Xu Fengnian was utterly bewildered. The “Zhao Gou,” a ruthless hound used by the Liyang regime to eliminate rivals, had most of its command authority previously held by a relative of Empress Zhao Zhi. Could it be that the old spy from Tanghua Pavilion had received secret orders from her? Yet Zhao Zhi was no kind-hearted woman. The bond between the Xu and Zhao families was divided into two parts: one between Xu Xiao and the late emperor, and the other between Xu Fengnian’s mother and Zhao Zhi. Both had vanished into thin air during Xu Fengnian’s last visit to the capital outside the Jiujie Pavilion. Moreover, between the refugee lands and the Liyang Zhao court lay the formidable Beiliang army—how could Zhao Zhi possibly meddle in affairs here?
Suddenly, Xu Fengnian’s heart jolted. He had dared to reject the emperor’s decree, and Zhao Zhi’s schemes meant little to him. Yet perhaps he had miscalculated something, a thought that unsettled him. But there was no time to alter his plans now. At worst, he would resort to the simplest method—meet force with force, and see who emerged as the mantis or the oriole in the end.
At the entrance, Gu Feiqing tossed an iron spear to Zhong Liang inside. The demon lord weighed it briefly, then deftly spun it into an elegant flourish, the shaft quivering into a pleasing arc. With the spear in hand, Zhong Liang’s aura transformed abruptly, shedding his earlier carefree, hermit-like demeanor. He dragged the spear along the ground, the tip scraping noisily against the blue bricks. His steps were irregular, alternating between swift and slow, seemingly random. In the blink of an eye, he had silently closed the distance to Xu Fengnian, gripping the spear’s base and swinging it in a wide arc toward Xu’s head. Xu had no intention of foolishly blocking with both hands. Instead, he swept his own spear diagonally in an arc, intercepting Zhong’s strike. At the moment of impact, Xu immediately released his spear, avoiding the full force of the collision. Yet he did not let go for long, catching the spear again just before it hit the ground, now carrying only the residual momentum. To an untrained eye, Xu appeared to have held fast, clashing head-on with Zhong Liang. Though Xu had cleverly evaded the initial surge of force, Zhong’s immense internal energy proved unexpectedly overwhelming. As Xu gripped the spear again, he had to twist his wrist and employ the “Collapse” technique to disperse the lingering force. Yet in the art of martial confrontation, a single misstep often led to inevitable defeat. Few duels resembled the endless battles between the spear immortal Wang Xiu and the Fu General, where combatants clashed ceaselessly. Most were decided in an instant.
As Xu executed the Collapse technique, Zhong Liang pressed forward with Wang Xiu’s vertical arc, forcing Xu into a defensive stance once more. This time, however, Zhong Liang turned the tables. While the arc technique was genuine, the spear tip erupted with a burst of fierce energy from the Collapse technique. Zhong’s iron spear, already bent into an unimaginable arc, pointed directly at Xu’s face, just a foot away. The energy blast extended precisely one foot—no more, no less! Xu had two choices: absorb the full force of the arc or attempt to deflect the energy with a hidden sword in his sleeve. Without hesitation, he chose the former, knowing that showing off swordplay before a sword prodigy was tantamount to courting death. Xu opted instead to retreat, sliding backward while slightly bending his knees to dissipate the force. Zhong Liang, spear in hand, did not press the advantage immediately. Instead, he shadowed Xu, keeping the spear tip a foot from his brow, withholding the decisive Collapse technique. The energy flickered ominously. The second-ranked demon lord of Beiman thus taunted Xu Fengnian at his leisure.
Zhong Liang’s mastery of the spear techniques rivaled Xu’s, a feat attributable not only to his extraordinary talent but also to a legendary duel two years prior against Duan Mao, the broken spear master ranked among the Ten Greatest Martial Artists in the world. Zhong’s profound understanding of spear techniques closely matched Xu’s, who had learned from proximity to masters. Yet Xu’s current cultivation, at the Second Tier, paled in comparison to Zhong’s. Unlike the secluded martial artists who engaged in polite duels, Zhong Liang had spent his life in bloodshed. Thus, in a pure spear-to-spear contest, Xu’s defeat was inevitable.
In terms of innate talent, Xu Fengnian fell short of the old man clad in sheepskin who had known himself to be the greatest since first wielding a sword, or of Xuan Yuan Jingcheng, who had become a Confucian sage through mere study, or of the woman who had unknowingly mastered the art of sword flight through calligraphy, or of the charcoal-selling girl born with a celestial sword essence. There were many such figures, and Xu would lose to them all. Yet when it came to sheer will to survive, Xu might not surpass them, but he certainly did not lag behind.
As Xu retreated past two peach trees, his back nearly touching the palace wall, he halted. With a small arc of his spear, he feigned a desperate waist-level strike at Zhong Liang. Zhong remained unfazed, advancing the spear tip half a foot further, as if inviting Xu to trade lives. It seemed Zhong was not aiming for victory but gambling—betting that Xu would not dare to reciprocate. Xu hesitated not at all, maintaining the arc while simultaneously drawing the Xiudong saber from his waist with his left hand. This blade, gifted by the White Fox, was perhaps the closest thing Xu had to an intimate companion, having accompanied him through both Liyang and Beiman. With the Xiudong in hand, Xu’s presence transformed, like the unarmed second guardian of the Dragon Mansion suddenly wielding a spear.
Zhong Liang’s gaze cooled, his internal energy surging. At the critical moment of exchanging lives, the young man still refused to flee, instead fearing that the arc strike might not kill him outright, needing to ensure death with an extra slash? Did this boy truly disregard the title of Prince of Beiliang? Did he truly possess the resolve to perish together? Zhong’s eyes flared with sudden intensity. As Xu’s iron spear struck him, Zhong’s spear tip, along with its energy, crashed into Xu’s brow. In the aftermath, even the formidable Zhong Liang was hurled three zhang backward, his shoulder torn open to the bone. He gazed at the young man who had collapsed the palace wall. The youth’s plight was far worse—discarding his spear, he had sheathed his saber. A crimson mark marred his brow, his eyes bloodied and blurred. Red threads, like slender crimson serpents, coiled from his sleeves up his arms and neck, creeping toward his temples and eyes. Zhong Liang muttered in irritation, “That swordplay resembles Gu Jiantang’s half-baked ‘Square Thunder.’ And that Dragon Binding Art—could it be the human cat’s Finger Divination?”
Zhong Liang sighed, regarding the young Prince of Beiliang with a mix of pity and surprise. “If I had known you’d surprise me like this, I’d have put in a bit more effort. Alas, my part is done.”
Inside the Golden Hall, Zhou Junchen, Lord of Qingcang, crouched behind a golden pillar, one hand gripping it, the other clutching a dragon-embroidered jade pendant. He knew his limits—he was merely a puppet. His three guardians outwardly obeyed him, yet none truly respected him. He stared at the back of an elderly man in wide sleeves—his third guardian, a master of poisons and witchcraft from the Southern Frontier, skilled in both killing and healing, and infamous for his cruel methods of torture. Zhou had never uncovered the true origins of his three guardians. Qingcang’s intelligence network was virtually nonexistent—not for lack of effort on his part, but due to the constraints of survival in a land sandwiched between rival powers. Acquiring hundreds of sets of armor and weapons had already drained his resources. For a small kingdom in turbulent times, two factors most directly reflected its strength: maintaining a standing army ready for war, and gathering intelligence. The former was an endless drain on finances, and the latter, a voracious beast consuming both money and lives.
Earlier, the head of the Dragon Mansion’s spies had assured him that the young prince had come alone, with no significant Beiliang forces in motion. Zhou had intended to test the waters, then negotiate man-to-man over wine and beauty. If the youngest prince of Liyang proved sincere, Zhou would not mind becoming a governor under Beiliang or even a general. If not, he could always kill him later. Unfortunately, Tanghua Pavilion’s old man insisted on deploying the Dragon Mansion’s most powerful talisman array, and the third guardian and cavalry commander Jiang Heng supported him. The second guardian, Liang Zhong, a former Spring and Autumn Period exile with a Beiman accent, remained indifferent as usual, choosing to watch idly. This completely disrupted Zhou’s plans. Now, he could only hope for Xu Fengnian’s death outside, preferably followed by Beiliang’s collapse. Otherwise, he would have to flee westward with a handful of loyal soldiers to the barren frontier.
Zhou sighed, glancing at the golden throne, then peering outside. A chill ran down his spine as he turned to see four strangers—three men and a woman, two adults and two youths. The boy was a chubby child rolling joyfully on the throne, while the girl, plain-faced but fair-skinned, knelt beside him, biting the throne as if testing its gold.
Zhou might have ignored the children, but the two men chilled his blood.
The younger man was a towering figure with an unusual presence—his eyes appeared blind, yet not quite.
Beside him stood a short man in Beiman attire, his rough features visible only in profile. He slowly traced a hand over the throne, his touch both reverent and mocking.
Zhou, clad in yellow imperial robes, swallowed hard, too terrified to speak.
The short man smiled, not looking at Zhou. “Compared to the throne in Liyang’s Golden Hall, is this one bigger or smaller?”
Zhou, familiar with the Beiman tongue, replied cautiously, “Much smaller.”
The man nodded, withdrawing his hand and turning to face Zhou. Half his face was scarred, his thumb rubbing the wounds.
At the sight, Zhou recalled a rumor and staggered backward in terror.
During Beiliang’s northernmost campaign, a young Beiman strategist from the northern court had revolutionized cavalry raids. With vastly inferior forces, he had humiliated two surviving Liyang generals in the east. Later, he daringly reinforced the western front, clashing repeatedly with the unstoppable Beiliang cavalry. Though he did not lose, he eventually fell to Li Yishan’s cunning schemes and was cornered by a rotund general named Chu, whose expertise in lone cavalry maneuvers matched his own. In a brutal eight-hundred-mile duel, both sides were reduced to mere remnants—Chu’s force dwindling to eighty riders. This battle, though not decisive, had stunned generals on both sides.
This unassuming man was none other than the Beiman royal prince, Murong Baoding, half-brother to Empress Murong. Known as “Murong Half-Face,” his scars were a gift from Chu Luxian, the current Beiliang commander.
Not merely a master of strategy, Murong was also a martial prodigy, nearly a Diamond King himself, his invincibility rivaling the White-Robed Monk of the Two-Chan Temple.
Seeing Zhou’s fear, Murong Baoding, the Jie of Juizi Prefecture, chuckled. “Recognize me now?”
He gestured to the sightless, refined man beside him. “You should fear him more—the ruler of the Rouran Three Garrisons, Hong Jingyan.”
Hong Jingyan?
Though displaced from fourth to sixth place among the world’s greatest martial artists by the Demon King, was sixth place not still formidable?
With Murong Baoding, also among the Ten Greatest, standing together in Qingcang, what did this mean?
Zhou Junchen, a man who feared death above all, now accepted his fate, his mind consumed by a single thought: “The Prince of Beiliang outside is doomed!”
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