Chapter 14: Young Master, Please Stay

Miyong never expected that his proud combat skills, which he had always been proud of, were unable to offer even momentary resistance against the generals from the Zhao household. He was struck down within moments, his complicated techniques effortlessly shattered and torn apart by the opposing side’s surprisingly simple, yet immensely powerful, fighting style. Right up until he was felled onto the ground did he struggle to comprehend the fact that he had indeed suffered an absolute, humiliating defeat.

As an officer marked for significant attention within the imperial military, Miyong had the privilege to study an abridged version of an imperial secret martial art—the power of which still remained formidable. During internal military exercises, he had repeatedly defeated rivals of equal rank. As such, he had gained recognition throughout the command and his potential remained a subject of keen interest among the elite.

Yet he could not comprehend for the life of him—how could he succumb to such a simplistic and brash fighting form? Fighters under the Zhao banner seemed no different from brutal, uncivilized ruffians. Their moves offered no beauty, no grace—just unfiltered speed, strength, and viciousness that felt like brute kicks and punches from mindless beasts.

Amid shock and fury, Miyong imagined that if he had been able to instead strike at their leadership and challenge Zhao Jun Du himself, a defeat borne from fighting to the last wouldn’t be so degrading to his reputation. Though he was never arrogant enough to dare envision vanquishing Zhao Jun Du in personal struggle.

Yet what made matters worse was how the situation uncurled. One random warrior from these Zhao dogs was effortlessly able to bring down them all, including him, before Miyong had even had a chance to use half of his ultimate finishing moves.

The Zhao noble had now left without casting even one glance towards Miyong, clearly demonstrating no interest in conversing with this defeated foe. It rendered whatever bold scolding that might have saved face utterly ineffective. Trapped by his sense of loss beneath the weight of wounded pride, he simply swallowed all words and emotions.

It was just then that a warrior from the Zhao faction produced a short, razor-edged blade in cold silence—causing Miyong’s heart leap into his throat. A dark chill of realization ran through him. There was no escape.

Suddenly all illusions were smashed—Miyong broke into mad laughter as he called out: “Zhao Jun Du! You think merely hijacking this single command is all it takes to change the fate unfolding here? Let me tell you a secret—General Lu already dispatched two emissaries at the same time one has already departed towards the imperial capital on another vessel even as we speak!”

Zhao Jun Du continued walking, unfazed, disappearing in the distance, seemingly indifferent to the voice behind.

The warrior left behind to finish business sneered, “You think Master Zhao is to be trifled with? Let me enlighten you: that ship flying toward the capital is right now no more than lifeless debris floating pointlessly through empty void. Gone. Dust.”

A wave of cold ran through Miyong—Factions of Zhao’s strength now dawned upon him. His throat burned cold as it was slashed wide open, the life escaping in blood as he gargled attempts to form words. A futile grasp upon his bleeding neck remained his final act. Once intent to speak his vengeance and hate aloud, a last-minute vision struck—an epiphany.

Lu Saobei had deliberately sent three separate messengers. Perhaps he had predicted beforehand Zhao House might intercept—and knowing how bloodless Zhao leaders operate in such circumstances, their choice wouldn’t leave behind any surviving mouths. Not after an imperial messenger had been intercepted.

In short: he and any envoy headed into capital territory were already considered dead meat in the general’s mind. Sacrificial pawns to mislead their hunters so that real communications slipped away safely elsewhere—perhaps bound across seas toward Yue territories.

Suddenly hating both his commander’s betrayal and his own obliviousness in dying without achieving purpose, Miyong summoned the dying strength left to scream one word aloud: “Another courier! To Yue territory…”— but even breath betrayed him. His mind blanketed in dark, a final silence swallowed by the grave.

With the warrior overseeing his final gasp confirm the death of Miyong, the soldiers hauled all slain bodies atop an armored vehicle and then aboard floating vessels of aerial departure; the royal courier unit disappeared completely from existence as if they had never been.

Indeed no more shocking than shadows shifting in darkness of wartime conditions where even people may vanish. Just as humans had infiltrated night-dwelling races’ ranks, spies from the abyss had often haunted human supply lines and command structures under the cover of night.

Unconcerned as yet another vehicle awaited, Zhao Jun Du instead made way walking toward The Undropping City while the rest loyal followers matched his pace. All of them knew something else had struck their young noble’s mind.

Moving rapidly across distances the others struggled to contain their restless spirit when finally:

“My Lord, surely nothing worth all that effort lies within that single scroll you carry?” burst out one especially impatient commander from amongst several who followed closely behind.

Zhao paused—much to their own baffled reaction—as he casually handed them the report scroll: “Then you all had best see for yourselves then.”

Confused and curious at equal measure, he grasped the scroll in both hands as quickly scanned—before exclaiming sharply at a sentence caught upon: “The将军is in…Neutral territory—Qian Ye???”

“Qian Ye… the将军?”

Glancing to each other, their instinctively switched terminology, adopting the rank once given without hesitation to their comrade-in-arms now gone into exile and shadows unknown. Almost nobody among them yet knew about how Qianshee was the son to their own supreme house head (a secret so tightly guarded). Even after all these years in blood and battles together—his charisma had become imprinted forever within their spirits.

Yes—even the painful, sudden revelation of their friend’s vampiric legacy could no longer shake the deep loyalty earned in years spent surviving mutual slaughter with their own hands and hearts beside his side—each soldier remembered countless occasions Qian Ye pulled impossible victories from fire.

To those hard-bitten war-brothers standing side-by-side, trusting ones’ back into hands so tried on thousand killing floors—it simply became a question less of belief more of instinct. And that deep-down truth whispered they would never ever be led or betrayed by a phantom planted to sleep among men while serving eternal night—such stories spread in higher ranks seemed farfetched. Rather—whispers of conspiracies, secret deals behind royal back and kidnappings of the beloved one from Qian Ye’s household—only those stories seemed more likely.

The scroll was passed along all ranks. All stood in silent communion, minds resolved on common ground. A warrior spoke up: “My Lord Fourth Prince, Qian Ye still and forever remains part of your elite! Whatever title or name he now wears means little compared to who stands upon those fields as brother in arms—those meddling cowards and backroom schemers in royal command pushed him beyond all toleration. Whatever needs doing from hence—for us there’s only one question left: where is Your Lord Command wanting us go now with blade drawn, hearts pledged, and this loyal brother named庞大海and his men by your side without reservation whatever lies may lay ahead.”

Zhao gave the faintest glimpse of a grin: “I’ve not kept secrets often from you these years. Now I tell you what must be—a small strike force must reach Neutrals’ domain quietly and make contact. Find Qian Ye, ascertain the true state of his situation.

From thenceforth we establish firm foundations to hold until I personally break through these fronts ahead and meet you. That’s what will happen next.”

“Understood, my Lord!” answered庞大海: “That part I get. But still—the eastern fronts become harder day-by-day—and our Prince’s own protection here—our concern is… leaving the frontline could expose you to threats otherwise held back with just our presence alone. We take cuts we can afford so Your back faces lesser risk if we’re present. That much is what we’re loyal enough left behind for. But without us standing near…”

“I’d prefer my enemies preferred best my victory rather than their dream at my life,” answered Zhao Jun Du, letting out small laugh at his man-at-arms’s concern. “And for safety? Others are already near, a far fiercer presence you may trust.”

Now they stood wide-eyed at mutual silence.

Each of them tried to recall any known powerful being at this very location currently unengaged enough even slightly qualified to receive Zhao Jun Du’s rare praise in passing. None could come even near.

Before they pestered him into a corner, the young noble yielded: “It’s never worth much patience dealing with you brutes anyway. The man I meant was the seventh son of the Song clan.”

All were stunned at unison: “The SEVENTH Son?!”

The name Song Zining belonged now in history: alongside him emerged among the most gifted and illustrious talents of the modern age—ranked second only behind himself at certain points and standing in league with legends like Qian Ye. Unlike Zhao Jun Du himself, whose strength and skills had grown from years’ experience in battle, Song possessed an entirely other form of excellence in tactical genius and brilliant battlefield coordination skills so legendary there’d grown rumors of Song Zining destined for succession after Commander Lin Xitang as an emerging new deity of war doctrine.

Once serving under General Zhang Boqian, Song had been actively engaged even in Qian Ye’s dramatic rebellion night before withdrawing mysteriously away altogether—some time even lost from public eye, speculation raged regarding the truth behind absence from known war zones. It had become difficult to tell if he still resided in the floating mainlands or not altogether beyond range.

It made no less than perfect sense the rest were reluctant—excepting all others—Song’s sheer reputation stood so imposingly in its own way Zhao would scarcely seem capable commanding even this elusive figure into obedience.

Pomg大海blinked stupid shock:

“Seventh Son… is still upon Floland?? But this is absurd—such raw brilliance, wasted upon hidden sidelines. I can scarce believe.”

“Not finding him remains the norm for the others,” answered Zhao casually. Then suddenly he halted, expression altering—glacially amused eyes flickering as laughter formed.

“But—seems we won’t need to hunt him for he appears just brought himself conveniently unto my blade’s range now. I bid you leave and await return at camps; matters elsewhere demand my attention.”

With this, Zhao took off into heavens without further delay—as wind rushing past, gone into distance unseen by ordinary eyes.

Around Undropping City’s frontiers—outer bastions glittered faint among sky like celestial constellations, arrayed symmetrically with deadly intent all around perimeter.

During these war times, while withstanding unending onslaughts by endless horde from darkness realms above, every major noble estate continued building massive lines of fortified positions—each stronghold standing not merely as bastion against siege, but an expression of power—scare tactics and war machines built to bleed endless hordes to their deaths slowly over prolonged campaigns.

Outermost edges showed signs of annihilation, land reduced and shattered into ash, every trace incinerated where conflict reached. Further in, however—towards Undropping itself—all along rear defense perimeters and amidst bastion walls stood vast encampments—housing forces and serving additional checkpoints preventing dark races infiltrators from slipping behind the lines like phantoms in mist through gaps of shadow unseen in cover night might bring.

Camp lines dotted the land across the terrain, both small and large, varying wildly from clan to noble estate and all established independently through mutual agreement of noble traditions rather than unified decree—so many had been erected it was practically impossible anymore to tally exact quantity held there at command of military forces of F-Zhong or allied clans; but as long each stronghold released unbreakable flows of warriors rushing to aid frontlines—Zhao clan tolerated their hidden independence.

Even the Imperial throne found itself restricted under ancient customs in intervening such internal familial strategies and traditions—Zhao Clan held one of four noble houses, so such interference violated protocol unless necessary.

In certain lower-tier clan’s small encampment, a dim lantern still glowed within simple, otherwise unremarkable tents.

Seemingly mundane amongst many—the only peculiarly notable distinction was that one certain tent stood out only for having room left entirely solitary, as only officer ranks above colonel deserved to receive quarters isolated for rank.

The Colonel inside packed slowly—delicately—clothes rolled, each item arranged in meticulous order—nothing wasted no time left without calm composure, preparing to depart for far-flung paths unknown.

Then—flaps of his tent were violently torn apart at entrance. Zhao Jun Du stood there with smile half amused, voice lilting:

“My Seven Young Noble… might I beg leave—please, do not yet venture far tonight.”