————【There is a kind of person whose veins flow not with blood, but with steel.】

The flames rose, crimson like scalding blood. Arrows released from golden crossbows struck the heart of the sun. The howls of celestial gods echoed from the heavens. Blood dripped as rain, the earth cracked, mountains collapsed, and oceans churned, raising towering ice peaks. The world became an enormous crucible, with all living beings cooked in blood and tears within.

In the boundless darkness, his eyeballs moved rapidly. A blood-red light covered his chest. He saw pitch-black armor, shark-blue battle blades, the moon in the night, and the vast snowy plains. Fighting crowds fell like wheat fields, flesh, and blood piled up, covering the sky and earth. Eagles and vultures dove down phosphorescent light from rotting flesh flashing on their talons. Great winds swept across the wilderness. All around was the overwhelming sound of slaughter. The wind against his face carried the dryness of sand, sharp as knives.

War drums grew more urgent. Enemy troops came in vast numbers. The earth trembled, hooves thundered, and dark clouds pressed overhead like fierce, vicious dragons.

“Kill—”

“Kill, kill—”

“Kill, kill, kill—”

His eyes suddenly opened. All the visions instantly vanished. He lay alone on a dragon bed larger than an ordinary family’s bedroom. On the dark black satin were embroidered golden dragons, their ferocious heads and horns rearing up so ostentatiously. The golden threads, even in such a dark room, flashed with piercing brilliance.

He didn’t move or speak. The hair at his temples was slightly damp, yet he made no effort to wipe away the sweat slowly flowing down his neck.

The night was too quiet. No voices, no footsteps, no sounds of silkworms, not even the sound of wind. Only his breathing, so slow, so heavy, one breath, another breath, and another.

No matter how long the night, it eventually passes.

He had always been a person skilled at endurance—before, now, and in the future.

A faint red light suddenly flickered on the window. His gaze was drawn to it, his brow slightly furrowed. From outside the hall came the hurried footsteps of an attendant.

“What’s happening outside?”

His throat was slightly dry, but his voice remained characteristically calm.

“Reporting to Your Majesty, a fire broke out at Changle Palace. The fire brigade has entered the palace and is extinguishing the flames.”

The attendant’s voice was still shrill, so effeminate on this night that it made one’s spine chill.

He sat quietly on the bed, looking at the tree shadows outside the window, sitting still for a long time. Suddenly, he got out of bed, stood up, and barefoot, walked out of the bedchamber. More than ten night-duty palace maids rushed forward in panic to drape a bright yellow robe over him and put on his dragon boots. He walked straight out of the great hall, heading toward Changle Palace with large strides. The head attendant hurriedly summoned a large group of guards to accompany him. Palace servants carrying lanterns followed behind, winding along in a long row, proceeding majestically toward Changle Palace.

“Beat them! Beat them to death!”

Before they reached Changle Palace, the voice of an attendant rang out from afar. He walked over expressionlessly. Across a dragon-coiled canal, under the moon gate of the corridor, several palace servants surrounded a few young children. The children were pressed against the railings as the attendants raised boards and forcefully struck them again and again. Their pants had been beaten to shreds, sticking to their buttocks in a bloody mess. At first, they could still emit a few screams, but later, they couldn’t even cry out.

“I set the fire! If you have the guts, kill me!”

A frail child suddenly shouted. Though beaten beyond recognition, she still raised her small face defiantly and said coldly, “I only regret that I couldn’t burn you Yan Bei dogs to death!”

These were children left from the previous dynasty. After Yan Bei’s army charged into Zhen Huang, all Da Xia nobles who couldn’t escape in time suffered bloody slaughter. Only these young children miraculously survived under the wolf blades of the warriors. After all, at that time, they were just five or six-year-old babies. Even the most ferocious soldiers would feel their hands soften after killing eight or ten. Yet who could have imagined that these children, who couldn’t even remember events back then, would now commit such a crazy act?

Changle Palace was the newly promoted Beauty Yu’s palace. He had drawn Beauty Yu’s tablet tonight but grew tired and didn’t go.

Hatred, indeed, is the hardest thing in this world. Even as steel blades are consumed by raging fires and ice mountains melt under the scorching sun, hatred cannot be erased.

“Your Majesty.”

The head attendant knelt on the ground, his back trembling uncontrollably. He didn’t know why he was so afraid, only feeling cold creeping up from the soles of his feet, spreading throughout his body in tremors he couldn’t stop.

“Return to the palace.”

The black gold-dragon brocade swept past nearby branches. Having rushed here with such pomp, he took just one look and turned to leave.

The night remained pitch black, like a pen tip saturated with ink. His figure disappeared into the dark corridor, faintly visible. A cold wind blew, raising small ashes from the ground. No sound could be heard, only the children’s weak screams and curses echoing in the sky.

“I must avenge my mother!”

“Cursed Yan Bei dogs!”

“You will all die terribly!”

“Our king will return! You will regret it!”

…

The long night dragged on. The armor in the armory was covered with a layer of frost. Blood flowed like a river under the moon gate. Children’s corpses were dragged winding out of the palace gates, thrown into a mass grave, and devoured by wild dogs.

In this world, legends are too few. Most people who harbor resentment die in the abyss of hatred. Those who can endure humiliation to survive and climb out are not necessarily any happier.

But living is always better than dying.

He sat quietly by the window, wearing a white jade thumb ring on his severed finger. The ring was already broken, repaired inside with gold wire. It was a bit small for him, with large gaps in some places, so broken that if thrown on the street, probably no one would pick it up.

He caressed the shabby ring with his fingertips. The calluses on his fingertips were hard, making very faint sounds when touching the white jade ring. He lowered his head, looking at the faint pattern on the ring. Vaguely, the sword in the depths of his heart seemed to unsheathe again, gleaming with bloody ferocity. Within the bright sword light, a face he knew by heart was reflected.

“Do you regret it?”

He laughed coldly in silence.

Those emotions common people should have—like fragility, fear, dread, or what the child called regret—he didn’t allow himself to possess.

Because those things, besides making him feel sick, had no other purpose.

The great enterprise was accomplished, blood vengeance achieved; he got what he deserved.

Regret?

He closed his eyes. At the distant horizon, a ray of light appeared, shining through the window onto his chiseled face. The entire palace was made of ebony and obsidian, possessing a suffocating, oppressive beauty as the sun began to rise.

His blood carried the martial heritage of the Yan Bei land, his bones filled with years of repressed, pent-up air. Even in dreams there were flooding rivers and troops breaking through Zhen Huang’s mountain passes. How could such a person regret it?

He raised his eyes to see the vast sky and circling birds, no longer like the palm-sized patch from his childhood, too confined for even the moon to dare linger.

Regret?

He sneered.

On March 16th, the governor of Dongye Prefecture sent an urgent report saying they had captured a group of rebels, among whom one appeared to be of noble status.

The Ministry of Justice immediately ordered that person to be brought to the capital.

Half a month later, that person was finally brought bound before him. With refined eyebrows, phoenix eyes, high nose, and thin lips, even in such miserable circumstances, his elegance and extraordinary bearing couldn’t be concealed.

Yan Xun sat on the throne, looking at this former favored son of heaven, and remained silent for a long time. Instead, it was he who raised his blood-stained face and smiled faintly, greeting as casually as an old friend:

“Young Master Yan, long time no see.”

Young… Master… Yan…

Such a long-forgotten title. He calmly nodded in response: “Prince Jing.”

“It’s been so long, Young Master Yan’s demeanor is even more impressive than before.”

“Is it?” Yan Xun said blandly. “The Prince looks somewhat different.”

Jing Han laughed: “Fortune’s wheel turns, no flower blooms a hundred days. The world changes; it’s only natural.”

“The Prince takes it well, truly worthy of being a heroic figure.”

Jing Han suddenly laughed loudly, shaking his head: “Heroes died long ago. Those who survive are merely those who compromise and live on in obscurity. Thank you, Young Master, for soon ending this embarrassing situation for me.”

“It seems the Prince is quite eager.”

Jing Han, with a face full of having met a kindred spirit, bowed his head in salute: “I hope Young Master will oblige.”

Yan Xun’s gaze suddenly became somewhat sharp. It was the keen edge of one who had walked among military ranks for years, like an arrow full of killing intent—one shot enough to pierce through eighteen layers of cowhide. However, in this man’s eyes, he saw nothing.

Swords and blades can conquer the world but can never conquer the heart. On this ugly, filthy land, there still existed some stubborn souls.

He casually waved his hand: “I won’t see you off.”

Jing Han laughed free-spiritedly, his sleeves fluttering. Though covered in wounds, he still maintained the air of imperial nobility.

“Young Master has many important matters; please stay.”

Sunlight shone through the window lattice, casting circles of light.

The disdain of youthful arrogance, the open and hidden struggles in the martial hall, the battles for gain after achieving greatness. In the end, it was he who stood here, watching that man of noble birth who had always been proud, walking step by step onto the execution platform.

His chin was slightly raised, and small winds blew past his ears. For a very long time, he didn’t want to speak. A kind of weariness pierced his heart when he was momentarily unguarded. From such a distance, he seemed to hear the sound of the guillotine blade cutting through the air at the Nine Abyss Platform. Blood spurted from the neck, a splash of bright red. Tiny blood drops flew in the air, with a warm, fishy smell. The proud head fell into the dust, the body prostrate, never again able to stand straight. The defiant, fearless eyes finally had to close forever.

Dignity? Pride? Royalty? Bloodline? Stubbornness? Faith?

All of it, what importance did it have?

How could those who had never fallen to the bottom, never crawled out from the place where one wanted to die, understand what was most important?

Everything is premised on survival. If a person dies, there is nothing left. Living is what matters most.

He slowly opened his eyes. The civil and military officials knelt before him. The deathly silent great hall was cold and severe. The air pressure was so low it almost made one suffocate. He could see some people trembling slightly. They all feared him, perhaps even hated him, but what could they do? In the end, he was still the ruler of this land. They all needed to submit to him. That was enough; that was sufficient.

Brilliant light shone on his resolute face. This was the new continental ruler, the founding emperor of Great Yan.

He was Yan Xun. He was a demon who crawled out of hell. He was a vengeful spirit with a remnant of soul after nine deaths and one life. He would not regret it, never.

“Your Majesty, Empress Lan Ya of the North Ross Empire has sent us another plea for help. Zhao Che has led troops to conquer more than twenty countries north of the desert and has almost brought the entire Western Europe under his control.”

“Your Majesty, the Northwestern Quanrong have conscripted three hundred thousand troops, stockpiled outside Meilin Pass, eyeing us covetously with ill intentions!”

“Your Majesty, the forces of the Duchess of Jing’an of Great Tang have been very active recently. The Ministry of Justice’s spies stationed at the northwestern border have captured more than ten of the Duchess of Jing’an’s spies. We suspect she has some close connection with the Northwestern Quanrong.”

“Your Majesty, there are floods in the East River and drought in Jiangnan. This year’s taxes are less than forty percent of previous years. We need to take some preventive measures.”

“Your Majesty…”

There is a kind of person born to endure loneliness and pain. Storms cannot break him, swords cannot kill him, raging fires cannot extinguish him, and dangers cannot defeat him.

Because in his veins, what flows is not fresh blood, but steel.