The Tian family village and its surrounding hamlets are scattered like stars across the landscape, with winding dikes and irrigation channels crisscrossing the terrain. A vast mandarin orange grove, home to over six thousand trees, produces the famed Dongting Yellow Oranges, a second-tier tribute fruit for the imperial palace. Though the grove no longer bears the lush bounty of autumn after winter sets in, a local tradition remains: each tree leaves one orange hanging through the cold season, symbolizing abundance at year’s end and a hopeful welcome to the new. Even the most mischievous and hungry village children dare not scale the trees to steal fruit, content instead to gaze longingly from a distance while playing nearby.
Now, the grove is speckled with sparse red dots, a faint echo of its former glory. Into this scene strides a young scholar dressed in plain green robes, his demeanor refined yet unbothered. He flicks his finger lightly, knocking a weathered, shriveled red orange from its branch. He gathers the fallen fruit into his arms without peeling it, biting off half at once and chewing heartily. Beside him walks a withered old man of unremarkable appearance, resembling a simple orange farmer. The youth grabs an orange and grins at the elder, who shakes his head, uninterested in eating any. The young man, chewing rind and all, mutters in the tongue of Bei Man: “This Jiangnan region of Liyang is truly a place where one can never starve. If we ever march this way in conquest, I’ll demand from Li Mibi a plot of ten thousand mu of fertile land—I’ll skip the title of official.”
The old man glances at the youth’s back, where three scarred wounds, like hardened cocoons, seal shut the injuries. Two sword strikes and one palm blow had pierced through his body, yet he still moves about as if nothing had happened. The wounded young man pays no heed to his condition. Within moments, he devours an entire handful of oranges. He pats the dust from his robes, jostling his wounds and wincing in pain. His finger brushes lightly over a scar on his chest. The other two sword wounds were manageable, but the wound under his fingers now was treacherous—a palm strike, nearly as deadly as his own signature technique, “Planting Willows into Shade.” Thinking of the girl who carried a withered sunflower, the young man groans inwardly. He wishes he had kept fighting the black-robed youth outside the city instead of switching opponents with Jian Qijing. At the time, he thought that no matter how formidable the unknown girl might be, she couldn’t surpass Xu Longxiang, who was born with the King Kongphysique. In Shenwu City, he had cleverly exchanged one of his skillful sword strikes for Xu Longxiang’s two brute-force attacks, feeling he had the advantage. But he hadn’t counted on the chilling stare from the black-robed youth when he pulled the Willow Shadesword from his body. The youth had twisted the blade into a useless tangle, much to the dismay of the scholar-like man known as Yi Jie Liu. Yi Jie Liu turned to the old man beside him, smirking: “Old E, did you hear that Huang Qing and that kid fought so fiercely that they went through seven or eight swords?”
The oddly named elder nodded, noticing a faint seep of blood from Yi Jie Liu’s cocooned wounds. He quickened his pace, pressing close to Yi Jie Liu’s back, his fingers exuding white threads that slowly wove new layers over the wounds. From the corner of his eye, Old E spotted a tall, broad-shouldered figure standing atop a small hill, as if gazing into the distance. Yi Jie Liu flicked another orange off a branch, caught it in his palm, and tossed it toward the figure, who stood a full head taller than him. Without turning, the figure caught the orange in both hands, rolling it between his palms in a daze. It was, in fact, a woman—towering and stout. Her loose garments, which would have been oversized even for a seven-foot man, still clung tightly to her frame. Her head bore the traditional Bei Man female warrior’s five-weapon pendant, and her face bore the customary yellow forehead markings. Unfortunately, her plain features made the adornments seem more odd than attractive. A jade belt hung at her waist, bearing numerous small practical items—dagger, pouch, flint—like a woman who knew how to manage a household.
Yi Jie Liu glanced at her, squatted on the ground, rubbed his face hard, and sighed deeply. He and Old E, two genuine first-rank martial experts, had been relentlessly hunted by that girl. Where was the justice in this world? After all, not only were they first-rank cultivators, but they were also top-tier assassins from the Bei Man Spiderweb sect. If word of this got out, it wouldn’t just ruin Yi Jie Liu’s reputation—it would shame the entire Spiderweb. In a straight-up fight, any one of them could have beaten the stoic-faced girl with ease, giving her less than a four-in-ten chance of survival. But the girl’s endless array of ambush tactics had tormented them all. Even Old E, one of the Spiderweb’s twin cocoons, had admitted that she was born for this line of work. Still, the girl had suffered badly—struck by Old E’s Cocoon Binding, hit by a palm strike from Murong’s woman, and crippled by Yi Jie Liu’s severed arm. She was practically on death’s door. Yet she refused to give up, chasing them all the way here. Yi Jie Liu mused that the next time she appeared, it would likely be her final exit from the martial world.
Old E scanned the surroundings and muttered, “That girl is a master of stealth and hidden arts—earth and water Escapeare her strong suits. We paid the price last time by the riverbank. Princess Murong deliberately chose this village with its soft soil and numerous ditches, probably to give her one last chance to finish this long chase, sparing us all the continued strain.”
Yi Jie Liu snorted, “That clever girl won’t fall for it.”
Old E, the senior Spiderweb assassin, shook his head with a faint smile. “She’s resourceful, but her body can’t keep up. With all her wounds, she won’t last much longer. If the princess had been a bit more ruthless and denied her even this chance, we three could have formed a triangle and she might have died unnoticed on the road. A pity. The princess is different from us rough men who live by the blade. She has a broader heart.”
Yi Jie Liu glanced at the woman’s broad back and chuckled, “Not just her heart—her chest, too.”
Old E wasn’t one for flattery, so he wisely held his tongue. After all, the young woman was a favored descendant of the Empress, a rare figure among the two royal clans of Bei Man. While Murong Baoding was a legendary genius, the younger generation had warriors like Yelü Dongchuang and Murong Longshui, whose martial prowess even surpassed that of the newly attained King Kong RealmToba Chunsan. Princess Murong might not be conventionally beautiful, but she was well-regarded in Bei Man. She understood the customs of Liyang as well as any Han scholar, and despite her noble birth and formidable skills, she remained gentle and untemperamental. Unlike other royal women, she wouldn’t have flown into a rage at Yi Jie Liu’s teasing.
The woman, equal in fame to Yelü Dongchuang, turned the orange in her palm, suddenly recalling a past conversation. Her aunt had once asked her, half-jokingly, what would happen if Bei Man conquered Liyang and adopted Han customs—how long could Bei Man’s martial spirit endure? If not even a century, then what was the point of the southern conquest? At the time, another princess, known for her fondness of Marten forehead covering, had answered: “If a million lives lost mean a unified empire for a hundred years like the Qin, it’s worth it. And if it ensures your name is remembered for a thousand, even the clumsiest Innkeeperand the shrewdest Calculationare worth it.” Her aunt had been delighted. Murong Longshui clearly remembered the fierce, challenging gaze the other princess had shot at her.
Murong Longshui’s mood darkened slightly. This journey with Yi Jie Liu and the Spiderweb elders had been plagued by the girl’s relentless pursuit. Yi Jie Liu had been furious, killing over thirty innocent bystanders in the process. Though Murong disapproved, she could say nothing. The fragile peace between Bei Man and Liyang was bought with the blood of tens of thousands of soldiers. Liyang’s northern campaigns left countless dead unburied, their graves dug up and reused by Bei Man forces. The ideals of sparing women and children, honoring the dead, and seeking reconciliation—all noble in theory—meant little in the face of national hatred. Murong Longshui had once traveled alone through Bei Man and seen children raised far from war, yet filled with hatred for Liyang, their faces twisted with malice. In one tribe, a pregnant Han woman, captured and months along, had been cut open and trampled by young riders still learning to ride.
Snapping back to the present, Murong Longshui froze at the sight before her.
A slender girl, carrying a withered sunflower, walked toward them.
For nearly ten days, they had fought six times. Four times, she had set traps and failed to land a killing blow. Each time, after a single failed strike, they had retreated to regroup. Twice, they had clashed head-on, chasing each other for over a hundred li. One of those times had left Yi Jie Liu with that brutal palm strike. Another had cost the girl her left arm, riddled with Willow Shadesword qi. Murong Longshui had come closest to her during a retreat, shielding Yi Jie Liu in an alley where the girl had ambushed her from a hidden perch on the eaves, slashing diagonally across her neck. Even with crossed arms to block, Murong had been sent flying several zhang. But the girl had fared no better—Old E’s cocoon silk had bound her, and Murong had seized the moment, striking her hard and sending her crashing through a wall before vanishing.
Murong Longshui bore no real hatred toward the girl. But her interference had disrupted too many plans laid out by the Grand Peace Edict. She had to die.
Yi Jie Liu stared at the girl, puzzled. “In her current state, what chance does she have of landing a killing blow? Why walk in so openly, as if we’re easily frightened?”
Old E hesitated. “She might still have a final, mutual destruction technique.”
Yi Jie Liu shook his head. “Judging from her disrupted qi, she’s beyond that now.”
Old E’s voice grew heavy. “Remember what the Master said—above qi lies fate.”
Yi Jie Liu grinned. “Then she’s yours, Princess Murong.”
Even as he spoke, the three first-rank martial artists began to fan out. Murong Longshui descended the hill, flanked by Yi Jie Liu and Old E on either side, encircling the girl who had walked willingly into her doom.
The girl, carrying her withered branch, moved her lips slightly.
As if calculating the distance in steps.
All four looked up at once.
From the sky, a figure crashed down between them.
Amid the rising dust and chaos, a white-haired young man stood with his hands in his sleeves, his back to the assassin girl, facing Murong Longshui and the others.
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