The sun still burned fiercely as the afternoon began to fade, a hot wind rising across the plain. Along the post road, Tie Tianying rode hard on horseback; in the distance, he could occasionally glimpse other figures likewise racing along, crossing hills and ridges, some pausing on slopes to survey the land ahead. Once past Zhuxian Town heading southwest, the landscape beyond the city grew increasingly desolate—yet a different sort of liveliness had quietly crept in.

Because of an event as momentous as the assassination of Qin Siyuan, every manner of person had come out of the woodwork.

Among the martial artists racing through the area, Tie Tianying did not believe they were all mere onlookers—more than half surely had their own agendas. This Right Chancellor had made too many enemies in his time. While in power, perhaps friends and enemies had been evenly matched; now that he had fallen, there were no friends left, only enemies.

Those who had come to kill him for the sake of fame were one kind. Behind them, various factions had their own motives—revenge, the destruction of incriminating evidence, the seizure of such evidence from others, or perhaps a final effort to root out whatever hidden strength Qin Siyuan still commanded before he was gone for good, lest he leave some hidden card in play. Any of these reasons, or all of them together, might well be true.

But whatever the underlying causes, none of the chief constables wanted to see Qin Siyuan killed within the capital’s jurisdiction—even if, deep down, the entire court would secretly applaud his death, there were still those on the surface who would have to answer for it.

As they rode on, several martial artists behind them, riding fine horses, overtook them one after another; passing by the constables, some who recognized Tie Tianying cupped their hands in greeting before racing off south with excited expressions. Tie Tianying gritted his teeth and cracked his whip more urgently, picking up his pace, muttering curses under his breath as he watched their retreating backs grow smaller: “Damn it all, they don’t know when to quit…”

Ahead of him, he still had not caught sight of Ning Yi and the others.

Further south, beside the small post station along the road, several dozen horses were wheeling about; a number of bloodied corpses lay scattered nearby. Ning Yi reined in his horse and looked at the bodies, while veterans of the martial world like Chen Tuozi jumped down to examine them. Someone climbed up onto the roof to survey the surroundings, then pointed off into the distance.

The sunlight, pouring down, had lost its earlier brilliance…

In a patch of wild grass upon the plain, a crowd fought and scattered, blood dotting the ground drop by drop. The one-eyed general swung his blade with both hands, cutting and hacking, his body drenched in a mix of his own blood and the shredded flesh of his enemies, looking every bit a tiger let loose from its cage. Around him stood six or seven men, led by his personal guard Xu Xiaohu, who had fought off wave after wave of assassins as they fled and struggled to this point.

The two escorting constables had long since been left behind. This was true mortal combat, not the petty scuffling of ordinary bandits. Qin Shaoqian fled onward, trying to find his father up ahead. More than ten assassins, from who knew where, still pursued them through the grass.

“Move!”

“Where do you think you’re going—” a voice boomed from the distance. To the east, a bald monk came sprinting into view. Before he had even arrived, the force of his voice alone revealed formidable skill; his figure tore through the sea of grass like a wave breaking, closing the distance rapidly, while his followers still trailed far behind. Xu Xiaohu, beside Qin Shaoqian, was himself from the orthodox martial world and saw at a glance how dangerous this man was, shouting: “Quick—”

The group pressed on southwest, and off to the side, another party of riders and men on foot appeared, approaching neither too fast nor too slow. The monk behind them closed the distance in an instant; with a sweep of his hand he brushed aside an assassin hesitating in his path, then bore down on the rear of Qin Shaoqian’s group.

The last of the personal guards let out a sudden roar and swung his steel blade with all his strength. This was battlefield swordsmanship, thrown without regard for life or death, the blade cutting forward without hesitation—but the monk proved far too powerful. Meeting the blow head-on, he shattered the soldier’s steel blade into fragments; the man spat blood, his body and the broken pieces of his blade flying together through the air, while the monk pressed on in pursuit without pause.

“Hahahaha!” His laughter boomed out from behind. “This humble monk is Tunyun—I want only the lives of the traitorous chancellor’s family! Those with sense had best clear out of my way—”

The distance closed further!

As Qin Shaoqian’s group raced onward, dodging their pursuers while also searching for word of his father, he understood, ever since learning the scale of this ambush, that within a radius of ten li or more, enemies might lurk anywhere. As they pressed forward, seeing figures approach from the side, they angled slightly away. But that group, some mounted, some on foot, closed in regardless within moments.

Qin Shaoqian gripped his blade in both hands and let out a sudden furious roar. In an instant, figures crossed and mingled in the air, and a woman’s voice rang out: “Hm—Tunyun?” The monk shouted back: “Get out of the way!” The woman’s form flew through the air like a swallow, twin blades whirling soundlessly, cutting through the air itself.

—The Mandarin Duck Blades!

The woman landed in the tall grass, her twin blades flowing like water, swirling like a vortex, even pressing a circular clearing into the long grass. Monk Tunyun abruptly shifted direction, his massive iron sleeves sweeping through the air—but her blade-light passed almost grazing his very sleeve. In that brief exchange, both sides struck a blow, yet neither touched the other. Just as Monk Tunyun tried to recall the identity of this young woman from memory, a young man appeared from seemingly nowhere, walking forward from up ahead, his gaze steady and calm. He simply said, “Hey.”

A gust of fist-force came surging!

It was a punch reduced to its barest essence—rising from low to high, aimed straight at his face. There was no sound of wind splitting, yet it seemed as though the very air had been compressed onto the tip of that fist. Monk Tunyun’s heart lurched; his iron sleeves crossed in a desperate block.

Boom—

Tremendous force surged through him; a dull, heavy sound followed as Monk Tunyun used the impact to retreat, his body skidding backward more than two zhang before coming to a stop. At the same moment, whichever assassins had been sent from elsewhere had already crept up low and were closing in, leaping out from the grass!

Ahead, mounted on horseback and wearing a wide-brimmed hat, a one-armed middle-aged man drew the long blade slung across his back with a reverse grip. The blade sang through the air, red as blood; the man drew it upward, then cleaved downward like flowing water. The assassin who lunged at him seemed to charge straight onto the blade’s edge; with a wet thud, his body was cleaved cleanly in two, tumbling into the grass amid a spray of blood filling the air.

Around them, several others drew their blades as well—clinking, clanging sounds ringing out simply enough. Only the woman wielding the twin blades moved in circles, her blade-light weaving as if painting, flashing again and again to draw countless streaks of blood through the air. The assassin who charged into her guarded range spun once, cut who knew how many times, and collapsed into the grass, blood soaking the ground red around him.

In the span of moments, six assassins had been killed, three wounded, and the rest scattered back to the sides.

Monk Tunyun’s gaze swept across this group, the thoughts in his mind gradually crystallizing. The figure at the center of this mounted party, built like a young girl, wearing a veiled cloak and a floral-print dress, with a long case strapped to her back—this was unmistakably none other than Overlord Blade Liu Xigua. The one-armed man beside her was Heaven-Piercing Blade Du Sha; the woman who had just landed was Mandarin Duck Blades Ji Qian’er. And the one who had just thrown out that plain, unadorned punch—could this not be the very man rumored to have already killed Sikong Nan, Chen Fan?

Remnants of the Sage-Duke’s faction…

In the earlier great battle when they had pursued and killed Fang Qifo, Monk Tunyun had already crossed paths with this group. Coming to the capital this time, he knew full well the place was crawling with dragons and snakes—every great master under heaven had already gathered here—but he truly had not expected these murderous stars to have come as well. How could they possibly dare?

But since they had already come, there was no time now to wonder why they’d dared. In that instant, the girl in the floral dress across from him had also recognized him. She tilted her head slightly, then reached back and slapped the case on her back.

The Overlord Blade was drawn from its sheath!

The girl seized the massive blade and leapt down from her horse, dragging it along as she turned and charged toward him. Monk Tunyun’s feet had already begun retreating; the girl’s body spun once, her pace quickening, then spun again. Monk Tunyun turned and ran, the wind of the blade howling as it bore down on him from behind.

The massive blade was hurled directly at him, its wind whistling as it skimmed the grass tips straight toward Tunyun. But the monk’s lightness skill was formidable too; he ran faster and faster, his body twisting through the air, the long blade sweeping beneath him and spinning several times before slamming into the ground at an angle. Monk Tunyun landed and sprinted onward at full speed.

To throw the Overlord Blade as a projectile weapon—head-on, it could shatter even a carriage to pieces; no great master, however skilled, would dare catch it carelessly. If the fallen blade could be retrieved and carried off, it might dent the other side’s reputation somewhat, but Tunyun had no intention of hauling a blade like that while fleeing. He ran on ahead, where a group of his underlings came rushing toward him:

“Brother Tunyun—”

“Move!” Monk Tunyun swept past them like the wind, and the group hastily turned to follow. Further ahead, someone shouted: “Which mountain do these heroes hail from—” The one calling out, it turned out, was a group of constables from the capital, some twenty or thirty riders. Tunyun shouted back: “Rebels! Rebels over there!”

Chief Constable Fan Zhong, riding in the lead, was utterly baffled as the group ran past him; he and his men rode toward them regardless. As the distance closed, ahead, a woman pulled the Overlord Blade from the ground and slung it over her shoulder, pausing for a moment in surprise. Then, beneath her wide-brimmed hat, her eyes narrowed into two dangerous slits.

Fan Zhong, too, froze for a moment, then drew his sword with a reverse grip and kicked his horse: “Ride! Get—” To encounter the Overlord Blade rebel here, in the very heart of the capital! This was truly a great prize! Before the thought had even fully formed in his mind, he was already spurring forward, the constables behind him instinctively picking up speed as well. But in the blink of an eye, Fan Zhong had wrenched his horse’s head hard around: “—Retreat! Do not engage! Retreat!”

Across from them, the mounted party led by Du Sha and the others had already charged forward as well.

Overlord Blade Liu Xigua, Chen Fan, and a whole crowd of the Sage-Duke’s remnants suddenly appearing here—even within the capital’s own jurisdiction, thirty constables charging in head-on would leave nothing behind but scraps!

As he fled, Fan Zhong pulled a signal flare from his robes and yanked out the stopper.

A trail of fire streaked into the sky with a hiss, and exploded.

…

The blood-soaked hillock.

A body slammed with a thud against a great boulder, blood pouring out, the shape of it crushed beyond recognition. All around, corpses lay strewn everywhere.

The massive figure of the monk stood amid this sea of blood.

The Bamboo Emporium’s guards had all fallen; most of them would never rise again, and those whose eyes still opened had only their last breaths left. Several of the young Qin family men had also fallen, some dead, others with broken limbs, groaning in agony—all struck down by Lin Zongwu’s casual blows when they had charged at him. Among the wounded Qin family members, the only one not groaning was a man named Qin Shaoyu. He had once been on good terms with Gao Mu’en, but later came to admire Qin Siyuan deeply, and had followed Ning Yi in the capital for a time. When the Jurchens laid siege to the city, he had worked tirelessly at the Right Chancellor’s residence, already proving himself an outstanding courier and coordinator.

He had once idolized Ning Yi. Now, with one leg broken, spitting blood, his face pale as paper, he still struggled to crawl toward Lin Zongwu.

Tian Donghan was also still alive, writhing and struggling on the ground; he gripped his long blade and, with great effort, reached it out toward Lin Zongwu. Not far ahead, two old people and a middle-aged woman had already descended from the carriage. The old man sat upon a rock, watching quietly; his wife and concubine stood on either side of him.

A middle-aged man named Ji Kun picked up a long blade from the ground and walked toward Lin Zongwu. He was the chief steward of the Qin household, responsible for handling all manner of unsavory business, his features cold and severe—but in truth, he had no martial skill at all, only an ordinary man.

“All of you are people of standing; this humble one has no wish to slaughter without mercy…”

Ji Kun swung his blade down onto Lin Zongwu’s head without a word. Lin Zongwu did not even blink—the blade could not cut through at all. In the next instant, he flicked his sleeve, and the long blade shattered into fragments and flew into the sky.

“This humble one…”

Ji Kun’s expression did not change. He picked up another blade from the ground and swung it toward Lin Zongwu’s skull once more. Lin Zongwu, mindful of his own standing, had already let the first blow pass, but now anger flared in his eyes, and he swept out his hand abruptly. Ji Kun’s body flew backward like a cannon shot, his head striking a boulder with a crack; his body fell to the ground, and he died on the spot.

Qin Siyuan watched Ji Kun’s corpse, a flicker of grief passing through his eyes, though his expression otherwise remained unchanged.

Lin Zongwu stamped down once more, crushing the crawling Tian Donghan underfoot, then walked toward Qin Siyuan.

The sun was setting in the west.

“Traitorous chancellor, do you know who I am!”

“You are Lin Zongwu.” The old man’s gaze drifted to one side. Hearing that the old man recognized him, Lin Zongwu—though it might well have simply been an attempt to buy his life—felt a swell of satisfaction, until he heard the old man continue, “Just a petty man, nothing more.”

Lin Zongwu frowned slightly, his gaze calm as still water. “Oh?”

“In this old man’s life, I strove for family and nation, for the common people and the altars of the state. I did a great many things.” Qin Siyuan spoke slowly, though he said little more, only casting a mocking glance at Lin Zongwu. “Men of the martial world, however skilled, this old man never bothered much with. But Liheng was quite taken with one such man—the one he admired most was named Zhou Tong. This old man heard his name once. He died attempting to assassinate Wanyan Zonghan—a true hero. It is a pity this old man never had the chance to meet him while he lived.”

“Hmph, that fool Zhou Tong—a pity this one never got the chance to cross blades with him…”

“You are a petty man, not fit to compare to him in the slightest. Zhou Tong spent his whole life for the nation and its people, and died still trying to assassinate an enemy chieftain. And you—a mere dog on a leash—when this old man held office, how would you ever have dared show your face before me. Now, relying on nothing but a bit of brute strength, you come baring your teeth.”

The wind had stilled; the setting sun was growing ever more magnificent. Lin Zongwu’s expression did not change—he did not even seem to grow angry. After a moment, only the faintest of smiles crossed his face.

“It seems you wish to die.”

Force was already gathering in his hands; the moment the old man spoke again of wishing to die, he would step forward and strike him dead. Now that he was Grand Master of the Great Radiance Sect, no matter how exalted this man’s former station, he would not tolerate insult, nor would he hold back his hand.

The old man’s gaze, glancing briefly across the corpses on the ground, showed only the faintest trace of pain before he turned to look toward the western sunlight. How magnificent that light was, shining down upon this land, this splendid country! He remembered, so many years ago, the first time he had felt the magnificence of these teeming multitudes—when he had gone to seek out the underlying order, the great way of heaven and earth, to see the many directions in which all these people ought to travel. He had done a great many things; he had won love, won a woman to grow old beside him, won family and renown; he had tried to revive this nation, tried to save it…

Ah, so many years had passed, and now he was entirely white-haired…

As always, whenever he thought back on these things, his eyes filled with hot tears.

In these last, warm rays of sunlight, he took the hands of the two people behind him, tilted his head, and smiled faintly.

“This old man will never die at your hands…”

He said.

Not long after, Lin Zongwu went mad with fury upon that hillock.

…

The mounted party raced onward.

Few figures could be seen nearby, but the various means of signaling—flares shot into the sky, the occasional trace of violent clashes—made clear that this stretch of plain had grown extraordinarily lively.

Tie Tianying reined in at the edge of the hillock and looked upward; faintly, he could make out Ning Yi’s figure, standing amid a field of red.

The setting sun shone down from that direction.

…

Across the plain, great crowds had gathered.

The master fighters of the Great Radiance Sect had already assembled. Some martial artists from the wider world milled about nearby; Chen Qinghe had also arrived close by. Someone recognized the Grand Master of the Great Radiance Sect and stepped forward, cupping his hands: “Grand Master Lin, do you still remember me? How did things go on your end?”

“Brother Kuang.” Lin Zongwu returned the gesture without a hint of pretension, then declared loudly, “The traitorous chancellor has been executed!”

The crowd erupted in shouts and roars. Chen Qinghe’s heart lurched—he knew Lin Zongwu was using this to build momentum for the Great Radiance Sect’s push into the capital, but there was nothing to be done about it. Even if, afterward, punishment came down from above, with the right backing, the Great Radiance Sect would still work its way into the capital from the bottom up, gradually becoming a legitimate presence through one means or another.

Not far off, Monk Tunyun hid himself among the crowd, cursing his luck inwardly, then wondering whether he ought to stir up trouble by telling Lin Zongwu that remnants of the Sage-Duke’s faction had entered the capital, and let them fight it out once more.

On the hillock to the north, a mounted party came riding up.

“Lin, you evil monk!” a voice called out, utterly devoid of warmth—it was Ning Yi.

Lin Zongwu turned around, smiling broadly at the Bamboo Emporium’s people gathered on the hillock, then strode forward.

The Bamboo Emporium numbered no more than a few dozen; even with reinforcements, at most a hundred or two hundred. This time, the master fighters of the Great Radiance Sect had come as well—Mad Tiger Wang Nantuo, Swift Sword Lu Bingyuan, Monkey King Li Ruoque—along with many other first-rate masters, plus a good number of allied heroes of the wider world—several hundred strong in all. And if needed, more could still be summoned without end.

A pity his senior sister would not see this moment…

While Qin Siyuan lived, the Great Radiance Sect’s influence could never take root in the capital; there was great enmity between him and Ning Yi. This time, at last, the reckoning had come.

He strode forward toward Ning Yi.

More hoofbeats sounded, and a group came charging out from the side—Tie Tianying, leading his Ministry of Justice constables. He took one look at the unfolding situation and rode toward Chen Qinghe’s group instead.

Lin Zongwu’s steps did not falter; the others slowly closed in as well, including Chen Jianyu and the other martial artists from the wider world, following close behind, savoring the bearing of this man rumored to already be the greatest martial artist under heaven. As the distance narrowed, Lin Zongwu’s brow furrowed.

No small number of others’ brows furrowed as well.

Over by the hillock, the tremors had not ceased.

When the two sides had closed to within twenty-some zhang, the ones in front finally came to a stop. Lin Zongwu and Ning Yi, standing atop the hillock, faced off against one another; he studied Ning Yi’s pale expression—this was the moment he savored most. But doubt still circled in his mind. A moment later, someone in the formation dropped to the ground, listening to the earth, and many faces filled with confusion.

It was already too late for everything.

At the edge of that hillock, the silhouette of the first warhorse leapt into view, and the mounted force that came thundering forth was like a shadow blotting out the sky, hooves shaking the very earth as they broke through it. This tide of iron hooves spread outward to the left and right, sweeping across everything in its path, blanketing the land.

“Run—”

Lin Zongwu let out a roar like thunder.

Off to the side, Monk Tunyun, who had been eating dried meat after his long run, flung the food from his hand: “I—fucking—”

He turned and ran.

Hundreds of men turned and ran with him.

Not far off, it seemed more were still rushing toward the signal.

The cavalry swept through, bearing down directly on the rear of the crowd. Lu Bingyuan, one of the Great Radiance Sect’s master fighters, turned to sweep his sword in a wide arc, but two spears broke through his guard, piercing from chest to back and lifting him high into the air. Before he could be torn apart entirely, he was carried aloft for some distance by the charging horses, his sword still swinging wildly.

Lin Zongwu shoved two of his subordinates forward, then spun around abruptly and threw a single punch, sending a charging warhorse flying through the air—a truly thunderous display of force. Those glancing back over their shoulders had no time even to cheer before the following cavalry cut down with their long blades—one, two, three, four…Lin Zongwu’s massive frame was hurled through the air like a great bear, tumbling and lurching across the ground before continuing his desperate flight.

Those behind who ran too slowly, who had failed to mount in time, were swallowed by the sea of hooves. Across the plain, the wailing of ghosts and howling of wolves rose up as flesh turned to pulp and blood spread out like a carpet.

On that hillock, the setting sun blazed like fire. Ning Yi, atop his horse, raised his head, his eyes still fixed on the scene playing out on that other hillock.

As the enemy had closed in, the old man and the two wives at his side had crushed the poison pills in their mouths. The three of them, all white-haired, huddled together in their final moment—even Lin Zongwu, gone mad with fury, had in the end not dared to disturb that scene.

Qin Siyuan—the chancellor who had organized the northern campaign, organized the resistance against the Jin, organized the defense of Bianliang, and who had, in the end, borne every last curse for it—was sentenced to exile on the sixth day of the fifth month. On the evening of the ninth day of the fifth month, in a place barely a few dozen li outside the walls of Bianliang, he bid this world farewell forever. From the day he had first entered official service as a young man to this very end, his soul had never truly managed to leave this city he had longed for all his life.

For a long time after his death, those who had taken part in killing him were, by most people, called “righteous men.”