The ordinary wealthy patrons who splurged gold in the tavern were utterly terrified. Take, for example, the county magistrate crouching under a table, clutching his head and weeping. As the so-called “parental official” of his district, he had come to Bei’an Town under the pretense of inspecting the people’s welfare, intending to indulge in harmless revelry before heading to the neighboring brothel to “tame a couple of fiery steeds” at the ripe age of fifty—a bold act of “laying down the brush to take up the sword” in his twilight years! After learning of the deaths, he knew this was no place to linger, but his legs had turned to jelly, and he feared the ruthless killers might decide he was in the way and cut him down without a second thought.
At that table, the only one still seated and calmly drinking was the scholar from Liang who had barely found a foothold in the local yamen this year. A frail intellectual, he even moved the screen aside for a better view of the bloody battlefield where martial immortals clashed. What does it mean to remain composed in the face of great events? This was it. Yet his eccentric display of scholarly detachment only earned him the collective ire of his cowering colleagues and the local gentry.
Not all patrons were content to wait for death. Some martial artists, after the sudden appearance of the saber-wielding young master, tried to sneak toward the stairs along the window wall. But there, standing on the railing like a Bodhisattva enshrined in a niche, was a stunning woman in deep red robes, her mere presence enough to command silence.
Without her uttering a word, all the martial heroes wisely returned to their seats.
One quick-witted fellow tried to leap out the window, only to nearly lose his soul in fright—he found a head hanging upside-down outside. After a stunned moment, he wordlessly shut the window, ensuring it was tightly sealed, then sat back down, muttering, “The gods watch from above. Seek vengeance if you must, but know I, Wang Jian, though a man in my thirties, am still a virgin—my yang energy is at its peak. Cross me, and we both suffer…”
The atmosphere grew increasingly tense.
At the blind qin player Xue Songguan’s table, the screen had been toppled by a flamboyantly dressed Miao woman, who sat cross-legged on her chair, licking her lips as she admired the young master’s profile. “So handsome!” she purred.
Her husband, Wei Miao, the foremost martial artist of Nanzhao, merely smiled indulgently at his wife’s unconventional behavior. To him, nothing mattered more than her happiness.
Meanwhile, Su Su, the exiled prince of the fallen Western Shu, felt a surge of complex emotions upon seeing the young man again—enough to bond with Wu Liuding, the current Sword Crown of the Sword Mound, as kindred spirits.
At Liu Nirong’s table, only Mao Shulang remained seated, though he set down his cup. Cheng Baishuang and Ji Liu’an had already risen, while Lin Hongyuan, now lord of the Southern Dragon Palace, sprang to her feet.
Further away, the young hero of Baling County, who had witnessed both terrestrial immortals and martial goddesses in a single day, seemed on the verge of tears. He felt he’d experienced a lifetime’s worth of the martial world in just one day—enough to retire and start a family without regrets.
The only one still oblivious was the tavern’s second manager, Guo Xuan, who was about to glare at the young man spouting nonsense when he abruptly shut his mouth. He noticed the rotund “Eunuch Song” trembling like he’d been struck by lightning, his plump cheeks pale with terror.
A middle-aged assassin, felled by Ji Liu’an’s wine cup, gritted his teeth and spat, “Xu Fengnian!”
Almost simultaneously, the Chief Eunuch of the Ceremonial Directorate, who had remained seated all evening, finally rose with a slight bow. “This humble servant greets the King of Northern Liang,” he said steadily. “At Longju River, I failed in propriety. I beg Your Highness’s forgiveness.”
Eunuchs of Tai’an City, regardless of rank, never knelt to feudal kings—not even imperial princes. But facing the ruler of the northwest, even the Chief Eunuch dared not presume. Not just because of the 300,000 iron cavalry at his back, but also because of the celestial battle at the Qin Tian Jian, where the portraits of Dragon-Tiger Mountain’s patriarchs, once worshipped by the Zhao royal family, had been all but destroyed.
Guo Xuan, belatedly realizing his mistake, was about to make amends when the young king chuckled, “Second Manager, enough with the act.”
Guo Xuan froze.
Xu Fengnian studied the three eunuchs and the tense Imperial Guard commander before turning back to Guo Xuan. “Why bother with martial arts to kill? The amateurs on the floor, the four assassins from Gelu Tower, even the hidden agent in the Fish-Dragon Gang—none were the real threat. The true weapon was you, poisoning their food and drink, wasn’t it?”
The Miao woman clapped in delight. “Handsome lad with sharp eyes!”
Guo Xuan’s expression shifted before he finally straightened, laughing wildly. “Truly one of the Four Great Grandmasters! Truly the King of Northern Liang! Truly the son of the Butcher Xu Xiao!” His laughter was both mad and desolate, filled with tragic resolve.
Xu Fengnian surveyed the room—the dead assassins, the remnants of fallen kingdoms, the standing eunuchs, Lin Hongyuan’s table—and murmured, “All so technical.”
Guo Xuan sneered fearlessly.
Xu Fengnian shrugged. “Your poison, whether bought or brewed, works slowly. By the time they reach Qingliang Mountain, it’ll be too late. A trick from the Southern Tang court, designed to break even the toughest martial bodies.”
Guo Xuan’s eyes burned with hatred and triumph. “Think you can pry the antidote from me?”
Xu Fengnian hesitated, then shook his head. “No point. Some things can’t be reasoned.”
Black blood trickled from Guo Xuan’s lips as he collapsed, whispering, “I, Guo Xuanxiang, lived half a life in shame… but die fulfilled…”
The middle-aged man who’d named Xu Fengnian raised his arm to smash his own skull, but a young woman nearby—once the object of countless admirers—looked up with tear-streaked desperation. “King of Northern Liang, spare me! I don’t want to die! I’ve given too much already—I owe my family nothing more!”
Her wails pierced the tavern—the only cries in a night of silent, determined deaths.
To the survivors of the eight fallen kingdoms, Xu Xiao was the architect of their ruin. Some chose martyrdom, like the white silks and well-drownings of Western Shu’s capital. Others fled north in the Hongjia Exodus, or hid—in martial sects as new disciples, in wealthy homes as adopted infants, in brothels as refined courtesans. Xu Xiao’s wars had reshaped the landscape, his blades dulled from slaughter, yet still the grudges persisted.
Grass cut but not uprooted would regrow with the spring wind. Thus, every outing by the Northern Liang heir meant deaths—of vengeful remnants, of assassins, even of maidservants in the Wutong Courtyard who died without regret.
Xu Fengnian remembered his first encounter with assassination—stepping barefoot into the snow-covered courtyard, seeing corpses half-buried in blood-stained drifts. His father, not yet so hunched or lame, had joined him on the steps, laughing as armored guards carried the bodies away. “Too many enemies to count! Scared, son?”
The shivering boy had clenched his teeth. “Not a damn bit!”
The man had draped his old sable cloak over the boy’s shoulders, roaring with laughter. “That’s my blood!”
Now, on the tavern’s third floor, a roar cut through the woman’s sobs. “Silence!”
The middle-aged assassin glared at her. “The Chongshan Song family are loyal to the bone! We shame no ancestors!” With that, he raised his hand to strike her forehead—preferring death with honor to twenty years of disgrace.
Xu Fengnian moved like lightning, crushing the man’s skull underfoot before he could land the blow. The body slid several zhang away.
The sudden violence sent waves through the room—even the blind qin player Xue Songguan pressed her strings hard, while Mao Shulang nearly drew his blade.
Xu Fengnian nodded to a young retainer by Liu Nirong, who signaled three others—a courtesan, an old waiter, and a local martial artist—to clear the survivors. Whether they’d be executed or tortured, none cared to guess. These were clearly agents of the Fushui Room or the Eagle-Raising Division.
To the eunuchs, Xu Fengnian said coldly, “Don’t worry about the poison. Deliver the decree to Qingliang Mountain, then return to Tai’an.”
As the Chief Eunuch passed him, Xu Fengnian whispered, “Tell him she’s well.”
The eunuch gave an almost imperceptible bow before descending the stairs.
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