What is this thing? Nan Jian asked himself inwardly. In an instant, the cold sensation that had vanished momentarily struck once more, pressing straight toward Nan Jian’s heart, making it difficult for him to breathe. Nan Jian was a swordsman and assassin renowned throughout the world, but he was not a patient swordsman. Feiyan shot out, piercing through the heavy lock on the wooden box.
The wooden box slowly opened, and Nan Jian’s gaze gradually focused along with it. That was…
Nan Jian’s mouth opened in astonishment, his eyes revealing shock, and even a look of despair. Inside the pitch-black box, a door had opened!
A black door, as if it were a ghost gate from hell itself.
Nan Jian’s final moment of consciousness stopped at the instant the black door opened. His mental world collapsed, and his entire being plummeted into the churning, tumbling icy black river water. Meanwhile, the pitch-black wooden box slowly closed, like a single splash of water that appeared and vanished in a flash, instantly sinking to the bottom of the river.
Prologue: Night Rain Falls, Ghost Gate Opens
On this night, Ancheng received its first heavy rain since the beginning of spring. In the pitch-black curtain of rain, Nan Jian pulled tighter the long robe wrapped around his body. A sudden surge of cold caught Nan Jian somewhat by surprise. For many years now, the bloody storms of the jianghu had long made Nan Jian forget the taste of cold. But on this night, Nan Jian once again felt the cold, and this cold seemed not to originate from this chilly spring rain. Nan Jian stopped in his tracks and turned his head.
Outside Ancheng, beside the long bridge, the Black River flowed past, suppressing waves that seemed to want to surge forth violently. Nan Jian walked by the bridge’s edge, and that icy cold sensation from moments ago transmitted even more clearly, creeping up Nan Jian’s body, into his blood vessels, straight to his heart.
Almost instinctively, Nan Jian swept aside his long robe. The Feiyan sword, which had made him famous in the jianghu for sixteen years, rested at his waist. Nan Jian’s hand settled on the sword—man and sword united as one. As long as he held Feiyan in his hand, Nan Jian’s mind no longer considered anything else. Cold, fear, hesitation—all were pushed aside, leaving only a single word: death!
Either Feiyan would drink blood, or he himself would perish beneath another’s sword.
Nan Jian’s gaze fixed on the surface of the Black River. He was waiting, waiting for the truth behind this bone-chilling sensation to appear. But the surface of the Black River remained unchanged. Due to his anxiety, beads of sweat formed on Nan Jian’s forehead. Why? Nan Jian did not understand. The bloodthirsty nature fused into his body allowed him to detect danger around him at any moment, but this time, Nan Jian felt he could not grasp it accurately. The hand gripping his sword began to tremble slightly.
Time continued to flow like the water of the Black River. With a confused expression on his face, Nan Jian lowered his long robe. The cold sensation from before had completely disappeared. Nan Jian turned around. Suddenly, there was a strange sound. The ripples on the surface of the Black River abruptly contracted, and a black shadow floated up from the depths of the river water.
Feiyan had already left its sheath. Nan Jian watched coldly. In his bewildered gaze, he saw a heavy black wooden box slowly rising from the river, with an equally heavy black lock fastened on it. The wooden box completely emerged from the river bottom, drifting on the surface of the Black River.