Three hundred Imperial Guards simultaneously gripped their sword hilts. Even though the Ministry of Justice’s elite had been repelled by the young prince with a single move, and he now stood poised to forcibly enter the Imperial Observatory, these three hundred elite warriors of the Zhao clan, clad in light armor and wielding golden blades, still did not immediately draw their weapons to engage.
This certainly did not mean the Imperial Guards were mere decorative ornaments or that they were particularly patient. Had it been anyone else standing at the gate, these three hundred guards, bearing secret imperial orders, would have long since charged forward in a bloodbath.
However, the young man before them—who for some reason was not wearing his princely robes—was, after all, the son of the great general Xu Xiao, who commanded three hundred thousand iron cavalry in the northwest. Moreover, he was a grandmaster of martial arts, on par with the likes of Cao Changqing and Deng Tai’a. In terms of reputation in the martial world, he might even surpass those two terrestrial immortals.
Whoever drew their blade first would die first. The logic was that simple.
With the Ministry of Justice’s elite sent flying, the deputy commander of the Imperial Guards had no choice but to step forward. This towering, top-tier palace warrior wore a “Yonghui Celestial Rank” imperial blade at his waist.
During the late emperor’s reign, palace craftsmen had spent five years forging eighteen such blades. The first three were kept in the imperial treasury, and the late emperor would only wear one when donning his golden dragon armor for grand hunts. By the end of the Yonghui era, aside from the three bestowed upon the Imperial Guard’s three commanders—Yonghui Celestial Ranks Sixteen, Seventeen, and Eighteen—the rules dictated that while the position of Imperial Guard commander was not hereditary, the golden blades were. Only those who held these three positions had the right to wield them. The Grand Pillar of the State, Gu Jiantang; the King of Shu, Chen Zhibao; the Sword Immortal of Tangxi, Lu Baijie; and the newly arrived Wu Zhongxuan—four successive Ministers of War of the Liyang Dynasty—had each been granted one to keep as a family heirloom. Among the eight great generals of the four expeditions and four garrisons, aside from Wu Zhongxuan, only the Northern Expedition General Ma Lulang had received this honor. Yet the specific ranks of these five “Hui Blades” remained unknown.
After the current emperor ascended the throne, he ordered the forging of nearly five hundred new imperial blades modeled after the Yonghui Celestial Rank, personally naming them the “Xiangfu Great Enterprise Blades,” or simply “Great Enterprise Blades.” Their scabbards were uniformly wooden, wrapped in golden peach skin, with oval iron-gold openwork guards containing three movable jade dragons so lifelike that raising the blade would produce a sound like dragon cries—a marvel of craftsmanship.
The deputy commander of the Imperial Guards took a deep breath, his tone no longer as rigid as the unfortunate Ministry of Justice official’s had been, and said solemnly, “Prince of Northern Liang, please do not make this difficult for us.”
Xu Fengnian, standing with his hand on his blade, remained silent. Instead of drawing his old, ordinary Liang blade, he lightly flicked the hilt with his finger.
Like the beat of a Northern Liang war drum.
A man who could rise to become deputy commander of the Imperial Guards of the Liyang Zhao clan was no coward. The burly man laughed freely, embodying the spirit of one who had eaten the emperor’s grain and was now ready to die for him. Knowing his fate was sealed, he cast aside the stiffness of his years serving beside the emperor and looked at the northwestern prince before him, grinning broadly. “Yang Dongping, a country warrior from the old Eastern Yue, entered the capital twelve years ago to serve as an Imperial Guard. It’s been twelve years since I left the martial world. To have my final battle be against the Prince of Northern Liang—this life has not been wasted!”
Having delivered his last words, Yang Dongping drew the Yonghui Celestial Rank Seventeen imperial blade—who knew who would inherit it after his death—and shouted, “Engage the enemy!”
Three hundred Xiangfu Great Enterprise Blades were drawn in unison.
Yang Dongping charged forward first, roaring, “Follow me and repel the enemy!”
In an instant, Yang Dongping and twenty Imperial Guards rushed forward in succession.
Aside from the hundred guards maintaining formation at the main gate of the Imperial Observatory, the rest swiftly flanked the battlefield where Xu Fengnian and Yang Dongping stood, clearly intending not only to block the young prince’s advance but also to cut off his retreat.
The two hundred guards moved with astonishing speed, their movements outside the Imperial Observatory’s gate resembling a dazzling swarm of butterflies, leaving the Li family soldiers inside the gate dizzy and chilled to the bone. Could any ordinary warrior truly survive such a relentless encirclement?
Yang Dongping, leading the charge, made the street tremble with each step. He dared not leap into the air for an overhead strike—against a grandmaster like the Prince of Northern Liang, such an opening would be fatal. Even as a confident first-grade Vajra Realm expert, Yang Dongping opted for the most conservative stance, using his blade like a sword, thrusting straight at Xu Fengnian’s chest. He held back three-tenths of his strength, ready to retreat if necessary. Though he had been absent from the martial world for over a decade, Yang Dongping had never slackened in his training within the palace, which housed countless martial secrets. He had tempered his Vajra Realm to perfection, foregoing the empty fame of the Finger Mystic Realm. This thrust incorporated several secret techniques and had been refined under the guidance of the former Chief Eunuch Han Shengxuan. It was a stroke of pure simplicity, devoid of flashy grandeur, its power entirely contained.
Yet despite not underestimating the new grandmasters of the world, Yang Dongping quickly realized that years without facing a top-tier opponent had left him vulnerable. Against someone like the Prince of Northern Liang, even the slightest flaw was fatal.
Yang Dongping had intended to withdraw if his strike failed, letting his fellow guards cover his retreat. But he never imagined he would die not from overestimating himself, but from underestimating his opponent.
The young man in mourning robes made no move to block, allowing the razor-sharp Yonghui Seventeen to pierce his chest.
In that split-second decision, Yang Dongping, sensing an opportunity, unleashed his full strength. The three jade dragons in the blade’s guard roared as the weapon shot forward.
Just as the tip was about to pierce the coarse cloth over Xu Fengnian’s heart, an immense force rebounded through the blade, as if it had struck a mountain.
Yang Dongping immediately released the priceless Yonghui blade, but before his fingers had fully loosened, Xu Fengnian’s palm struck out. Yang Dongping’s body was sent flying as if hit by a battering ram, his chest caving in while his back bulged outward.
Yang Dongping, first-grade Vajra Realm expert and deputy commander of the Imperial Guards, died on the spot.
His corpse crashed into another guard lunging at the young prince, the impact exploding into a spray of blood from the unfortunate man’s chest.
Another guard tried to catch his “severely wounded” comrade, only for his arm to shatter with a sickening crack. The two bodies slammed into him with undiminished force, sending all three flying backward.
They slid to a stop before the hundred unmoving Imperial Guards, leaving a trail of crimson blood.
The dead were dead. The living were horrified.
After Yang Dongping was killed with a single palm strike, the Yonghui Celestial Rank blade—destined to be passed to the next deputy commander—was sent flying. Xu Fengnian flicked his wrist casually.
The soaring blade paused midair, then, as if guided by a terrestrial sword immortal, slashed through one guard’s throat before piercing another’s shoulder—left in, right out. A third guard, leaping high with his blade raised, was cleaved in half at the waist.
The blade traced a wide arc around Xu Fengnian.
These Imperial Guards were among the finest warriors in the palace. Some along the path of “Yonghui Seventeen” attempted to block or evade, but without exception, their Xiangfu Great Enterprise Blades shattered on contact, leaving the rogue imperial blade unscathed.
Without any visible movement from Xu Fengnian, Yonghui Seventeen began a second, wider arc.
Simultaneously, within the first circle around Xu Fengnian, the blades of fallen guards rose from the ground, joining the deadly orbit.
Along the second, more distant arc, the sharp sounds of snapping blades and falling bodies filled the air.
The remaining one hundred sixty guards were forced outside the arcs, seemingly surrounding the Prince of Northern Liang—yet in truth, they couldn’t even touch the hem of his robe.
As Xu Fengnian began to walk forward, the visible arc rippled unpredictably, occasionally darting out to claim another life before returning to its path.
Twenty more guards fell before they could react.
Someone shouted, “Break the formation together!” and the remaining guards threw themselves at the arc in a desperate frenzy.
A single breath—something an ordinary person might not even notice. For a martial artist, a single breath was like a raindrop falling from a roof, gone in an instant. But for a grandmaster, their breath was as enduring as a river. Since the legendary Gao Tingshu first delineated the four realms of martial mastery, it had been said that true masters could traverse eight hundred li in a single breath.
In battles between equals, victory often hinged on whose breath lasted longer or whose recovery was quicker.
The remaining Imperial Guards realized they could not allow the young prince to maintain his rhythm undisturbed.
Xu Fengnian continued forward, ignoring the guards’ desperate assault, and glanced at Xu Yanbing, who held the Spear of Instant. The latter nodded with a smile.
Xu Yanbing’s presence was not to kill or even to hold off the armored cavalry at either end of the street.
All of them would be left to Xu Fengnian, who had reached a new realm at the Xi Ma Wei posthouse, to handle himself.
Xu Yanbing’s role was to tie down two individuals and two formations before Xu Fengnian entered the Imperial Observatory.
Xu Fengnian’s presence in Tai’an City today was akin to Wang Xianzhi standing atop the Martial Emperor City in his time.
This mindset was related to martial prowess, yet not entirely dependent on it.
But whether one possessed such a mindset profoundly affected their strength—as Xu Fengnian had proven at Xi Ma Wei, where he truly fought two opponents alone.
At that time:
Cao Changqing, Luo Yang, Wu Jian, and Xuan Yuan Qingfeng had acted with intent.
Deng Tai’a, Chen Zhibao, Yu Xinlang, and Chai Qingshan had acted without intent.
※※※
On the empty street, Xu Yanbing took a light breath, and his spear trembled violently.
This man, long overlooked by both the Liyang Dynasty and the martial world—a middle-aged warrior who had rarely ventured beyond Northern Liang’s borders and had few renowned battles to his name—looked up at the Imperial Observatory’s towering platform.
“Chen Zhibao, Xie Guanying—who comes first? Or shall you come together?”
※※※
Inside the observatory, Xie Guanying sighed helplessly. “Between the two of us, the one who can fight won’t act, and the one who can flee can’t flee yet. What now? A headache.”
Chen Zhibao said indifferently, “The two formations in the Imperial Observatory—use the Dragon-Tiger Mountain formation to restrain Xu Yanbing.”
Xie Guanying sighed again. “Though we have over sixty imperial seals from the Spring and Autumn states, the absence of the Duke of Yan Sheng won’t make much difference. But without the Dragon-Tiger Mountain formation weakening Xu Fengnian first, the effect will be worlds apart. Most importantly, you refuse to act…”
Chen Zhibao cut him off. “You know full well that Xu Fengnian is here to do something I would have done in the future. My standing here is already a favor to you. If you want to exploit this to let Liyang and Northern Liang destroy each other, do it with your own abilities.”
Xie Guanying chuckled self-deprecatingly. “Understood, understood. Our cooperation is like making pacts with tigers—I know my place.”
At that moment, Jin Xin’an, leader of the northern cultivators for twenty years, rushed in, his face pale with panic.
Xie Guanying frowned, his fingers flicking rapidly within his sleeves. “The Duke of Yan Sheng leaving the capital isn’t surprising, but what other major variable could there be?”
Jin Xin’an’s face was ashen. “Master Xie, I just checked the Seal Vault. The Duke of Yan Sheng has taken the central seal—the one symbolizing Confucian fortune.”
Xie Guanying was stunned, then burst into laughter, his sleeves fluttering as he gazed southward with exhilaration. “Duke of Yan Sheng, do you truly believe such treasonous acts can stop me, Xie Guanying? You’ve only made things worse! You book-bound scholars!”
※※※
On a southern-bound carriage, a middle-aged Confucian scholar sat with a young page.
The boy, seeing his usually unflappable master fidgeting, couldn’t fathom what could unsettle him so. Finally, he asked, “Master, what’s wrong?”
Before the scholar could answer, the boy grinned. “Did the capital’s food disagree with you?”
The scholar, holding an ornately carved wooden box on his lap, remained expressionless.
The boy frowned. “Are you worried about the world’s affairs? Can I help?”
He sighed. “Probably not. I don’t even have an official title yet.”
The scholar smiled. “The rise and fall of the nation concerns every commoner. Ability is secondary—what matters first is having righteousness in your heart.”
The boy nodded glumly. “I know these teachings from your books.”
The scholar chuckled. “You only came to the capital to skip your studies, didn’t you?”
The boy sheepishly began reciting the “Ten Family Precepts” his master had painstakingly compiled—precepts that were, in essence, the family teachings of all Confucian scholars.
Inside and outside the carriage, the sound of reading filled the air.
The scholar closed his eyes, listening as a scholar to the words of scholars.
“When you see a worthy, think of emulating them. When you see the unworthy, reflect inwardly.”
“Do not impose on others what you yourself do not desire.”
“Each day, I examine myself three times…”
When the boy reached the final precept—”A scholar must be resolute and broad-minded, for his burden is heavy and his road long”—the scholar echoed it silently, then opened his eyes and patted the boy’s shoulder.
“Precisely because the road is long and the burden heavy, we scholars must remember one thing above all: A scholar must be resolute!”
The boy, though puzzled, nodded vigorously.
The middle-aged scholar—the current Duke of Yan Sheng—opened the box.
It was empty.
Softly, he murmured, “Xu Fengnian, with Northern Liang fighting to the death ahead, how can we scholars of the Central Plains not be resolute behind you?”
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