In early September in Jiangning, countless threads of cause and consequence tangled and gathered — some coiling into hidden undercurrents, some roaring into whirlpools, some destined to raise skyward waves.

On the night of the eighth of the ninth month, following He Wen’s words, the great undercurrent stirred up by the “Reading Society” was about to surface. Shi Weiyang had, for a moment, stood at the very center of the stage, falling into the view of every great figure in the city — though, of course, before long, these threads of fate crossed paths and moved apart again.

Shi Weiyang had pursuits all his own.

That afternoon of the Double Ninth Festival, he truly reached the summit of a certain stage in his life, and completed his transformation.

And even as these interweaving waves churned, countless finer undercurrents were flowing beneath the surface of that same tide…

Let us turn the clock back.

The afternoon of the eighth of the ninth month.

At the same time He Wen and the other four kings began their discussions at Yi Garden, beside the ruins of what had once been the Five Lakes Inn, two young men nicknamed the “fantasy devils” looked upon the two unremarkable figures — a man and a woman — beneath the bridge, and felt grief and helplessness.

Having found medicine and done their best to keep the injured woman under the bridge alive, they had also easily learned, from people nearby, the name of the man who had come that day to assert his dominance.

Not long after, that night, the Second Young Master Shi Weiyang — having finally regained some face after the Five Lakes Inn incident — led an even larger crowd to Yunlai Ward, to face off once more against “Cold Crow” Chen Juefang.

Wu Chennan, meanwhile, went to the city’s newspaper offices and had the story of Yan Tiehe’s injury, and the Shi Family’s quest for justice on his behalf, splashed prominently across the papers.

An intricate scheme was thus unfolding on a grand scale, and with the assistance of a seasoned hand like Jin Yongsheng, they had even accounted for a great many small details that might otherwise have gone wrong. On the ninth of the ninth month, Shi Weiyang, for the first time in his life, pulled off a scheme so flawless that the very instant Yan Yunzhi picked up those newspapers, he had already entered a new stage of his life.

At that very same moment, at the other end of the city, before that unremarkable Five Lakes Inn, the two “fantasy devils” — one five feet tall, one four feet tall — held their newspapers and sat in silence for a long while.

The woman under the bridge was in poor condition. Xue Jin came limping over to kowtow to them, and Long Aotian, in a fit of irritation, brewed another dose of medicine. Afterward, the two of them went their separate ways for a time.

Around noon, near the clinic where Yan Tiehe was being treated, the two of them discovered a good deal more, watching closely.

“Big brother, there’s a lot of people around, what do we do?”

“…Not even the Jade Emperor could save him now.”

“…Oh.”

That afternoon, in the teahouse, Shi Weiyang gave the order to the many masters gathered around him.

“No one is leaving here today.”

He pushed open the door and walked toward Yan Yunzhi.

“…These past few days, it’s thanks to Brother Wu’s help that I’ve come to see it all so clearly. What can an ordinary man do—”

The bamboo pole cut through the sky, whistling in—

Splintered shards of bamboo flew past in front of Shi Weiyang’s eyes, carving a terrible trail of blood through the teahouse.

Shi Weiyang stared blankly for a moment, his next, even more forceful speech faltering. Several people on the second floor of the teahouse abruptly leapt to their feet, while below on the ground floor, above on the rooftop, out on the street, and even in the tavern across the way, dozens of figures all started in alarm at the very same instant.

And in the next moment, “Single-Stroke Lightning Sword” Jiang Bing swung his sword to meet the figure coming through the window beside him. That figure had come from the rooftop of the building across the street; it was afternoon, and this window faced slightly west. In the autumn sunlight, the figure gave a sudden “whoosh” and abruptly grew larger.

Faster than words could tell, Jiang Bing withdrew his sword in that same instant and pulled his body sharply low, leaping to one side. The figure charging through the sunlight held before it, of all things, a round shield, shielding the attacker’s body as he cleared the street entirely and came crashing straight in!

From the moment the bamboo pole was first hurled, to this figure leaping in with his shield, no more than a breath or two had passed — but most of those on the teahouse’s second floor were skilled fighters, and the majority of them reacted at once. “Single-Stroke Lightning Sword” thrust out his blade; “Startling God Hand” Fan Hen rose to his feet and flipped the table in front of him with both hands; “Ox Demon” Xu Batian raised the great axe in his grip; “Dragon Blade” Xiang Dasong, standing not far from Shi Weiyang, had Wu Chennan’s blood and flesh splattered across his face and head, and was among the first to step toward the window, reaching out to try to shield Shi Weiyang behind him; the rest scattered to take up their own positions.

The next instant, though Jiang Bing had withdrawn his sword, ducked low, and leapt aside, his body was still grazed by the shrieking assassin. Shield and man crashed onto the teahouse floorboards with a boom, then went hurtling forward. In an instant the teahouse’s interior was a chaos of flying tables, chairs, and shattered porcelain; Jiang Bing’s long sword flew from his grip and lodged, spinning, in the roof beam above. “Startling God Hand,” caught by the impact after flipping the table, tumbled through the air and crashed hard onto the floor.

The reckless, headlong assassin, shield and all, went rolling with a rumble all the way into a corner of the wall. Nearby, a guard was knocked clean down the stairs by the impact. The teahouse’s second floor, though hardly left in perfect order, had — aside from the two men already skewered by the bamboo pole, their blood streaking across the floor in one long trail — now had a second path of destruction carved through it by the shield-bearing assassin’s reckless charge, broken chairs and porcelain shards spraying outward in a fan.

The masters nearby reacted swiftly. Aside from “Single-Stroke Lightning Sword,” who’d taken a hit to the shoulder, and “Startling God Hand,” who’d been sent flying and then crashed back down, more of them were already trying to close in at once, while others with a keener sense of the bigger picture kept watch on the window outside, wary of the assassin having accomplices. At this point, the clattering din inside the teahouse died down, someone below shouted, and the assassin, crashed into the corner, seemed to struggle as he rolled. The others could see he was dragging his shield along, a black cloth wrapped over his face, his eyes sweeping across the space of the teahouse — and passing, for a moment, over Shi Weiyang.

Half-drenched in blood, “Dragon Blade” Xiang Dasong noticed that glance, and reached out a hand, trying to pull Shi Weiyang behind him. Shi Weiyang’s gaze finally turned away from the neckless body of Wu Chennan on the floor, and he too saw the assassin’s eyes. He raised his right hand and pointed in that direction, but for a moment could not force any order out of his mouth — he had not yet come to accept the sudden fact that his strategist had simply ceased to exist.

Several men nearby charged toward the assassin; the old man nicknamed “Fifteen Strings,” Yu Ci, snatched up a teacup and hurled it at him; “Single-Stroke Lightning Sword” Jiang Bing scrambled up off the floor, aware that his shoulder was injured, the web of his right hand seemingly split open as well from the impact; the teacup shattered against the floorboards; “Ox Demon” Xu Batian swung his great axe; “White Asura” He Qinzhao pointed toward something and called out, “Watch out.” In the corner of the teahouse, the assassin gritted his teeth, forced himself upright, raised his shield, and curled his body to try to guard himself — everyone realized he too had been hurt in that charge; “White Asura” He Qinzhao called out again, “Watch out…” though he himself wasn’t sure exactly what needed watching.

Someone had already glimpsed it out of the corner of his eye.

That thing — no one knew where it had come from — was about the size of a pillow, lying quietly beside a table in the middle of the teahouse, a tiny flame burning silently upon it.

Someone’s footsteps froze.

Below, people were charging up the stairs.

Atop the roof, two masters shifted their footing among the tiles, listening carefully in the chaos to the commotion below.

BOOM—

A great explosion shook the long street.

It was, at that time, the second quarter of the hour of Shen that afternoon. Near this teahouse on Yuqing Street in the eastern part of Jiangning, passersby had, in fact, already sensed that something was off, that some great power was conducting business here — capturing an enemy, perhaps, or unleashing violence — and those who noticed had largely begun steering clear of this street. Some of the small merchants below, too, had grown wary and tried to pack up and leave, while others stood at a distance, watching and pointing.

But no one had guessed that something this astonishing would happen.

The tremendous blast rang out across the entire street. In an instant, the whole teahouse seemed to shudder, gray-white smoke billowing outward in every direction from the second-floor windows, roof tiles clattering down below. The two masters who had been standing on the rooftop were suddenly swallowed by the dust, then went tumbling down with a rumble, their bodies out of control, crashing onto the street. Below, the Baofeng Trading House’s men, some armed with fishing nets, others arranged in formation, staggered and fell at the tremendous blast — some instinctively fled backward, others seemed to want to rush in and save people — the scene dissolving for a moment into total chaos.

The crowd stared, dumbstruck, at the teahouse’s second floor, now shrouded in the dust of the explosion.

And their Second Young Master, Shi Weiyang, was at that very moment right there, at the site of the blast…

“Cough… cough cough cough…”

Gray-white smoke, carrying a scorched heat, billowed thick through the air; the floorboards still seemed to tremble; dust sifted down endlessly; visibility dropped to nothing at arm’s length; ears rang with a droning buzz.

“Startling God Hand” Fan Hen staggered to his feet, unable to hear anything, unable to understand what had just happened.

The instant the assassin had charged in, he had thrown up both hands and flung the table aside — but that same motion had blocked his line of sight, and when the man’s shield came slamming toward him, he hadn’t managed to dodge in time, taking the blow squarely on both legs, his body tumbling several times through the air before crashing onto the floor. His head still spinning, before he could even get his bearings, the far more violent explosion had already engulfed him.

As a jianghu man, he had occasionally witnessed some of the more unconventional fire-weapons out there — things like the thunderclap bombs and palm-thunders used for making an escape — but experiencing a blast of this magnitude at such close range was not an opportunity that came often.

The Fair Party occasionally used explosives to breach cities or blow open gates, but that, too, was generally the business of specialized artisan corps; ordinary jianghu men, even those well treated by the organization, rarely had much dealing with such craftsmen — at most, on festival days, they might have a few strings of firecrackers made for the occasion.

Two heavy blows in a row had left his head in complete disarray, nothing coming together clearly. He struggled to stand, only to stagger and collapse again — his right shin was broken, unable to bear weight, and the symptoms of that were at least familiar to him.

“Cough… cough cough cough…”

He tried to reach down and assess the wound on his leg, but his throat, choked and constricted, felt like a bellows being worked; the dust in the air burned his throat raw.

One hand gripping the break in his shin, trying to gauge the injury, he swung his other hand hard, trying to wave away the smoke beside him — and a figure, off to his side and slightly behind, rose slowly, swaying, to its feet.

In that figure’s left hand was a shield.

“Hey…”

The figure drew a blade and called out.

A droning, buzzing hum filled Fan Hen’s ears.

He could hear nothing at all…

Stars spun before his eyes, his body burning with pain, as though it no longer belonged to him.

Shi Weiyang shook his head amid the swirling dust.

At this moment, he wasn’t even entirely sure how he’d managed to get back up…

The instant before the explosion, “Dragon Blade” Xiang Dasong had shoved him backward, pulling him away from the immediate vicinity of the explosive package — but even so, the shockwave, the dust, and the wave of heat had still swept over him. He had rolled across the floor for a long while before, in fits and starts, coming back to his senses.

Who was that man…

What had just happened…

Everything that had come before now played back in his mind, fragment by fragment, sharp and swift — the gaze of the shield-bearing assassin charging in, the long pole that had suddenly whipped past before his eyes, Wu Chennan with his neck simply gone, Yan Yunzhi standing at the window’s corner, her face full of despair and fear…

Yes — the despairing, fearful Yan Yunzhi…

This was the moment he had pursued for so many days, the moment for which he had endured such hardship, scheming through several sleepless nights, doing so very many things — following his father’s past teachings, following every maxim of every reliable mentor he had ever had, becoming a man who could truly get things done, neither careless nor arrogant, having, each time pride threatened to rise, forced it back down…

He had wanted so badly to reach this moment, to savor the satisfaction of it…

When he saw the despair in her eyes…

When he saw the fear in her eyes…

When he told her, point by point, all the ways he would deal with her going forward…

When he told her he would chain her up, break her legs, and she couldn’t even talk back…

All of it had given him a sense of pleasure he had never before experienced in his entire life.

Unlike his past habit of bullying others on the strength of his family’s power, or the way certain so-called heroic women had thrown themselves at him, this woman before him had genuinely wanted to resist him — and she was a true heroine, one who had actually killed Jurchens — and he, through open and proper means, had conquered her. This meant he had truly become a man capable of standing on his own, of solving every problem, defeating every enemy.

His father’s path, and the path of great men like He Wen — this was how they had all walked it, too…

His speech hadn’t even finished; he’d even been thinking, come nightfall, of chaining Yan Yunzhi to the bed and delivering even more grand, irrefutable words to her…

That bamboo pole had come whistling in…

His head buzzed and droned, everything feeling like some kind of illusion.

The false dust scattered before his eyes; he coughed hard several times, remembering that Xiang Dasong, who had pushed him aside, seemed to have lunged this way too, and he strained to look around.

Dust and roof tiles were still falling from above; everything, everywhere, lay in ruin now. He saw a figure sprawled on the ground and reached out — but for the first time, he failed to catch hold of the man’s arm. The next instant, the figure on the ground suddenly surged with force, rolled over, and sat up. Shi Weiyang stumbled back two steps as he watched the figure sway upright — it was the burly-framed “Dragon Blade” Xiang Dasong, his clothes now in tatters, patches of white, red, and black skin scattered from his neck upward, making him look, in this moment, ferocious and terrifying, like some kind of monster.

The broad expanse of white was only the dust scattered in the air; the red was blood; the black, char from fire. Shi Weiyang saw his eyes bulging, his right eye socket a solid red.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAH—”

Xiang Dasong let out a sudden roar like a lion’s, swinging the long blade in his hand, blood spraying from his mouth as he cursed something unintelligible into the dust — it sounded like he shouted “Vermin—” His mind, it seemed, was still clear enough; he made no move toward Shi Weiyang, but instead, staring in the direction where the assassin had perhaps been in the corner earlier, staggered forward a step or two.

The droning buzz was gradually fading.

Only now could more sounds be heard — voices calling out amid the surrounding dust, someone shouting: “Protect the Young Master…” someone coughing hard: “Watch out.”

“Kill him…”

“Everyone hold your positions…”

“Don’t panic—”

The smoke swirled thick.

“Ox Demon” Xu Batian swung his great axe a few times through the mist; “Single-Stroke Lightning Sword” Jiang Bing bent low, searching through the wreckage for his weapon; someone was helping a comrade to his feet; another rose, only to discover a broken wooden splinter lodged in his belly, and let out an “Ah—” before charging forward, spear in hand; Shi Weiyang coughed, “cough, cough,” and tried to head toward the light, searching for a way out…

In the smoke, a flash of blade-light fell; “Startling God Hand” Fan Hen slammed a palm down onto the ground, fighting back wildly, but the next instant, the assassin’s figure had already slipped past him. In the smoke, a staggering Baofeng Trading House guard crossed paths with that figure — his spear not yet leveled, a flash of blade-light cut across him from left shoulder clean through to the right side of his body.

“White Asura” He Qinzhao sensed the smoke roiling and surging; the twin daggers in his hands stabbed out at once; a shield came bearing down out of the smoke straight at him; he braced both daggers against it, letting out an “Ah—” as he staggered backward, until, in only a moment, his heel struck the wall on one side of the teahouse. He Qinzhao felt the shield in front of him suddenly flip open, the blade-light chopping forward, the shield swinging back — and then, with a tremendous crash, “Dragon Blade” Xiang Dasong slashed in from the smoke behind and to the side, only to be caught squarely by that shield, while the assassin’s own blade came chopping straight down at He Qinzhao’s head. His left hand thrust up in a hasty block — there came a sharp crack, the web of his hand burst open, and his entire arm became a mass of blood.

Behind them, “Dragon Blade” struck again; the assassin swung his blade to meet Xiang Dasong, while his other hand, holding the shield, swept back around and slammed with tremendous force into He Qinzhao’s chest—

In the swirling dust, the sounds of slaughter rose, then gradually grew clearer. Yan Yunzhi climbed up from the corner where she’d fallen, covering her mouth and nose, forcing herself back to alertness. The wind stirred the dust, thinning it slightly, and as she considered her escape route, she caught sight, within that misty haze, of the figure who had been cutting a path of slaughter straight through everything before him.

“White Asura” He Qinzhao, wielder of twin daggers, had been beaten down into a pool of blood, crawling and thrashing pitifully; “Dragon Blade” Xiang Dasong, roaring like a war god, had been struck by the man’s blade across the shin, his entire body suddenly a head shorter. A guard rushed in to help and was cut down by that same savage blade-light. The single-edged sword’s light was clean, its ferocity almost absolute, and the intent woven into that swordsmanship seemed to swallow heaven and earth.

The southwest.

The Hegemon Blade!

Not long before this.

Having found his opening, Ning Ji had hurled the bamboo pole from the rooftop across the way.

The pole had been aimed straight at Shi Weiyang. However…

“…Missed.”

Throughout the tavern across the street, and below in the building on this side, the Baofeng Trading House’s men in great numbers had already been roused, startled awake. As far as an assassination went, this was the point at which one should withdraw.

Ning Ji’s eyes were cold — coming all the way from the southwest, this was the first time such an icy look had crossed his face. He calmly lit the explosive package he’d prepared.

“Let you all know… what it means to force a kill.”

His body launched off the rooftop. In the sunlight, he plunged straight down into that den of gathered masters, crashing in with a roar—

Note: The chapter closes with the author’s remark that they had originally considered a few overwrought, dramatic titles like “Twilight Slaughter” or “Long Aotian, Mad Slaughter,” but ultimately settled on something more understated. The title’s meaning: an interlude within the great political stage.