Due to Xu Fengnian’s line of sight, everyone inside and outside the lakeside pavilion focused on the two Kheshig guards, so much so that when the burly man inside the pavilion—who wore an imperial-gifted golden saber—suddenly struck, even Fan Bainu, sitting behind him, had no time to show even a hint of fear.
The situation changed far too quickly.
And the momentum of that saber strike was overwhelmingly fierce, like a sudden, violent snowstorm in the grasslands during the depths of winter.
Inside and outside the pavilion, it was as if an immortal had cast a spell of paralysis.
Bai Lian, who had descended from Longhu Mountain and later ascended Qingliang Mountain, still habitually squinted his smiling eyes as he gazed outside the pavilion. In his hand, he held a half-drunk cup of green ant wine, the faint ripples in the white porcelain cup barely noticeable.
Yang Shenxing and Yang Huchen, father and son, leaned slightly forward, their attention fixed on the pair of young Kheshig guards outside the pavilion. These battlefield veterans exuded an aura of predatory intensity, their gazes sharp and imposing, carrying the unique authority of seasoned warriors.
Meanwhile, the Northern Barbarian Princess Qingluan maintained her posture—spine straight, head turned—her tilted shoulders smooth and alluring.
The maidservant brewing tea still kept her head bowed, carefully tending to the charcoal fire, afraid of ruining the delicate timing. The flickering flames cast a glow on her delicate face, adding an ethereal radiance to her features.
In truth, the Kheshig guard who had launched the attack had drawn his blade in complete silence, and even as he swung it down, the strike remained devoid of any overt killing intent. Thus, it should never have erupted with such overwhelming force just before reaching the young prince’s head.
It was like two armies clashing on the battlefield, cavalry charging headlong—such an assault should thunder like hooves long before impact, not arrive as gently as a spring breeze or a drizzle.
Yet this saber strike had achieved exactly that.
As a result, everyone was caught off guard. Even Song Yu, the chief steward of Qingliang Mountain and its gatekeeper—a man versed in profound Xuan-level techniques with naturally keen senses—was a step too slow to react. The moment he regained his senses, a faint cloud of dust rose beneath his feet as this martial artist, perhaps the foremost among second-tier masters in the world, prepared to lunge toward the pavilion.
But the next instant, for reasons unknown, Song Yu planted himself back on the ground, unmoving. He no longer paid attention to the situation inside the pavilion, instead letting his sinister gaze slowly drift between the two young Kheshig guards like a snake eyeing its prey.
This private meeting should have been an opportunity for the Northern Liang faction, as the local power, to assert dominance over the Northern Barbarian delegation, who had “come seeking favors.” It should have been a scene straight out of a heroic tale—a cup thrown as a signal, hundreds of axe-wielding ambushers swarming from behind screens, or perhaps a boiling cauldron of oil set in an open space, with the host poised as if holding chopsticks. Yet, contrary to expectations, the young prince had remained amiable throughout, while it was the Northern Barbarians who struck first.
This small group of four Northern Barbarians, fully aware that they were facing Xu Fengnian—one of the four Great Grandmasters on the martial rankings—and standing on Xu family territory, separated from the Northern Barbarian Southern Court by the Northern Liang Iron Cavalry, still dared to act. Such audacity alone was worthy of both admiration and lament.
Bai Lian’s gaze remained fixed outside the pavilion, the wine in his cup rippling violently as he sighed softly.
When Princess Qingluan turned her head again, she did not see the expected scene of a severed head and splattered blood.
Instead, she saw the deputy commander of the Northern Court Kheshig—who shared her surname—frozen in the motion of swinging his saber down, his entire body radiating power like an eagle that had just swooped from the clouds, its talons gripping a wooden perch.
In stark contrast was the young prince, utterly at ease, holding a cup with two fingers of his right hand as he slowly raised it. Lifting the wine cup, he smiled at her—an ordinary, friendly gesture, as if offering a toast between two companions.
But the young prince’s left hand was raised high, four fingers curled naturally, with only his index finger extended, perfectly intercepting the blade of the white-hilted saber sheathed in golden peach bark.
This unstoppable saber strike, upon touching the young prince’s finger, could not advance even a hair’s breadth further.
Perhaps the only proof of the saber’s earlier overwhelming force was the maidservant’s hair, fluttering backward as if stirred by a breeze.
The gently swaying strands resembled lotus flowers in a pond.
After delivering what was likely the most martial-truth-infused strike of his life, the deputy commander of the Kheshig—renowned for his bravery across the grasslands—turned ashen-faced, his eyes filled with despair, his lips trembling faintly.
Xu Fengnian flicked the finger that had blocked the Northern Barbarian imperial saber, and the blade—now free of its sheath—flew from the man’s grip and embedded itself with a loud thud into one of the pavilion’s beams.
This Kheshig expert, who had been prepared to die and had believed his chances of success were high, could no longer contain himself. Regardless of whether the young prince understood Northern Barbarian speech, he stammered, “Weren’t you already severely injured by Tuoba Pusa? And then at Huaiyang Pass, you fought Chen Zhibao again—how is it that you show no signs of injury now?!”
Fan Bainu clenched her fists tightly on her lap, the veins standing out starkly against her snow-white skin. She raised her head and shouted furiously, “Yelü Canglang! Have you lost your mind?! Why would you dare to assassinate the Prince of Northern Liang without orders?!”
The burly Kheshig guard seemed utterly broken, deaf to the princess’s furious reprimands. He muttered “This can’t be” over and over, as if in a daze.
He had been confident that this strike had crossed the threshold into the Heavenly Phenomena realm. Against Xu Fengnian at the peak of his martial prowess, it would have been laughably futile—but intelligence reports had clearly indicated the young prince’s current dire state. Even if not quite hanging by a thread, his celestial physique was nearly shattered. In terms of pure physical condition, he was far from the indestructible golden body of Buddhist Great Vajra practitioners—likely even weaker than ordinary Xuan-level martial artists. Like those Daoist masters who took shortcuts to ascension, he might have an arsenal of mystical techniques, but against a true martial artist who had built his foundation step by step, he should have been utterly defenseless.
After the deputy commander’s failed assassination attempt, one of the young Kheshig guards outside the pavilion could no longer endure the torment in his heart. His eyes reddened as he roared and openly drew his blade. There was no aura of intimidation—only a sense of tragic desperation.
But before he could take more than four or five steps forward, Song Yu flashed to his side and delivered a brutal kick to his waist.
The lifeless body was sent flying, giving onlookers the surreal impression of a willow catkin drifting in the wind.
Next, everyone’s gaze turned to the remaining Kheshig guard.
Song Yu’s eyes were icy, Yang Shenxing and Yang Huchen’s gazes sharp. Bai Lian, whose eyesight had been ruined by excessive reading, seemed self-aware enough not to waste effort looking outside. Instead, he set down his empty cup and smiled at the frightened maidservant, as if asking her for a cup of tea.
The young Kheshig guard wore an expression of pitiful despair, as if on the verge of tears.
Then, another anomaly arose.
Not outside the pavilion—but inside, mere inches from the young prince.
Xu Fengnian leaned back just in time to evade an extremely vicious hand-chop.
The arm extending from the embroidered sleeve was slender and elegant, its ivory-like smoothness radiating a lustrous sheen. But when the hand formed a blade, it carried overwhelming lethality.
Had this seemingly effortless strike connected with his neck, it would have been no less devastating than having his skull split open by the white-hilted saber.
Princess Qingluan, utterly bewildered, stared blankly at the seemingly harmless maidservant, whose lips curled into a faint smile. The lingering traces of feigned fear from earlier still lingered in her gentle brows.
With a twist of her wrist, the hand-blade swept horizontally toward the young prince’s throat.
The next moment, Xu Fengnian caught both arms with his hands, simultaneously blocking two hand-chops.
One came from the mysterious maidservant.
The owner of the other arm was someone even Song Yu, who knew Qingliang Mountain inside and out, could never have anticipated.
The Northern Barbarian princess’s eyes widened in disbelief. Beside her stood a young girl who had somehow appeared unnoticed, one foot planted on the table. Her hand-chop hovered a hair’s breadth from the temple of the maidservant, who sat sideways.
Xu Fengnian didn’t spare a glance for the murderous maidservant. Instead, he tilted his head up and smiled helplessly at the girl, whose figure still bore the youthful softness of adolescence. “With so many esteemed guests present, a scene of bloodshed wouldn’t be appropriate, would it?”
The girl smirked without warmth, withdrew her hand, and leaped backward. With one hand grasping the pavilion’s eaves, she flipped gracefully and vanished.
Only then did Xu Fengnian turn to the maidservant. “What is your connection to Princess Mound’s ‘Half-Faced Makeup’?”
The maidservant, whose delicate features were actually quite striking, maintained her gentle, unassuming demeanor, devoid of the usual malice of assassins. Her gaze shifted slightly to the young prince’s hand gripping hers, where black, ink-like blood seeped from his fingertips.
Raising her pointed chin, she saw a purple-gold mark shimmer between the young prince’s brows, like a celestial eye opening.
In the most authentic, mellifluous accent of Jiangnan, she whispered with a soft laugh, “Your Highness is truly formidable.”
Xu Fengnian chuckled dismissively.
Black blood trickled from the corner of her lips, matching the hue on Xu Fengnian’s fingertips. Her face relaxed as if freed from a great burden, and she slowly closed her eyes.
Releasing her arm, Xu Fengnian steadied her shoulders and laid her sideways on the huanghuali table.
She looked like nothing more than an ordinary maidservant, dozing off during her duties.
Xu Fengnian took over the tea-brewing duties, handing Bai Lian a cup of fragrant Chun Shen Lake tea.
Bai Lian accepted the cup and sighed again, downing it in one gulp as if it were wine.
The deputy commander of the Kheshig watched all this coldly. Even when the maidservant—likely a Princess Mound assassin—struck, he had resisted the urge to seize the moment.
Now, with a bold smile and no intention of begging for mercy, he declared loudly, “Your Highness, will you take my life yourself, or shall someone else do the honors?”
Xu Fengnian gestured for him to sit, replying in Northern Barbarian court dialect tinged with Gusai Province inflections, “This prince is genuinely curious. Your Yelü clan has always prided itself on being the orthodox lineage, at odds with Yelü Hongcai and Yelü Dongchuang’s faction. You despise Yelü Hongcai for betraying the late emperor. And given that you’re seated here today, you must be a trusted subordinate of the Northern Barbarian Crown Prince. So why would you turn around and stab him in the back?”
Yelü Canglang’s expression flickered uncertainly. After a moment’s hesitation, he finally sat and asked, puzzled, “Why does Your Highness assume I’ve allied with Yelü Hongcai’s faction? Wouldn’t it make more sense if this assassination attempt was the Crown Prince’s doing?”
Xu Fengnian sidestepped the question. “Before drawing your blade today, had you gone at least two years without wielding a saber?”
Yelü Canglang nodded.
Xu Fengnian’s lips curled. “And I’ll wager this unorthodox training method—focusing on intent over force—was secretly taught to you by Tuoba Chunsun.”
Yelü Canglang’s jaw slackened slightly. Clearly, the young prince had hit the mark again.
Xu Fengnian explained with a smile, “When I wandered the martial world of Liyang, I often posed as a fortune-teller. Not every prediction was a scam.”
Yelü Canglang’s mouth twitched.
Xu Fengnian took a small sip of green ant wine, his phoenix eyes narrowing further. “Don’t believe me?”
The deputy commander, renowned across the grasslands, said nothing, torn between doubt and reluctant belief.
Xu Fengnian laughed heartily and pointed at himself. “It’s simple, really. The originator of your saber technique is standing right before you.”
Perhaps no one noticed, but when it came to trivial matters of the martial world—irrelevant to the grand tides of the realm—the young prince seemed far more at ease.
Yelü Canglang chuckled wryly. So that was it.
His clan’s close ties to the God of War, Tuoba Pusa, were well-known across the grasslands, especially his sworn brotherhood with Tuoba Chunsun.
Yelü Canglang exhaled deeply and asked with a smile, “Your Highness still hasn’t told me how you knew this southern venture was Yelü Dongchuang’s idea?”
Xu Fengnian replied solemnly, “This prince only realized it just now.”
Yelü Canglang froze, his blood boiling with humiliation.
Then, suddenly, he laughed, clasped his fists, and said solemnly, “This reckless assassination attempt was my own doing, unrelated to Yelü Dongchuang. I’ve long admired Your Highness’s reputation as the world’s foremost martial artist from afar, and I couldn’t resist testing my blade. Originally, this strike was reserved for next year’s competition for the Kheshig commander position. I beg Your Highness’s forgiveness! I trust you understand the mindset of a martial fanatic like myself. If this minor incident were to sow discord between two great princes and hinder your grand ambitions of dividing the world, I could never atone for my crime even in death!”
Xu Fengnian’s eyes gleamed with amusement. Just as Yelü Canglang began to ponder the deeper meaning behind the young prince’s words, the burly man suddenly turned with difficulty toward the woman he had deemed insignificant.
Fan Bainu? The so-called “First Drum of the Northern Barbarians”? If his plan had succeeded, there would no longer be a Princess Qingluan—only another plaything in his bed.
Did that weakling Crown Prince dare to object?
If Yelü Canglang were truly angered, once the Northern Barbarian court was overturned, even the Crown Princess—who had won two titles in the Chess-Sword-Lyric Pavilion under the name “Cold Aunt”—would be seized and added to his collection!
But at this moment, Yelü Canglang, deputy commander of the Kheshig, was unmistakably a dead man walking. A dagger had pierced clean through his thick neck.
The Northern Barbarian princess, who had driven the blade home with both hands, withdrew it swiftly and cleanly.
Yelü Canglang clutched his gushing neck with one hand, the other trembling as he pointed accusingly at this woman—his own kin—who was even more ruthless than he.
Fan Bainu set the dagger down gently, ignoring Yelü Canglang entirely as she fixed her gaze on the young prince across the table. “Your Highness, now we may resume our earlier discussion! I still represent the Crown Prince in this transaction with you. And now, it seems you have no other choice!”
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