Chapter 122: Unarmoring and Grinning Like a Beast

The young nobleman, scion of an imperial family bearing the rare surname Zhao, sat perched atop the Tianbo Mirror-Sundering Arch, legs swinging idly, a slender reed stem held between his lips. His name was Kai, a character meaning both “standard script” and “tetramegna fargesii,” a tree bearing upright, unbent branches. His mother had chosen the name, perhaps hoping he would stand as firm as the tree and act as straightly as brushstrokes—serving as a model. Yet only once he entered the palace, and in solitude with his Grand Tutor visiting the ancestral tombs, did he learn that an ancient tetramegna tree, towering and unbent, stood planted by the ancestors themselves, its branches flourishing lushly, just like the imperial Zhao clan itself.

However, whenever his Grand Tutor gazed upon the tree and lectured him with heartfelt words about the glories and tragedies of the Zhao family, Zhao Kai felt little. Compared to that imperial mausoleum, he found himself far more at ease in the thatched hut of his childhood fleeing from peril. His Grand Tutor would often sigh helplessly, saying his nature was far too unattached and carefree. But Zhao Kai took no offense—perhaps precisely because of this lack of ambition, otherwise the number of assassination attempts on his life would have surely doubled already.

The man who held the reins of empire had six sons and one daughter. Adding Zhao Kai, the seventh son whose very existence was questionable in legitimacy, made seven princes in total. Of them, two had attempted his life, and the rest, though outwardly calm, likely harbored no good intentions. Yet Zhao Kai found himself fond of only one—his younger sister, the Princess, who constantly clashed with him. She was truly the Emperor’s cherished darling, albeit headstrong and domineering, yet at least her temper was worn openly. Every time they met, Zhao Kai always teased her about the speckled freckles on her nose; she had already thrown at him no fewer than eight or ten luminous pearls in fits of anger. What a profligate girl, truly a misfortune for whichever man ends up marrying her.

He gazed down at the last remaining Red-Cloak Spirit General beneath his feet—a divine warrior summoned by a Taoist immortal from heaven, standing ten feet tall, both hands gripping the sword Longque, planted heavily into the earth. This was Jinjia, the strongest among the Five Armored Spirits, unrivaled in impregnability and might. Its Longque sword, brimming with wild, overwhelming sword qi, had never seen actual battle. It was forged at Zhao Kai’s request by an old swordsmith, laboring for five years—each inch completed only as the sword qi grew by threefold. When half the sword had been forged, the swordsmith dared proceed no further until the Grand Tutor seized his family, killing one member daily until only his grandson remained. Then the old artisan resumed the task. When Longque was completed, he begged on bended knee before the Grand Tutor to spare his grandson, who nodded his agreement. But as soon as the sword was completed, the Grand Tutor strangled the old man’s grandson before his very eyes. Upon hearing this, Zhao Kai remained silent, only silently feeling guilt.

His Grand Tutor was no kind-hearted Buddhist master like the Second Tutor. He was the dreaded figure whispered of as second only to the Emperor himself—a man known as Han Diaosi, the “Human Cat,” who had commanded over ten thousand eunuchs for more than twenty years. He was a martial saint who once flayed a Red-Cloak Spirit General alive, piece by piece. Zhao Kai had once seen his Grand Tutor kill a group of assassins with his crimson threads coiling around his left hand, each felled with one finger to their crown—slaughtering mercilessly without so much as a flicker of emotion. The Grand Tutor always ended those moments with a smile toward Zhao Kai, who never found his smile ominous—just as he had never thought his mother’s frail, ailing body anything less than the most beautiful woman in the world.

Still chewing the reed stem, Zhao Kai murmured, “In the reed marshes, the Wood Armor has the advantage of terrain. Pity my brother-in-arms came too soon; in autumn, when the reeds burn easily, the Fire Armor’s might would double. Had the Water Armor not been destroyed by the old swordsman, those few Beiliang bodyguards wouldn’t have made it out alive. Then I wouldn’t need to sneak around with Earth Armor for assassinations—just bring Jinjia out boldly and flatten them all. Isn’t that right, Xiao Jin?”

The armored corpse beneath Zhao Kai’s feet had once belonged to a dead man, a rare 1st-Rank An expert at the Diamond Realm level, whose fate turned tragic upon facing Han Diaosi, the peerless Finger-Sunder Sage. Zhao Kai had once asked his Grand Tutor how powerful a Celestial Frame Boundary expert might be. The Grand Tutor had simply laughed, replying that if such a foe arose, he would personally destroy them with his bare hands, adding that it would be far more amusing to slay a Celestial expert with merely the Finger-Sunder art. Thinking back, Zhao Kai chuckled to himself. He exhaled gently, blowing away the reed stem, stretched his arms lazily, and cast a serene gaze toward the ongoing battle between the Wood and Fire Armors nearby. Since the day’s battle had Wujia Sword Valley and Wang Mingyin leading charge, Zhao Kai had no intention of stealing the spotlight. After all, merely showing up with the remaining three Armors was enough to serve as a deterrent, a silent threat. Sitting openly atop the most visible archway, willingly playing bait was no burden at all.

Lyu Qiantang entered the reed marshes with resolve to die. Facing them were four of the opposing Armor warriors, and clearly the odds were not in their favor. The Crown Prince’s meaning was clear: hold them off as long as possible. Outside in the marshes, Li Chungan faced Wu Liuding, a younger swordsman, with an eightfold chance of victory. Meanwhile, General Ning Ebao alongside a hundred light cavalry and the formidable maid Qingniao, their odds were perhaps even. As long as the battles near the Crown Prince ended in victory, the battle would be decided. What were the deaths of four men in the marshes compared to that? They had all seen with their own eyes the Prince of Beiliang when he visited the Listening-Tide Pavilion and met Lord Beiliang. How many noble sons, born into powerful clans, were not cold-hearted and calculating? If they lacked their fathers’ ambitions and talents, they had at least mastered their fathers’ cruel hearts.

The Daoist Master Wei Shuyang of Jiudoumi sect had not entered the fray directly, merely watching calmly with his sleeves folded.

It fell on Lyu, Yang, and Shu to do the dirty work. Alas, even a blind man could tell that Master Wei’s influence with the Crown Prince far outweighed theirs combined. Fortunately, beneath the arch, one Spirit General Red-Cloak stood in defense of the young nobleman lounging casually atop it, leaving only two more—living embodiments of the merging of Buddhist and Daoist arcane power. Most likely, the Earth Armor was hiding underground, waiting to strike at a key moment. Unwilling to shirk the burden, Lyu Qiantang took the lead, facing off against one Red-Cloak alone. Meanwhile, the generously-rounded Shu Xiu and the white-handed Yang Qingfeng teamed up against the other.

Perhaps sensing little chance of survival, Lyu Qiantang’s battle spirit soared instead of waning. His sword intent, born from watching the tide at Guangling, belonged to the lineage of the old swordsman. Li Chungan’s two-hundred-zhang river slash had inspired Lyu greatly. Now, each sword stroke from his red-cloud greatsword knew no hesitation, charging forth unimpeded. No matter how thick the Red-Cloak’s hide, Lyu unleashed on it all the frustration of forty years, each clash sparking furious showers.

Shu Xiu struck one Spirit General Red-Cloak’s chest with both palms, applying force. But the Red-Cloak only swayed lightly. The lithe Yang Qingfeng kicked toward the Automaton’s head, but it remained unmoving. As the Automaton raised an arm to snap Yang’s leg, Yang used the rebound to retreat, allowing Shu Xiu to land a series of powerful strikes against the Red-Cloak. The sounds were muffled and intense, entirely at odds with Shu’s voluptuous, alluring demeanor. At last, the automaton was pushed back, dragging a deep furrow across the ground.

The woman, once a treacherous disciple of the Southern Witch Sect, gritted her teeth in irritation. “Yang! Do you have no shame letting a woman take the front? Where did you waste all your energy last night—with which woman?!”

Yang Qingfeng landed like falling leaves, but leapt forward again like a coiled panther, landing a kick against the Red-Cloak’s waist. As for Shu’s scolding, he merely muttered with a smirk, “Your mother.”

Infuriated but holding it in, Shu Xiu turned all her fury upon the frontline Red-Cloak. Her beauty twisted into something savage, one hand pressed against the automaton’s chest, then the other slamming atop. With a cry, “Die!” came a single thunderous impact.

Crash!

The Spirit General toppled, smashing into the earth with a booming sound.

At that precise moment,

Shu Xiu and Yang Qingfeng darted back hastily. Shu called urgently, “Master Wei!”

The sorcerer Wei Shuyang narrowed his eyes, smiled, and stepped forth in a flowing procession of celestial patterns, as though walking upon heavenly stars and constellations. His solemn Taoist robe billowed outward. Finally, with both fingers raised skyward and one hand upon his arm, he chanted an incantation, “Heavenly Constellations unchallenged, the army stirs not. Rise!”

As he stamped down his foot,

From around the fallen Spirit General, thirty-six peachwood swords erupted from the earth, suspending in midair.

Of course, this was not the legendary sword flight of a swordsaint severing heads from afar, but rather an arcane Daoist spell. Daoist sects took demon-subduing as their holy mission, possessing their own unique mystical arts. As Master Wei’s fingers flipped, the swords all tilted downward in unison, the thirty-six blades pointing toward the automaton below like stars descending. The old Taoist, having spent half a lifetime mastering his craft, silently chanted the spell—then the array shot downward swiftly.

Surprisingly, the Water Armor that earlier resisted even Li Chungan’s bead-like sword qi and umbrella-summoned whirlwinds—resisting even the force of a horse’s charge and Lyu’s greatsword—now found itself pierced repeatedly by wooden peachwood swords. Thirty-six strikes riddled the Spirit General, transforming it into a porcupine of wooden blades. But Master Wei’s tricks did not end there. From studying the Crown Prince’s description of the armor’s sigil patterns, he deduced their energy flow paths. Now with a flick of his fingers, he commanded two swords embedded in the automaton’s waist to delve deeper. With a deep voice, he called, “Yang Qingfeng, seize these two swords. Strip the armor!”

Yang Qingfeng, having retreated, rushed forward again, grasping two peachwood blades. With a hard pull, the Red-Cloak armor split cleanly in two!

At last, the terrifying immortal automaton lay still.

Master Wei exhaled in relief, yet, noticing the young nobleman atop the Tianbo arch still unmoving, he paused and cried out, “No good! Yang Qingfeng, warn the Crown Prince! Watch for the Earth Armor!”

Frowning above the arch, Zhao Kai murmured with a faint smile, “Detected already?”

He chuckled down, “Xiao Jin, didn’t expect Xiao Mu to get dismantled before even entering the fight. Go. Avenge Xiao Mu.”

※※※

To be a general in Beiliang without daring to lead the charge into battle was simply absurd. From Prince Xu, the martial Nanyu slaughter general Chen Zhibao, to the peerless silver spear-wielding warrior Yuan Zuo Zong, every great general led their men into battle. Facing down Wang Mingyin, the most elite martial artist in the realm, Ning Ebo spurred forward without hesitation, astride his warhorse, clad in full armor, wielding his massive polearm. Behind him, his command rang clear: bows and crossbows were to fire continuously, regardless of friendly fire risk. He would wear down this peerless martial artist through sheer attrition. Charging directly toward Wang Mingyin’s advancing figure, he met him head-on. Across Beiliang’s borders, countless northern enemies had been skewered skyward by his iron spear.

Wang Mingyin halted briefly, extended his arm, and drove a fist into Ning’s spear’s shaft. The polearm trembled violently, and though Ning did not lose his grip, the point was forced downward. Wang Mingyin sprang high, delivering a brutal kick that sent Ning crashing from his mount.

But Ning Ebo was truly a tiger general. His armor bore a deep imprint from the strike, and yet, upon landing, he did not fall. Using his heavy polearm to drag and absorb the impact, he halted and steadied himself, blood already trickling from his lips. Wang Mingyin, somewhat unanticipated, regarded him with slight surprise. He did not immediately attack, unconcerned by the relentless arrows raining upon him. To Wang, those bolts were as harmless as a gentle breeze, brushed aside without effort.

Seeing Wang stationary, Ning Ebo plunged his polearm into the earth, then removed his helm with both hands, discarded the satchel filled with short javelins, and finally removed his armor.

Wang Mingyin remained expressionless until Ning retrieved his weapon, then advanced forward.

The two warriors, one guarding the pass alone, and one ranked as the 11th strongest in the world, charged silently toward each other.

Indeed, when it comes to killing, words need no flourish or flattery. Just a clean, brutal fight.

On foot, Ning’s polearm remained terrifyingly effective—slicing, stabbing, hooking, and chopping with a seamless fluidity. The hundred-jin weapon danced within his grasp, a dance of yin and yang. Wang Mingyin continued to wear that stern, peasant-like expression. When the polearm struck with a savage blow, he blocked with his arm. The rigid spear bent under the force until reaching its limit, when it rebounded. With the polearm’s recoil, Ning spun his massive form, carving a circular pit into the ground while the iron spear carved a full arc through the air with shrieking force. The iron spear, marked by the character ‘Bo,’ clashed again with Wang Mingyin.

This time, Wang, who had been countering single-handedly, finally caught the polearm in his left palm. His right arm wrapped around, and with both hands now gripping it, he twisted the weapon. The ‘Bo’ spearhead rotated half a turn. Ning, unwilling to release his grip, saw his palm burst open, blood gushing, his massive form pulled in an arc, his boots shredding, and clouds of dust rising.

Wang Mingyin, who had earlier declared he’d borrow the Prince’s head, finally spoke a second time. “Borrow the spear.”

Ning’s spear flew from his grasp, his arm dangling loosely, blood dripping.

Wang Mingyin took the polearm but did not wield it. Instead, he hurled it like a javelin.

Piercing clean through a distant light cavalryman wielding a crossbow, the soldier’s body was pinned to the ground.

The spear stood upright, the body beneath it twitching, the weapon trembling slightly.

Ning Ebo did not even look toward the expected carnage. His left hand drew a Beiliang saber.

Wang Mingyin asked, “Will you not retreat?”

Ning’s lips moved, but no sound issued forth.

His blade remained unsheathed, gleaming coldly.

Wang Mingyin sighed slightly. He turned toward the general, now certain of his intent to kill. Yes, the delay might hinder his mission to claim the Beiliang Prince’s head, but these soldiers had made clear their intent to fight to the death.

Before the carriage, Lady Pei Nanwei stood stunned beyond words.

First came the unidentified assassin attempting to burst from the ground toward Xu Fengnian. Then, the Crown Prince, dressed in what seemed ceremonial finery, lunged with a saber strike. Even a blind woman could sense that this was no flashy technique. If that weren’t startling enough, she would rather watch the sword duel at the end of the road or the farmer-like martial artist carving through the Beiliang cavalry formation. But the underground assassin seemed skilled in secret techniques of hidden paths, not remaining in one spot but shifting underground. After Xu Fengnian drove his blade into him, the assassin immediately resurfaced nearby. Xu’s Xiu Dong blade swept sideways, slicing into the waist of the Earth Armor, sparking wildly.

One breath into the Yellow Court.

The purplish mark between Xu Fengnian’s brows deepened.

With one strike landed, the single saber became dual-bladed in his grasp, moving forward rather than retreating. He stayed within five steps of the Earth Armor, for why take ten steps to kill?

With both sabers, Xiu Dong carved a brilliant arc of light, slicing from the head down to the waist, another long trail of sparks.

This was a slash practiced on the Wu Dang mountain’s waterfall.

The Earth Armor threw a punch downward, but Xu Fengnian smoothly retracted his blade, its motion refined and graceful even in power.

The stored force was for the next strike. When selecting martial secrets atop the mountain, why had Xu Fengnian chosen sword art over stance forms? Because he loved the unrestrained, blood-chilling exhilaration found in flowing swordplay—just like the “killing whale” thrust from the Purple Forbidden Manor’s “Killing Whale Sword”—executed now with the saber. Even wielded as a knife, the technique remained grand and mighty. The saber’s tip struck the Earth Armor’s chest. Without hesitation, without pause, Xu Fengnian drove forward, not retreating even an inch! The Earth Armor’s heavy feet slid backward, then again—each step further.

The killing whale thrust succeeded.

Two hands then split into one.

Chun Lei exploded from its sheath!

Xu Fengnian’s left hand gripped the ancient sword, Chun Lei, a single blow unleashing the most refined sword art from “The Green Waters Pavilion’s Jiazi Sword Manual”—Lightning Layer!

Six rolls of thunder burst forth, all striking the Earth Armor’s waist.

Following the thunder, came the saber technique from the “Grass Sword Canon,” while Chun Lei continued uninterrupted, delivering a technique from the preceding generation of Wujia Sword Vault’s sword-bearer Zhao Yutai—“Overturning Armor.”

The Earth Armor staggered back.

In total, Xu Fengnian executed sixteen strikes, seamlessly connected.

Each one a culmination of ancestral martial prowess.

Finally, Xu Fengnian withdrew. Though the Spirit General Red-Cloak showed no signs of defeat, its aura had been completely crushed.

Lady Pei Nanwei gazed at the Beiliang Crown Prince, standing tall with double blades, the length and short blade perfectly contrasting.

He wore a grin. A cruel one.