Along the Sanjiang waterway, a seagoing ship crept along under cover of darkness, mooring at midnight at Luofeng Town’s dock.

At this hour when all should have been deep asleep, the dock stood empty, with gusts of night wind sending bamboo stalks knocking against each other, and though there was no rain, the sound carried the rustling clamor of a phantom rainstorm.

The three sons of the Western Sea King Zhang Shunteng—Zhang Minghui, Zhang Mingde, and Zhang Mingqing—swayed out from the ship’s cabin, and without even using the gangplank, leapt several times in succession straight from the ship onto the shore.

Because their father had recently intercepted young Zai and been hailed as a righteous man, the three of them now wore mourning sashes bound around their waists.

Once steady on his feet, Zhang Mingde drew a clay whistle from inside his robe and, as arranged, blew several long and short notes, then destroyed the whistle once finished.

Within the bamboo grove, night birds cooed softly; it was somewhat cold. The third brother, Zhang Mingqing, said: “Brother, this place is an old dock too—how is it there isn’t a single ferry boat here? Has it… been abandoned?”

The eldest, Zhang Minghui, looked around. The dock was over ten zhang wide, its old bluestone paving stretching several dozen zhang—by the scale of an old dock, this was no small place. How could it have no sign of human presence?

Especially between the bluestones, where wild grass had already sprung up from lack of foot traffic—a dock like this, like a house, would show no signs of decay even after a hundred years if people lived there and used it. But without people, it would collapse within three to five years.

He nodded and said: “Looks abandoned indeed. That shouldn’t be, though—this spot sits at a small bend of the Sanjiang and can dock seagoing vessels. Whoever built this dock originally must have invested great effort in it. How could it have fallen into ruin? Doesn’t add up…”

As he spoke, a cackling laugh suddenly rang out from the bamboo grove nearby: “Abandoned, abandoned! No one’s here anymore… so it has no use left.”

The three brothers were startled badly, all three leaping back together. Once he’d steadied himself, Zhang Minghui called out sternly: “Who’s there? Come out!”

As he finished speaking, an old Daoist nun’s head wobbled into view, poking out from the bamboo grove: “Wait just a moment, all right?”

With that, the old Daoist nun, shielding herself from the wind, lit a paper lantern, saying as she busied herself: “Don’t be afraid, gentlemen~ I just dozed off. Startled you, did I? It’s nothing, nothing at all—this is the territory of the Dragon Mother Goddess, and lesser evil spirits don’t dare come here… ah, I’m getting on in years, and it was warm today, so I said I’d just close my eyes a moment, and I drifted right off.”

She made her way out slowly, and only then did the three brothers notice she carried a bamboo chair, and seeing how unsteady her legs were, they realized at once she was no martial artist, just an ordinary old woman.

With this, a great weight lifted from their hearts. The three brothers exchanged glances, each silently ashamed of their earlier fright.

Zhang Minghui, the eldest, stepped forward and cupped his hands in greeting to the old Daoist nun: “Forgive our rudeness—might I ask the venerable elder’s honored surname, and what Daoist title we should address you by?”

Daoist titles were customarily preceded by one’s surname.

The old Daoist nun laughed and said: “I’m not really a proper renunciate. Everyone just calls me Auntie Qian, so you all can call me that too… now then, that thing—did you bring it?”

Hearing this, Zhang Minghui drew out a short branch of elm wood from inside his robe. Seeing it, Auntie Qian broke into a delighted smile: “Ah, yes, this is it! All right, come along with me.”

Chattering on, she led the Zhang brothers further inside.

Along the way, the Zhang brothers asked Auntie Qian how such a fine dock had come to be abandoned. Auntie Qian explained that half a month ago, someone had died at this dock, and the authorities had come and temporarily sealed it off to investigate.

Furthermore, for many years now, Luofeng Town’s dock had a longstanding problem where boats couldn’t cross during rainy weather, so with no other option, the locals had built a temporary dock ten li downstream instead.

As it happened, these past days the situation within Jindian’s borders had grown unstable, with a string of major cases breaking out one after another. Since this region bordered Jindian, the other side had urgently requested reinforcements, and all the officers from the nearby government offices had been borrowed away to help.

As a result, the murder case at the dock remained unresolved, with no telling when Luofeng Town’s dock might be unsealed. This place, it seemed, was truly destined to fall into ruin from here on.

Auntie Qian added that the nearby villagers had already scattered to settle elsewhere, and that Luofeng Town itself might soon cease to exist.

Falling to ruin was no small matter, yet the Zhang brothers detected a great deal of hidden delight in Auntie Qian’s tone as she spoke of it, which struck them as all the more strange.

As for the dock itself—with no foot traffic for over ten days, it was only natural that wild grass would spring up and give it a look of decay.

A crow perched atop the wall of the old temple. With a single paper lantern lighting the way, the Zhang brothers wobbled along until they arrived before the Dragon Mother Temple.

Once there, Auntie Qian, still smiling, drew a ring of keys from her waist and handed it to them, saying: “And so~ it’s done! This old body is off to another prefecture to go join my son.”

Zhang Mingqing took the keys, looked at the old temple, then glanced at his brothers and nodded.

The second brother, Zhang Mingde, reached into his robe and drew out a heavy bundled package, handing it to Auntie Qian: “You’ve worked hard, elder—take this to calm your nerves and buy yourself some wine.”

Auntie Qian took the package, weighed it in her hand, felt its shape from the outside, and cackled with delight: “No trouble at all, no trouble! This is fine work indeed—you all have your matter settled, and this old woman has gotten her wish too. May the Dragon Mother Goddess bless us all with a happy ending…”

With that, she looked once more at the distant dock, then at the temple, and in the end knelt and kowtowed several times toward the temple. She then led an old donkey out from the shadows and, her arms and legs still quite nimble, climbed onto its back, pulling the reins with a light and easy tone: “Off I go!”

Once the donkey’s bell could no longer be heard, the Zhang brothers unlocked the Dragon Mother Temple and entered the courtyard. Upon inspecting the main hall, they found, just as the Goddess’s letter had described, the great hall scattered from end to end with burlap sacks.

Hearing movement at the temple door, several of the sacks began writhing violently, emitting muffled moaning sounds—clearly, inside these several dozen sacks filling the hall were living, breathing people.

These people had already been here a full day and night. Their discomfort was one thing, but being living beings, the stench from their relieving themselves right there made it all the more unbearable.

Zhang Minghui grimaced, pinching his nose, and waved a hand toward his brothers.

Before long, a group of sailors came down from the seagoing ship and carried off the sacks full of people…

The seagoing ship weighed anchor and drifted off into the distance, after which a group emerged from the bamboo grove—Huo Qiqian, She Wanlin, Bai Ying, and thirty of the new blades.

Only once the ship had faded far into the distance did She Wanlin finally let out a long breath and ask: “Mother, do you think those people will ever make it back to Daliang?”

Huo Qiqian laughed coldly: “That bunch of wretches deserving of hell, and they still hope to return to Daliang? A vast ocean, foreign lands and barbarian countries, the languages unknown, the directions uncertain—do you think they’re all being sold to the same place? Basically each one will end up somewhere different. Return? Keep dreaming! Just look at them, every one fat and bloated with indulgence and excess—aside from oppressing the common people and drinking the blood of soldiers, what else do they even know how to do?”

Some days earlier, Huo Qiqian and her beloved son had rescued thirty new blades in Aicheng, incidentally destroying the Old Blade Camp that Tan Shouyi had spent so many years building. Originally, as Huo Qiqian had first intended, the old Tan family had claimed lordship over this territory and harmed so many people—whoever committed such sins should be the one to die by the blade, that was all.

But starting from the moment they found that first wretch, Cai Xianzi, and through the sins that came pouring out from his confession, Huo Qiqian no longer felt that way.

When men turn truly evil, a single quick blow of the blade is too good an end for them. What right did they have to that? What right did this bunch of creatures who never treated others as human deserve a swift, painless death?

Since they had never treated others as human, Huo Qiqian’s heart burned with fury, and she simply gathered up every officer and official around Aicheng with proven, deep-seated guilt—men so sinful they didn’t even deserve hell, regardless of whether they shared the Tan surname, so long as they had ties to the old Tan family—and had them all abducted together in one sweep, finally delivering them here to the Dragon Mother Goddess’s temple.

Huo Qiqian’s reputation as the “Elm Tree Goddess” was widely known, yet she had no wish to reveal her true face, so she’d led her people away to avoid being seen. Otherwise, how could she possibly have left dozens of these beasts for Auntie Qian to deal with?

Impossible, of course.

The new blades followed silently behind Huo Qiqian, and only once the ship had vanished from sight did Yangdan stammer out: “Brother, brother? They’re not coming back?”

After more than ten days of being tormented in every way, these wretches had shown every manner of ugly, desperate behavior in their attempts to survive, and gradually the new blades had lost their fear of them—so much so that even Yangdan now dared to speak up on his own.

She Wanlin nodded with certainty: “Of course. My mother said they’re not coming back, so they’re not coming back! You don’t need to be afraid of them anymore. We’ve burned all your contracts of servitude, and the camp’s records have all been destroyed too. Tomorrow, you’ll come back to Yandu with me, and I’ll get you all proper identities. If you want to farm, you can farm; if you want to herd livestock, you can herd livestock; and if you don’t want to do anything at all…” He looked at Yangdan’s face, now filled out with some extra weight, and said: “Brother can afford to support you.”

Huo Qiqian burst out laughing at this, reaching out to pat Yangdan’s head as she said: “Silly child, think about these past days—the lengths those wretches went to trying to escape their guilt, even a three-year-old child would have shown more backbone. Cowards who’d wet themselves at the mere sight of a blade—how could they possibly come back?

Look—whatever sins were committed against you, from now on, they’ll experience the same. They’ll be sent overseas, sent to the most wretched places, to endure the same hardships you all went through. They too will become slaves. But I don’t believe they have your endurance—that will be their fate.”

The new blades slowly walked out, standing one by one at the dock, looking off into the distance, unmoving, until the first ray of dawn arrived before finally leaving this place, walking toward their new lives.

But they had no way of knowing that at this very moment, Aicheng had already collapsed into utter chaos.

Jindian was a fine place, rich with mountains and rivers, abundant in copper ore, and even jade deposits were plentiful there—but it lacked the one thing Tan Shouyi wanted most: iron ore.

Since he had ambitions, he needed to slowly build up his strength. And so, every spring and summer, Tan Shouyi would always send men across the Jindian border, carrying large quantities of grain and cloth, to trade with the dozen or so small border tribes inhabited by the Elephant People and the Thorn People, engaging in a long-running trade for iron ore and iron implements.

At such times, they would set up camp right at the border, waiting for people from these small nations to come exchange their iron ore and iron goods for cloth and grain.

For ten years, Tan Shouyi had never personally led this expedition himself, but this year, as if driven by some strange compulsion, in late spring he’d grown restless, his heart feeling weighed down without cause. He’d gone to the temple to draw a divination lot, and the reading told him to travel far to avoid misfortune.

And so he had gone.

Well then—after this little jaunt, he returned to find the Old Blade Camp destroyed. Most of the privately stored military equipment and armor remained, but a handful of the most important items were missing.

Worse still, every official throughout Aicheng connected to Kangna Mountain, even the trafficker Cai Xianzi who handled the buying and selling of people, had vanished overnight without a trace.

Following this, the officials’ family members, unable to find the men of their households, panicked and sent someone out of Jindian to the neighboring county’s government office to report the matter.

The magistrate there didn’t dare abandon his post either, so he dispatched a large contingent of yamen runners to Aicheng to investigate.

And so, when Tan Shouyi returned from the border, he found the Aicheng government office filled with a group of bewildered runners from outside the county, along with a crowd of wailing, distraught women.

Inside, ivory-carved incense holders and flower baskets lay shattered on the floor; outside the courtyard, throngs of women wailed and rolled on the ground in grief.

One morning, they’d woken to find the master of the household gone.

One morning, they’d woken to find the general in the camp gone.

One morning, they’d woken to find the family’s money vault emptied out… what a terrifying thing this was.

Tan Shouyi flew into a rage, smashing everything in the room that could be smashed—not that he’d lost his composure, but rather, what else could he do right now? Aside from smashing things, he had not the slightest idea what else to do.

Just as his fury peaked, his personal guard came to report: “Reporting to my lord, the Provincial Surveillance Commissioner Qin Shidian requests an audience outside.”

Tan Shouyi drew a sharp breath of cold air and turned to look at the assistant administrators standing to either side…

The highest government office in Jindian was called the Provincial Administration Commission, and its highest-ranking official was none other than Tan Shouyi himself—a first-rank frontier official commanding subordinate assistant administrators, consultants, and clerks, essentially running a small court of his own.

However, Jindian was not a place where he held sole dominion. Beyond the Administration Commission, there were two other major offices: the Surveillance Commission and the Military Commission.

Over the years, Tan Shouyi had managed to control both the Administration Commission and the Military Commission, but the Surveillance Commission’s function was to oversee the various circuits, correct the errors of officials, and purge corruption—a crucial office indeed.

This position could only be appointed directly by the imperial court, and given how sensitive the location was, it required someone close to the Emperor himself.

Tan Shouyi was a domineering man, and over these years he’d essentially ruled unchallenged, turning Jindian into what amounted to the Tan family’s personal fiefdom.

At first, he’d been wary of this Surveillance Commissioner, Qin Shidian, but… Qin Shidian was no man of great ability—somewhat weak-willed by nature, and moreover, he carried the status of a former dynasty’s official, having been sent to Jindian essentially as someone pushed to the margins.

This only made Tan Shouyi feel even more free to act without restraint.

Qin Shidian came stumbling and tripping into the room, and this third-rank official fell flat on his face right as he entered. Struggling back up, he clutched at his official’s hat and said: “Oh my, my dear elder Master Tan! Such a terrible thing has happened—whatever shall we do?”

The incident had been going on for so many days now—how could he not know? His office was right in the neighboring prefecture, and even without rushing on a fast horse, an ox cart could make the trip in half a day, yet the man had deliberately played deaf and dumb.

By now the room had already been tidied up, and Tan Shouyi sat in his chair with a face full of worry, sighing: “Master Qin, these past days I’ve been feeling unwell, and have been recuperating up in the mountains. Now you ask me, but who am I to ask in turn?”

Tan Shouyi held first rank, Qin Shidian held third rank.

Qin Shidian came before the desk to pay his respects, but no one paid him any mind, so he simply sat himself down in a chair and began fretting. Someone brought him a cup of tea, and not realizing how hot it was, he took a mouthful and spent a good while afterward clutching his stomach in discomfort.

Once the discomfort passed, he clutched his chest and asked: “Has the list of officials involved in this incident been compiled yet?”

Still no one paid him any attention, so he simply gave an awkward smile and lifted his teacup, slowly blowing on it to cool it.

Meanwhile, up in his seat, Tan Shouyi’s mind was in turmoil, turning over and over the question of who exactly had attacked Kangna Mountain. The soldiers who’d fled reported it was a woman?

And some even claimed it was a spirit? A mountain demon?

From their accounts, Tan Shouyi had pieced together an utterly bizarre tale—that on that night, a female spirit had attacked Kangna Mountain while lifting an entire mountain in her hands?

This infuriated him to no end—how could he possibly believe such a thing?

But after Tan Shouyi had personally led men into Kangna Mountain to inspect the scene, both he and his subordinates broke out in a cold sweat.

At first he’d wondered if some deep, unyielding passion had been at work, but then again, not even ten such passions combined could carry a mountain to raid a military camp in the dead of night—this simply wasn’t something a human being could do.

At the time, he’d thought—could it be that immortals truly existed in this world? Could it be that after all these years of the sins he’d committed, heaven itself was issuing him a warning?

Looking at that massive boulder down in the ravine, he thought—if this wasn’t the work of immortal hands, then how could several dozen men vanish without a trace in a single night?

But whether it was a spirit or a mountain demon, the pressing matter now was this: his Son of Heaven’s sword, his armor, his battle banners—if word of these got out, it would mean the extermination of nine generations of his family.

Was there truly no path to heaven, no door into the earth left open to him now?

Below, Qin Shidian asked in a carefully cautious voice: “My lord, I did hear a few words in the streets—people saying it was some sort of female demon? This lowly official simply cannot bring himself to believe it, but… how could this have anything to do with a female demon?”

This disappearance of so many officials was an earth-shattering case. He’d played dumb and turned a blind eye before, but now there was no way he could keep up the pretense any longer, though he still wanted to curry favor with Tan Shouyi first.

After waiting a good while and seeing Tan Shouyi still say nothing, Master Qin said helplessly: “My lord! You know how I am—these years, how I’ve treated you, you understand that in your heart, don’t you?”

Why was this man bringing this up now? Tan Shouyi felt irritation rising within him, but he had no choice but to force himself to nod.

Seeing Tan Shouyi acknowledge this, Qin Shidian finally let out a breath of relief and said: “My lord, these past days~ my heart has been so troubled~ but without word from you, I didn’t dare report it lightly. You see, with so many officials vanished, this lowly official’s words carry little weight, and truly… I simply cannot suppress it any longer.”

Hearing him say this, Tan Shouyi actually found himself amused, and asked with a smile: “So you’re saying, Master Qin, you’ve never reported this at all?”

Qin Shidian nodded firmly: “Of course not! That fire at Kangna Mountain, ahem… it burned for two days and two nights straight, and that’s your territory~ without your instruction, how would this lowly official dare take matters into his own hands?”

Whatever else could be said of this man, however uninvolved he preferred to stay, he clearly knew everything all the same.

The tension that had gripped Tan Shouyi’s heart finally eased somewhat, and understanding Qin Shidian’s meaning, he said with a smile: “Ah, Master Qin has his own difficulties too, I understand. I appreciate your consideration and your good will—very well, Master Qin, you go back and handle things however you see fit.”

Qin Shidian’s face broke into delight at once. Setting down his teacup, he offered a hasty bow of thanks to Tan Shouyi and turned to leave.

Tan Shouyi rose with a smile, stepping away from his seat to personally see him out of the main hall.

As Qin Shidian navigated his way carefully around the wailing women, and just as he reached the doorway, he suddenly froze, looking down in disbelief at the blood-stained arrowhead protruding from his chest, then turned to look back at Tan Shouyi, who stood there having just lowered his bow.

He thought to himself—I listened, didn’t I? I said nothing at all, did I? I didn’t provoke anyone—so why kill him too?

With that thought, he collapsed to the ground, eyes wide open in death, unable to rest in peace.

A third-rank official lay dead on the floor, and the courtyard full of wailing, rolling women fell instantly and utterly silent.

Someone let out a scream, and the group of women rose to flee, but Tan Shouyi simply rubbed his temples and instructed: “Keep everyone under watch for now. Don’t let word leak out.”

“…Close every road out of Jindian. Anyone attempting to leave Jindian’s borders, regardless of who they are—execute them on sight!”

“…Send an urgent message by land and water relay at once, eight hundred li per day, into the capital, telling Weitong and the others to hide themselves immediately. Once I’ve broken into Yandu, we’ll coordinate from within and without.”

As this string of commands went out, the women in the courtyard disappeared without a trace. They weren’t killed, though—anyone who could hold office in Aicheng was, after all, connected by blood.

Once Tan Shouyi finished giving his orders, he returned to the main hall and sat down.

His two assistant administrators—who were, in truth, his military advisors—came before him together and asked: “My lord, has it truly come to this? A dead end?”

Tan Shouyi removed his hat, revealing a head entirely white with age, and said with a bitter laugh: “What do you all think?”

At this, his subordinates gathered together and, bowing in unison, declared: “We await the family head’s command entirely.”

Tan Shouyi rose to his feet, and after a moment of silence, spoke with firm resolve: “I know full well—rebellion now, with money and grain in short supply, troops and horses lacking! But aside from turning against this Yang Zao, do we men have any other path left to us?”

If that night truly had been the work of a spirit, then heaven itself had left him no way out—but what of it? In ancient times, the Duke of Zhou had dared to alter the mandate of heaven, deposing the old gods and enfeoffing new ones in their place. Was Tan Shouyi truly incapable of the same?

So be it, then—let heaven itself be overturned as well!

“Our Tan clan has risen from within Daliang, and we too have endured hardship in secret, biding our time for over a decade. Yes… the time has finally come.”

“We await the family head’s command entirely!”

Tan Shouyi laughed helplessly. He had imagined countless times the proclamation he would issue when he finally rebelled—stirring and impassioned, denouncing the Yang family for their ingratitude and their countless crimes. Never had he imagined it would come to this, forced into rebellion under circumstances such as these.

Seeing his clansmen once again declare their obedience to his command, the old man finally said: “So be it, then—this is fate itself backing us into a corner, leaving us no choice but to rebel!”