The southern wind blew gently as layers of clouds gathered and thickened.

The rain shifted from sparse to dense. Half an hour remained before daybreak, yet the world around him was still as dark as an eternal night.

On a mountain path beside a cliff, a swordsman in violet robes straightened his blade and held it still beneath the falling rain, letting the water wash away the bloodstains on the steel.

It had been a very long time since he had found himself in such a wretched state. His clothes were torn, and counting carefully, he had sustained a total of seven wounds — three on his thighs, two on his arms, one at his waist. None of them were lethal strikes; they had only broken the skin and cut through flesh.

The most dangerous wound was between his ribs. A short blade had entered from below at an angle, and had it gone half an inch deeper, it would have pierced through his ribcage and straight into his heart.

Yet she had fallen short by half an inch.

Perhaps if she had been a little taller, she might have reached that half inch and taken his life.

But she would never have the chance now. No chance to grow any taller, and no chance to strike again.

Such was the ruthless nature of combat between masters — and he had long been addicted to this cruelty. Even the pain from the blade wounds fascinated him.

His sense of the world around him had always been dull and muted. Yet in this moment, he felt an unprecedented sense of existence, as though even the passage of time had taken on a tangible weight.

As a child, he would often sit motionless on a stone ledge for an entire day and night.

His days were quiet and dull, but his nights were blazing and alive.

His grandfather, who had been obsessed with meteorite ore, always tempered his blades in the night — for the pure blackness of darkness allowed the eyes to discern the exact color of heated metal, to refine it at precisely the right moment.

The sound of hammering rang through the night without end, yet he never found it monotonous. He understood that this was the sound of a sharp blade being born. To become the most keen and unyielding thing in the world required precisely this kind of grinding — day after day, year after year.

The copper and iron endured their solitude, and he could bear his with equal calm.

For much of his life, his heart had been utterly empty. He was born this way, had always been this way, and always would be.

This was his own singular, irreplaceable gift.

Before the age of eight, his hands had already touched the sharpest blade tips and sword edges in the world, and his hunger for extremity grew harder and harder to satisfy.

He sparred with the wandering martial artists who came to collect blades, moving from reading their patterns to delivering a killing blow — often in less time than it took to burn a stick of incense.

Praise and admiration gradually dwindled. Little by little, he began to read fear and disgust in their shocked faces.

He understood that they could no longer give him what he sought. He had to go somewhere higher and more treacherous, to glimpse the ultimate extreme.

When forging a blade, the fewer impurities in the metal, the purer the steel after annealing.

This was the truth his maternal grandfather had taught him.

When grasping a blade, the fewer distracting thoughts in the heart, the faster the weapon.

This was the truth he had discovered himself.

The day he entered the academy was the day she left the Andao Academy. At the time, he did not know who she was.

He saw that short, stout figure being dragged out through the academy gate in a fury, cursing Xie Li with every other step, and finally spitting on the ground before being shoved into a carriage.

He thought to himself: that must be someone with terrible natural aptitude and poor martial skill — a complete waste.

The Andao Academy lived up to its reputation — it never harbored the weak.

The strong prey on the weak, and the victor is king.

He had never lost, and so in such a world, he had always been entirely at ease. He was quite satisfied with his own choice.

On the night of his admission, Academy Head Xie Li bestowed names upon the new disciples in the Hanling Pavilion.

The so-called bestowing of names was, in practice, a drawing of tiles. All disciple names in the Andao Academy since its founding had been derived from names left behind by the first Academy Head, a woman of the Yin family. It was said that she had a particular fondness for feathered creatures, and had gathered ten million tail feathers from across the land into the pavilion. All disciples within received their names from these feathers — a name could not be removed unless one was expelled from the academy, and could not be changed unless the imperial family decreed it.

The current Academy Head, Xie Li, had originally been named Xie Li — the character for oriole — and had changed her name only after taking office.

During the naming ceremony, incoming disciples would each select a sealed bamboo tube from a pool of tubes in which the feather-names were stored. The tail feather inside the tube represented the name they would receive.

His tube contained a single gray-violet tail feather.

It was a swallow’s feather. His name became “Yan” — Swallow.

He disliked the character. A swallow was a domestic bird that flew into the homes of common people, while he was a hawk and kite that could not still its heart even at the sight of towering peaks.

No matter. He would let himself rest briefly within these walls, not even thirty feet high and square on all sides. Once he had mastered that legendary blade technique, he would leave.

He had assumed that, given his natural talent, the Dou family’s blade art would eventually be his.

Yet three or four springs and summers passed, and Xie Li still made no mention of passing on the blade art.

“Weapons know no rank, and martial learning knows no hierarchy. Why be fixated on any particular blade, or any particular blade technique?”

That was the answer he received when he went to ask Xie Li.

He did not consider it an answer. It was nothing more than an evasion.

He later heard that Xie Li had passed the blade art to a disciple named Qingzhuang. He pondered for a long while but could not recall that person’s face — only a vague impression of a silent man who favored green robes, so unremarkable that one forgot him the moment one looked away.

Who had received the blade art no longer mattered. What mattered was that it had not been him.

The forging of iron into blades was a process of tempering the soul — a truth he had witnessed countless times since childhood. No two weapons in this world were identical. From the day a blade was forged, its keenness was already determined.

The same was true of the finest martial artists — whether one could reach the pinnacle of martial mastery was decided from the moment of birth.

He was destined from birth to be paired with the sharpest blade and the most formidable martial art in the world.

All who entered the Andao Academy were bound to it for life and could not leave without the Academy Head’s consent.

But if he wished to go, there was no one in this world who could stop him.

Before leaving, he slipped into the depths of the Hanling Pavilion and selected for himself a long sword of boundless sharpness.

He would prove that the Andao Academy’s judgment had been wrong.

An unremarkable short blade was unworthy of competing with a sword. An unremarkable blade wielder was unworthy of competing with him.

The sword stood vertical, its cold light restrained within, and he could even see how raindrops falling straight down were split in two by that razor edge.

This was indeed a fine sword.

The last trace of bloodstain was washed away without a trace. Yanzi gave a slight flick of his wrist, shaking the water droplets from the blade.

In the instant before he sheathed it, his hand suddenly paused.

Yanzi lowered his head and looked closely, a rare expression of astonishment rising in his eyes.

Where the blade had once been smooth and straight, a faint irregularity had appeared — a crack had formed at the red-tinged guard.

On the battlefield at the foot of Mount Doucheng, separated by a ridge, the air was saturated with the smell of death.

A fire arrow streaked across the night sky. The moment it landed, it erupted in a burst of flame that illuminated the entire battlefield as bright as day.

To extend their visibility, the Black Feather Camp had brought arrowheads soaked in burning oil. These arrows were fired in a ring formation, encircling the entire mountainside, and when that first burning arrow ignited them, it was as if fire had descended from heaven, lighting up a scene of hell below.

Bodies and armor were strewn everywhere, arrows stood embedded in all directions, and though the surroundings were drenched in mud, the flames fed by the burning oil still blazed high, their crackling punctuated by the moans of those who were dying but not yet dead. Amid the deathly stillness, the occasional movement drew the black arrows toward it as if they had eyes — the souls of the struggling were snuffed out in an instant.

Yan Guang, commanding general of the Goose-Wing Geng Battalion, stood at this moment a hundred paces outside the firelight.

Before the encirclement hunt began that day, he had anticipated a fierce battle — but he had never imagined it would come to this.

That no soldier of the Bai family’s personal guard would surrender was not entirely unexpected, but the standoff between the Black Feather Camp and the Shuobei Camp was something he had never foreseen.

The Bai family had been executed. Yet the Shuobei heavy cavalry showed no sign of sounding the retreat.

There was only one explanation for such a situation: neither commanding general on either side had given the order to withdraw.

Some invisible force was locked in a contest between the two sides. The battlefield, which had just endured upheaval, now resembled a set of scales swaying precariously, barely maintaining its balance — the faintest disturbance would shatter the peace, and everything would collapse in an instant.

Before dawn, the temperature rose slightly, and rain falling on the mountainside turned to mist. Within the space of a quarter hour, the morning fog had spread across the entire foot of Mount Doucheng, rendering the scene even more murky and unfathomable.

The flames burned quietly within the mist, like ghost-fire from the far shore of the River of Forgetfulness.

The hand with which Yan Guang gripped his reins grew damp with sweat. He had never witnessed a battlefield this strange — utterly silent, yet reeking with lethal intent.

At last, someone broke the deathly stillness.

A note of qin music drifted out from the dense forest where the Black Feather Camp lay in wait, spreading unhurriedly, rippling outward through the mist.

Soft, scattered footsteps came from every direction, while the sound of bowstrings being drawn taut rang out in perfect unison.

It was only at this moment that the ill premonition in Yan Guang’s heart became reality.

Though he was not of the Black Feather Camp and did not know the details of their formations, the Shang-tone formation was of a uniquely special composition — once you had witnessed it even once, it was difficult to forget.

Shang is the sound of autumn. It carries a spirit of severe destruction — withering leaves and felling grass, bending and breaking all plants.

This was a formation used only when the decision had been made to annihilate the enemy completely. As long as a single enemy remained alive within its scope, the formation would not disperse until the last person had died beneath its arrows.

Only now, the Black Feather arrows were no longer aimed at the Bai family rebels. They were aimed at the Shuobei cavalry.

A single rider from the Black Feather ranks rode slowly forward, holding a command banner high, advancing into the space between the two armies.

“By imperial decree — sound the retreat!”

The Shuobei iron cavalry in the depths of the mist remained completely unresponsive.

The burning oil gradually consumed itself. Amid the heavy rain, the two armies faced each other in silence before the smoke-shrouded battlefield.

“Qinghuai Marquis, by order—”

The banner-bearer’s voice cut off abruptly. The next moment, his body was split cleanly in two at the waist and slowly toppled from his horse, the corpse hitting the ground with a dull thud.

It all happened in an instant. Yan Guang’s eyes went wide — everything was spiraling in an uncontrollable direction.

An arrow? No — there had been no arrowhead, no whizzing sound.

It was as though an invisible blade had parted the thick, impenetrable fog and sliced that soldier cleanly from his horse at the waist.

The tottering scales finally tipped irreversibly to one side. Within the Black Feather ranks, the qin music shifted abruptly, plummeting downward.

At the same moment, a tremor ran through the Shuobei formation.

In this moment of bewilderment, before anyone could react, a sudden gust of southern wind parted the mist. High up on the cliff where the Shuobei command banner flew, a dark brown shadow burst out from the dense forest — like a hunting owl in the night — and flew directly toward the commanding general beneath the banner.

The iron cavalry sensed the killing intent and swiftly shifted formation, surrounding Xiao Zhun in the center.

“All soldiers, hold the line! Defend the General to the death!”

The Grand Priest, whose martial mastery was unfathomably deep, had struck with killing intent, and the Shuobei army, already fighting with eyes red, struggled with all its might to protect their commander. In an instant, the area above and below the cliff erupted into utter chaos.

“The Qinghuai Marquis has rebelled! Cut down the Shuobei banner — seize control of the situation!”

Yan Guang turned in shock. Xu Shu had arrived from another direction with his troops, seemingly out of nowhere.

He recalled the attitude of the Xu family when trouble first broke out at the Xiao Mansion. He had already guessed one or two things, and what he saw now — this kicking of a man when he was down — stirred a flash of indignation in him.

“By imperial decree: even if something unusual has occurred, we are not to press the Shuobei forces into a corner.”

Xu Shu glanced at Yan Guang, then slowly drew the sword at his waist.

“If General Yan is afraid, he may remain where he stands. I will go cut down the banner myself.”

“You dare!”

An enraged female voice rang out from behind. Xu Shu’s body jerked to a halt. He heard the sound of wind sweeping in from behind his ear and immediately bent low to dodge — the sharp edge of a dagger grazed the air just in front of his face.

Xiao Nanhui’s first strike had missed. She bent her knee and delivered a fierce kick to the side of Xu Shu’s saddle. Jixiang seized the momentum, carrying her in a nimble spin, blocking the space before Xu Shu.

“Which of your eyes saw my foster father rebel?! Say another word and I’ll cut out your tongue!”

Xu Shu gave a cold snort and raised his hand, pointing toward the chaotic battlefield a li away.

“Xiao Nanhui, open your eyes and look clearly. He just chose to hold his ground rather than hand over the command banner — this is defiance of military orders, a crime punishable by death!”

Xiao Nanhui refused to yield, each word seeming to be squeezed out from between her teeth.

“Zong Hao was clearly trying to kill him — was he supposed to just sit there and wait to die rather than fight back?!”

The two were deadlocked. Then a sudden strange sound erupted from nowhere — a sharp, whistling rush from the dense forest — and dozens of figures streaked forward in a straight line, heading directly for the commanding general at the cliff beneath the banner.

Dozens of flying-wire assassins flew straight toward Zong Hao, silver wires weaving and crossing in the air, trapping him within.

Xiao Nanhui was stunned by what unfolded before her, while Xu Shu looked entirely unsurprised, the corner of his mouth curving into a mocking smile.

“Can General Yan see clearly now? If the Qinghuai Marquis had no collusion with the Bai family, why would those assassins intervene to save him at the moment his life was on the line?”

Yan Guang was silent. From the corner of his eye, he glanced at the woman on horseback beside him, and for a brief moment, hesitation and reluctance crossed his face.

Without armor, she looked strikingly slight and vulnerable. Her eyes stared blankly at the Shuobei command banner standing against the wind and rain not far away, as though she had already sensed what was coming. She suddenly dug her heels in and charged headlong into the formation.

“Xiao Aide-de-camp, don’t go—”

Yan Guang’s shout followed in her wake, only to be left far behind.

The qin music tore through the air — three notes struck in unison, sweeping away a thousand armies.

The Shang-tone formation activated. The killing intent could no longer be contained. Ten thousand arrows rose shrieking into the sky and flew toward the Shuobei army on the cliff.

“Foster father!”

She screamed with every ounce of her voice, but her cry was swallowed instantly by the tremendous noise all around her.

She gripped her dagger in her reverse hand and drove it outward with all her strength, deflecting the stray arrows that flew at her from every side. Each step forward was won with agonizing difficulty.

The dagger blade was too short — in the end, it was no match. A few slipped through her guard, and an arrow struck her rear shoulder, sending a shockwave through her chest that made her stomach heave and her throat flood with the sweet taste of blood.

But strangely, she felt no sharp pain from an arrow piercing through her body.

She had no time to examine why. She fought to urge Jixiang off the mountain path, hugging the slope as rubble and mud rolled down around them, pressing toward the position of the command banner.

Five hundred paces. Three hundred. One hundred.

At last she caught sight of the figure entangled within the flying wires.

Her heart pounded violently from the relentless sprint and combat. She felt her vision trembling along with everything around her.

A thunderous crack erupted from deep within the earth below. That cliff face, trampled and battered so many times, could hold no longer — it fractured from the base of the mountain, and hundreds of cavalry, along with the command banner, plunged into the abyss. As the formation broke open, Xiao Zhun’s figure emerged. The old man in brown, his hair and beard in complete disarray and his body soaked in blood, lunged upward, seizing a spear and halberd lying scattered at either side and hurling them outward in rapid succession.

No!

Her cry lodged deep in her throat, never escaping. In the very next instant, the remaining five or six flying-wire assassins shifted. One moved to shield Xiao Zhun’s flank and was run through in a heartbeat. The rest swiftly enveloped Xiao Zhun and, in the final moment before the last piece of rock beneath their feet crumbled away, launched upward on their wires — escaping into the dense forest along the cliff wall.

The violent shaking of the mountain left Jixiang barely able to keep her footing. Xiao Nanhui had no choice but to pull the reins and retreat several steps.

When everything finally subsided, dust and smoke rolling in dense clouds — neither Zong Hao’s figure nor any trace of Xiao Zhun could be seen.

The flying Black Feather arrows paused for a brief moment as their line of sight was obstructed. Seizing this chance to breathe, she quickly called out in a low voice. Jixiang understood without a word and leaped into the deep undergrowth of the southern slope.

The crumbled mountainside had become a torrent of mud and stone, nearly uprooting and toppling the trees in its path. Xiao Nanhui struggled through the wreckage, climbing toward higher ground, and finally found a relatively flat platform before a great tree that would take three people joining hands to encircle.

The mountain path not far away had nearly collapsed entirely. She looked at the steep rocks on the other side — thick with wild grass, with nowhere to set a foot — and decisively dismounted.

Jixiang had taken an arrow to her hindquarters, and the wound had been torn further open by the relentless running. The sight of it made Xiao Nanhui’s heart clench with worry. After a moment’s hesitation, she patted Jixiang on the head.

“Go.”

In the past she had often done this, and that piebald creature would always trot off contentedly to go find mushrooms to eat.

But this time, Jixiang did not move.

“Foster father is missing. I have to go find him and bring him back.”

The horse still stood stubbornly in place. No matter how Xiao Nanhui pushed and patted, Jixiang refused to budge — but the moment Xiao Nanhui took a step, the horse grabbed her clothes with its teeth.

Xiao Nanhui paused, then managed a faint, strained smile.

“You creature with a mind of your own — it’s not as if I’m abandoning you. What is this dramatic life-and-death performance you’re putting on for me?”

Jixiang blew a loud, forceful breath from her nostrils — as if protesting the choice of words — and kept all four hooves planted right where they were.

This horse had truly taken after its owner’s temperament. Stubborn as a mule, with not an ounce of a warhorse’s dignity.

Time was short. Xiao Nanhui thought for a moment, then untied the hemp cloth bag that had been hanging from the saddle the whole while, opened its mouth, and set it down by the roots of a nearby tree. She then tied the reins into a loop and hooked it over a nearby branch.

“You stay here and wait for me. When you’ve finished all of this, I’ll be back.”

Jixiang lowered her head and sniffed at the dried mushrooms Yaoyi had “offered as tribute” inside the bag — but she didn’t eat them. She raised her head and looked at Xiao Nanhui again.

This time, Xiao Nanhui did not look back. She drew a deep breath, leaped, and plunged into the dense mountain forest.