Dunhuang City.
In the depths of the night, a woman who was already a light sleeper quickly rose from bed when her child began to cry. She draped a robe over her shoulders and tenderly lifted the child from the cradle, coaxing a smile back onto the little one’s face.
Gazing down at the innocent, joyful expression, she too smiled.
Gently rocking her arms, she began to hum a soft lullaby, *”Little sweet potato, little sweet potato, grow up fast, grow up fast…”*
—
Under the banner of King Yan Zhao Bing, the official count of troops was a modest hundred thousand, yet in truth, his forces numbered well over two hundred thousand. Among them were no fewer than eighty seasoned generals, each a master of war. Zhang Dingyuan, the infantry commander, excelled in exploiting weaknesses and striking with precision, while Gu Ying was a relentless vanguard, thriving in the bloodiest of battles. Ye Xiufeng, the general of Yuanzhou, was renowned as the “Southern Frontier’s Wang Mingyang,” famed for his unshakable city defenses. Liang Yue of Hezhou was a master of lightning raids, driving his infantry like cavalry. These were men of extraordinary talent and unyielding pride, though their brilliance had long been overshadowed by the ironclad reputation of the Northern Liang cavalry. In the capital of Liyang, their names were scarcely whispered, paling in comparison to the likes of Chu Lushan or Yan Wenluan.
Yet one exception stood above them all—Wu Zhongxuan, the foremost general of the Southern Frontier. This veteran not only commanded half the frontier’s northern forces but also held sway over its only cavalry division. When Crown Prince Zhao Zhu led several thousand riders to quell the rebellion in Guangling, those were, in truth, borrowed from Wu Zhongxuan’s reserves. Though Wu and Nalan Youci served as Zhao Bing’s right and left hands, the king’s trust in Nalan bordered on blind devotion, leaving Wu somewhat sidelined. Of his three sons, only the illegitimate one remained by his side, a notorious rake who once led a private retinue south to flaunt his power, only to be humiliated by the crown prince. The aftermath saw Zhao Bing’s third son, Zhao Yu, recalled from the northern frontier, and Wu himself rarely returned south thereafter, dedicating himself wholly to guarding the north.
A company of twenty riders reined in on the southern bank of the Guangling River, watching the mighty waters surge eastward like a celestial ribbon undulating in the wind. Clad in armor and bristling with weaponry, they exuded an air of lethal competence. At their center stood the white-haired Wu Zhongxuan, his spine straight as a spear, gripping a horsewhip crafted from tiger bone and hide. His gaze pierced across the river to the distant northern shore. Flanking him were Tang He and Li Chunyu, his most trusted lieutenants, men whose names might lack the luster of Zhang Dingyuan or Gu Ying but whose battlefield prowess he never doubted. Both hailed from prestigious northern families, their intricate marital alliances granting Wu connections far beyond the constraints binding Zhao Bing.
Tang He, a rough-hewn man with an unkempt beard, grumbled as he stroked his mount’s muscular flank, *”Did Zhao Yi and Zhao Xun conspire to slight us? Refusing to aid our crossing under the pretense of needing to defeat Cao Changqing’s navy first—what nonsense!”*
Wu Zhongxuan replied calmly, *”Ten thousand troops crossing a river is no trivial matter. Their reasoning holds.”*
Tang He scoffed, *”Cao’s forces have already withdrawn to Bailu Lake. Why not let the Qingzhou navy escort us at Longmen Crossing? Or cross near the estuary? Are they so afraid of our Southern Frontier’s elite?”*
Wu shook his head. *”This is the capital’s will. Do you think Zhao Yi and Zhao Xun decide such things?”*
Tang He laughed derisively. *”Pathetic, for princes to be so powerless.”*
Wu Zhongxuan, ever stoic, pondered deeper. This northern campaign was a gamble, and beyond the battlefield, he had a private matter to settle—a promise to safeguard Jiang Fuding of Wudi City, in exchange for a future of unimaginable wealth. The orchestrator of this deal had unearthed the darkest secret of Wu’s rise: the shadowy hand of Huang Sanjia. A secret he had kept even from his wife.
Another group of riders approached, their arrival stirring unease among Wu’s men. At their head was Crown Prince Zhao Zhu, clad in rich robes, a stark contrast to the armored generals. With him were the enigmatic monk-daoist Gong Banque, the stunning martial artist Lin Ya, and the towering northern woman whose presence commanded respect.
Zhao Zhu greeted Wu with a bright smile and a clasped fist. *”Your efforts are appreciated, General.”*
Wu’s lips twitched in what might have passed for a smile.
As they surveyed the river, Zhao Zhu asked softly, *”What moves have Zhao Xun and Zhao Yi made?”*
Wu detailed the Qingzhou navy’s strategic deployments, their blockade stretching from the Guangling River to Bailu Lake, where Cao Changqing’s outnumbered fleet faced an uphill battle.
Zhao Zhu nodded, then mused, *”In late spring, what winds prevail over Bailu Lake?”*
The question stumped even the seasoned Wu.
Lin Ya chuckled. *”The strategists of Chunxue Tower aren’t fools. They’ve surely considered such things.”*
Zhao Zhu sighed. *”Then it falls to Cao Changqing alone to turn the tide.”*
Gong Banque rubbed his shaved head. *”Hardly. With Qi Jiajie, Chai Qingshan, and even that woman from Huishan joining the fray, plus the full might of the Zhao Gou, stopping him won’t be easy, but neither will it be impossible.”*
As Wu’s retinue departed, Zhao Zhu lingered by the river, his fingers brushing a worn coin pouch tied to his belt.
*”If one day, the empire falls to me, and the rivers and lakes to you, Xu Fengnian,”* he murmured, *”then our meeting at Dantong Pass will not have been in vain.”*
Clenching the pouch, he whispered fiercely, *”Xu, no matter what hell you face—don’t you dare die. You’re the only brother I’ll ever acknowledge. Don’t play the hero. If all else fails, come to me. That beggar boy with empty pockets? Now he’s richer than kings.”*
—
Northern barbarians, upon seeing silk, refuse to believe it’s spun by worms feasting on leaves. Scholars of the Central Plains once scoffed at tales of thousand-man tents on the grasslands. And those who’ve never seen the Guangling River cannot fathom ships weighing twenty thousand *hu* upon its waters.
At the heart of Bailu Lake, a lone towering vessel, its decks three or four *zhang* above the waves, sailed toward the Western Chu fleet. A banner bearing the character *Jiang* snapped in the wind.
On the third-floor railing stood a peerless beauty, a violet sword case strapped to her back, her robes fluttering like an immortal’s.
Across the vast lake, a skiff appeared, drawing near until it matched the ship’s pace. At its prow sat a woman in white, a wine gourd dangling from her wrist by a red cord. Behind her stood a red-robed oarsman.
The two women locked eyes—just once—then looked away.
None knew this meeting spanned eight hundred years.
Luo Yang, the woman in white, took a lazy sip of wine. *”After all this time, you’re still as detestable as ever.”*
Jiang Ni pressed a hand to her sword case, silencing the blade’s eager hum.
—
Above the endless sands of the Western Regions stood a mighty city.
A short, long-armed man, his face impassive, unleashed a surge of terrifying energy as a sword approached the gates. His frame swelled to its true stature.
A thousand blades flew in a straight line toward him.
He met the first with a palm, twisting his wrist.
The entire line spiraled, shredding the city wall, leaving a gaping hole.
In the next instant, Tuoba Pusa lunged forward, slamming a palm into the wall.
The city shook as if struck by an earthquake.
One hundred sixty swords shattered; seventy more inside the walls crumbled under his might.
Xu Fengnian, walking the deserted streets, flicked his sleeve. The remaining swords coiled like a thunder-whip in the hands of a celestial, slashing through the inner walls toward Tuoba.
The Northern Desert’s martial pinnacle, who had seldom fought in years, charged through the breach, seizing the whip-like sword intent and tearing it apart. With his free hand, he hurled a shattered wall fragment.
Xu Fengnian’s fingers danced. The whip of violet energy curled back, obliterating the projectile and carving a chasm into the street.
Tuoba stamped on the “sword’s” tip, destabilizing its form.
Xu Fengnian whispered, *”Scatter.”*
Seven hundred blades broke free, swirling into a half-circle formation, their points aimed at Tuoba below.
A heartbeat’s pause—then they fell like a tempest.
The cacophony was deafening, like rain drumming on oiled paper.
Dust choked the street.
Xu Fengnian kicked Tuoba square in the chest, sending him flying back through the breach—only for the man to return at blinding speed, driving a fist into Xu’s blocking elbow.
Their next clash sent shockwaves leveling nearby buildings.
Around their feet, swords stood embedded in the earth.
Tuoba frowned as five hundred blades vanished underground.
Xu Fengnian, who had long borrowed others’ techniques, now forged his own.
First, a sword from the heavens.
Now, one from the earth.
As he stepped back, a dragon of blades erupted from the ground, hurling Tuoba out of the city.
With this strike, Xu Fengnian’s spirit soared.
He strode from the city, a solitary figure of grace.
Had the old man in sheepskin still lived, he might have cheered.
Had Old Huang been there, he’d have grinned, thumbs-up, missing teeth and all.
Had that wooden-sword wanderer witnessed it, he’d have scoffed aloud—but smiled widest inside.
Xu Fengnian glanced into the distance.
As if gazing upon the rivers and lakes.
This lonely world, where only he remained.
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