Li Chi looked at Gao Xining with some curiosity. “Minghong? How did you think of that name?”
Gao Xining smiled. “I’ve read all the volumes Master Li left for you. I remember finding it once in one of his books — in a story Master Li had written about the five greatest blades in mythology. The foremost of these five blades was called Minghong Ren.”
Li Chi recalled it as well and gave a nod. “That is indeed a fine name.”
In the stories Master Li had left behind, the passages describing Minghong were not, in truth, very extensive.
The story mentioned that the one who founded the civilization of the Central Plains — a deity referred to as Xuanyuan — was said to have been capable of all things. He had personally forged an incomparable divine sword, and then, from the remaining materials used in forging that sword, he fashioned Minghong Ren.
Once the blade was complete, cold air radiated outward and a faint demonic energy seemed to dwell within. Xuanyuan believed the blade to be inauspicious and wished to destroy it — but the blade seemed almost sentient. Sensing that the deity intended its destruction, it flew away on its own.
From that moment on, no one ever saw the blade again.
Master Li had left Li Chi a great many books. The truth was, Master Li had been somewhat eager to be rid of Li Chi, so he had given them somewhat haphazardly — more or less giving whatever happened to be on hand.
The conviction Master Li held was this: anyone who appeared to have the makings of a protagonist was a potential threat to him, and so he would rather avoid such people. But he wasn’t the kind who was willing to eliminate everyone who looked protagonist-shaped — if he did, he would become the only protagonist left, and that was a belief he would never reveal casually to anyone. It was his private secret alone.
Without knowing Master Li’s identity and origins, without knowing why he existed as he did, one could never comprehend his ironclad determination to keep himself inconspicuous.
In some of the mythological stories Master Li had read in another age, the tale of Minghong Ren was in fact even more extraordinary.
When Xuanyuan was forging the divine Xuanyuan Sword, some of the molten material flowed out and, entirely on its own, took the form of a blade — not from the leftover materials of the Xuanyuan Sword, but of its own accord.
This blade had not been forged by any human hand. It flowed forth of itself, formed itself, and yet possessed a power to rival the Xuanyuan Sword.
Xuanyuan feared that if this blade fell into human hands, great catastrophe would follow, and so he intended to shatter it with the Xuanyuan Sword.
But the very moment the thought arose, Minghong Ren transformed into a red lark and took to the sky. Rising into the clouds, it became a streak of crimson light and vanished.
From that day forward, there was no further word of it.
In truth, had Xuanyuan truly used the Xuanyuan Sword to strike Minghong Ren at that time, the outcome would likely have been mutual destruction.
Later thinkers analyzed the matter and said: Minghong Ren’s flight was born of the fact that it and the Xuanyuan Sword shared the same origin. Knowing that mutual destruction was inevitable, it could not bear to harm the Xuanyuan Sword — and not wishing to be harmed itself — it had chosen to fly away.
Li Chi examined the long blade once more with careful attention, then was suddenly taken aback. On instinct, he raised his hand and rubbed his eyes.
Gao Xining asked: “What is it? Are you unwell?”
Li Chi shook his head. “Earlier I let a drop of blood fall onto this blade, but the blade didn’t hold the blood at all — it slid right off. Yet look…”
He pointed at the flat of the blade. A faint, indistinct red line had appeared.
According to legend, Minghong Ren was a demonic blade — its body faintly marked with veins of blood color.
Could something like this be so uncanny a coincidence?
After Gao Xining listened to Li Chi retell the story, she seemed to grow somewhat uneasy at the words “demonic nature” and “demonic blade.”
Li Chi just smiled. “Only someone without a streak of demonic nature would fail to do something like splitting the Sage’s Sacred Blade with the emperor’s own saber. This suits my temperament just fine.”
Gao Xining said: “Do you truly like this name?”
Li Chi nodded. “I like it.”
He looked at Minghong Ren. “And I’m not going to let it fly away.”
—
Three more days passed. Everything concerning the eastern campaign had been arranged. Luo Jing had also returned to Yuzhou City with Li Chi this time, and naturally he, too, had learned of the Sacred Blade Sect affair.
“Should I wait until this matter is resolved before leaving?”
Luo Jing looked at Li Chi. “I’d feel uneasy otherwise.”
Li Chi laughed. “If you don’t leave, I’ll be the uneasy one.”
Luo Jing couldn’t help but laugh as well. “Are you sure there won’t be any problems? I’d still be of some use if I stayed.”
Li Chi said: “A grand general serving as my personal bodyguard — even if you were willing, I wouldn’t be. The eastern campaign takes priority. Master Yan’s side is fully prepared. The volunteer militia that’s been recruited numbers over four hundred thousand in total and assembled yesterday at the east of the city. The combat troop formation allocated to you — one full army — is already waiting at the east of the city. A second army will depart from a different direction and rendezvous with you halfway.”
Luo Jing stood. “Then I truly am off to Qingzhou.”
Li Chi said: “Go, go, go. Staying in Yuzhou City having Auntie Wu cook you private meals every day — and then I’m forced to mooch off Cao Lie every day.”
Luo Jing laughed heartily, clasped his fists in salute. “Then I’ll head out first thing tomorrow morning. No need to see me off. At most two years, at best a year and a half, and I’ll be back.”
Li Chi said: “You wish. If you push well in Qingzhou, I’ll send someone to relieve you and bring you back — you think you can take a full two years?”
Luo Jing said: “Reducing my military merits — you truly stop at nothing.”
Li Chi said: “Naturally. Do you not know how tight-fisted I am?”
Luo Jing laughed again, clasped his fists once more in formal farewell, and then took his leave.
For Luo Jing to reach the border between Yuzhou and Qingzhou would take roughly three months of travel. To send some twenty-four thousand or so combat troops to campaign across such a vast territory — just saying it aloud seemed almost beyond belief.
Qingzhou’s land area was roughly one and a half times that of Yuzhou. Luo Jing’s claim that he’d be back within two years was, if anything, already edging toward the boastful.
—
With the eastern campaign arrangements concluded, Li Chi could give his full attention to dealing with the Sacred Blade Sect’s master.
The next morning, Li Chi, accompanied by the civil and military officials of Yuzhou City, saw Luo Jing off to war. At the city gate, Li Chi personally raised three cups of wine in send-off.
“Ten Qingzhous cannot equal one General Luo.”
Li Chi said. “Remember my words — take no reckless risks.”
Luo Jing laughed with great spirit. “Ten Qingzhous cannot equal me — so my lord can rest entirely at ease. Nine more are still waiting for me to take.”
With that, he clasped his fists one final time from horseback, then turned his horse, leading the hundreds of thousands of troops in a grand, sweeping departure.
—
Among the crowd of onlookers who had gathered to see them off, Fang Zhuhou stood watching Li Chi in the distance, his gaze somewhat distant and unfocused.
Beside him, Helian Xia suppressed himself several times from rushing forward — and each time, Fang Zhuhou held him back.
—
Not long after, back in the city, Fang Zhuhou and Helian Xia returned to their lodgings in a carriage house.
This carriage house was one of the safe houses Qu Nanhuai had mentioned. Its proprietor was one of the Emperor’s people — or more precisely, one of the old Emperor’s people — and even more precisely, a man belonging to the already long-deceased grand eunuch Liu Chongxin.
The old Emperor had been fond of Yuzhou and had visited many times. He had naturally understood the importance of the Cao family, and had always worried most that the Cao family’s people might not remain obedient.
If it were the Cao family who intended to kill the Emperor, the deed would perhaps be difficult in other places — but in Yuzhou City, the Emperor would almost certainly die.
The people still hadn’t forgotten how formidable the old Investigation Bureau had once been — it was just that it had seemed to vanish from the stage of history in an instant.
Liu Chongxin’s followers were spread across all corners of the land. Their purpose was twofold: first, to monitor local regions and powerful families on the old Emperor’s behalf; second, to eliminate Liu Chongxin’s personal enemies by his own arrangement.
Liu Chongxin was a complicated figure. His standing within the Mountain-River Seal was extraordinarily high — in the days of his absolute power, even Cao Lie’s own father had to treat him with great deference and call him a peer.
Yet Liu Chongxin was unwilling to completely follow the Mountain-River Seal’s direction. His feelings for the old Emperor were genuine.
The old Emperor had once said: “We have many kin of the blood, and We have a court full of ministers and ten thousand subjects across the realm — yet the only person We can truly trust is a single Liu Chongxin.”
So in those days, Liu Chongxin had also been guarded against the Mountain-River Seal. He controlled the vast and powerful Investigation Bureau, kept expanding its authority and size, all with the intent that if the day should ever come when he needed to fight the Mountain-River Seal to the death for the old Emperor’s sake, he would have enough force to draw upon.
His intention had been that the Investigation Bureau should remain as free from the Mountain-River Seal’s control as possible — but the way the Mountain-River Seal infiltrated, there was no defending against it.
One could not say that every person in the Investigation Bureau was completely loyal to Liu Chongxin. One equally could not say that the Mountain-River Seal had zero control over the Investigation Bureau.
One point was undeniable: the people Liu Chongxin had positioned in Yuzhou City were absolutely not Mountain-River Seal operatives. Because those people had come for the sole purpose of watching the Cao family.
After Liu Chongxin died, the Investigation Bureau’s enormous presence in Yuzhou City vanished underground in an instant.
They thought they could disappear from the world like that — and from that point on, they would no longer be Investigation Bureau operatives, no longer be the Emperor of Dachu’s hunting hounds.
What they likely hadn’t anticipated was this: Liu Chongxin had clearly been removed by the new Emperor Yang Jing — yet before dying, Liu Chongxin had handed over the Investigation Bureau’s deployed strength across all regions.
The carriage house known as Xingyun — “Traveling Fortune” — was one covertly controlled by the Investigation Bureau. The proprietor of the carriage house, Yan Beicheng, held another identity: a Wénxùn Marquis of the Investigation Bureau.
Among all the agents the Investigation Bureau had deployed across various regions, only four held sufficient rank to be called Wénxùn Marquis. Their standing was equivalent to that of a Transcription Officer, a Seal Officer, or a Ceremonial Supervisor — second only to Liu Chongxin himself.
In the rear courtyard, Yan Beicheng stood in his study looking at the map hanging on the wall — a map of Yuzhou City, extraordinarily detailed.
Every street, every alley, had been charted on it. More remarkably, the Cao family’s ancestral residence — not Meiyuan, but the true Cao family estate — was drawn in particular detail.
Fang Zhuhou stepped through the door. Yan Beicheng turned and looked at him. “You saw it with your own eyes? Then you cannot have mistaken him?”
Fang Zhuhou gave a slight nod in acknowledgment and said nothing more. He walked to the window and sat down.
Yan Beicheng was silent for a moment before saying: “I don’t know why someone like you would come to Yuzhou. But I know someone like you shouldn’t have.”
Fang Zhuhou looked at him, and instead of answering, he turned the question back: “And someone like you — you clearly could have stayed hidden. So why, when Zhen Xiaodao sent someone to find you, were you willing to resurface?”
Yan Beicheng gave a quiet smile and also turned the question around. “Do you despise eunuchs?”
Fang Zhuhou shook his head. “I neither despise nor admire them.”
Yan Beicheng moved to stand beside Fang Zhuhou and looked out the window. “Eunuchs are people too. And people have feelings.”
Fang Zhuhou said nothing.
Yan Beicheng said: “Do you respect your own father?”
Fang Zhuhou still said nothing. He of course did not.
But how could Yan Beicheng possibly know Fang Zhuhou’s identity? He had simply read the expression on Fang Zhuhou’s face, and from it he guessed the answer.
He said: “I don’t respect my father either. It was he who sent me into the palace. But I do revere my master. If my father told me to kill my master, I would kill my father. If my master told me to kill my father, I wouldn’t hesitate for a moment.”
Yan Beicheng said: “You know who my master is — and so that is the answer to your question.”
Fang Zhuhou gave a small nod.
Yan Beicheng continued: “But you will never be able to understand what my master felt for the Emperor.”
After a long silence, Fang Zhuhou said quietly: “You are wrong. I understand.”
He looked at Yan Beicheng. “If I didn’t — would Liu Chongxin have lived as long as he did?”
Yan Beicheng’s eyes sharpened.
Both men fell into silence. Neither spoke for a long while. Finally, Fang Zhuhou rose to his feet.
“Choose a morning. A morning of a good day.”
Yan Beicheng shook his head. “For people like us, there is no such thing as a good day. Whatever day we choose, we are going to our deaths. For people like us, every day is a good day. With the resolve to go and die, everything else falls away.”