and as they walked toward the beasts soon to arrive from the darkness, their silhouettes seemed so slender and fragile.

Yet this one group, utterly devoid of killing power, somehow caused those war-slaves who had steeled themselves for a battle with no retreat to slow their advance.

The murderous ferocity that had driven them forward left their bodies in that instant. The unease and savagery that had taken root in the depths of their souls a dozen or more years ago were, on this rain-soaked night in Yu’an, so easily stripped away and dissolved.

Distant hometowns. The names of loved ones. Everything brought to mind something from long, long ago — in the lively streets and lanes, under the eaves of houses paved with smooth gray tiles, in the small villages at the city’s outskirts where cooking smoke rose in wisps, in the fields heavy with golden grain — they had once lived lives that were that quiet and abundant.

Before tonight, they had forgotten that they were the displaced; they had assumed they would never again rest in the soil of their home. Yet when those familiar faces walked toward them from out of the dark, the sense of belonging rooted deep in their blood stirred awake again, and the hands gripping their weapons trembled without their willing it.

The fine rain was like threads of silk; the threads became a net, everywhere and inescapable.

Some invisible force held the beasts in the darkness in its grip, while the hunter’s harvesting blade had only just been raised.

On the wooden walkway of the thick-walled tower, a figure in dark robes slipped into the gauze curtain.

Inside, a man stood at full height. He had already shed his imperial robes and crown, and wore only the simplest long gown — looking like an ordinary scholar who had wandered by chance into a place of splendor.

The palace official’s eyes could not conceal their astonishment.

“Is Your Majesty going out?”

The man gave a noncommittal response.

“Did I not ask you to make preparations earlier?”

Dan Jiangfei was at a loss for words. He had indeed been told to prepare — but he had not been told it would be right now.

And even by past standards, the other party was prone to leaving whenever he pleased without giving a second explanation. But given the current situation, this was hardly a time for simply getting up and going, was it?

He was on the verge of tears.

“Even with Lieutenant Ding here, Your Majesty really ought to wait a little longer. Outside is hardly peaceful right now.”

Hardly peaceful — out there, they were at war.

“Ah.” The man gave a light nod, and seemed only then to think of asking about the situation. “How are things outside now?”

The palace official finally had the chance to report.

“Everything is as Your Majesty anticipated. Close to eighty percent of the former Yueze veterans among the Bai clan’s rebel forces have already surrendered. The remaining—”

“Have the Black Feather Camp move.” Su Wei’s voice was unhurried; he extended a finger to lift one corner of the gauze curtain and look toward the Beast-Taming Platform in the distance, dark and indistinct. “Are those old fellows holding on out there?”

The image of those old white-bearded men burning incense, rinsing their mouths, washing their hands, and stepping onto the platform with great vigor flashed through Dan Jiangfei’s mind, and he replied conservatively:

“The elders have been preparing for this day for a long time. Judging by their condition before they took the platform, holding on until dawn should not be a problem.”

“Decades of drawing their stipends — at last one might say they have been put to some use.” The man gave a quiet laugh, then instructed, “Be sure to keep close watch on those Yueze family members who have been released. No casualties, and no one must go missing. After the count is complete, have them settled according to the locations in the household registry, and await Bai Zhaoyu’s arrangements for the follow-up.”

“Yes.”

The Emperor had had all the household registrations of the former Yueze Army’s family members compiled and individually verified — from aged fathers and mothers down to wives, daughters, and grandchildren. Anyone who could still be traced and confirmed to be living had been brought to Yu’an.

That was why the procession of carriages on the way here had been so extraordinarily long.

The Yueze had always been Tiancheng’s own troops, among them no shortage of extraordinary talents. To execute them all wholesale would be a great waste. If one wished to reclaim these defected veterans without drawing blood, strategy alone would not be sufficient — something was needed that could truly move people’s hearts.

And the time and effort required to accomplish this step could not possibly be completed in just a few months.

If a person spends an afternoon’s effort to accomplish something, it counts for little. But if a person can spend years laying careful groundwork to achieve a single goal, then that is something to inspire awe.

The palace official lowered his eyes.

He did not fear the person before him — only a sudden pang of compassion for his master. He was too tired. Not a bodily exhaustion, but the bone-deep weariness that came from maintaining absolute control over the broader situation while enduring the long years of waiting for a final result.

But at last, everything was coming to an end.

“Your Majesty, there is one more matter.”

“Speak.”

“Half a quarter-hour ago the commotion outside began. It is likely that the people in the tower have sensed the rebel forces’ movements. If there are any officials who are frightened and wish to leave — shall they be stopped?”

“If anyone wishes to leave, they are to remove their official robes, remove their feathered crown, and leave their official seal behind. If I am going to set this trap, I must have some sincerity about it. I am personally holding the position — what face would they have to save only themselves?”

“Yes. This servant will immediately have word sent.”

“Has there been any movement from White Crane Retains on Weixiang’s end?”

“According to the Black Feather advance post: the rebel leader White Crane Retains failed in his surprise attack and has led a contingent of troops in the direction of the southeast.”

Su Wei was suddenly quiet for a single instant.

Even with over a hundred chess pieces in play, he kept track of the position of every one.

“Southeast — is the defending force not Subei?”

Dan Jiangfei nodded.

“It is indeed Subei’s Qinghuai Marquis, Xiao Zhun.”

He had calculated for this possibility, and had hoped most of all that it would not happen.

“Have the nearest commanding officer take men and cut off his retreat with all haste. If unexpected developments arise—”

His voice stopped.

Dan Jiangfei raised his head slightly and glanced at the furrowed brow of the man beside him. He rarely furrowed his brow, for there were few things that could place him in a difficult position.

“As long as Your Majesty issues the order with the military tally, several commanders from the Guangyao Camp are all available to deploy. There will be no future trouble.”

The palace official used the phrase “future trouble” — because those two words could refer either to White Crane Retains or to someone else.

There were many things he had no standing to say outright; he could only carry the implication this far.

“No.” The young man smoothed his brow and resumed his impassive manner; his tone was very firm. “Be absolutely careful not to press too hard. Unless it is absolutely unavoidable, there must be no resort to blades.”

Dan Jiangfei’s heart seized.

“But Your Majesty — Subei is the Xiaoji Camp, with three hundred thousand heavy-armored cavalry. If the situation becomes urgent and we do not strike first—”

The man in plain clothes gave him a mild glance.

“What? You think my mind has gone clouded?”

His own concern rose uncontrolled and drove him past his place.

“This servant would not dare.”

“If it truly comes to that — cut the Subei banner to sever command; those who defy the order may be killed without exception. As for the Qinghuai Marquis—” The Emperor’s voice paused, as though he were weighing a final decision. “The Qinghuai Marquis’s life must be preserved at all costs. He must not be killed without authorization.”

A struggling expression flashed across Dan Jiangfei’s face. In the end, he still answered.

“Yes.”

“Wait.”

Su Wei called back the palace official who was about to withdraw, as though suddenly remembering something.

“Is Master Zong still in his own tent?”

Dan Jiangfei paused, then quickly replied.

“Tea was sent to him a quarter-hour ago, and he was still there.”

The young Emperor smoothed the cuffs of his long gown and fastened the last jade button.

“Station the best archers from the Jiazi Camp to keep watch over him. If he dares leave the tent by even a single step—”

Yet even taking the initiative and intending to strike decisively — that was still a very difficult opponent to deal with.

He thought it over for a moment, and in the end still moved his feet toward the tent’s entrance.

“Never mind. I will go personally.”

To the southeast of the Yulin Villa, beneath the silent outline of a great mountain, countless winding black silhouettes flickered in and out of sight among those ancient trees of a thousand years, like shadows of an ancient serpent come back to life.

Ahead was the junction of the Yulin Villa and the foothills of Douchenling Pass. Here the vegetation was not as tall as deep in the forest, and the ground shifted from humus covered in moss and pine needles to half-stone, half-soil mountain terrain.

The sand between the rocks, gradually saturated by the seeping rain, turned increasingly muddy, weighing down the footsteps of those walking through it.

This was difficult enough for an ordinary traveler; for heavy-armored cavalry it was even more so.

The rain could muffle some of the noise of advancing troops, but it could not hide the tracks left by an army on the march.

Moving through dense forest was a great tactical taboo; using stillness to counter movement was the superior approach. The Tiancheng commanders, long since dispersed throughout the area under the guise of the “spring hunt,” were methodically driving their quarry into a dead end.

Douchenling Pass was shaped like a dou-arch — easy to enter, hard to exit. For any alternative way out, one would have to abandon the horses and go on foot, crossing the mountain through treacherous terrain.

For an army, this was impossible.

And so several hundred thousand Subei troops stood in the darkness, ready and waiting, until the army that moved like a shadow appeared at the forest’s edge.

Ten thousand iron cavalry split into two columns and spread to either side; iron hooves struck the earth in unison, the sound shaking the mountain valley.

The general on his black horse rode out slowly from the columns, his long spear bright as flowing water in the rain. The pair of eyes beneath the visor were lit by the cold gleam of metal — murderous, yet also carrying a few threads of compassion.

“Those who lay down their weapons and surrender of their own accord will have their lives spared. All others will be killed without mercy!”

Xiao Zhun’s voice reverberated through the battle line and then dissipated. Once again the only sounds were the raindrops falling into the muddy water and striking cold iron.

Facing them, the force of over a thousand offered no surrender — not one shed their armor, not one dropped their weapon.

The Yueze Army had once been composed of elite soldiers drawn from every Tiancheng camp; naturally, among them were officers and soldiers who had come from the Subei Garrison. Only — how, in those days, could any of them have foreseen that they would one day face each other in such a fratricidal standoff?

But what of that? From the moment they set foot on this road, there had already been no turning back.

A single rider came forward. The man on horseback had armor stained with blood, his hair and beard streaked gray.

White Crane Retains smiled, and reached up to wipe the rain from his face with one hand. His eyes still held a faint trace of the scholarly refinement of his former years, though the deep lines at his brow and the corners of his mouth carried a murderous edge — he was no longer the white-robed Censor who had wielded a writing brush and a folding fan to investigate and discipline the hundred officials.

“White knows it is already the end of the road. I thought that if I could make full use of every advantage of terrain and timing, even a thousand might not be unable to resist ten thousand. Who could have known I was still outplayed in the end. Yet even an autumn cicada must cry out its very last before it falls silent — would you not agree?”

The hoarse voice fell and could not be recalled, like ten thousand drops of rain descending, unable to return to the clouds.

The outcome had long been determined; there was no overturning it.

“All forces, hear the order.” Xiao Zhun’s long spear leveled forward; its cold edge cleaved through the thickening rain-mist, unstoppable. “Follow me — advance!”

Separated by a single mountain ridge on the south face of Douchenling, the lone carriage remained where it had been.

But the horses that had been hitched before it had pressed together as one, straining frantically against each other in place.

The blindfolds on their heads had not slipped off. Their terror came from living creatures’ instinctive response to killing intent.

The purple-robed swordsman stood atop the carriage cabin’s roof; his sword had not left its sheath, but the sheath already bore three neat slash-marks.

He rubbed those marks with his thumb, his face showing undisguised distress.

“Stop touching and staring at it. Even if you polish it smooth, it will not grow back to what it was.”

Bolao was crouched on a half-length tree stump ten paces from the carriage, her two stubby legs dangling and swaying.

Fighting on a half-mountain plank road like this — one always had to hold something in reserve. Otherwise, one misstep, and there would be nowhere left to stand.

She had come empty-handed, needing only to hold her ground — while her opponent had to guard that carriage, clearly at greater disadvantage.

And yet even so, he had not fallen behind.

And his sword was still sheathed.

Yanzi looked at her; that face — guileless yet shot through with something obsessive — wrinkled its brow.

“Who are you?”

“Your ancestor.”

Bolao let out two snorts of a laugh. The cold rain soaked her palms; she wiped them carelessly on the hem of her clothes and gripped her short blade again.

In her early years of roaming the martial world, she had crossed blades with close to, if not a full thousand, sword-users and blade-users.

In a martial contest, what one feared most was not encountering a technique or weapon that was mutually overpowering, but encountering someone who had trained under the same school or lineage. Because once one’s cultivation had reached a certain level, the ability to adapt and meet each move flexibly was understood — even if there was a weakness at one point and the lower ground was taken, there would always be a chance to recover elsewhere; the outcome was not necessarily settled. But if the other party knew every single one of your moves inside and out, then only the comparison of absolute strength remained. The higher side would win regardless of circumstances; the only question was how long it took.

She turned the situation over in her mind several times. The purple-robed man across from her was still lamenting his sword sheath, seemingly inhabiting a different world from her entirely.

After a long moment, he finally set the sheath down.

“I do not know you — but I should not have an ancestor your age.”

Bolao laughed; her full-moon face puffed up two cheeks and pushed the heavy brows and eyes upward.

“When she told me about what happened to her in Lingxi, I figured it might be you. And indeed — just as the rumors say — you are a man possessed.”

Yanzi finally looked the large-headed child carefully up and down.

“You know me?”

Bolao nodded.

“You are the one person Xie Li ever expelled from the Andao Institute.”

“Xie Li?” A flicker of confusion passed through the purple-robed swordsman’s eyes; then, as though finally recalling those old events from long ago, he gave a quiet nod. “More or less. He broke his promise to teach me knife techniques, but I did not come out the worse for it. When I left I helped myself to a serviceable weapon.”

Bolao’s gaze settled on the sheath she had slashed three times, then she recalled the unexpected visitor of some days ago who had unsettled her so, and felt a sudden pang of regret about those few days of frightening herself, the needless torment she had put herself through, and the several kicks from Jixiang that she had suffered for nothing.

“When that creeping old wraith Zong Hao suddenly appeared, I thought I had done something wrong. Looking back now — it was not me he came for after all.”

But in the very next instant, a large smile broke across Yanzi’s face, as though he had discovered something he found endlessly entertaining.

“You are afraid of people from the Andao Institute?”

That one sentence struck Bolao right where it hurt most.

She hated being suppressed more than anything, and yet all her life she could not escape the great shadow of the Andao Institute.

When Xie Li had sent her out into the world, she had sworn: even at the risk of being hunted for the rest of her life, she would never submit to anyone. If it came to it, she would kill her own master with her own hands — a master she had not yet met face to face.

If it were not — if it were not for having met her.

She had never treated her as a master; she had never treated her as a servant.

The small figure that had been hunched over suddenly straightened up; the whole person’s bearing changed in an instant.

“Afraid? Laughable. The Andao Institute’s eccentrics — one like me is quite enough. You are nothing but a disgrace.”

“I like the way you talk. It looks especially—” The other party paused, as though trying to find the most fitting word, “—especially unafraid of death.”

Bolao gave a short, dismissive sound.

“What of it? Do I offend your eyes?”

Faced with this unmannerly provocation, the purple-robed man showed not the slightest displeasure — quite the opposite, a faint trace of melancholy appeared.

“A blade-user as short in stature as you — there must be very few left now. It would truly be a shame to kill you. Why not tell me what you want, and perhaps the two of us could—”

Bolao shook her large, rain-soaked head and spoke without any modesty whatsoever.

“Just now, did a stinking bat fly into your carriage? You show me what was taken from it, and in exchange, this little lord will spare your life.”

“That — I cannot do.” Yanzi let out a deep sigh. “He made it clear — that cannot be done.”

Bolao’s swaying chubby legs went still; a bright blade tip slid out from her sleeve.

“Then what are we waiting for? Stop being so wishy-washy.”