Yang Hao arrived at Kan Ling’s place late at night. He flew straight through the window into her room, avoiding the need to explain to Kan Ling’s parents why he was secretly involved with their daughter, or his connection with the princess.
As Yang Hao suddenly leapt through the window, Xian Lan was in the middle of shamelessly badmouthing him. She had already recounted his misdeeds from age five all the way to twenty-five, and was about to delve into some explicit topics.
Xian Lan was speaking with great enthusiasm and vivid expression, so engrossed in her storytelling that she didn’t notice Yang Hao standing behind her, his presence dark and ominous.
“Do you know the person you’re talking about is also named Yang Hao?” he asked coldly.
“Eek! A ghost!” Xian Lan shrieked, leaping up, only to be caught mid-air like a chicken by Yang Hao.
“You… what do you want? If you touch me again, I’ll scream for assault!” she yelled.
“You’ve got no looks and no figure. Who would have the time to assault you?”
Yang Hao had to restrain himself with great effort to avoid strangling the despicable woman to death.
Meanwhile, Kan Ling was in the shower. Hearing the scream from outside, she thought something had happened to Xian Lan. Wrapping herself in a bathrobe with her hair still wet, she rushed out.
“It’s you…” Kan Ling froze for a moment, her eyes reddening. “Yang Hao, put Xian Lan down.”
Grumbling, Yang Hao tossed Xian Lan onto the bed. He couldn’t understand these women—rivals in love yet still insisting on being friends. It was absurd beyond belief.
“What are you here for?” Kan Ling asked softly.
“I came to tell you that no matter what, you are always my woman—mine alone!” Yang Hao growled fiercely. “Wait for me. I’m going to the Emperor right now to break off the engagement.”
“No!” Kan Ling was startled. Even though she felt some jealousy and anger, she still understood the bigger picture. The Emperor’s arrangement of the marriage was a strategic move to counter the Senate, a fact she was well aware of.
But Yang Hao was like an arrow already released—there was no turning back. He placed a beautifully crafted box on the table and, without another word, rode Shadow Moon swiftly into the night, heading toward the imperial palace.
“Barbarian! Country bumpkin!” Xian Lan muttered, rubbing her sore arm as she climbed off the bed. She wanted to curse him a bit more, but stopped when she saw a scene too touching to interrupt.
Kan Ling had taken out the wind chime from the box—the very one Xian Lan had long desired—and hung it by her window. She then sat on the windowsill, legs dangling outside, leaning against the wall, listening to the melodious chime while gazing into the distance.
The artificial moonlight poured down from the ten-thousand-meter sky, wrapping Kan Ling in a silver glow. The sight of her, radiant like a dewdrop in the moonlight, was breathtaking.
—
**At the Imperial Palace**
After a series of fierce battles, the Imperial Guards had suffered heavy losses, with more than half their forces destroyed. The elite troops, trained over decades, had been severely depleted and could not withstand much more.
Yet it was precisely at such a time that Qin Feng remained especially vigilant. He knew the Senate and the Royal Family could no longer coexist peacefully. Assassination was inevitable, and at this moment, Qin Feng was the Emperor’s final line of defense.
That night, to the surprise of the Black Armored Warriors, Qin Feng himself led the patrol.
As they patrolled the east gate, Qin Feng suddenly sensed a massive energy fluctuation in the sky. Normally, all energy within the palace grounds should be stable. Any unusual fluctuation meant an intruder.
And this alert was both massive and swift.
Before he could even react, a fireball the size of the artificial moon shot from the endless darkness and slammed into the Emperor’s sleeping quarters.
“Intruder!” Qin Feng shouted. “Protect the Emperor!” Without waiting for the guards to respond, he clapped his hands and flew toward the palace like a wisp of black smoke.
But no matter how fast Qin Feng moved, he couldn’t match Yang Hao’s speed. Yang Hao’s strike was precise and brutal, directly targeting the Emperor’s sleeping quarters.
He had no intention of assassination—only to express his firm stance.
His momentum was so fierce that, if unchallenged, he could have destroyed half the palace.
But just as he was about to land, a sword appeared. It was an unusual sword—no overwhelming power, no flashy techniques. It simply extended forward like a brushstroke in an ink painting.
It aimed precisely at Yang Hao’s most vulnerable point mid-air.
Yang Hao had no choice but to block with Shadow Moon, his descent slowing.
The sword withdrew, then reappeared from another angle—still slow, still elegant, still elusive.
Yang Hao found Kan Ling when it was almost midnight. He flew straight into her room through the window, not wanting to explain to her parents why he was having a secret affair with their daughter or his relationship with the princess.
When Yang Hao suddenly burst through the window into Kan Ling’s chamber, Princess Xianlan was shamelessly badmouthing him, recounting his misdeeds from the age of five all the way to twenty-five, and was just about to dive into some scandalous topics.
Xianlan was so animated and engrossed in her storytelling that she didn’t even notice Yang Hao standing ominously behind her for a long time.
“Is the person you’re talking about also named Yang Hao?” Yang Hao sneered.
“Ahh! A ghost!!” Xianlan jumped up in fright, but before she could land, Yang Hao grabbed her like a chicken. “Y-you… what do you want? If you touch me again, I’ll scream for help!”
“With a face like yours and no figure to speak of, who’d bother harassing you?”
Yang Hao had to restrain himself with great effort to avoid strangling this shameless woman.
While Xianlan was busy slandering Yang Hao, Kan Ling was in the middle of a bath. Hearing the scream outside, she thought something had happened to Xianlan. Wrapped only in a bathrobe, her hair still dripping wet, she rushed out.
“It’s you…” Kan Ling froze for a moment, her eyes reddening. “Yang Hao, put Xianlan down.”
Yang Hao angrily tossed Xianlan onto the bed. He couldn’t understand these women—clearly rivals in love, yet still acting like friends. It was utterly ridiculous.
“Why are you here?” Kan Ling asked softly.
“I came to tell you. No matter what, you are my woman—mine alone!” Yang Hao growled. “Wait for me. I’m going to see Emperor Yinglie now to break off the engagement.”
“No!” Kan Ling was startled. Even if she was genuinely upset and jealous, she still understood the bigger picture. The emperor had arranged the marriage to counter the Senate—this was something Lan Ling understood all too well.
But Yang Hao was like an arrow already loosed from the bow, impossible to recall. He placed an exquisite box on the table and, without another word, mounted Yingyue and sped away toward the imperial palace.
“Barbarian! Country bumpkin!” Xianlan grumbled as she got up from the bed, rubbing her sore arm. She wanted to badmouth Yang Hao some more but was silenced by the scene before her.
Kan Ling took out the wind chime Xianlan had always coveted from the box and hung it by her window. Then, sitting on the windowsill with her legs dangling, she leaned against the wall, listening to the chime’s melodious sound while gazing into the distance.
The artificial moonlight spilled from thousands of meters above, wrapping Kan Ling in silver radiance, making her glisten like dewdrops—utterly enchanting.
**Imperial Palace.**
After a series of brutal battles, the imperial guards had lost more than half their numbers. Decades of training elite soldiers had been severely depleted, leaving them unable to endure further losses.
Yet, it was precisely at such a time that Qin Feng became even more vigilant. He knew there was no longer any chance of peaceful coexistence between the Senate and the imperial family. Assassination attempts could strike Emperor Yinglie at any moment, and Qin Feng was now the emperor’s last line of defense.
That night, to the astonishment of the black-armored warriors, Qin Feng personally led the patrol through the city.
As Qin Feng’s patrol reached the East Gate, he suddenly sensed a massive surge of energy in the sky. Normally, all energy within the palace should remain stable—any fluctuations signaled an intruder.
But this warning was far too intense and came far too quickly.
In the blink of an eye, Qin Feng saw the intruder—a fireball, as large as the artificial moon, shooting out of the endless darkness and crashing violently into Emperor Yinglie’s bedchamber.
“Assassin!” Qin Feng shouted. “Protect His Majesty!” Without waiting for the guards to react, he rubbed his hands together and shot toward the bedchamber like black smoke.
Yet no matter how fast Qin Feng moved, he couldn’t match Yang Hao’s speed. Yang Hao’s strike was precise, ruthless, and aimed directly at the emperor’s sleeping quarters.
He wasn’t there to assassinate, but to make his stance unmistakably clear.
Yang Hao’s momentum was so fierce that, if unchecked, it could have obliterated half the bedchamber.
But just as he was about to land, a sword appeared.
This sword was peculiar—it carried no extraordinary power, no special technique. It simply extended like a brushstroke in an ink painting, striking precisely at Yang Hao’s vital point as he descended.
Forced to defend, Yang Hao blocked with Yingyue, slowing his descent slightly.
The sword, deflected, reappeared from another angle—still slow, still effortless, still barely perceptible.
Now Yang Hao couldn’t afford to underestimate it. The wielder was no ordinary opponent. This wasn’t about raw power—it was the true essence of swordsmanship, refined to the point where it didn’t even need the support of Saint-level strength.
Yingyue clashed with the sword again. But Yang Hao’s immense force dissipated like mud in water, and Yingyue flew back with a mournful hum, as if it had suffered a minor defeat.
Then came the sword’s third strike.
Yang Hao’s momentum was completely halted. Reluctantly, he revealed his true form and retreated ten steps to evade the sword’s edge.
An old man, dressed in loose gray robes, stood not far from Yang Hao. He held his sword strangely—pinched between two fingers like chopsticks, utterly at ease.
Emperor Yinglie sat on his bed, watching Yang Hao coldly.
Even Yang Hao, thick-skinned as he was, knew he had crossed a line by barging in like this. He cleared his throat awkwardly.
“Your Majesty, even in sleep, you keep a master by your side.”
“Lord Yang Hao, testing the palace’s defenses so late at night? How diligent of you,” Emperor Yinglie mocked.
Yang Hao turned to the old man.
“This is my master—the empire’s foremost Sword Saint,” the emperor introduced simply.
Yang Hao gasped in realization. This was the legendary figure of the Milky Way Empire, the first Sword Saint independent of the Senate, the imperial family’s highest guardian.
The old Sword Saint smiled faintly and nodded at Yang Hao.
“You’re good. Very good.”
Yang Hao bowed respectfully. He could afford arrogance with others, but before such an unfathomable existence, all he felt was reverence.
After the Supreme Immortal Sect unified the world, all cultivators were absorbed into the Senate’s system—except this old Sword Saint, who stood alone, establishing the empire’s own lineage. He endured over twenty years of Senate pursuit, yet the presiding elders could never touch him. Later, he even trained three disciples:
Emperor Yinglie, the universe’s greatest wanderer—Situ Hai, and the imperial guard commander—Qin Feng.
All three reached (or had reached) the peak of Saint-level. Such achievements, such a legend—only the Supreme Immortal himself could rival it.
Emperor Yinglie’s expression softened slightly.
“If you have business, come during the day. Breaking in at night—aren’t you afraid of angering Feng?”
“I couldn’t wait,” Yang Hao said bluntly. “I want to break off the engagement.”
“What did you say?” The emperor’s brows furrowed.
“I want to break off the engagement.”
“What exactly do you want?” The emperor’s tone was deeply displeased.
Yang Hao steadied himself and repeated one last time:
“I want to break off the engagement! I won’t marry Xianlan. I want to be with Kan Ling.”
The emperor fell silent.
The bedchamber was deathly quiet, the sound of the wind whistling through the window cracks painfully clear. Apart from the dim light by the bed, the rest of the room was shrouded in darkness. Yang Hao’s shadow stretched long and desolate across the floor.
“Young man,” the old Sword Saint broke the suffocating silence, “you are strong, accomplished at a young age. Few reach such heights in their youth. But early success often makes one a target. I had a disciple who reached the peak of Saint-level by twenty—his swordsmanship talent unmatched. Yet now, he remains broken by defeat. So think carefully before you act. Don’t let impulse lead to regret.”
“I’m not Situ Hai,” Yang Hao knew who he meant. “I’ve thought this through—always have. I don’t love Xianlan, and I don’t want political bargains. If we’re to overthrow the Senate, I’ll do it with my own strength.”
“Your own strength?” The Sword Saint sighed. “How much strength do you have? Your Alchemy Sect crushed the Ten Sword Streams, but can it stand against three hundred elders? Can you and He De defeat nine peak Saint-level experts? The Senate has existed for centuries—their power is unimaginable. Three hundred elders mean three hundred Saint-level experts. Even the Hidden Dragon Pavilion can’t withstand that, let alone you.”
“You’re right. In a direct fight, I can’t win,” Yang Hao admitted.
The Sword Saint nodded, pleased with his honesty.
“The Senate demands your life in exchange for sparing the Hidden Dragon Pavilion. Any rational person would comply. His Majesty values talent, hence the marriage to protect you. If you reject it, you reject not just the imperial family’s aid, but also the Merchant Alliance’s and the Wisdom King’s. Once the Senate crushes the Hidden Dragon Pavilion and returns to Earth, what will you have left to protect yourself—or those around you?”
“I won’t negotiate with the Senate,” Yang Hao said bitterly. “The grudges between us—between me and the Supreme Immortal—can’t be settled with words. If a death battle is inevitable, I won’t sacrifice my woman for it.”
“The marriage is the best option now. It buys you time,” the Sword Saint urged one last time.
“I’ve made my decision,” Yang Hao stood firm.
“What do you intend to do?” The emperor looked weary.
Yang Hao declared something that stunned them all:
“I’ll save the Hidden Dragon Pavilion—alone, without the imperial family’s aid. Since its siege is partly my fault, I’ll take responsibility. I won’t let a five-thousand-year legacy be destroyed.”
“Hah!” The Sword Saint inhaled sharply, eyes flashing with surprise and admiration.
“Fool’s courage,” the emperor shook his head. “So young, yet so reckless. Do you want to become a second Situ Hai?”
Situ Hai had reached Saint-level peak by twenty—unmatched in the world. But in trying to stop the empire’s warships, he was nearly torn apart. Though saved by the Hidden Dragon Pavilion, he never regained his former prowess and drowned himself in alcohol ever since.
The Sword Saint studied Yang Hao intently.
“Young man, do you understand what three hundred elders mean? One Saint-level expert can shake the world—but this is three hundred. Add eight peak Saint-level presiding elders, and you have the entire Senate mobilized. Even if the imperial family threw everything it had, with me leading, we’d at best achieve mutual destruction. The Hidden Dragon Pavilion would still fall. And you think you alone can save it? Even daydreams are more realistic.”
“This isn’t recklessness,” Yang Hao smiled with eerie calm. “The Senate has surrounded the Hidden Dragon Pavilion. Whether you hand me over or not, they’ll destroy it—that’s irreversible. They won’t tolerate such a thorn in their side. And as for me… my feud with the Senate means that once the Hidden Dragon Pavilion falls, the Alchemy Sect is next. So if the elders have already decided everything, I might as well go against the tide—fight with everything I’ve got.”
“You seek to rise from certain death?” The Sword Saint mused.
“To the Senate, the Hidden Dragon Pavilion is already dead, and so am I. Then let this dead man save it.” A fierce aura erupted from Yang Hao. “Since this began with me, let me end it.”
Emperor Yinglie watched Yang Hao’s unyielding spirit, fists clenched, a bitter smile flickering.
“Have I truly grown so old? That a child’s ambition can unsettle me.”
“Your Majesty, such indomitable will must be passed on,” Yang Hao said without humility.
The emperor’s gaze softened, as if looking at his own child.
“If you go, it means breaking with the imperial family. Forget Xianlan—but is Kan Ling worth all this?”
“She stabbed her own master in court for me. No one asked if it was worth it for her,” Yang Hao murmured.
The emperor sighed, silent for a long while before shaking his head.
“Perhaps I am old… and wrong. To think survival matters above all else.”
The air grew thick with melancholy.
“Your Majesty,” Yang Hao said finally, “the exposure of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion and the Dragon Trap—there must be a traitor close to you. Be careful.”
With that, he turned to leave.
“Wait.” The Sword Saint called him back. “Kneel.”
Yang Hao hesitated.
*Do I have to bow to another master? I haven’t even knelt to you,* he thought to Hunyuanzi.
*I don’t care about formalities. That old man might give you something good,* Hunyuanzi mumbled before drifting back to sleep, secretly pleased by his disciple’s respect.
Shadow Moon clashed with the sword again, but Yang Hao’s immense force vanished like a stone sinking into the sea. Instead, Shadow Moon recoiled with a mournful hum, as if it had suffered a setback.
The sword struck a third time.
Yang Hao’s momentum was completely halted. He had no choice but to reveal himself, retreating at least ten steps to avoid the sword’s elegant yet deadly edge.
An old man, older than anyone could imagine, stood not far from Yang Hao. Dressed in a loose gray robe, he held the sword in an unusual way—pinching the hilt between two fingers like chopsticks.
The Emperor sat on his bed, watching Yang Hao coldly.
Even with Yang Hao’s thick skin, he knew he had committed a grave offense by breaking in like this. He coughed awkwardly. “Your Majesty, even your sleep is guarded by experts.”
“Lord Yang Hao,” the Emperor said with irony, “visiting so late to test the palace’s defenses? Truly thoughtful.”
Yang Hao turned to the old man.
“This is my master, the Empire’s Chief Sword Saint,” the Emperor introduced simply.
Yang Hao’s eyes widened. He now understood—he was facing a legendary figure in the Galactic Empire, the first Sword Saint independent of the Senate, and the Royal Family’s ultimate protector.
The old Sword Saint smiled slightly and nodded at Yang Hao. “You’re impressive. Very impressive.”
Yang Hao bowed respectfully. Before such an existence, there was nothing to do but show reverence.
After the Supreme Sect unified everything, all cultivators were absorbed into the Senate system. Only this old Sword Saint had broken free, establishing the Empire’s own Sword Saint lineage. He had survived over twenty years of relentless pursuit by the Senate, with the Elders unable to capture him. Eventually, he even trained three disciples:
Emperor Ying Lie, the legendary wanderer Situ Hai, and the Commander of the Imperial Guards, Qin Feng.
Yang Hao found Kan Ling when it was almost midnight. He flew straight into her room through the window, unwilling to explain to her parents why he was having a secret affair with their daughter and his relationship with the princess.
When Yang Hao suddenly leaped through the window into Kan Ling’s chamber, Princess Xian Lan was shamelessly badmouthing him, recounting his misdeeds from the age of five all the way to twenty-five, and was just about to dive into some scandalous topics.
Xian Lan was so animated and engrossed in her storytelling that she didn’t even notice Yang Hao standing ominously behind her for quite some time.
“Is that person you’re talking about also named Yang Hao?” Yang Hao sneered.
“Ah! A ghost!!” Xian Lan jumped up in fright, but before she could land, Yang Hao grabbed her like a chicken. “Y-you… what do you want? If you touch me again, I’ll scream for help!”
“With a face like yours and no figure to speak of, who’d bother harassing you?”
Yang Hao had to restrain himself with great effort to avoid strangling this shameless woman.
While Xian Lan was busy slandering Yang Hao, Kan Ling was in the middle of a bath. Hearing the scream outside, she thought something had happened to Xian Lan and rushed out, wrapped only in a bathrobe, her hair still dripping wet.
“It’s you…” Kan Ling froze for a moment, her eyes reddening. “Yang Hao, put Xian Lan down.”
Yang Hao angrily tossed Xian Lan onto the bed. He couldn’t understand these women—clearly rivals in love, yet still acting like friends. It was utterly ridiculous.
“Why are you here?” Kan Ling asked softly.
“I came to tell you. No matter what, you are my woman, and mine alone!” Yang Hao growled. “Wait for me. I’m going to see Emperor Yinglie now to break off the engagement.”
“No!” Kan Ling was startled. Even if she was genuinely upset and jealous, she knew the bigger picture. The emperor’s arranged marriage was meant to counter the Senate—this was something Lan Ling understood all too well.
But Yang Hao was like an arrow already loosed from the bow, impossible to recall. He placed an exquisite box on the table and, without another word, mounted Shadowmoon and sped away toward the imperial palace.
“Barbarian! Country bumpkin!” Xian Lan grumbled as she got up from the bed, rubbing her sore arm. She wanted to badmouth Yang Hao some more but was stopped by a sight too touching to interrupt.
Kan Ling took out the wind chime Xian Lan had always coveted from the box and hung it by her window. Then she sat on the windowsill, legs dangling, leaning against the wall, listening to the chime’s melodious tinkling while gazing into the distance.
The artificial moonlight spilled from thousands of meters above, wrapping Kan Ling in silver radiance, making her dew-like, translucent figure appear especially enchanting.
—
**Imperial Palace.**
After a series of brutal battles, the imperial guards had lost more than half their numbers. Decades of training elite soldiers had been severely depleted, leaving them unable to endure further turmoil.
Yet, it was precisely at such times that Qin Feng became even more vigilant. He knew there was no chance for peaceful coexistence between the Senate and the royal family—assassination attempts could strike Emperor Yinglie at any moment. And in such times, Qin Feng was the emperor’s last line of defense.
So tonight, to the astonishment of the black-armored warriors, Qin Feng, the commander of the imperial guards, personally led the patrol.
As Qin Feng’s patrol reached the East Gate, he suddenly sensed a massive surge of energy in the sky. Normally, all energy within the palace should remain stable—any fluctuation was a warning of intruders.
But this warning was far too intense and came far too quickly.
In the blink of an eye, Qin Feng saw the intruder—a fireball the size of the artificial moon shot out from the endless darkness and crashed violently into Emperor Yinglie’s bedchamber.
“Assassin!” Qin Feng shouted. “Protect His Majesty!” Without waiting for the guards to react, he rubbed his hands together and flew toward the bedchamber like a wisp of black smoke.
But no matter how fast Qin Feng moved, he couldn’t match Yang Hao’s speed. Yang Hao’s strike was precise, ruthless, and aimed directly at the emperor’s sleeping quarters.
He wasn’t there to assassinate, but to make his stance unmistakably clear.
Yang Hao’s momentum was so fierce that, if unchecked, it could have obliterated half the bedchamber.
Yet, just as he was about to land, a sword appeared.
This sword was peculiar—it carried no extraordinary power, no special technique. It simply extended like a brushstroke in an ink painting, striking precisely at Yang Hao’s vital point as he descended.
Yang Hao had no choice but to block with Shadowmoon, slowing his descent slightly.
The sword, once deflected, reappeared from another angle—still slow, still effortless, still as if it barely existed.
Now Yang Hao couldn’t afford to underestimate it. The wielder of this sword was no ordinary opponent. He didn’t rely on brute strength but embodied the true essence of swordsmanship—so refined that it didn’t even need the support of Saint-level power.
Shadowmoon clashed with the sword again, but Yang Hao’s immense force dissipated like mud in water. Shadowmoon hummed as it returned to him, as if slightly wounded.
Then came the sword’s third strike.
Yang Hao’s momentum was completely halted. Reluctantly, he revealed his true form and retreated ten steps to evade the sword’s edge.
An elderly man, dressed in loose gray robes, stood not far from Yang Hao. He held his sword strangely—pinched between two fingers like chopsticks, effortlessly.
Emperor Yinglie sat on his bed, watching Yang Hao coldly.
Even Yang Hao, thick-skinned as he was, knew barging in like this was a grave offense. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Your Majesty, you even keep a master swordsman by your side while sleeping.”
“Lord Yang Hao, testing the palace’s defenses so late at night? How diligent of you,” Emperor Yinglie mocked.
Yang Hao turned to the old man.
“This is my master, the empire’s foremost Sword Saint,” the emperor introduced simply.
Yang Hao gasped, immediately recognizing the legendary figure before him—the first Sword Saint independent of the Senate, the royal family’s highest guardian.
The old Sword Saint smiled faintly and nodded at Yang Hao. “You’re good. Very good.”
Yang Hao bowed respectfully. While he could afford arrogance with others, facing such an unfathomable existence, all he felt was reverence.
After the Supreme Immortal Sect unified the world, all cultivators were absorbed into the Senate’s system—except this old Sword Saint, who stood alone, establishing the empire’s own lineage. He endured over twenty years of Senate pursuit, yet the presiding elders could never subdue him. Later, he even mentored three disciples:
Emperor Yinglie, the universe’s greatest wanderer Situ Hai, and the imperial guard commander Qin Feng.
All three reached (or had reached) the pinnacle of Saint-level power. Such achievements, such a legend—only the Supreme Immortal himself could rival them.
Emperor Yinglie’s expression softened slightly. “If you have business, come during the day. Breaking in at night—aren’t you afraid of Qin Feng’s wrath?”
“Couldn’t wait,” Yang Hao said bluntly. “I want to break off the engagement.”
“You want to what?” The emperor frowned.
“I want to break off the engagement.”
“What exactly do you want?” The emperor’s tone grew very, very displeased.
Yang Hao steadied himself and repeated one last time: “I want to break off the engagement! I won’t marry Xian Lan. I want to be with Kan Ling.”
Emperor Yinglie fell silent.
The bedchamber was eerily quiet—even the whisper of wind through the window cracks was audible. Apart from the dim bedside lamp, the room was shrouded in darkness, Yang Hao’s elongated shadow stretching desolately across the floor.
“Young man,” the old Sword Saint broke the suffocating silence, “you are strong, accomplished at a young age. Few reach such heights in their youth. But early success often makes one a target. I had a disciple who reached the pinnacle of Saint-level power by twenty, his swordsmanship talent unmatched. Yet now, he remains broken by defeat. So think carefully before you act—don’t let impulse lead to regret.”
“I’m not like Situ Hai,” Yang Hao knew whom he meant. “I’ve thought this through, and I’ve always been clear. I don’t like Xian Lan, and I don’t like political bargains. If we’re to overthrow the Senate, I want to rely on my own strength.”
“Your own strength?” The Sword Saint sighed. “How much strength do you have? Your Alchemy Sect defeated the Ten Sword Streams, but can it stand against three hundred elders? Can you and He De defeat nine Saint-level pinnacle masters? The Senate has existed for centuries—their power is unimaginable. Three hundred elders mean three hundred Saint-level experts. Even the Hidden Dragon Pavilion couldn’t withstand that, let alone you.”
“You’re right. If it comes to war, I can’t win,” Yang Hao admitted.
The Sword Saint nodded, pleased with his honesty. “The Senate demands your life in exchange for sparing the Hidden Dragon Pavilion. Any rational person would know the choice. His Majesty values talent, hence the marriage to preserve your life. If you break the engagement, you reject not just the royal family’s aid but also the Merchant Alliance’s and the Wisdom King’s. Once the Senate crushes the Hidden Dragon Pavilion and returns to Earth, what will you have left to protect yourself and those around you?”
“I won’t negotiate with the Senate,” Yang Hao smiled bitterly. “The grudges between us, between me and the Supreme Immortal—they can’t be resolved through talks. Since a death battle is inevitable, I won’t sacrifice my woman.”
“The marriage is the best solution now—it buys you time,” the Sword Saint urged one last time.
“I’ve made my decision,” Yang Hao stood firm.
“What do you intend to do?” The emperor looked weary.
Yang Hao announced a decision that shocked everyone: “I’ll save the Hidden Dragon Pavilion. Alone. Without the royal family’s aid. The siege is partly my fault—I’ll take responsibility. I won’t let a five-thousand-year legacy be destroyed.”
“Hah!” The Sword Saint inhaled sharply, eyes flashing with surprise and admiration.
“Fool’s courage,” the emperor shook his head. “So young, yet so reckless. Do you want to become the next Situ Hai?”
Situ Hai had reached Saint-level pinnacle by twenty, unmatched in the world. But in his attempt to stop the empire’s warships, he was nearly torn apart. Though saved by the Hidden Dragon Pavilion, he never regained his former prowess and drowned himself in alcohol ever since.
The Sword Saint studied Yang Hao intently. “Young man, do you understand what three hundred elders mean? One Saint-level expert can shake the world—but this is three hundred. Add eight Saint-level pinnacle presiding elders, and it’s the entire Senate mobilized. Even if the royal family threw everything we have, with me leading, we’d at best achieve mutual destruction. The Hidden Dragon Pavilion would still fall. And you think you alone can save it? Even daydreams are more realistic.”
“This isn’t recklessness,” Yang Hao smiled, eerily calm. “The Senate besieging the Hidden Dragon Pavilion—whether you hand me over or not, they’ll destroy it. That’s inevitable. The elders won’t tolerate such a thorn in their side. And as for me—my feud with the Senate ensures that once the Hidden Dragon Pavilion falls, the Alchemy Sect is next. So if the elders have already decided everything, I might as well go against the tide and fight.”
“You seek life in death?” The Sword Saint mused.
“In the elders’ eyes, the Hidden Dragon Pavilion is already dead, and so am I. So let this dead man save it.” Yang Hao exuded an indomitable aura. “Since this began because of me, let me end it.”
Emperor Yinglie watched Yang Hao’s unyielding spirit, fists clenched, a bitter smile flickering. “Have I truly grown so old that a child’s ambition frightens me?”
“Your Majesty, such lionhearted courage must be inherited,” Yang Hao said without humility.
The emperor’s gaze softened, as if looking at his own child. “Going like this means severing ties with the royal family. Forget Xian Lan—but is Kan Ling worth all this?”
“She stabbed her own master in the palace for me, and no one asked if it was worth it,” Yang Hao murmured softly.
The emperor sighed, silent for a long while before shaking his head. “Perhaps I am old. Perhaps I was wrong to think survival matters above all.”
The air grew thick with melancholy. Finally, Yang Hao said, “Your Majesty, the exposure of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion’s secrets—there must be a traitor close to you. Be careful.” With that, he turned to leave.
“Wait.” The Sword Saint called him back. “Kneel.”
Yang Hao hesitated. “Master, I’ve never even knelt to you. Do I really need another teacher now?”
“I don’t care about formalities, but that old man might have something for you,” Hunyuanzi muttered before drifting back to sleep, though secretly pleased by his disciple’s respect.
The Emperor’s expression softened slightly. “You can come during the day. Breaking in at night—don’t you fear provoking Feng?”
“I can’t wait,” Yang Hao said bluntly. “I want to break off the engagement.”
“What did you say?” The Emperor’s brows furrowed.
“I want to break off the engagement.”
“What exactly are you trying to do?” The Emperor’s tone was clearly displeased.
Yang Hao steadied himself and repeated firmly, “I want to break off the engagement! I won’t marry Xian Lan. I want to be with Kan Ling.”
The Emperor fell silent.
The room grew deathly quiet, the only sound the faint whistling of wind through the window. Except for the dim lamp by the bed, everything else was dark. Yang Hao’s shadow stretched long on the floor, adding to the desolation.
Yang Hao found Kan Ling when it was almost midnight. He flew straight through her window, not wanting to explain to her parents why he was secretly involved with their daughter or his relationship with the princess.
When Yang Hao suddenly burst through the window into Kan Ling’s room, Princess Xianlan was shamelessly badmouthing him, recounting his misdeeds from the age of five all the way to twenty-five, and was just about to dive into some scandalous topics.
Xianlan was so animated and engrossed in her storytelling that she didn’t even notice Yang Hao standing ominously behind her for a long time.
“Is the person you’re talking about also named Yang Hao?” Yang Hao sneered.
“Ah! A ghost!!” Xianlan jumped up in fright, but before she could land, Yang Hao grabbed her like a chicken. “Y-you… what do you want? If you touch me again, I’ll scream for help!”
“With a face like yours and no figure to speak of, who’d bother harassing you?”
Yang Hao had to restrain himself with great effort to avoid strangling this shameless woman.
While Xianlan was busy slandering Yang Hao, Kan Ling was in the middle of a bath. Hearing the scream outside, she thought something had happened to Xianlan and rushed out, wrapped only in a bathrobe, her hair still dripping wet.
“It’s you…” Kan Ling froze for a moment, her eyes reddening. “Yang Hao, put Xianlan down.”
Yang Hao angrily tossed Xianlan onto the bed. He couldn’t understand these women—how could sworn rivals be friends? It made no sense.
“Why are you here?” Kan Ling asked softly.
“I came to tell you. No matter what happens, you are my woman, and mine alone!” Yang Hao growled. “Wait for me. I’m going to see Emperor Yinglie to cancel the engagement.”
“No!” Kan Ling was startled. Even though she was upset and jealous, she still understood the bigger picture. The emperor had arranged the marriage to counter the Senate—this was something she knew all too well.
But Yang Hao was like an arrow already loosed—there was no turning back. He placed an exquisite box on the table and, without another word, rode his Shadow Moon away at lightning speed, heading straight for the imperial palace.
“Barbarian! Country bumpkin!” Xianlan grumbled as she got up from the bed, rubbing her sore arm. She wanted to curse Yang Hao some more, but then she saw a scene that made her hesitate to interrupt.
Kan Ling took out the wind chime Xianlan had always coveted from the box and hung it by her window. Then she sat on the windowsill, legs dangling outside, leaning against the wall as she listened to the chime’s sweet melody and gazed into the distance.
The glow of the artificial moon spilled from thousands of meters above, wrapping Kan Ling in silver light, making her glisten like morning dew—utterly captivating.
—
**Imperial Palace.**
After a series of brutal battles, the imperial guards had suffered heavy losses, with decades of elite training wasted. They could no longer endure further turmoil.
But precisely because of this, Qin Feng was even more vigilant. He knew that the Senate and the imperial family were past reconciliation—assassination attempts could strike Emperor Yinglie at any moment. And in such times, Qin Feng was the emperor’s last line of defense.
So tonight, to the shock of the black-armored warriors, Qin Feng personally led the patrol.
As Qin Feng’s squad reached the eastern gate, he suddenly sensed a massive surge of energy in the sky. Normally, all energy within the palace should remain stable—any fluctuation was a warning of intruders.
But this warning was far too intense and came far too quickly.
In the blink of an eye, Qin Feng saw the intruder—a fireball, as large as the artificial moon, shooting out of the endless darkness and crashing straight into Emperor Yinglie’s bedchamber.
“Assassin!” Qin Feng shouted. “Protect His Majesty!” Without waiting for the guards to react, he transformed into a wisp of black smoke and flew toward the bedchamber.
But no matter how fast Qin Feng moved, he couldn’t match Yang Hao’s speed. Yang Hao’s strike was precise, ruthless, and direct—he had no intention of assassinating the emperor, only to make his stance clear.
If left unchecked, Yang Hao’s momentum could have demolished half the bedchamber.
But just as he was about to land, a sword appeared.
This sword was peculiar—it carried no overwhelming force, no special technique—it simply extended like an ink brush in a painting, striking precisely at Yang Hao’s vital point mid-descent.
Yang Hao had no choice but to block with Shadow Moon, slowing his momentum.
The sword was deflected, only to reappear from another angle—still slow, still effortless, as if it barely existed.
Now Yang Hao couldn’t afford to underestimate it. The wielder of this sword was no ordinary man—he didn’t rely on brute strength but the true essence of swordsmanship. His skill didn’t need the support of Saint-level power; pure technique alone was deadly.
Shadow Moon clashed with the sword again, but Yang Hao’s immense force dissipated like mud in water, and Shadow Moon flew back with a whimper, as if wounded.
Then came the sword’s third strike.
Yang Hao’s momentum was completely halted. He had no choice but to reveal himself and retreat ten steps to escape the sword’s edge.
An old man, dressed in loose gray robes, stood not far from Yang Hao. He held his sword in an odd manner—pinching the hilt between two fingers, as casually as holding chopsticks.
Emperor Yinglie sat on his bed, watching Yang Hao coldly.
Even Yang Hao, thick-skinned as he was, knew he had crossed a line by barging in like this. He coughed awkwardly. “Your Majesty, you even keep a master swordsman by your side while sleeping?”
“Lord Yang Hao, testing the palace’s defenses so late at night? How diligent of you,” Emperor Yinglie mocked.
Yang Hao turned to the old man.
“This is my master—the empire’s foremost Sword Saint,” the emperor introduced simply.
Yang Hao gasped in realization. This was the legendary figure of the galaxy, the first Sword Saint independent of the Senate, the imperial family’s ultimate guardian.
The old Sword Saint smiled faintly and nodded at Yang Hao. “You’re good. Very good.”
Yang Hao bowed respectfully. He could afford arrogance with others, but before such an unfathomable existence, only reverence remained.
After the Supreme Immortal Sect unified the world, all cultivators were absorbed into the Senate’s system—except this old Sword Saint, who stood alone, establishing the empire’s swordsmanship lineage. For over twenty years, he endured the Senate’s relentless pursuit, yet the presiding elders could never subdue him. Later, he even trained three disciples:
Emperor Yinglie, the universe’s greatest wanderer—Situ Hai, and the imperial guard commander—Qin Feng.
All three reached (or had once reached) the peak of Saint-level. Such achievements, such a legend—only the Supreme Immortal could rival him.
Emperor Yinglie’s expression softened slightly. “If you have business, come during the day. Barging in at night—aren’t you afraid Qin Feng will lose his temper?”
“I couldn’t wait,” Yang Hao said bluntly. “I want to cancel the engagement.”
“What did you say?” The emperor’s brows furrowed.
“I want to cancel the engagement.”
“What exactly do you want?” The emperor’s tone was deeply displeased.
Yang Hao steadied himself and repeated one last time: “I want to cancel the engagement! I won’t marry Xianlan. I want to be with Kan Ling.”
The emperor fell silent.
The bedchamber was eerily quiet—even the whisper of wind through the window cracks was audible. Apart from the dim bedside lamp, the room was shrouded in darkness, Yang Hao’s elongated shadow stretching desolately across the floor.
“Young man,” the old Sword Saint broke the suffocating silence, “you are strong, accomplished at a young age. Few can achieve what you have at your age. But early success often makes one a target. I had a disciple who reached the peak of Saint-level by twenty, unmatched in swordsmanship. Yet now, he wallows in defeat, unable to rise again. So think carefully before you act—don’t let impulse lead to regret.”
“I’m not Situ Hai,” Yang Hao knew who he meant. “I’ve thought this through—always have. I don’t love Xianlan, and I don’t want political bargains. If we’re to overthrow the Senate, I’ll do it with my own strength.”
“Your own strength?” The Sword Saint sighed. “How much strength do you have? Your Alchemy Sect defeated the Ten Sword Streams, but can it stand against three hundred elders? Can you and He De defeat nine peak Saint-level experts? The Senate has existed for centuries—their power is unimaginable. Three hundred elders mean three hundred Saint-level experts. Even the Hidden Dragon Pavilion can’t withstand that, let alone you.”
“You’re right. If war breaks out, I can’t win,” Yang Hao admitted.
The Sword Saint nodded, pleased with his honesty. “The Senate demands your life in exchange for sparing the Hidden Dragon Pavilion. Any rational person would comply. His Majesty values talent, hence the marriage to protect you. If you cancel it, you reject imperial aid—and with it, the Merchant Alliance and the Wisdom King’s support. Once the Senate crushes the Hidden Dragon Pavilion and returns to Earth, what will you have left to protect yourself and those around you?”
“I won’t negotiate with the Senate,” Yang Hao smiled bitterly. “The grudges between us—between me and the Supreme Immortal—can’t be settled with words. Since war is inevitable, I won’t sacrifice my woman.”
“The marriage buys you time—it’s the best option now,” the Sword Saint urged one last time.
“I’ve made my decision,” Yang Hao stood firm.
“What do you intend to do?” The emperor looked weary.
Yang Hao declared something that stunned everyone: “I’ll save the Hidden Dragon Pavilion—alone, without imperial aid. Its siege is partly my fault. I’ll take responsibility and ensure its five-thousand-year legacy isn’t erased.”
“Hah!” The Sword Saint inhaled sharply, eyes flashing with surprise and admiration.
“Fool’s courage,” the emperor shook his head. “So young, yet so reckless. Do you want to be the next Situ Hai?”
Situ Hai had reached Saint-level peak by twenty, unrivaled in the world. But in his attempt to stop the empire’s warships, he was nearly torn apart. Though saved by the Hidden Dragon Pavilion, he never regained his former prowess and drowned himself in alcohol ever since.
The Sword Saint studied Yang Hao intently. “Young man, do you understand what three hundred elders mean? One Saint-level expert can shake the world—but three hundred? Plus eight peak Saint-level presiding elders? The entire Senate is mobilized. Even if the imperial family threw everything at them, with me leading, we’d at best achieve mutual destruction. The Hidden Dragon Pavilion would still fall. And you think you can save it alone? Even daydreams are more realistic.”
“This isn’t recklessness,” Yang Hao smiled, eerily calm. “The Senate has surrounded the Hidden Dragon Pavilion. Whether you hand me over or not, they’ll destroy it—that’s irreversible. The elders won’t tolerate such a thorn in their side. And as for me… my feud with the Senate ensures that once the Hidden Dragon Pavilion is gone, the Alchemy Sect is next. So if the elders have already decided everything, I might as well go against the tide and fight.”
“You seek life in the face of death?” The Sword Saint mused.
“In the elders’ eyes, the Hidden Dragon Pavilion is already dead, and so am I. Then let this dead man save it.” A fierce aura surged from Yang Hao. “Since this began with me, let me end it.”
Emperor Yinglie watched Yang Hao’s unyielding spirit, fists clenched, a bitter smile creeping onto his face. “Have I truly grown so old that a child’s ambition frightens me?”
“Your Majesty, such indomitable will must be passed on,” Yang Hao said without false humility.
The emperor’s gaze softened, as if looking at his own child. “If you go, it means breaking ties with the imperial family. Forget Xianlan—but is Kan Ling worth all this?”
“She stabbed her own master in the palace for me, and no one asked if it was worth it,” Yang Hao murmured, lowering his head.
The emperor sighed, silent for a long moment before shaking his head. “Perhaps I am old. I was wrong to think survival mattered above all else.”
The air grew heavy with bitterness. Yang Hao finally said, “Your Majesty, the exposure of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion and the Dragon Trap must mean a traitor is among you. Be careful.” With that, he turned to leave.
“Wait.” The Sword Saint called him back. “Kneel.”
Yang Hao hesitated. “Master Hunyuan, I’ve never even knelt to you. Do I really need another master now?”
“I don’t care about formalities, but that old man might have something for you,” Hunyuan muttered before drifting back to sleep, though secretly pleased by his disciple’s respect.
“I’m different from Situ Hai,” Yang Hao knew who the old man was referring to. “I’ve thought this through. I never liked Xian Lan, nor do I want political alliances. If I’m to overthrow the Senate, I want to do it on my own.”
Yang Hao found Kan Ling when it was almost midnight. He flew straight into her room through the window, unwilling to explain to her parents why he was having a secret affair with their daughter or his relationship with the princess.
When Yang Hao suddenly burst through the window into Kan Ling’s chamber, Princess Xian Lan was shamelessly badmouthing him, recounting his misdeeds from the age of five all the way to twenty-five, and was just about to dive into some scandalous topics.
Xian Lan was so animated and engrossed in her storytelling that she didn’t even notice Yang Hao standing ominously behind her for a long time.
“Is the person you’re talking about also named Yang Hao?” Yang Hao sneered coldly.
“Ah! A ghost!!” Xian Lan jumped up in fright, but before she could land, Yang Hao grabbed her like a helpless chick. “Y-you… what do you want? If you touch me again, I’ll scream for help!”
“No looks, no figure—who’d even bother harassing you?”
Yang Hao had to restrain himself with great effort to avoid strangling this shameless woman on the spot.
While Xian Lan was busy slandering Yang Hao, Kan Ling was in the middle of a bath. Hearing the scream outside, she thought something had happened to Xian Lan. Wrapped only in a bathrobe, her hair still dripping wet, she rushed out.
“It’s you…” Kan Ling froze for a moment, her eyes reddening. “Yang Hao, put Xian Lan down.”
Furious, Yang Hao tossed Xian Lan onto the bed. He couldn’t understand these women—clearly rivals in love, yet they insisted on being friends. It was utterly ridiculous.
“Why are you here?” Kan Ling asked softly.
“I came to tell you. No matter what, you are my woman—mine alone!” Yang Hao growled fiercely. “Wait for me. I’m going to see Emperor Yinglie now to break off the engagement.”
“No!” Kan Ling was startled. Even if she was upset and jealous, she still understood the bigger picture. The emperor had arranged the marriage to counter the Senate—this was something Lan Ling understood all too well.
But Yang Hao was like an arrow already loosed from the bow, impossible to call back. He placed an exquisite box on the table and, without another word, mounted Shadowmoon and sped away toward the imperial city.
“Barbarian! Country bumpkin!” Xian Lan grumbled as she got up from the bed, rubbing her sore arm. She was about to continue badmouthing Yang Hao when she saw a scene too touching to interrupt.
Kan Ling took out the wind chime Xian Lan had always coveted from the box and hung it by her window. Then, sitting on the windowsill with her legs dangling outside, she leaned against the wall, listening to the chime’s melodious notes while gazing into the distance.
The artificial moonlight spilled from thousands of meters above, bathing Kan Ling in silver radiance, making her glisten like dewdrops—an especially enchanting sight.
—
**Imperial City**
After a series of brutal battles, the imperial guards had lost more than half their numbers. The elite forces cultivated over decades had suffered severe casualties and could no longer endure further turmoil.
Yet, it was precisely at such a time that Qin Feng became even more vigilant. He knew there was no chance of peaceful coexistence between the Senate and the royal family. Assassination attempts could strike Emperor Yinglie at any moment, and Qin Feng was now the emperor’s last line of defense.
That night, to the astonishment of the black-armored warriors, Qin Feng personally led the patrol through the city.
As he reached the East Gate, Qin Feng suddenly sensed a massive surge of energy in the sky. Normally, all energy within the imperial city should remain stable—any fluctuation was a warning of intrusion.
But this warning was far too intense and came far too quickly.
In the blink of an eye, Qin Feng saw the intruder—a fireball the size of the artificial moon, shooting out of the boundless darkness and crashing violently into Emperor Yinglie’s bedchamber.
“Assassin!” Qin Feng shouted. “Protect His Majesty!” Without waiting for the guards to react, he vanished like black smoke, darting toward the bedchamber.
Yet no matter how fast Qin Feng moved, he couldn’t match Yang Hao’s speed. Yang Hao’s strike was precise, ruthless, and aimed directly at the emperor’s resting place.
He wasn’t there to assassinate, but to make his stance unmistakably clear.
Yang Hao’s momentum was so overwhelming that, if unchecked, it could have obliterated half the bedchamber.
But just as he was about to land, a sword appeared.
This sword was peculiar—it carried no extraordinary power, no special technique. It simply extended like an ink brush in a freehand painting, striking precisely at Yang Hao’s vital point mid-descent.
Forced to defend, Yang Hao blocked with Shadowmoon, slowing his descent slightly.
The sword, deflected, reappeared from another angle—still slow, still freehand, still barely perceptible.
Now Yang Hao dared not underestimate it. The wielder of this sword was no ordinary opponent. He had transcended mere strength, grasping the true essence of swordsmanship. His skill didn’t rely on the power of the Saint Realm—pure technique alone made him lethally formidable.
Shadowmoon clashed with the sword again. But Yang Hao’s immense force dissipated like mud sinking into the sea, and Shadowmoon hummed as it returned to him, as if slightly wounded.
Then came the sword’s third strike.
Yang Hao’s momentum was completely halted. Reluctantly, he revealed his true form and retreated ten steps to evade the sword’s edge.
An elderly man, clad in loose gray robes, stood not far from Yang Hao. He held his sword strangely—pinched between two fingers like chopsticks, effortlessly poised.
Emperor Yinglie sat on his bed, watching Yang Hao coldly.
Even Yang Hao, thick-skinned as he was, knew he had crossed a line by barging in like this. He cleared his throat awkwardly.
“Your Majesty, even in sleep, you keep a master swordsman by your side.”
“Lord Yang Hao, testing the imperial defenses so late at night? How diligent of you,” the emperor mocked.
Yang Hao turned to the old man.
“This is my master—the empire’s foremost Sword Saint,” Emperor Yinglie introduced simply.
Yang Hao gasped in realization. Before him stood a legendary figure of the Galactic Empire—the first Sword Saint independent of the Senate, the royal family’s highest guardian.
The old Sword Saint smiled faintly and nodded at Yang Hao. “You’re good. Very good.”
Yang Hao bowed respectfully. Though he could afford arrogance with others, facing such an unfathomable existence left no room for anything but reverence.
After the Supreme Immortal Sect unified the world, all cultivators were absorbed into the Senate’s system—except this old Sword Saint, who stood alone, establishing the empire’s own lineage of swordsmanship. For over twenty years, he endured the Senate’s relentless pursuit, yet the presiding elders could never subdue him. Later, he even mentored three disciples:
Emperor Yinglie, the universe’s greatest wanderer—Situ Hai, and the imperial guard commander—Qin Feng.
All three had reached (or once reached) the pinnacle of the Saint Realm. Such achievements, such a legend—only the Supreme Immortal himself could rival it.
Emperor Yinglie’s expression softened slightly. “If you have business, come during the day. Barging in at night—aren’t you afraid of Qin Feng’s wrath?”
“Couldn’t wait,” Yang Hao said bluntly. “I want to break off the engagement.”
“What did you say?” The emperor’s brow furrowed.
“I want to break off the engagement.”
“What exactly do you want?” The emperor’s tone grew deeply displeased.
Yang Hao steadied himself and repeated once more: “I want to break off the engagement. I won’t marry Xian Lan. I want to be with Kan Ling.”
The emperor fell silent.
The bedchamber became eerily quiet—even the whisper of wind through the window seams was audible. Apart from the dim bedside lamp, the room was shrouded in darkness. Yang Hao’s elongated shadow stretched across the floor, adding to the desolate atmosphere.
“Young man,” the old Sword Saint broke the suffocating silence, “you are strong, accomplished at a young age. Few reach such heights so early. But early success often makes one a target. I had a disciple who reached the pinnacle of the Saint Realm by twenty—his swordsmanship talent unmatched. Yet now, he remains broken by defeat. Think carefully before you act. Don’t let impulse lead to regret.”
“I’m not like Situ Hai,” Yang Hao knew whom he meant. “I’ve thought this through—always have. I don’t love Xian Lan, nor do I care for political bargains. If we’re to overthrow the Senate, I’ll do it with my own strength.”
“Your own strength?” The Sword Saint sighed. “How much strength do you have? Your Alchemy Sect crushed the Ten Sword Streams, but can it stand against three hundred elders? Can you and He De defeat nine Saint Realm pinnacles alone? The Senate has existed for centuries—their power is unimaginable. Three hundred elders mean three hundred Saint Realm experts. Even the Hidden Dragon Pavilion couldn’t withstand that, let alone you.”
“You’re right. In a direct fight, I’d lose,” Yang Hao admitted.
The Sword Saint nodded, pleased with his honesty. “The Senate demands your life in exchange for sparing the Hidden Dragon Pavilion. Any rational person would comply. His Majesty values talent, hence the marriage to preserve your life. If you reject it, you reject the royal family’s aid—and with it, the Merchant Alliance and the Wisdom King’s support. Once the Senate crushes the Hidden Dragon Pavilion and returns to Earth, what will you have left to protect yourself—or those you care about?”
“I won’t negotiate with the Senate,” Yang Hao said bitterly. “The blood feud between us—between me and the Supreme Immortal—can’t be settled with words. Since war is inevitable, I won’t sacrifice the woman I love.”
“The marriage buys you time—the best option now,” the Sword Saint urged one last time.
“I’ve made my decision,” Yang Hao stood firm.
“What do you intend to do?” The emperor sounded weary.
Yang Hao declared a decision that stunned everyone:
“I’ll save the Hidden Dragon Pavilion—alone, without the royal family’s aid. Since its siege is partly my fault, I’ll take responsibility. I won’t let a five-thousand-year legacy be destroyed.”
“Ha!” The Sword Saint inhaled sharply, eyes flashing with surprise and admiration.
“Fool’s courage,” the emperor shook his head. “So young, yet so reckless. Do you aim to be the next Situ Hai?”
Situ Hai had reached the Saint Realm pinnacle by twenty—unrivaled in his time. Yet, in his attempt to halt the empire’s warships, he was nearly torn apart. Though saved by the Hidden Dragon Pavilion, he never regained his former prowess, drowning himself in alcohol ever since.
The Sword Saint studied Yang Hao intently. “Young man, do you grasp what three hundred elders mean? One Saint Realm expert can shake the world—but three hundred? Plus eight presiding elders at the pinnacle? That’s the Senate’s full might. Even if the royal family marshaled all its forces, with me leading, we’d at best achieve mutual destruction. The Hidden Dragon Pavilion would still fall. And you think you can save it alone? Delusional doesn’t begin to cover it.”
“This isn’t recklessness,” Yang Hao smiled, eerily calm. “The Senate besieges the Hidden Dragon Pavilion. Whether you hand me over or not, they’ll destroy it—that’s inevitable. They won’t tolerate such a thorn in their side. And as for me—my feud with the Senate ensures that once the Hidden Dragon Pavilion falls, the Alchemy Sect is next. Since the elders have already decided our fates, I might as well go against the tide—fight with everything I have.”
“You seek life in the face of death?” The Sword Saint mused.
“To the Senate, the Hidden Dragon Pavilion is already dead. So am I. Then let this dead man save it.” Yang Hao’s aura surged with indomitable will. “Since this began with me, let me end it.”
Emperor Yinglie watched Yang Hao’s unyielding resolve, fists clenched, yet a wry smile surfaced. “Have I truly grown so old? That a child’s ambition can unsettle me.”
“Your Majesty, such lionhearted spirit must be carried forward,” Yang Hao said without false modesty.
The emperor’s gaze softened, as if looking upon his own son. “If you go, it means breaking with the royal family. Forget Xian Lan—but is Kan Ling worth all this?”
“She stabbed her own master in the palace for me. No one asked if it was worth it for her,” Yang Hao murmured softly.
The emperor sighed, silent for a long moment before shaking his head. “Perhaps I am old—and wrong. I thought survival mattered above all else.”
The air grew heavy with unspoken sorrow.
Before leaving, Yang Hao added, “Your Majesty, the exposure of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion and the Dragon Trap—there must be a traitor close to you. Be careful.”
“Wait.” The Sword Saint called him back. “Kneel.”
Yang Hao hesitated. “Master,” he thought to Hunyuanzi, “I’ve never even knelt to you. Must I bow to another master now?”
“I don’t care for formalities,” Hunyuanzi chuckled sleepily. “But that old fox might have gifts for you.”
With that, the ancient spirit drifted back to slumber, secretly pleased by his disciple’s respect.
“You’re right. If war breaks out, I can’t win,” Yang Hao admitted.
The old Sword Saint nodded, appreciating Yang Hao’s honesty. “The Senate wants your life in exchange for the Hidden Dragon Guild. Any rational person would know what to choose. The Emperor values your talent and arranged this marriage to protect you. If you break it, you reject the Royal Family’s protection, as well as the Merchant Guild and the AI King’s support. Once the Senate takes the Hidden Dragon Guild and returns to Earth, what will you have left to protect yourself and those around you?”
“I won’t negotiate with the Senate,” Yang Hao said with a bitter smile. “The hatred between us and the Supreme is beyond negotiation. Since war is inevitable, I won’t sacrifice the woman I love.”
“Marriage is the best option now. It buys you time,” the old Sword Saint advised.
“I’ve made my decision,” Yang Hao stood firm.
“What do you plan to do?” The Emperor looked tired.
Yang Hao revealed a shocking decision: “I will save the Hidden Dragon Guild myself. Alone. I don’t need any help from the Royal Family. The siege on the Hidden Dragon Guild is partly my fault. I will take responsibility and ensure that this five-thousand-year legacy does not perish.”
“Hmph!” The old Sword Saint inhaled deeply, his eyes flashing with surprise and admiration.
“Reckless bravery,” the Emperor shook his head. “At your age, you still insist on such foolishness. Do you want to become another Situ Hai?”
Yang Hao found Kan Ling when it was almost midnight. He flew straight into her room through the window, not wanting to explain to her parents why he was having a secret affair with their daughter or his relationship with the princess.
When Yang Hao suddenly leaped through the window into Kan Ling’s chamber, Princess Xian Lan was shamelessly badmouthing him, recounting his supposed misdeeds from the age of five all the way to twenty-five, and was just about to dive into more scandalous topics.
Xian Lan was so animated and engrossed in her storytelling that she didn’t even notice Yang Hao standing ominously behind her for a long time.
“Is the person you’re talking about also named Yang Hao?” Yang Hao sneered.
“Ah! A ghost!!” Xian Lan jumped up in fright, but before she could land, Yang Hao grabbed her like a chicken. “Y-you… what do you want? If you touch me again, I’ll scream for help!”
“With a face like yours and no figure to speak of, who’d bother?”
Yang Hao had to restrain himself with great effort to avoid strangling this shameless woman.
While Xian Lan was busy slandering Yang Hao, Kan Ling was in the middle of a bath. Hearing the scream, she thought something had happened to Xian Lan and rushed out, wrapped only in a bathrobe, her hair still dripping wet.
“It’s you…” Kan Ling froze for a moment, her eyes reddening. “Yang Hao, put Xian Lan down.”
Yang Hao angrily tossed Xian Lan onto the bed. He couldn’t understand these women—how could they be friends despite being rivals in love? It made no sense.
“Why are you here?” Kan Ling asked softly.
“I came to tell you. No matter what, you are my woman, and mine alone!” Yang Hao growled. “Wait for me. I’m going to the Emperor now to break off the engagement.”
“No!” Kan Ling was startled. Even if she was upset and jealous, she knew the bigger picture. The Emperor had arranged the marriage to counter the Senate—this was something Kan Ling understood all too well.
But Yang Hao was like an arrow already loosed—there was no turning back. He placed an exquisite box on the table and, without another word, rode his Shadow Moon away at lightning speed, heading straight for the imperial palace.
“Barbarian! Country bumpkin!” Xian Lan grumbled as she got up from the bed, rubbing her sore arm. She wanted to badmouth Yang Hao some more but stopped when she saw a scene too touching to interrupt.
Kan Ling took out the wind chime Xian Lan had always coveted from the box and hung it by her window. Then she sat on the windowsill, legs dangling, leaning against the wall, listening to the chime’s sweet melody while gazing into the distance.
The artificial moonlight poured down from thousands of meters above, bathing Kan Ling in silver light, making her glisten like dewdrops—utterly enchanting.
—
**Imperial Palace.**
After a series of brutal battles, the imperial guards had lost more than half their numbers. Decades of elite training had been severely depleted, leaving them unable to endure further losses.
But it was precisely at such times that Qin Feng became even more cautious. He knew there was no chance of peaceful coexistence between the Senate and the royal family now. Assassination attempts could strike the Emperor at any moment, and Qin Feng was his last line of defense.
That night, to the astonishment of the black-armored warriors, Qin Feng personally led the patrol through the city.
As Qin Feng’s squad reached the East Gate, he suddenly sensed a massive surge of energy in the sky. Normally, all energy within the palace should remain stable—any fluctuation was a warning of intrusion.
But this warning was far too intense and came far too quickly.
Qin Feng barely had time to look up before he saw the intruder—a fireball the size of the artificial moon, shooting out of the endless darkness and crashing violently into the Emperor’s bedchamber.
“Assassin!” Qin Feng shouted. “Protect His Majesty!” Without waiting for the guards to react, he shot toward the bedchamber like black smoke.
But no matter how fast Qin Feng moved, he couldn’t match Yang Hao’s speed. Yang Hao’s strike was precise, ruthless, and direct—he had no intention of assassinating the Emperor, only to make his stance unmistakably clear.
Yang Hao’s momentum was so fierce that, if unchecked, it could have obliterated half the bedchamber.
Yet, just as he was about to land, a sword appeared.
This sword was peculiar—it carried no overwhelming force, no special technique—just a simple, almost calligraphic stroke, aimed precisely at Yang Hao’s vital point mid-descent.
Yang Hao had no choice but to block with Shadow Moon, slowing his descent.
The sword, deflected, reappeared from another angle—still slow, still effortless, still barely perceptible.
Now Yang Hao couldn’t afford to underestimate it. The wielder was no ordinary opponent—this wasn’t about raw power but the true essence of swordsmanship, refined to the point where it didn’t even need the support of Saint-level strength.
Shadow Moon clashed with the sword again, but Yang Hao’s immense force dissipated like mud in water. Shadow Moon hummed as it returned to him, as if slightly wounded.
Then came the sword’s third strike.
Yang Hao’s momentum was completely halted. Reluctantly, he revealed himself, retreating ten steps to evade the sword’s edge.
An old man, clad in loose gray robes, stood nearby, holding his sword in an unusual manner—pinched between two fingers like chopsticks.
The Emperor sat on his bed, watching Yang Hao coldly.
Even Yang Hao, thick-skinned as he was, knew barging in like this was a grave offense. He cleared his throat awkwardly.
“Your Majesty, you even keep a master swordsman by your side while sleeping.”
“Lord Yang Hao, testing the palace’s defenses so late at night? How diligent,” the Emperor mocked.
Yang Hao turned to the old man.
“This is my master—the Empire’s foremost Sword Saint,” the Emperor introduced simply.
Yang Hao gasped in realization. This was the legendary figure of the galaxy, the first Sword Saint independent of the Senate, the royal family’s ultimate guardian.
The old Sword Saint smiled faintly and nodded at Yang Hao. “You’re good. Very good.”
Yang Hao bowed respectfully. He could afford arrogance with others, but before such an unfathomable existence, only reverence remained.
After the Supreme Immortal Sect unified the world, all cultivators were absorbed into the Senate’s system—except this old Sword Saint, who stood alone, establishing the Empire’s own sword lineage. For over twenty years, he endured the Senate’s relentless pursuit, yet the presiding elders could never subdue him. Later, he even trained three disciples:
Emperor Ying Lie, the universe’s greatest wanderer—Situ Hai, and the imperial guard commander—Qin Feng.
All three had reached (or once reached) the pinnacle of Saint-level. Such achievements, such a legend—only the Supreme Immortal could rival him.
The Emperor’s expression softened slightly. “If you have business, come during the day. Breaking in at night—aren’t you afraid of Qin Feng’s wrath?”
“I couldn’t wait,” Yang Hao said bluntly. “I want to break off the engagement.”
“What did you say?” The Emperor’s brow furrowed.
“I want to break off the engagement.”
“What exactly do you want?” The Emperor’s tone grew deeply displeased.
Yang Hao steadied himself and repeated firmly, “I want to break off the engagement! I won’t marry Xian Lan. I want to be with Kan Ling.”
The Emperor fell silent.
The bedchamber was eerily quiet—even the whisper of wind through the window cracks was audible. Apart from the dim bedside lamp, the room was shrouded in darkness, Yang Hao’s elongated shadow stretching desolately across the floor.
“Young man,” the old Sword Saint broke the suffocating silence, “you are strong, accomplished at a young age. Few reach such heights so early. But early success often makes one a target. I had a disciple who reached Saint-level pinnacle by twenty, his swordsmanship talent unmatched. Yet now, he remains broken by defeat. So think carefully before you act—don’t let impulse lead to regret.”
“I’m not Situ Hai,” Yang Hao knew whom he meant. “I’ve thought this through, and I’ve always been clear. I don’t love Xian Lan, and I don’t want political bargains. If we’re to overthrow the Senate, I’ll do it with my own strength.”
“Your own strength?” The Sword Saint sighed. “How much strength do you have? Your Alchemy Sect crushed the Ten Sword Streams, but can it face three hundred elders? Can you and He De defeat nine Saint-level pinnacles? The Senate has existed for centuries—its power is unimaginable. Three hundred elders mean three hundred Saint-level experts. Even the Hidden Dragon Pavilion can’t withstand that, let alone you.”
“You’re right. In a direct fight, I’d lose,” Yang Hao admitted.
The Sword Saint nodded, pleased with his honesty. “The Senate demands your life in exchange for sparing the Hidden Dragon Pavilion. Any rational person would comply. His Majesty values your talent, hence the marriage to save you. If you reject it, you reject the royal family’s aid—and that of the Merchant Alliance and the Wisdom King. Once the Senate crushes the Hidden Dragon Pavilion and returns to Earth, how will you protect yourself and those around you?”
“I won’t negotiate with the Senate,” Yang Hao smiled bitterly. “The blood feud between us—between me and the Supreme Immortal—can’t be settled with words. Since war is inevitable, I won’t sacrifice my woman.”
“The marriage buys you time—it’s the best option now,” the Sword Saint urged one last time.
“I’ve made my decision,” Yang Hao stood firm.
“What do you intend to do?” The Emperor looked weary.
Yang Hao declared something that stunned everyone:
“I’ll save the Hidden Dragon Pavilion—alone, without the royal family’s help. The siege is partly my fault. I’ll take responsibility—ensure a five-thousand-year legacy isn’t wiped out.”
“Hah!” The Sword Saint inhaled sharply, eyes flashing with surprise and admiration.
“Fool’s courage,” the Emperor shook his head. “So young, yet so reckless. Do you want to be the next Situ Hai?”
Situ Hai had reached Saint-level pinnacle by twenty, unrivaled in the world. But in his attempt to stop the Empire’s warships, he was nearly torn apart. Though saved by the Hidden Dragon Pavilion, he never regained his former prowess, drowning in alcohol ever since.
The Sword Saint studied Yang Hao intently. “Young man, do you understand what three hundred elders mean? One Saint-level expert can shake the world—but this is three hundred. Add eight presiding elders at Saint-level pinnacle—the entire Senate’s might. Even if the royal family mobilized everything, with me leading, we’d at best achieve mutual destruction. The Hidden Dragon Pavilion would still fall. And you think you alone can save it? Even daydreams are more realistic.”
“This isn’t recklessness,” Yang Hao smiled, eerily calm. “The Senate’s siege won’t end, no matter what. The Hidden Dragon Pavilion’s destruction is inevitable. And once it’s gone, my Alchemy Sect is next. Since the elders have already decided, I might as well fight back—go against the tide.”
“You seek life in death?” The Sword Saint mused.
“To the Senate, the Hidden Dragon Pavilion is already dead. So am I. Then let this dead man save it.” Yang Hao’s aura surged with unyielding resolve. “Since this began because of me, let me end it.”
The Emperor clenched his fists, a bitter smile flickering. “Have I grown so old that a child’s ambition frightens me?”
“Your Majesty, such indomitable spirit must be carried forward,” Yang Hao said without false modesty.
The Emperor’s gaze softened, as if looking at his own child. “If you go, it means breaking with the royal family. Forget Xian Lan—but is Kan Ling worth all this?”
“She stabbed her own master in court for me. No one asked if it was worth it,” Yang Hao murmured.
The Emperor sighed, silent for a long moment before shaking his head. “Perhaps I am old. Perhaps I was wrong to think survival matters above all.”
The air grew heavy. Yang Hao finally said, “Your Majesty, the leak about the Dragon Trap and the Hidden Dragon Pavilion means there’s a traitor close to you. Be careful.”
He turned to leave.
“Wait.” The Sword Saint called him back. “Kneel.”
Yang Hao hesitated. “Master, I’ve never even knelt to you. Must I bow to another teacher now?”
“I don’t care for formalities, but that old man might have something for you,” Hun Yuanzi muttered before drifting back to sleep, secretly pleased by his disciple’s respect.
Yang Hao found Kan Ling when it was almost midnight. He flew straight into her room through the window, unwilling to explain to her parents why he was having a secret affair with their daughter or his relationship with the princess.
When Yang Hao suddenly burst through the window into Kan Ling’s chamber, Princess Xian Lan was shamelessly badmouthing him, recounting his misdeeds from the age of five all the way to twenty-five, and was just about to dive into some scandalous topics.
Xian Lan was so animated and engrossed in her storytelling that she didn’t even notice Yang Hao standing ominously behind her for a long time.
“Is the person you’re talking about also named Yang Hao?” Yang Hao sneered.
“Ah! A ghost!!” Xian Lan jumped up in fright, but before she could land, Yang Hao grabbed her like a chicken. “You… what do you want? If you touch me again, I’ll scream for help!”
“With a face like yours and no figure to speak of, who’d bother?”
Yang Hao had to restrain himself with great effort to avoid strangling this shameless woman.
While Xian Lan was busy slandering Yang Hao, Kan Ling was in the middle of a bath. Hearing the scream outside, she thought something had happened to Xian Lan and rushed out, wrapped only in a bathrobe, her hair still dripping wet.
“It’s you…” Kan Ling froze for a moment, her eyes reddening. “Yang Hao, put Xian Lan down.”
Furious, Yang Hao tossed Xian Lan onto the bed. He couldn’t understand these women—how could they be friends despite being rivals in love? It made no sense.
“Why are you here?” Kan Ling asked softly.
“I came to tell you. No matter what, you are my woman, and mine alone!” Yang Hao growled. “Wait for me. I’m going to see Emperor Yinglie now to break off the engagement.”
“No!” Kan Ling was startled. Even if she was upset and jealous, she knew the bigger picture. The emperor had arranged the marriage to counter the Senate—this was something she understood all too well.
But Yang Hao was like an arrow already loosed, impossible to recall. He placed an exquisite box on the table and, without another word, mounted Shadowmoon and sped away toward the imperial city.
“Barbarian! Country bumpkin!” Xian Lan grumbled as she got up from the bed, rubbing her sore arm. She wanted to badmouth Yang Hao some more but stopped when she saw a scene too touching to interrupt.
Kan Ling took out the wind chime Xian Lan had always coveted from the box and hung it by her window. Then she sat on the windowsill, legs dangling, leaning against the wall, listening to the chime’s sweet melody while gazing into the distance.
The glow of the artificial moon spilled from ten thousand meters above, wrapping Kan Ling in silver light, making her glisten like dewdrops, more enchanting than ever.
—
**Imperial City**
After a series of brutal battles, the imperial guards had lost more than half their numbers. Decades of training elite soldiers had been severely depleted, leaving them unable to endure further losses.
But it was precisely at such times that Qin Feng became even more cautious. He knew there was no chance of peaceful coexistence between the Senate and the imperial family. Assassination attempts could strike Emperor Yinglie at any moment, and Qin Feng was now the emperor’s last line of defense.
That night, to the astonishment of the black-armored warriors, Qin Feng personally led the patrol through the city.
As Qin Feng’s patrol reached the East Gate, he suddenly sensed a massive surge of energy in the sky. Normally, all energy within the imperial city should remain stable—any fluctuation was a warning of an intruder.
But this warning was far too intense and came far too quickly.
In the blink of an eye, Qin Feng saw the intruder—a fireball the size of the artificial moon, shooting out of the endless darkness and crashing violently into Emperor Yinglie’s bedchamber.
“Assassin!” Qin Feng shouted. “Protect His Majesty!” Without waiting for the guards to react, he shot toward the bedchamber like a wisp of black smoke.
But no matter how fast Qin Feng moved, he couldn’t match Yang Hao’s speed. Yang Hao’s strike was precise, ruthless, and aimed directly at the emperor’s sleeping quarters.
He wasn’t there to assassinate—just to make his stance unmistakably clear.
Yang Hao’s momentum was so fierce that, if unchecked, it could have obliterated half the bedchamber.
But just as he was about to land, a sword appeared.
This sword was peculiar—it carried no overwhelming force, no special technique. It simply extended like a brushstroke in an ink painting, striking precisely at Yang Hao’s vital point mid-descent.
Yang Hao had no choice but to block with Shadowmoon, slowing his momentum slightly.
The sword, deflected, reappeared from another angle—still slow, still effortless, still barely perceptible.
Now Yang Hao couldn’t afford to underestimate it. The wielder was no ordinary opponent. This wasn’t about raw power—it was the true essence of swordsmanship, refined to the point where it didn’t even need the support of Saint-level energy.
Shadowmoon clashed with the sword again, but Yang Hao’s immense force dissipated like mud in water. Shadowmoon hummed as it returned to him, as if slightly wounded.
Then came the sword’s third strike.
Yang Hao’s momentum was completely halted. Reluctantly, he revealed his true form and retreated ten steps to escape the sword’s edge.
An old man, dressed in loose gray robes, stood not far from Yang Hao. He held his sword strangely—pinched between two fingers like chopsticks, utterly at ease.
Emperor Yinglie sat on his bed, watching Yang Hao coldly.
Even Yang Hao, thick-skinned as he was, knew he had crossed a line by barging in like this. He cleared his throat awkwardly.
“Your Majesty, you even keep a master swordsman by your side while sleeping?”
“Lord Yang Hao, testing the imperial defenses so late at night? How diligent of you,” the emperor mocked.
Yang Hao turned to the old man.
“This is my master—the empire’s foremost Sword Saint,” the emperor introduced simply.
Yang Hao gasped in realization. This was the legendary figure of the Galactic Empire, the first Sword Saint independent of the Senate, the imperial family’s ultimate guardian.
The old Sword Saint smiled faintly and nodded at Yang Hao. “You’re good. Very good.”
Yang Hao bowed respectfully. He could afford arrogance with others, but before such an unfathomable existence, all he felt was reverence.
After the Supreme Immortal Sect unified the world, all cultivators were absorbed into the Senate’s system—except this old Sword Saint, who stood alone, establishing the empire’s own sword lineage. He endured over twenty years of Senate pursuit, yet the presiding elders could never touch him. Later, he even trained three disciples:
Emperor Yinglie, the universe’s greatest wanderer—Situ Hai, and the imperial guard commander—Qin Feng.
All three reached (or had reached) the pinnacle of the Saint Realm. Such achievements, such a legend—only the Supreme Immortal himself could overshadow them.
The emperor’s expression softened slightly. “If you have business, come during the day. Barging in at night—aren’t you afraid of Qin Feng’s wrath?”
“Couldn’t wait,” Yang Hao said bluntly. “I want to break off the engagement.”
“What did you say?” The emperor’s brows furrowed.
“I want to break off the engagement.”
“What exactly do you want?” The emperor’s tone was deeply displeased.
Yang Hao steadied himself and repeated one last time: “I want to break off the engagement! I won’t marry Xian Lan. I want to be with Kan Ling.”
The emperor fell silent.
The bedchamber was eerily quiet—even the whisper of wind through the window cracks was audible. Apart from the dim bedside lamp, the room was shrouded in darkness, Yang Hao’s elongated shadow stretching desolately across the floor.
“Young man,” the old Sword Saint broke the suffocating silence, “you are strong, accomplished at a young age. Few reach such heights so early. But early success often makes one a target. I had a disciple who reached the pinnacle of the Saint Realm by twenty, his swordsmanship unparalleled. Yet now, he wallows in defeat, unable to rise. So think carefully before you act. Don’t let impulse lead to regret.”
“I’m not Situ Hai,” Yang Hao knew whom he meant. “I’ve thought this through—always have. I don’t love Xian Lan, and I won’t be part of a political trade. If we’re to overthrow the Senate, I’ll do it with my own strength.”
“Your own strength?” The Sword Saint sighed. “How much strength do you have? Your Alchemy Sect crushed the Ten Sword Schools, but can it stand against three hundred elders? Can you and He De defeat nine Saint Realm pinnacles? The Senate has existed for centuries—their power is unimaginable. Three hundred elders mean three hundred Saint Realm experts. Even the Hidden Dragon Pavilion can’t withstand that, let alone you.”
“You’re right. In a direct fight, I’d lose,” Yang Hao admitted.
The Sword Saint nodded, pleased with his honesty. “The Senate demands your life in exchange for sparing the Hidden Dragon Pavilion. Any rational person would comply. His Majesty values talent, hence the marriage to save you. If you refuse, you reject not just the imperial family’s aid but also the Merchant Alliance’s and the Wisdom King’s. Once the Senate crushes the Hidden Dragon Pavilion and returns to Earth, what will you have left to protect yourself—or those around you?”
“I won’t negotiate with the Senate,” Yang Hao smiled bitterly. “The blood between us, between me and the Supreme Immortal—it can’t be settled with words. Since war is inevitable, I won’t sacrifice my woman.”
“The marriage buys you time—the best option now,” the Sword Saint urged one last time.
“I’ve made my decision,” Yang Hao stood firm.
“What do you intend to do?” The emperor sounded weary.
Yang Hao announced a decision that stunned everyone: “I’ll save the Hidden Dragon Pavilion—alone, without imperial aid. The siege is partly my fault. I’ll take responsibility, ensuring this five-thousand-year legacy isn’t wiped out.”
“Hah!” The Sword Saint inhaled sharply, eyes alight with surprise and admiration.
“Fool’s courage,” the emperor shook his head. “So young, yet so reckless. Do you want to be the next Situ Hai?”
Situ Hai had reached the Saint Realm pinnacle by twenty, unmatched in the world. But in his attempt to halt the empire’s warships, he was nearly torn apart. Though saved by the Hidden Dragon Pavilion, he never regained his former prowess, drowning in alcohol ever since.
The Sword Saint studied Yang Hao intently. “Young man, do you understand what three hundred elders mean? One Saint Realm expert can shake the world—but this is three hundred. Add eight presiding elders at the pinnacle—it’s the Senate’s full might. Even if the imperial family threw everything at them, with me leading, we’d at best achieve mutual destruction. The Hidden Dragon Pavilion would still fall. And you think you alone can save it? Even daydreams are more realistic.”
“This isn’t recklessness,” Yang Hao smiled, eerily calm. “The Senate besieging the Hidden Dragon Pavilion—whether you hand me over or not, they’ll destroy it. That’s irreversible. They won’t tolerate such a thorn in their side. And me? My feud with the Senate means once the Hidden Dragon Pavilion falls, the Alchemy Sect is next. So if the elders have already decided everything, I might as well go against the tide and fight.”
“You seek life in the face of death?” The Sword Saint mused.
“To the Senate, the Hidden Dragon Pavilion is already dead, and so am I. Then let this dead man save it.” Yang Hao’s aura surged with indomitable resolve. “Since this started because of me, let me end it.”
The emperor watched Yang Hao’s unyielding spirit, fists clenched, a wry smile creeping in. “Have I truly grown so old that a child’s ambition can unsettle me?”
“Your Majesty, such lionhearted courage must be passed on,” Yang Hao said without false modesty.
The emperor’s gaze softened, as if looking at his own child. “Going like this means severing ties with the imperial family. Forget Xian Lan—but is Kan Ling worth all this?”
“She stabbed her own master for me in the palace. No one asked if it was worth it,” Yang Hao murmured, lowering his head.
The emperor sighed, silent for a long moment before shaking his head. “Perhaps I am old, mistaken to think survival matters above all.”
The air grew heavy with unspoken sorrow.
“Your Majesty,” Yang Hao said finally, “the exposure of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion and the Dragon Trap—there must be a traitor close to you. Be careful.” With that, he turned to leave.
“Wait.” The Sword Saint called him back. “Kneel.”
Yang Hao hesitated. “Master,” he thought to Hunyuanzi, “I’ve never even knelt to you. Do I really need another teacher now?”
“I don’t care for formalities, but that old ghost might have something for you,” Hunyuanzi muttered before drifting back to sleep, secretly pleased by his disciple’s respect.
“This isn’t reckless bravery,” Yang Hao smiled, calm beyond belief. “The Senate has surrounded the Hidden Dragon Guild. Whether you hand me over or not, the Hidden Dragon Guild will be destroyed. That’s inevitable. And I… my hatred with the Senate means that after the Hidden Dragon Guild falls, the Dan Ding Sect will be next. Since everything is already arranged, I’d rather go against the current and fight with everything I’ve got.”
“You want to find strength in desperation?” the old Sword Saint mused.
“To the Senate, the Hidden Dragon Guild is already dead. So am I. Then let a dead man save the Hidden Dragon Guild,” Yang Hao said, exuding a chilling aura. “Since this mess started with me, I should be the one to end it.”
The Emperor stared at Yang Hao’s fearless demeanor, his hands clenched into fists, a faint bitter smile on his lips. “Have I really grown old? A child’s ambition makes me feel fear.”
“Your Majesty, that kind of spirit—unstoppable and fearless—must be passed on,” Yang Hao did not humble himself.
The Emperor’s gaze softened, like looking at his own son. “You’re choosing to break with the Royal Family. Xian Lan aside, but is it worth it for Kan Ling?”
“She stabbed her master for me in the palace. No one asked her if it was worth it,” Yang Hao said softly, lowering his head.
The Emperor sighed, shaking his head after a long silence. “Perhaps I have grown old. Perhaps I was wrong to believe that survival is more important than anything.”
The air grew bitter. Yang Hao said finally, “Your Majesty, the leak that exposed the Hidden Dragon Guild and the Dragon Trap must have come from someone close to you. Please be cautious.”
With that, Yang Hao turned to leave.
“Stop,” the old Sword Saint called him back. “Kneel.”
Yang Hao hesitated. “Master Hun Yuan Zi, I’ve never even knelt to you. Do I really have to bow to another teacher now?”
“I don’t care about that,” Hun Yuan Zi said, then fell asleep again with a snore. But deep down, he felt a quiet pride in his disciple.
Yang Hao knelt on one knee.
“I’ll do it only once, so watch carefully,” said the old sword saint, extending his hand. With a twist of his wrist, his palm reversed in an unimaginable way, tracing a dazzling arc, and finally cutting downward into a clenched fist. “The sword still rests in my hand!” declared the old sword saint.
This move had been performed before—by Hade and by Emperor Yinglie. But the old sword saint executed it so slowly that Yang Hao could clearly see every motion. Yang Hao mimicked the movement and echoed, “The sword still rests in my hand!”
The old sword saint smiled in satisfaction and slid a black, orichalcum ring onto Yang Hao’s finger. “From today onward, you are the leader of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion, commanding all Hidden Dragons and the Dragon Protectors.”
“Master!!” Emperor Yinglie cried out in shock.
“Master!!” Tefeng, who had just rushed into the room, exclaimed in astonishment as well.
Yang Hao, even more bewildered, stood there in confusion. He had come today to announce the annulment of his engagement, preparing to go alone to rescue the Hidden Dragon Pavilion. Yet how had he suddenly become its leader? Even if the old sword saint had once been its leader, it still wouldn’t have seemed strange. But surely the position should have been passed on to one of his three disciples.
“Why me?” Yang Hao’s mind was filled with questions.
“Just like you said, that kind of majestic spirit, like a tiger swallowing thousands of miles, must be carried forward,” explained the old sword saint. He turned his back to Yang Hao, refusing to meet his gaze. “You are the legacy of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion. This isn’t my choice—it’s the choice of the Hidden Dragon spirit itself.”
Emperor Yinglie looked disheartened.
He naturally knew that the old sword saint had always been the leader of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion, and had been searching for a new leader for a long time. At times, Emperor Yinglie had thought that if things had happened decades earlier, he might have had the qualifications to become the leader himself. But now, with so many political interests to balance, his fighting spirit had long been worn down.
Tefeng was out of the question too. He was a dark and gloomy figure, always lurking in the shadows, never meant for the light.
So when the old sword saint handed Yang Hao the ring symbolizing the leadership of the most legendary organization in history, both Emperor Yinglie and Tefeng felt an indescribable bitterness in their hearts—even a hint of jealousy toward Yang Hao.
Yang Hao possessed not only the power of a peak-level saint, but also the courage to swallow the heavens and the earth, a spirit of resilience that only grew stronger in adversity. This was the very essence of the Hidden Dragons’ survival.
That night in the imperial palace was destined to be sleepless. After the brief ripple of surface-level commotion, no one could have guessed the massive shift of power that had just occurred. The largest anti-elder force outside the royal family had finally been transferred into Yang Hao’s hands. And the five-thousand-year-old miracle now had the chance to continue once more.
When Yang Hao returned to the Dan Ding Sect, it was already past midnight. His mood was complex, as if something heavy, like the ring on his finger, was weighing heavily on his chest. As he flew toward the Dan Ding estate, he suddenly noticed a five-colored holy light bursting into the sky from within the sect.
Fearing something might have gone wrong, Yang Hao quickly flew toward the source of the radiant light. There stood Hade, majestic and imposing, with one hand resting on Longyun’s waist. The dazzling holy light was radiating directly from Longyun’s body.
“Haha!” Yang Hao exclaimed joyfully. “Longyun, you’ve finally reached the Saint Realm!” The entire room erupted in cheers. It was indeed a great day. Xie Fengting, Maya, XII, Zhuge Jian, and several other elite warriors of the Hao Sword Group were all present, witnessing Longyun’s official ascension into the Saint Realm.
A few months ago, during the fierce battle to protect the Dan Ding Sect, Longyun had already shown signs of breaking through to the Saint Realm. After Hade’s arrival, the old bear had personally trained Longyun, teaching him many secret cultivation techniques. After a period of secluded cultivation, Longyun had finally become a Saint Realm expert.
Surrounded by everyone, Longyun rarely looked so lively and cheerful. The group clamored for him to treat the entire Dan Ding Sect to a feast, leaving Longyun flustered and desperately seeking Yang Hao’s help.
Seeing everyone so excited, Yang Hao didn’t know how to bring up his upcoming departure to the Hidden Dragon Pavilion. It was obvious—the mission to rescue the Hidden Dragon Pavilion was almost certain death, with little chance of survival. If he left tomorrow, the odds of returning were nearly nonexistent.
Tonight, Yang Hao had originally intended to say goodbye to everyone. He didn’t want anyone from the Dan Ding Sect to follow him to their deaths. He had never wanted that before, and now, as the leader of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion, he wanted it even less. But with everyone in high spirits, he couldn’t bring himself to speak.
After all, Maya, who shared a deep connection with Yang Hao, understood him better than anyone else. Soon enough, she sensed the change in his mood.
“Yang Hao?” Maya looked at him suspiciously. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“Nothing,” Yang Hao blinked. “Nothing at all.”
“He must’ve been dumped by Kan Ling again,” Xie Fengting teased. “Yang Hao, with so many beauties around you, this must be your first time getting rejected, right?”
“Rejected? Don’t make me laugh!” Yang Hao scoffed. “With my good looks, I’m loved by everyone—no one dares to dump me. It’s just a small matter. I just need to go out for a trip tomorrow.”
“Where to?” Hade also sensed something unusual.
Yang Hao hesitated for a moment. Seeing everyone fall silent and staring at him, he knew he couldn’t avoid the truth. So he spoke directly: “Tomorrow, I’m heading to the Hidden Dragon Pavilion system. I’ve made a deal with the old emperor—if I alone can lift the siege on the Hidden Dragon Pavilion, he’ll allow me to break off the engagement.”
“The Hidden Dragon Pavilion?”
Yang Hao quickened his pace. “Alright, I’ll be back in a few days. Everyone should go to bed early.”
But his attempt at evasion didn’t work. These people were all sharp-minded individuals. Xie Fengting frowned and asked, “Isn’t the Hidden Dragon Pavilion system the one surrounded by the Elders?”
“Yes,” Yang Hao admitted reluctantly.
“And isn’t it surrounded by the three hundred Elders and the eight senior executives?” Hade asked next.
“That’s right.”
The group exchanged glances and then suddenly burst into laughter.
“Hey, what’s so funny?” Yang Hao’s sweat was already pouring down.
Hade smiled and announced, “Everyone go to bed early. We’ll set off early tomorrow morning. Dismissed.”
And just like that, they all left, leaving Yang Hao standing alone in the empty room, stunned.
The next morning, the sun shone brightly, flowers bloomed in the courtyard, and rare beasts roamed freely—a perfect day to march toward death.
Yang Hao thought he had risen early enough, but when he was finally ready and reached the gate of the Dan Ding Sect, he found thousands already waiting there, like a farewell at a long pavilion.
Yang Hao walked to the front of the crowd. Several subordinates draped a white cape over his shoulders—it had become the symbol of both the Dan Ding Sect and Yang Hao himself, the mark of the Undying War God.
Hade, Longyun, Xie Fengting, and Maya were already waiting aboard the spaceship. Everyone in the Dan Ding Sect knew that this mission carried immense danger. Only these four could still be of help—the rest would only be a burden.
Among the comrades who had once fought side by side, only Kan Ling was missing. Yang Hao gazed around sorrowfully for a moment before boarding the ship.
The *Doomsday* battleship—Yang Hao hadn’t been aboard it in a long time. The warship gifted by the planet Remon was still as steady as ever, every corner familiar. Even the humming sound outside the cabin as it broke through the atmosphere and entered low orbit felt strangely comforting.
“Where are you taking me?” Yang Hao was dragged by Xie Fengting toward a cabin door. “Come on, Xiao Xie. This is my ship, you know. How come you seem more familiar with it than I am?”
“It is your ship, of course,” Xie Fengting smirked, “but that doesn’t mean you know everything about it.”
“And what don’t I know?” Yang Hao asked, puzzled. He had even drawn the star charts himself, and led the entire operation.
“Do you know how many people are on this ship?” Xie Fengting grinned mischievously.
“Just the four of you, plus XII piloting,” Yang Hao replied, confused. “I left everyone else back on Earth. The fewer people, the better, given how dangerous this is.”
“You know it’s dangerous, so why go? For whom?”
“What do you mean, ‘for whom’?” Yang Hao frowned. “Never mind that—just tell me what’s going on.”
Xie Fengting pointed at the cabin door behind Yang Hao. “Go in. I promise it’ll be a surprise.”
Yang Hao turned to look. It was an unused cabin on the battleship, sealed and silent, with no sound coming from inside.
“Just don’t let it be a shock,” Yang Hao muttered as he opened the door and stepped inside.
The surprise came rushing at him.
A white figure leaped forward, wrapping her arms tightly around him. An unusually passionate warmth enveloped Yang Hao as warm lips met his in a kiss.
A breathless kiss… that lasted a long time.
“Huh…” When they finally broke apart, Yang Hao gasped for air, trying to recover from the oxygen deprivation. “Miss, your kissing skills are pretty bad. Did you lack training before?”
“You…” Kan Ling blushed furiously, a little angry. “You’re my first kiss, of course I…”
Yang Hao held Kan Ling’s hand, amusedly watching her face turn red. Truth be told, the more stubborn a woman was, the cuter she looked when she blushed.
“What are you staring at?” Kan Ling pouted, a little embarrassed.
“How did you get here?” Yang Hao was overjoyed beyond words. This time, his biggest regret had been not saying goodbye to Kan Ling—but he hadn’t dared to seek her out, fearing she might actually follow him.
Yet Kan Ling had already been hiding aboard the ship. She said proudly:
“You’re going off to die for me. Do you really think I’d let you go alone?”
Yang Hao lifted Kan Ling’s chin, gazing at her delicate face cradled in his palm. In that cabin, her beauty was his alone.
“What are you looking at?” she asked again, her lips pouting.
Without another word, the two kissed again, this time with Yang Hao passionately displaying his well-honed kissing skills, leaving Kan Ling breathless and weak in his arms.
Few women could resist the tenderness and depth of a kiss from the one they loved.
Kan Ling was nearly intoxicated.
She might have truly been lost in the moment, if Yang Hao hadn’t instinctively reached for the buckle on her armor.
The moment his hand moved, she snapped back to reality. In the next second, her long spear appeared in her hand.
Never forget—Kan Ling was a Saint Realm expert. As the silver spearpoint pressed against Yang Hao’s throat, the wandering hand could only retreat sheepishly.
“What are you doing?” Kan Ling’s lips curled into a smile, but her eyes were not to be trifled with.
“I figured this mission might be my last. I was just worried about you,” Yang Hao feigned a pitiful expression. “What if you died still a virgin? That would be such a waste.”
Kan Ling stepped back with the spear, increasing the distance between them. “The three beauties of the imperial capital—Ling Zhiyan was pregnant by you and you abandoned her. Xian Lan was engaged to you and you left her too. What more do you plan to do to me?”
Yang Hao looked even more pitiful, unable to offer a rebuttal. He could argue that he had left Xian Lan for Kan Ling, but Ling Zhiyan was indeed carrying his child.
Seeing his pitiful expression, Kan Ling softened. She lowered her spear and said, “Whether we live or die, my body has always been yours. But… we’ll wait until this is all over.”
Her face flushed red as she said this. She pushed Yang Hao out of the cabin and shut the door behind him. Pressing her hand to her chest, her heart pounded violently.
It seemed as if it was finally ready to bloom for someone.
Five thousand years ago, in Earth’s history, there was an emperor known as Yun the Cloud Emperor, who was framed by treacherous ministers and cast out into the common world. His younger brother ascended the throne and began ruthlessly hunting down Yun’s loyal followers, determined to kill the exiled emperor.
The Hidden Dragon Pavilion first appeared in historical records at that time. From the heights of imperial power, Yun fell into near ruin, burdened by vengeance and loss. Yet assassination attempts and betrayals did not break him. On the contrary, he became the most legendary Hidden Dragon in history.
While enduring hardship, Yun secretly founded the Hidden Dragon Pavilion as a vengeful force. From its inception, the Hidden Dragon Pavilion was known for its mystery.
Except for the true leader and a few select individuals, no one knew the true strength of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion. Its core members were either scattered across the world or hidden in the most secret places.
“Unsummoned, we remain unseen!” was their oath.
Many Hidden Dragons spent their entire lives in seclusion. But once summoned by the leader, Hidden Dragons from all corners of the world would gather, forming a mighty tide that no one had yet been able to resist.
The first recorded summoning of the Hidden Dragon Pavilion was tied to Yun the Cloud Emperor.
At that time, the new emperor surrounded the still-undeveloped Yun in Chenzhou, with 300,000 elite cavalry ready to crush him. Facing such overwhelming force, Yun was completely alone.
Then Yun issued the first Hidden Dragon summoning call.
The world responded. For three full days and nights, Hidden Dragons emerged from every corner of the earth—farmers, merchants, scholars, and even elderly men on the brink of death. All walked toward Chenzhou, united by a single call.
No one knew exactly what happened in that battle, and no one ever spoke of it.
Yet, not a single one of the Yun Dynasty’s thirty thousand iron cavalry survived. The core members of the Qianlong Pavilion vanished as if they had dissolved into thin air.
From that day onward, everyone understood that the power of the Qianlong Pavilion could never be underestimated. Even if you believed victory was firmly in your grasp, Qianlong would always find a way to turn the tide and snatch victory from defeat.
It was precisely this history that made the executive elders so cautious. Even when they had forced the entire strength of the Qianlong Pavilion back to their last core planet, they still dared not relax their vigilance.
Three hundred elders, all wearing the dark golden robes unique to the Elder Council, had advanced to the very edge of the final forest on Qianlong Pavilion’s core planet. Three hundred saint-level experts in flowing black robes, whose combined strength could invert heaven and earth. Yet their opponent had already weakened to the point of being unable to strike back.
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