A lone smoke rises straight in the vast desert,
The long river cradles the round setting sun.
Beyond the pass, the scenery is desolate yet magnificently grand.
In a tranquil courtyard within Jubei City, a young man squats on the steps, basking in the winter sun—its warmth lulling him into drowsiness. Nearby, a young woman with perpetually closed eyes stacks winter-pickled vegetables against the wall, forming what seems like a miniature wall of its own. The tangy aroma permeates the entire yard.
Fearing he might doze off, the young man strikes up a conversation: “Cuihua, what do you think that Wen fellow is up to these days? Still sticking to pretty girls like a plaster every time he sees one?”
The seemingly blind woman wipes sweat from her brow with her arm and chuckles. “Probably not anymore. I’d guess he’s settled down—married, found work, maybe even had a child. Living a comfortable life now.”
Known for her reticence, she only speaks more freely when the topic turns to that young wanderer they once met and parted with in Tai’an City.
The young man frowns. “That’d be for the best. But when he left the capital, he was in such a sorry state. Could things really have turned out so smoothly? Besides, that guy’s ambitions were sky-high. Would he really be content with the humble life of an ordinary man?”
The woman called Cuihua shakes her head. “I believe in him.”
The young man sighs dramatically, free of jealousy this time. “I must be a fool. Back when he called me ‘Wu Liugang’ every day, it used to infuriate me. But now, after so long without hearing that ridiculous nickname, I feel oddly restless. Looking back, letting him mooch your pickled cabbage noodles wasn’t such a big deal. I was petty back then—shouldn’t have mocked him so harshly.”
She counters, “What difference did your mockery make? Every time you bickered, weren’t you the one left fuming while he walked away unscathed?”
The young man nods. “Fair point.”
Then he grumbles, “Xu Fengnian’s unbeatable in a fight, Wen Busheng’s unbeatable in an argument—no wonder those two became sworn brothers.”
The woman says softly, “More like partners in misery.”
The young man unconsciously mimics Wen Busheng’s signature move—scratching his crotch—and sighs. “I’m feeling a bit melancholic too.”
Without turning around, the woman frowns in disapproval. “You pick up the worst habits.”
The young man grins, squinting up at the sun. He wonders where that guy is now—whether he, too, is idly soaking up the sunlight.
Muttering to himself, he muses, “How bizarre. That arrogant freak Zhu Motou, who always boasted he was ‘second only to Deng Tai’a,’ willingly became Xu’s enforcer! And even the Sword Grandfather poured his life’s work into that guy, hoping Xu could fulfill his dream of mastering those two or three legendary sword techniques. Our ancestors said those weren’t mortal techniques—even Lü Zu in his prime might not have wielded them. And what’s even more infuriating—Auntie Nalan, at her age, still clings to Xu like glue. It’s embarrassing! The ‘Beauty Rankings’? So what if she topped them once? That’s ancient history. Even if she looks thirty, does she really plan to cradle-snatch? Ugh, just imagining it makes my skin crawl. Old Xie and Bald Cui aren’t much better—ever since sparring with Xu, they won’t stop singing praises of the ‘King of Northern Liang.’ My ears are calloused! At this rate, they’ll all become more ‘Northern Liang’ than the natives…”
The door bursts open, revealing a stunning woman grinding her teeth, her smile razor-thin. “Oh, Little Wu, philosophizing again? Auntie Nalan’s heart aches for you. But alas, I know my place—a withered flower, a faded pearl. Just looking at me must be ‘skin-crawling,’ no?”
Wu Liuding, the current Sword Crown of the Wu Family, grimaces and scrambles to his feet with an ingratiating smile. “Auntie Nalan! You’re here! Why didn’t you knock? What are you standing at the door for—is Xu Fengnian, the King of Northern Liang, lurking out there?”
The woman, Nalan Yujin, turns to the doorway with a smirk. “Your Highness, please come in. Our Wu Family’s Sword Crown has been singing your praises all morning. Surely you owe him thanks?”
Wu Liuding bolts into the room and slams the door shut. “Not feeling well—no visitors!”
Cuihua shakes her head helplessly.
Nalan Yujin smiles knowingly and strolls into the courtyard alone. Closing her eyes, she inhales deeply. “Ah, yes—this aroma. I’ve waited a whole year for it.”
Cuihua pauses her task and turns to “look” at the woman who sacrificed her prime years in the Wu Family’s Sword Mound. Softly, she asks, “Auntie, is something the matter?”
Nalan Yujin grins. “Even the gravest matters are best discussed over your pickled cabbage noodles.”
Wu Liuding cracks the door open, his tone plaintive. “Auntie Nalan, must you scare me like that? Be careful, or I’ll tell Cuihua to skip the scallions and fried eggs in your noodles!”
The woman tosses him a coquettish glance, teasing, “In this household, you don’t call the shots.”
Wu Liuding’s expression shifts to fawning. He scurries behind her. “Shoulders sore? Need a massage?”
She laughs. “Now you’re buttering me up? Too late! Men may wait a decade for revenge, but women? A century’s not enough!”
As Nalan Yujin settles into a chair, waiting for her noodles, Wu Liuding dutifully kneads her shoulders. “Grudges aside, a massage is a massage. My filial piety shines like the sun and moon!”
Familiarity breeds candor. The young Sword Crown marvels, “Auntie Nalan, your… assets are so overwhelming, I can’t even see where your legs are! I’ve always wondered—if Xu ever lost his mind and tried to hug you, would he even manage to get his arms around you?”
Neither offended nor embarrassed, she merely narrows her eyes. “Now that’s a fresh compliment. Auntie accepts it graciously.”
Wu Liuding grins. “Auntie, your thick skin is truly a millennium in the making. I’ll have to tell Xu—if Jubei City’s ever on the brink, just station you on the ramparts. One profile glance, and the Northern Barbarians wouldn’t dare scale the walls!”
With a flick of her shoulder, she dislodges his hands. “Brat, scram.”
Wu Liuding drags a chair beside her, his playful demeanor fading. Seriously, he asks, “Auntie, you’re not actually falling for him, are you? What’s so great about him? Sure, he’s handsome, decent at martial arts, and has a fancy title—but he’s nowhere near good enough for you!”
Nalan Yujin leans forward and flicks his forehead. “Still the same old dog, eh? How many times must I tell you—don’t joke so earnestly! Women distrust men like that—too unreliable!”
Wu Liuding’s gaze drifts pointedly to her ample bosom pressing against the table. Feigning alarm, he steadies the table. “Auntie, careful! Don’t break it—we’d have to pay Xu for damages!”
Nalan Yujin turns to Cuihua. “Wu Liuding just asked me secretly whether you like him or have a crush on Xu Fengnian.”
Wu Liuding panics, waving his hands frantically. “Auntie, I’ll kneel! Don’t joke like that—Cuihua won’t speak to me for a month!”
Soon, Cuihua enters with two bowls of pickled cabbage noodles—one for Nalan Yujin, one for Wu Liuding. But she “forgets” his chopsticks.
Nalan Yujin sticks her tongue out at the despairing Wu Liuding, who dares not fetch his own utensils. She savors her noodles, adding fuel to the fire. “Chopsticks make noodles taste better.”
Wu Liuding sits rigidly, eyes fixed on his nose, motionless.
Only when Nalan Yujin is nearly done does Cuihua ask, “Would you be unhappy if I didn’t like Xu Fengnian?”
Wu Liuding declares firmly, “Not even if you beat me to death!”
She hums. “Go get your chopsticks.”
Wu Liuding nearly weeps with relief. He fetches chopsticks and devours his noodles.
Nalan Yujin leans back, sighing. “Back in the Sword Mound, I nearly went mad wanting to leave that hellhole. Now that I’m out, somehow, I miss it—that place of nothing but swords. But nostalgia aside, I’d never go back.”
Wu Liuding licks his lips after finishing his noodles, clearly wanting more.
Nalan Yujin grows serious. “Xu Fengnian asked me to relay a message. He’s changed his mind—won’t enforce the oath between our hundred and the Wu Family. We’re free to leave. If anyone fears the Wu Family’s retaliation, he’ll arrange for us to hunt easy targets at Hulukou in Youzhou. Kill a hundred Northern Barbarians each, and we can go wherever we please. The others have already discussed it. Now, it’s your decision.”
Wu Liuding frowns. “Auntie, is this reverse psychology? Or just cheap manipulation?”
She shakes her head. “He’s sincere. But it’s not pure altruism—many, like Zhu Motou and Helian Jianchi, are determined to stay for their own reasons: fame, profit, righteousness. Only about twenty wish to leave—too old to face death abroad, longing for home. Xu just wants peace of mind. Better to let those who stay do so willingly, dying a warrior’s death, than drag unwilling souls to the battlefield.”
Wu Liuding sneers. “Typical Xu—never makes a bad deal.”
Nalan Yujin sighs. “If he weren’t shrewd, the Northern Barbarians would’ve overrun his father’s legacy long ago.”
Wu Liuding whispers, “Auntie, you’re not really in love with him, are you?”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, smiling. “Silly boy. How old am I? How old is he?”
Wu Liuding nods. “Exactly! Auntie would never fancy him.”
Cuihua remains silent.
Nalan Yujin’s smile turns wistful. “So, what’s your answer? Regardless, we’re the Wu Family’s—alive or dead. We’ll abide by your decision.”
Wu Liuding ponders. “Let the twenty leave for Youzhou. But a hundred kills is non-negotiable. The rest stay with us in Jubei City—to wait for death or die fighting. No regrets.”
Nalan Yujin nods. “Good. That’s what I hoped to hear.”
Rising, she pauses to ruffle Wu Liuding’s hair. “You’ve grown up, brat. Auntie’s proud.” Her voice softens. “We outsiders in the Sword Mound lived like ghosts. Many went mad, killed themselves, or succumbed to qi deviation. Few remained sane. Gathering a hundred was the Wu Family’s limit. Your ancestors weren’t selfless—the family’s two-century dominance stems from the Nine Swords’ sacrifice. Now, we outsiders are their hundred blades. Those twenty fear your ancestors’ wrath. They needed your assurance before daring to leave.”
Wu Liuding exhales. “As a junior, I won’t criticize my ancestors. But tell them this: the Wu Family will consider them dead in battle. My word stands—even before the ancestors.”
Nalan Yujin smiles and turns to leave. At the door, she glances back. “Sword practice isn’t limited to the training grounds, you know.”
Wu Liuding’s face twitches. He turns stiffly to Cuihua.
Her eyes snap open, teeth clenched. “Want to practice swords? Then get lost—ten thousand miles away!”
Wu Liuding grabs his chopsticks and frantically “eats” from his empty bowl.
She closed her eyes, her lips curling slightly as he lowered his head.
Then she heard Wu Liuding inexplicably say, “Cuihua, it’s not that I can’t accept Nalan Dayi liking Xu Fengnian. It’s that I don’t want it to end with only Xu Fengnian not liking her.”
Cuihua didn’t know what to say, so she simply replied, “I’m listening.”
Finally, Wu Liuding uttered a somber remark, “Cuihua, don’t get angry at what I’m about to say—but even if you do, I’ll say it this time. If, and I mean *if*, one day we’re both fated to die on the battlefield, I want to die before you. Because if I see you die before me, it’ll hurt worse than death itself.”
Cuihua thought for a moment before replying slowly, “Actually, it wouldn’t matter much. If I die first, I’ll wait for you on the road to the underworld. I’ll wait until you catch up. So you don’t have to grieve. But if I die first and you take too long to follow… I’d really be angry.”
Wu Liuding’s eyes welled up as he grasped Cuihua’s hand tightly.
Cuihua tilted her head and asked, “Do you want to die right now?”
Wu Liuding shook his head, but this time, he didn’t let go.
And this time, she didn’t pull away.
*You’re called Cuihua, I’m called Liuding—six great cauldrons! How much pickled cabbage could they hold? So, you see, we two are the most perfect match in the world!*
Even someone as close to them as Nalan Yujin, a figure from the Sword Mound, didn’t know that the Sword Crown Wu Liuding and his sword attendant Cuihua were born in the same year, the same month, and on the same day—almost at the same exact moment.
But nearly everyone in the Wu Family Sword Mound believed that these two, whether young now or old later, would inevitably die together—same year, same month, same day, same hour.
Many years later, long after the Liang-Mang War, an elderly man with white hair lay on his deathbed, his life flickering like a spent candle. He could no longer open his eyes, and his voice was barely audible as he murmured, “Cuihua… I want to eat pickled cabbage again.”
The old woman sitting by his bedside, gently holding his hand and leaning close to his ear, could barely make out his words—yet somehow, she knew exactly what he meant. Softly, she replied, “We don’t have any left at home… but when we’re underground, I’ll make some for you.”
He died.
Then she died.
No love in this world could be deeper than this.
—
A travel-worn man first journeyed from the border of Western Shu and Southern Zhao, heading north to the Cool Breeze Mountain Manor. Then, in a frantic rush, he made his way to Jubei City, only to be forced to detour to Qingcang City in Liu Province before finally arriving at the Linyao Military Town, closer to the Western Regions. There, he finally found his fellow disciple—a man bent over, collecting cow dung in a bamboo basket.
Looking at the weathered face of his older, fourth junior brother, the young man listened to his tale and, suppressing a smile, said, “You’ve really had it rough, trekking over mountains and rivers like that. Just hearing about it makes my legs weak.”
This taciturn man, who had taken countless wrong turns, was none other than Lou Huang of Emperor Wu City, who had once escorted the Yan sisters out of the Western Regions. He stared at his senior brother, Yu Xinlang, and asked, “Why are you in Northern Liang too?”
Yu Xinlang hesitated before answering honestly, “The truth might disappoint you—I didn’t come for revenge. After traveling to Liaodong with Lü Pao’er, I somehow ended up wanting to see the northwest. Maybe I doubted the claim that Northern Liang’s cavalry was unmatched under heaven. Or maybe I wanted to vent some frustration for the Central Plains—against both the Northern Mang barbarians and Northern Liang. With the Northern Mang, it’s simple: ‘Different races, different hearts.’ That’s a knot that’s been tangled for a thousand years and won’t unravel in another thousand. As for Northern Liang… I resent them too. Why should they monopolize guarding the nation’s borders? Us martial artists aren’t necessarily inferior.”
Surprisingly, Lou Huang—the most stubborn among their sect—didn’t get angry. He merely nodded.
Yu Xinlang grinned. “Aren’t you going to curse at me?”
Lou Huang grunted, “I used to. Not anymore. I met Xu Fengnian. Some of what he said made sense. What kind of master was ours, that he’d need his useless disciples to avenge him? He’d laugh at us from the afterlife. Besides, Xu Fengnian also said that our master *wanted* to lose—it wasn’t that Xu Fengnian truly won. I still don’t fully understand, just like when our master spoke of Li Chun’gang. That’s probably where I fall short compared to you, senior brother. I can’t let go of what I should. I don’t know how to pick up what I should. I’ve never really understood life, and in the end, I even threw away my sword—and now I don’t have the courage to retrieve it.”
Yu Xinlang fell silent.
Lou Huang gave a bitter smile. “I carried our master’s body to the Kunlun Mountains and buried him on a peak. If you ever want to pay respects, I’ll take you there.”
Yu Xinlang sighed. “Fourth junior brother… you’ve changed a lot.”
Lou Huang didn’t deny it. “Not necessarily for the better. Maybe one day I won’t even care about martial arts anymore. If that happens, senior brother, just pretend Emperor Wu City never had a Lou Huang.”
Yu Xinlang chuckled. “I don’t like hearing that.”
Lou Huang smirked self-deprecatingly. “I was never good at saying nice things.”
With his basket of cow dung on his back, Yu Xinlang led Lou Huang through the grasslands outside Linyao Military Town. The two grandmasters of martial arts walked in silence—Yu Xinlang not speaking, Lou Huang naturally reticent.
As disciples of Wang Xianzhi, the master of Emperor Wu City, they understood the martial world better than most.
Before Xu Fengnian’s rise, the Central Plains had already acknowledged that their era was unprecedented in its brilliance. Though their master, Wang Xianzhi, had dominated for sixty years, figures like Cao Zhangqing, Deng Tai’a, and Gu Jiantang—alongside the White-Clad Monk Li Dangxin and the Sick Tiger Yang Taisui—had each carved their own legends. The martial world of Liyang had flourished like never before.
But counting the fallen grandmasters on one’s fingers—especially after the Grand Secretariat Cao Zhangqing died outside Tai’an City—inevitably brought a sigh. In just five or six years, Liyang had lost so many: Jian Jiuhuang on Emperor Wu City’s walls, the Eleventh Under Heaven Wang Mingyin outside Xiangfan, the peerless Wang Xianzhi in Northern Liang, the Human Cat Han Shengxuan outside Shenwu City, Song Nianqing of Dongyue Sword Pool, Yang Taisui beyond the Western Pass, Li Chun’gang—who returned to the Land God Realm—after lending his sword across ten thousand li, the century-late Liu Songtao on the Guangliang River, the Sword-Obsessed Wang Xiaoping of Wudang while blocking the river, Xuan Yuan Jingcheng and Xuan Yuan Dapan on their own Snowy Plateau, the Southern Border’s fiercest general Wang Tongshan on the battlefield, the Monk Longshu outside the Northern Mang’s Daoist Sect’s Heavenly Gate, Qi Jiajie at the foot of Wudang Mountain, Tai’an City’s gatekeeper Liu Haoshi outside the city walls, Wudang’s Hong Xixiang’s reincarnation, the father and son of Dragon-Tiger Mountain ascending together…
Amidst the sighs, there was also relief. Even as the old generation faded, the Liyang martial world still brimmed with new talents—chief among them Xu Fengnian, who had fought Wang Xianzhi, dueled two in Tai’an City, and clashed with Tuoba Pusa across a thousand miles of the Western Regions. Every grandmaster of their time had crossed blades with the young prince.
Yu Xinlang paused, shifting his shoulders to gauge the weight of the dung in his basket, then turned to Lou Huang. “I always knew that among us, you had the grandest ambitions. Of our brothers, you and I pursued the purest path of the sword. You’ve always compared yourself to me—because in your eyes, our master was an insurmountable mountain, and I was just a smaller peak you had to surpass first before challenging him, like Jian Jiuhuang and the others who climbed Emperor Wu City as challengers. That’s why you abandoned sword intent for sword technique, hobbling your own path just to surpass me.”
Lou Huang neither confirmed nor denied it.
Yu Xinlang gazed at the endless desert sands and smiled. “But only after leaving Emperor Wu City did I realize something: If our master hadn’t left the East Sea, if we hadn’t left the city, we’d have lived our whole lives in his shadow. And that’s the one outcome he never wanted. He wanted me to match Li Chun’gang in sword intent, you to rival Deng Tai’a in technique, Gong Que to synthesize all schools into grandmastery, and Lin Ya to forge her own path with her fists. Fourth junior brother, our master’s teachings weren’t given for repayment. As swordsmen, we must respect the three-foot steel in our hands—never cower before invincible foes, never doubt the arduous path of the sword.”
He grinned. “Do you know which swordsman I’ve admired most in the past century?”
Lou Huang shook his head.
Yu Xinlang’s eyes sparkled. “Wang Xiaoping—the Sword-Obsessed Wang Xiaoping of Wudang. To me, when he stood against our master at the river with his divine blade Shentu, his ‘posthumous’ strike spoke for every swordsman in the world.”
Lou Huang frowned, unable to grasp why his proud senior brother held such reverence for a loser’s sword path.
Yu Xinlang’s voice softened with reverence. “*A man may die, a sword may break—but neither man nor sword shall retreat!*”
Lou Huang felt Yu Xinlang’s aura surge like Emperor Wu City’s tidal waves—rising, cresting, until it embodied the mightiest force in the mortal realm.
Then, just as suddenly, Yu Xinlang’s presence vanished, his tone earnest. “We shouldn’t obsess over being the best. If every Daoist cultivator only eyes Lü Zu, every martial artist only dreams of surpassing our master, every swordsman only seeks to outdo Li Chun’gang—what kind of life is that? Ambition is fine, but not if it blinds you to the world’s beauty.”
Lou Huang sighed. “In purity of sword heart, I don’t lose to you. In depth… I fall short.”
Yu Xinlang laughed. “Wrong.”
Lou Huang raised an eyebrow.
Yu Xinlang wagged a finger. “You’re just worse at spouting nonsense than me.”
Lou Huang blinked, then burst into laughter.
Yu Xinlang suddenly looked north—past the Northern Mang’s southern court, past a million cavalry.
His smile was gentle. “Junior brother, you’re over forty. When are you finding a wife?”
Lou Huang followed his gaze and, for once, joked, “I’ve been worrying about that too.”
After a pause, Yu Xinlang’s voice turned solemn. “It’s strange. Our master always showed the Central Plains’ martial world the utmost kindness—welcoming challengers as whetstones for their growth. But he never spared the Northern Mang the same courtesy. Even Tuoba Pusa was beneath his regard. So I’ve decided—one day, I’ll fight Tuoba Pusa. Just to tell him: *My master looked down on you, and you’ll just have to live with it.*”
Lou Huang sighed. “And that’s why you’re collecting cow dung in the northwest?”
Yu Xinlang squinted. “Fourth junior brother, you have no idea—the skies are high, the earth vast, the stars like candles. Even taking a shit here feels poetic!”
Lou Huang murmured, “You’ve changed a lot since leaving the city.”
Yu Xinlang shrugged.
Lou Huang grinned. “But I like it!”
The old Yu Xinlang had been a prodigy, once hailed by their master as “this generation’s Li Chun’gang.” Dashing and charismatic, what woman in Emperor Wu City hadn’t adored him? Yet back then, Lou Huang had never felt close to him.
Now, he preferred this version—a man with a dung basket and crude words.
Lou Huang snorted. “I may not match you in swordplay, but on the battlefield? You might not outkill me.”
Yu Xinlang smirked. “Care to put that to the test?”
Lou Huang laughed. “Fine—but if you surrender, it only counts as half a loss.”
The two brothers shared a knowing smile.
Then Lou Huang added, “After escorting the Yan sisters to Western Shu, on my way back, I ran into four people. The only one I recognized was Wei Miao, the Southern Zhao’s strongest. There was a middle-aged man surnamed Qi, carrying a sword case—his sword aura was intense. And a young couple: the woman had an ancient zither and seemed formidable, but the man seemed ordinary.”
Yu Xinlang murmured, “I heard the Southern Dragon Palace sent Lin Hongyuan, Ji Liu’an, and Cheng Baisuang—plus the saber master Mao Shulang. The northwest’s winds are stirring.”
Lou Huang grinned. “Things are getting lively.”
—
An old Daoist named Yu Xingrui descended Wudang Mountain with a sword on his back. The sect leader, Li Yufu, and the young disciple Yu Fu saw him off beneath the archway inscribed “*Wudang Shall Rise*.”
Meanwhile, atop the crumbling walls of a ruined city immortalized in countless nostalgic poems, a figure in white sat amidst darting foxes and rabbits. Bathed in sunset, she—Luo Yang—gazed upon the ancient capital of the Great Qin.
Once missed, forever missed.
Behind her, another figure clad in white appeared—a tall woman.
Luoyang didn’t turn her head, speaking softly, “Tantai Pingjing, don’t be like me. And soon, the world will no longer speak of next lives. So, settle everything in this lifetime. If there’s someone you love, say it openly. If there’s someone you owe, say you’re sorry.”
Tantai Pingjing asked, “Are you waiting for someone?”
Luoyang raised her wine gourd and took a deep swig of strong liquor. “This time, I fear I truly won’t be able to wait any longer.”
Tantai Pingjing hesitated before saying, “The one you loved eight hundred years ago is long gone from this world. Why do you still suffer in waiting?”
Luoyang narrowed her eyes, her smile intoxicating. “Because in this lifetime, I suddenly realized the one I love is still here in this world. And if possible, I’d love him for another eight hundred years.”
Tantai Pingjing opened her mouth but held back her words.
Luoyang slowly stood and tossed the wine gourd to this grandmaster of Qi cultivation, laughing. “I can share my wine, but I won’t share my man—not with anyone!”
Tantai Pingjing had intended to act, or at least hurl a few bold words to save face. Yet, for some reason, in the presence of this peerlessly domineering woman, she found herself speechless.
Luoyang looked around, as if taking in the city one last time—this ancient city once named after her by the Great Qin Emperor.
She smiled and murmured to herself, “What kind of name is ‘Jubei City’? ‘Luoyang City’ sounds so much better. Once I’m beyond the pass, you should change it.”
Tantai Pingjing felt an odd sensation. “Would he listen to you?”
Luoyang countered, “Would he dare not?”
Tantai Pingjing had no reply.
—
That day, outside Jubei City, the Northern Mang staked everything—400,000 iron cavalry pressing at the border.
Xu Fengnian, clad in the python robes of a prince, descended alone from the city walls, the Liang sabre at his waist.
Jiang Ni, draped in mourning white, ascended the battlements and set the purple sandalwood sword case heavily beneath the war drum. Taking a deep breath, she gripped the drumsticks and began to pound—
When the first war drum of Northern Liang resounded between heaven and earth,
Xu Fengnian stood alone before the Northern Mang army beyond the walls, his temples fluttering, sleeves billowing, ethereal as an immortal.
A figure streaked down like a meteor onto the battlefield, landing to Xu Fengnian’s left. A middle-aged man with hands behind his back, an ordinary iron sword at his waist, declared with ease, “Deng Tai’a is here!”
Amid the drumbeats, another figure plummeted, landing to Xu Fengnian’s right. She simply announced her name—
“Luoyang!”
A man with a spear crashed down onto the battlefield, roaring, “Xu Yanbing of Northern Liang!”
A figure in violet streaked down like a rainbow, her expression icy. “Xuanyuan Qingfeng of Huishan’s Great Snowy Peak.”
A blood-red robe spiraled down—
“Xu Ying!”
With each drumbeat,
Another meteor fell.
They lined up one by one to the left and right of the young prince.
“Sui Xiegu!”
“Chai Qingshan of Dongyue Sword Pool!”
“Yu Xingrui of Wudang!”
“Wu Liuding of the Wu Family Sword Mausoleum!”
“Sword attendant, Cui Hua.”
“Xue Songguan of Western Shu!”
“Qi Xianxia of Longhu Mountain!”
“Yu Xinlang of Martial Emperor City!”
“Lou Huang!”
“Cheng Baishuang of Dragon Palace!”
“Mao Shulang of the Southern Border!”
“Wei Miao of Nanzhao!”
…
Between the Northern Mang cavalry and Jubei City, eighteen figures—eighteen grandmasters of martial arts—stood united outside the city walls.
A gathering unseen in a thousand years of the martial world, and never to be seen again in the next thousand.
What is true invincibility?
This is it.
The thunder of Northern Liang’s war drums and the gallop of their iron cavalry—how magnificent!
Beyond the northwestern pass, before the vast army, each declaration of name—how it embodied the grace of the Central Plains!
Jiang Ni pounded the drums like thunder, roaring—
“Kill!”
Her peerless bearing mirrored that of the Northern Liang Princess Consort Wu Su of old.
Xu Fengnian gripped his sabre, whispering—
“Kill.”
Almost simultaneously, every grandmaster along the line uttered the same word.
With eighteen, they would hold back 400,000 cavalry.
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