From the moment she spotted Pu Huna’s people to the moment she gave chase, there were certain consequences that Xiao Nanhui had not stopped to consider.

For example: what were these people going to do? Was the message the night bats were carrying connected to their movements? And furthermore — even if she caught up, given her current capabilities, could she really hold her own against them?

These head-ache-inducing questions that never seemed to yield answers through thinking alone were now bouncing and crashing about inside her head.

But she knew she could not stop. Everything — all of it — could only be seen clearly by chasing it down to the very end.

The fine rain blocked her vision; the moon and stars were hidden away, and the world was dead and utterly black.

She had to gallop for a stretch, then stop, carefully discern the direction of the sound, then ride hard in pursuit again.

The sound of a flying wire was not normally so piercing, yet she could hear it clearly from over a hundred paces away. This told her that the killers moving at speed ahead of her numbered in the dozens, at the very least.

Whether it was during the earlier incident at the Xiong family estate in Mu Er He, or in that bizarre cave in the color-dunes — the encounters with Pu Huna’s people she had had before had never reached such a scale. This was perhaps a veiled indication: this time, these people’s target was more important than anything before — more important even than the assassination attempt on the Emperor in Bijiang several months ago.

Riding hard, Jixiang’s neck began to grow warm. Just as Xiao Nanhui was about to reach forward to calm her, a dark shape suddenly darted out ahead; she quickly pulled hard on the reins and wheeled the horse around, barely grazing it as it passed.

She turned to get a quick look — it seemed to be a startled roe deer.

She had not yet had time to think carefully about whether something had gone wrong ahead, when she suddenly felt the fine rain falling on her stop abruptly. Then a cacophony came sweeping down from above, arriving in an instant.

At first she thought it was the night bats turning back. But when she raised her head, the black mass filling the sky was far beyond any swarm of bats in number.

Tens of thousands of birds in a great flock — like a net — swept over her head, blotting out the sky. Wild deer and mountain mice came running toward her in twos and threes, all in full flight.

The valley shook; the mountain beasts fled in the night.

And then she too heard it.

A heavy, jumbled sound condensed into a single mass, hovering over the entire Douchenling mountain range. If not listened to carefully, one might mistake it for a roll of thunder.

But Xiao Nanhui knew that sound better than anything. It was the sound of two armies in battle — metal and iron clashing, voices screaming with everything they had; mixed within it, the wild stamping of hooves and the whine of arrows. At this scale, it could only mean the Subei and Black Feather Camps had both been deployed at once. And the one thing that could draw both camps into action at this critical moment could only be the Bai clan rebels.

Connecting all that she had seen and heard tonight, Xiao Nanhui gradually understood what the so-called “spring hunt” truly meant.

The sharp sound of a flying wire tearing the air snapped her back to herself. She looked toward the direction the few dozen dark specks had vanished, gave a low cry, and drove Jixiang toward that dark mountain footing not far ahead.

Ten li away in Douchenling Pass, the ground between mountain and plain had been trampled into a vast expanse of mud by hundreds of thousands of troops — blood coursed through the mud, broken blades and severed limbs lay strewn everywhere, and the churned-up earth had turned a gleaming black.

That was the color that earth soaked in blood would show.

Sweat and rain mixed together, churned into the mud. The stench of iron and blood mingled and spread through the damp air.

Dead soldiers lay piled on top of each other in the hollows and pits; enemy and ally alike trampled over them, the iron armor of the corpses striking against the iron horseshoes beneath the warhorses’ hooves, producing a dull, heartbreaking sound.

All around it was a scene from hell; former comrades faced each other with sword and halberd.

To kill them was a duty — they were following military orders; slaying rebels was their obligation.

To be killed — that too was loyalty; even capture could not wash away the brand of guilt upon them, and perhaps dying here in battle was their best possible end.

Blade at the throat, iron lance through the chest — neither could wound as deeply as the human bond that destroyed the heart.

If the soul too had its own realm of carnage, then this was the devil’s pleasure ground.

In barely half an hour, the Bai clan’s forces had fallen into decline, yet still fought to the last. Those who lost all four limbs used their armor to ram into the Subei cavalry’s horses’ legs; those with half their heads sliced off still leaned on their swords standing in the rain. Rainwater washed blood into the wide, dark, dilated pupils of eyes that could not be closed. Within those pupils was reflected a force of over a hundred cavalry, forcing a gap through this iron-tight encirclement and pressing toward the mountain track of Douchenling Pass.

Clang.

A long spear and an iron sword struck each other, then flew apart under the massive opposing force.

Xiao Zhun shifted his grip and rolled his wrist; the long spear swept horizontally with a fierce rush of wind. White Crane Retains narrowly avoided it, but his retreat was cut off.

On the mountain track, a large force of heavy cavalry could not all give chase at once, and even if they caught up, they had no room to form a battle formation.

But if one ran into a fierce general — it was like a sheep entering a tiger’s jaws, with no hope of escape.

When White Crane Retains’ personal guard saw this, they threw themselves toward Xiao Zhun in a frenzy; but the Subei iron cavalry that had followed close on the general’s heels arrived in an instant. The two sides fell into a tangled fight, and in the midst of the fierce killing, the loose rocks on both sides of the mountain, gradually undermined by the rain, began to fall.

The narrow mountain path — how could it withstand heavy-armored cavalry? If a rockslide was set off, the friendly and enemy forces near the foothills could all be annihilated together, and there was no knowing what havoc might ensue.

Xiao Zhun knew: this battle had to be decided swiftly. He called out in a sharp voice; the black horse beneath him leaped as though it had its own intelligence, and he used that momentum to plant his feet on the horse’s back, braced the spear shaft against the ground, and launched himself into the air — his knee driving straight at the other man’s chest armor.

White Crane Retains was knocked back by the enormous impact and barely caught himself at the cliff’s edge; he spat out a mouthful of blood mixed with phlegm, spattering in spots across his graying beard.

Xiao Zhun raised the spear and advanced; White Crane Retains struggled to draw his sword in defense.

Spear and sword locked against each other again, scraping against each other with a long, drawn-out metallic screech that passed through both men’s eardrums; both narrowed their eyes in unison.

The hand gripping the sword was slick with blood and filth — whether it was the owner’s blood or the enemy’s was impossible to say.

Behind the spear shaft, that pair of eyes held unusual reluctance — hard to say whether it was for this weathered old man at the mercy of the blade, or for the person twisted and distorted in his memory.

Spear against sword — the sword was always at a disadvantage.

But the spear had held back, and the sword had a resolve to fight to the last; the two were deadlocked.

Rainwater ran along the patterns carved on the spear shaft and dripped away. Xiao Zhun let out a barely audible sigh.

“Senior, the outcome is decided. Stop.”

The sound of battle was deafening all around, laced with the thundering sound of falling rocks — yet White Crane Retains still read the words formed by the general’s lips.

Those eyes, clouded with blood, held a moment’s blank stare; then they fixed steadily on the man before him.

“What did you call me?”

Xiao Zhun clenched his eyes shut, and shook the long spear hard; the other man stumbled back three steps.

“Senior! Stop!”

White Crane Retains stared at the face before him — silent yet bearing an anguish that broke through — and suddenly burst into loud laughter.

“Good! Good! Good!” His laughter gradually faded to nothing; the long sword in his hand fell to the ground. “Let Heaven decide what succeeds and what fails!”

The sounds of battle suddenly grew quieter. Xiao Zhun looked with his peripheral vision and saw that something was blanketing the sky, falling toward them in a vast, heavy mass — in an instant it descended.

It was the Black Feather Camp’s arrows.

This meant their time had run out.

The color in White Crane Retains’ face showed the pallor that follows extreme agitation — yet within that pallor, something like light seemed to shine through, like the last match struck by a dying person: devout and feverish.

“Ah Zhun — your senior was — your senior wronged you.” He spoke with great difficulty, but his eyes were resolute. “From small to grown, every year on your birthday your senior would send you something to delight you. We have not seen each other for many years now — let your senior give you one last gift.”

The heavy arrow-shriek sounded again; dark clusters of arrows rose in unison and when they fell, they were like a downpour of black rain.

Xiao Zhun reflexively swung his spear around to deflect the stray arrows.

White Crane Retains’ voice became urgent.

“Listen carefully. There is a sword — the blade is three chi and one cun long, the guard three cun and half a finger wide, forged as one piece, incomparably sharp. Yet the person who wields this sword is not famed for its sharpness, but for its power to destroy. Wherever the blade passes, force radiates and scatters — when it passes through grass and wood, the stems and leaves are cut to pieces; when it passes through sand and stone, the sand and stone are shattered fine as rice chaff; when it passes through flesh and blood, the flesh and blood burst apart. Those struck by its blade — skin wounds can be healed, but the channels and veins cannot be mended; for the rest of their lives they must take the finest Chihhou Pearl to sustain their life and ease the pain—”

Xiao Zhun’s grip on the spear gave a sudden jolt.

If at the outset Xiao Zhun had still been able to keep his reason clear while listening to these words, then at this last sentence he could no longer maintain his composure.

“What are you saying? How do you know about the Chihhou Pearl—”

“I know, because after trying a thousand different herbs and medicines, it is the conclusion I arrived at myself.”

White Crane Retains finished speaking and suddenly stepped back half a step; his right hand moved to the locking clasp on the shoulder of his armor, and the two pieces of chest armor clattered to the ground. Then he seized his own collar with both hands and wrenched it apart violently.

The crisp sound of tearing cloth was swallowed up by the surrounding noise of battle. An old wound scar, winding and twisted, lay coiled on his body like a malevolent serpent. He drew a deep breath, and with the very last of his strength, roared through the escalating din:

“Look carefully — this is what the Yizhang Sword and the Andao sword technique leave behind. There is nothing else like this in all the world! Do you understand?! Do you understand—”

Swish.

The eyes of Xiao Zhun, nearly stunned into blankness, trembled; something grazed his left shoulder as it flew past.

The color, the speed, the sound, the frequency with which the disturbed air vibrated, and even the faint metallic chill the arrow point carried as it passed — all of it was so identical to that arrow that had pierced his shoulder a dozen years ago.

And the scene that mirrored those years — it was not only that arrow.

The scar on White Crane Retains’ body was so searingly familiar — it was the nightmare he had glimpsed only once, on his aunt’s body, yet which had haunted him night after night.

His pupils contracted and then expanded — and at that same moment, White Crane Retains’ voice cut off.

A black arrow had pierced clean through him; on the steady arrowhead, blood ran in a thin line, flooding over and submerging that old wound scar.

The hands of the former Censor — hands that had never built up much callus — slowly reached up to his shoulder.

Just as, many years ago, he had patted that young boy on the top of the head and told him to grow up quickly.

“Promise me — take care of my daughter—”

Swish.

Another flying arrow.

Then three consecutive piercing arrows followed in close succession, each one finding a vital point, each one piercing through.

White Crane Retains’ body fell backward — like an old pine whose trunk had long since withered, crashing heavily to the ground.

At the southwest corner of the thick-walled tower, in the glow of lanterns, shadow guards clad in dark robes stood in two rows along the walkway, nearly indistinguishable from the pillars.

That tent, which had been specially partitioned, guarded on all four sides, and monitored from every direction — now stood completely empty.

The man in the plain long gown stood inside the tent with his hands clasped behind his back, his face showing no sign of emotion.

The Jia Company commander of the Black Feather Camp had cold sweat at his brow, and reported the current situation in a low voice.

“The palace attendant who had fainted was just splashed awake. After a moment she recovered and explained that Master Zong said his legs were giving him trouble and asked her to help pull back the curtain to fetch something. After that, she knew nothing more.”

The man gave a quiet sound of acknowledgment and nothing further.

The commanding officer grew even more apprehensive and hurriedly relayed the rest of what he had to report.

“The shadow guards heard a heavy object fall to the floor and left their guard posts to enter and check. The whole thing took no more than a single blink — they entered the tent and found no trace of anyone. The tent roof had been torn open a large hole; by the time they gave chase, they had already fallen behind by a stretch. The Black Feather fired arrows to intercept, but the person’s movements made not the slightest sound; vision was further hampered by the night rain. In the end, the man was still allowed to escape.”

The last word fell and the tent sank into a long silence.

Fine rain fell on the walkway outside the tent, producing a sound like insects gnawing on wood, making one feel even more wretchedly unsettled.

In the end the commanding officer could bear it no longer and knelt to request punishment.

“This subordinate has failed in his duty. This subordinate begs Your Majesty’s punishment.”

Su Wei gave a quiet sigh — he was clearly not inclined to punish him.

“If he had the will to go, you could not have stopped him. Rise.”

“Report!”

A shadow came rushing through the rain, the dark clothing already soaked through — it was clear he had been traveling for a long stretch.

“Lieutenant Lu—”

The man in the long gown turned around; the languid quality in his eyes vanished in an instant.

“Lu Songping has come back? Alone?”

“No.” The reporting shadow paused, as though having some difficulty getting the next words out. “It is Lieutenant Lu’s horse that has come back.”

The man’s expression darkened in an instant; the emotions churning in the depths of his eyes were not to be looked at directly.

“And the person?”

“The person’s whereabouts are unknown. Only the horse has returned. This subordinate has already sent people to search, but it is uncertain whether they can find him before dawn — perhaps we could wait—”

“No more waiting.” The man cut off the shadow’s report with a low voice, and called out quietly: “Ding Weixiang.”

The guard in blue dropped down through the torn hole in the tent roof and appeared behind the man in absolute silence.

“What are Your Majesty’s orders?”

“Prepare a carriage and horses. Go to Douchenling Pass. Dan Jiangfei.”

“Present.”

A low, slightly hoarse voice rose from behind the gauze curtain; the silhouette in imperial robes and crown shifted — and not a shadow remained of the dark-robed palace official.

That perpetually half-bent posture straightened upright; slender shoulders held up a lean frame; the features were not identical, but blurred by the gauze screen they were hard to distinguish as false. Even the controlled, self-possessed quality in every movement and gesture was reproduced with exactly the right measure.

Su Wei looked through the gauze curtain, and the person behind the curtain looked back at him. In the wavering candlelight, for a moment it was impossible to tell whether the figure behind the gauze was another person, or an impossibly similar shadow of himself.

After a moment, the man in the plain gown gave a faint smile — just as he had done countless times before — and with an easy, free gesture, flicked his sleeve.

“I leave this to you. I will be back shortly.”

Dan Jiangfei stood in silence for a moment, then bowed solemnly.

“Your Majesty may set your heart at ease. Please, take every care.”

When he straightened again, both the man in the plain gown and the guard in blue were already gone from the tent.

In the dense forest on the western slope of Douchenling Pass, a gray shadow was threading through the trees, parting the leaves as it went — footsteps light as falling rain, the sound it made no louder than the rain itself.

Ahead, the wet leaves grew gradually sparse, giving way to glimpses of the winding mountain path below and the shifting figures moving along it.

The mountain trembled beneath the feet, with small fragments of rock sliding loose at intervals. The old man in brown clothes stepped aside lightly, but his gaze never left what lay ahead.

He was old after all; though his movements were still agile, his ears and eyes were nothing like his younger self’s.

In the past, he could see by a single thread of starlight; night was for him like day, and nothing in the world could escape his eyes. In the years when his killing intent was at its height, he had even felt as though he could see the moment a soul left a body as he took a life.

Jianghu legend held that the spirits of those who died by blades would attach themselves to those blades, making them faster and sharper. He had always inwardly laughed at this, because he knew: it was not the blade that could take a life, but the hand that held it.

He was that blade himself.

A blade incomparably sharp and formidable. Only the hand that had once gripped him was no longer there. He was still sharp now, but he no longer possessed the killing intent that could take a life.

He stopped and let his heartbeat steady for a while, so that it would not disturb his hearing. Then he stood perfectly still, holding his breath, discerning the messages carried on the trembling air.

Iron armor. Heavy cavalry. Black Feather. An imminent clash — and the sudden onset of night rain. All of it was so familiar; all of it left him in a kind of daze.

In a daze, his white hair became black, his lame leg grew strong; the coarse brown cloth cloak fell away, replaced by the dark beast-fur uniform of the Black Feather shadow guard commander — waterproof tall boots on his feet, the Yizhang Sword at his waist, concealed beneath his cape, as still and subdued and keen-edged as his own shadow.

He walked into the deepest place of that shadowy royal palace and found his master on that throne of gold and jade.

The middle-aged man’s cheeks had already sunken deeply, with a faint blue tinge at the temples; his dark-colored lips were thin and drooped downward — no longer a trace of the bearing of his youth.

That was the appearance of a man long tormented by illness.

Yet set into that sickly face was a pair of eyes — deep and bright.

Those were the eyes of someone of exceptional wisdom, deeply skilled in strategy.

His master had the most intricate and subtle mind in all the world, and the natural gift for seeing through to the essence of all things.

Yet even the most extraordinary soul was ultimately bound by the flesh.

The Emperor whose lamp was burning out coughed several times heavily; the sound was hollow, as though it might dissolve and vanish into the air at any moment.

“How is it? Was it found?”

He composed himself and did his utmost to control the pain in his gaze as he went down on one knee to confess the failure.

“This subordinate was incapable. The Heavenly Cord was not found.” He paused, then said quietly, “Beyond that — one person from the Xiao Family was missed.”

“Oh? Who was it?”

“Prince Shuo’s second son, Xiao Zhun. He took part in the hunt, and by an odd turn of fate evaded the shadow guards’ assassination attempt — and stumbled onto the matter.”

Yuyin was silent for a long while, tightening his grip on the sword sheath in his hand.

“At this point the incident had only just occurred; he does not know the mountain tracks and will be delayed at least another half-day. To return to the capital, he must pass through Liwang Ancient Pavilion. This subordinate needs only to lay a modest ambush, and the matter can be resolved.”

The aging Emperor’s eyelids moved; the dark circles beneath his eyes gave his gaze the quality of something deep and shadowed.

“Prince Shuo’s second son — the youngest hunter of this spring hunt — sixteen, seventeen years of age this year, I would guess?”

“Exactly so. But I am told he has already been seasoned for several years in the military; his horsemanship and archery are not on par with his father’s, yet he carries the bearing of a military family. If given time—”

“What a fine young man of military lineage — given time, he will certainly become a great commander.” Yuyin laughed softly; the brief loosening of his brow gave him a momentary return of something of his youth. “Follow him. Do not let anyone else come near him. And do not take his life. If he can make it back alive to Quecheng, then have him come and see me.”

He did not understand; heedless of overstepping his position, he spoke his objection urgently.

“Master — Xiao Zhun cannot be allowed to live. If the root is not pulled out, it will be a disaster in the future.”

The other party did not answer him immediately. He only asked gently:

“Do you know the state of the court?”

As the Emperor’s personal guard, though he held no post in the court, he had learned something of it over the years.

The old civil officials and veterans dominated; the military commanders were aged, without voice or influence. In the future, if enemies arose at the borders, Tiancheng would face troubles it could not easily resolve.

The Emperor let out a long sigh; his voice was faint.

“Do you know the situation at court?”

A young wolf robbed of its mother, raised among dogs — year after year, not knowing whether it is wolf or dog.

He fell silent, and only then understood his master’s mind.

To cultivate Xiao Zhun as a new force to counterbalance the court situation would inevitably disrupt these stagnant waters. Beginning with Xiao Zhun, the military commanders of Tiancheng would surely rise; Tiancheng would use this as a counterweight to quell the several factions that had been stirring in the court for years.

“Hatred can at times be no bad thing — it can give a person inexhaustible strength. I will leave Xiao Zhun to Wer’er. If that day should come — when the wolf returns to the wilds — do you know what to do?”

He looked into those tranquil eyes and spoke with the steadiness of a cornerstone.

“This subordinate understands. As long as this subordinate lives, what Master worries about will not come to pass.”

Half a month later, the former Emperor passed away.

The master to whom he had sworn loyalty and devoted his life had left this world before him.

He carried that last command — known to no third person — and left Quecheng, waiting for the day when he would need to make good on his promise.

He had thought he would carry this promise with him into the grave.

But more than a decade had passed, and that day had still come.

Zong Hao opened his eyes and looked out across a hundred paces to the cliff’s edge — at the figure kneeling before White Crane Retains’ body.

On that rainy day in Douchenling Pass all those years ago, he should have killed him then.

No matter. Let these hands — the hands that had drawn the first line of this beginning — bring everything now to its end.