Tuoba Chunsun was different from his eldest brother, who had always been a sickly man obsessed with medicinal pots. Chunsun was born with extraordinary strength. The Tuoba clan revered martial prowess and physical might; nearly all the young men joined the military. This young master, not yet eighteen but already on the verge of reaching the Realm of the Indestructible (Diamond Realm), was highly favored by the clan. This journey was arranged by design—General of the Northern Barbarians had deliberately sent Chunsun out to personally break through that final, fragile barrier.
With his immense strength, Chunsun excelled in mounted archery. He could fire a bow rapidly and accurately at two hundred paces without losing precision. However, after weighing the remaining strength of that young noble from the Southern Court, he decided: within a hundred paces meant certain death, while one hundred and twenty paces would only severely wound. Chunsun did not wish for the boy’s demise to be so swift. He had been aiming for that ideal distance—just enough to strike the back with full force, preferably crippling limbs. During the royal autumn hunts, Chunsun would leisurely circle large prey at the edge of bow range, riding and shooting with ease. This calm, calculating mindset had been forged during his childhood when his father abandoned him on the frozen tundra to fight white bears. Back then, his only weapons were a bow, a dagger, and a quiver of arrows.
It was not the young man’s throwing technique that startled Duanbolihui, but rather the cold calculation behind it—the ability to assess advantages and disadvantages even in the face of death. The hunting party pursued relentlessly, relying not only on visual tracking but also on hawks soaring overhead to relay intelligence. They manipulated the distance between themselves and their prey, using deceptive maneuvers. Finally, when the hawk dove low, the fugitive evaded the arrows and used them against his pursuers in a seamless counterattack—akin to borrowing sword qi to wound, then rubbing salt into the wound. In high-level duels, even a slight tremor of the heart could lead to defeat before the fight even began. With the hawk above, they were confident of victory. Even if their prey managed to escape sight, as long as they had the correct direction, he would not escape. They would chase him without mercy, giving him no time to catch his breath or tend to his wounds, until he collapsed from exhaustion.
Duanbolihui bared his teeth in a cruel grin. Since you still have the strength to kill the hawk in defiance, I shall give you the straw that breaks the camel’s back!
His rough face flushed with a sickly red hue, his eyes turned pitch black, the irises fading until his pupils vanished entirely. Even the cavalry under Situ Qinch’a noticed the change in this attendant—their horses grew restless. Suddenly halting mid-step, Duanbolihui mimicked the motion of hurling a spear, leaving the hundred riders, who had been charging desperately, utterly confused. The retainer had no weapon in hand—was this a ploy to scare the prey like a bowstring without an arrow? Situ Qinch’a, a seasoned Grasslandschieftain, recognized the signs more clearly. He stole a glance at Tuoba Chunsun standing atop his horse. No wonder he was the son of the War God—his attendants alone possessed such terrifying martial prowess, each capable of annihilating a small tribe single-handedly.
**Thunder Spear!**
At the cost of draining his own vital energy, Duanbolihui forcibly elevated his cultivation state, stepping into a false realm of emptiness. He bent his arm as if gripping a spear, executing a dazzling series of crossing steps. In the final throw, his left leg made a subtle yet decisive push, unleashing a whip-like motion from his forearm. With a piercing *swoosh*, an invisible spear tore through the air, creating vacuum ripples like a comet’s tail, arcing straight toward Xu Fengnian’s back. A Qiang tribesman by birth, Duanbolihui had long been adept at using unfeathered javelins—slender, sharp-tipped, capable of piercing multiple layers of armor. Raised among hunters, he became renowned for his throwing skills. As a youth, he once met the legendary spear master Wang Xiu at his peak, from whom he learned the profound techniques of the spear. Eventually, he developed his own Thunder Spear technique. Eight years ago, he killed a notorious martial cultivator with two throws, earning instant fame. But this technique drained his life force terribly—used only in desperate situations, and best employed from a distance with surprise. Clearly, Duanbolihui regarded Xu Fengnian as a threat of the highest order.
After confirming the identities of Tuoba Chunsun and his group, especially once he began fleeing, Xu Fengnian had been waiting for this very moment—the Thunder Spear, famed for splitting mountains with three throws. Now, it had finally come.
All along, he had painstakingly gathered the scattered energy of the Huangting cultivation method, using only a portion to kill the hawk with a broken arrow. Now, he gritted his teeth, preparing to withstand the strike. There was no thought of dodging. Once thrown, the Thunder Spear was guided by Duanbolihui’s qi, unlike an arrow that flew straight and fixed its target. It was akin to the highest levels of sword manipulation.
Xu Fengnian’s forehead mark had turned deep purple-black. He no longer cared whether this would plunge him into a false revival of fading light. He halted, turned, and twisted the sword Spring Thunder in both hands. As he flew backward, the sword in its sheath once again formed a massive circular mirror of qi in the air—a final clash of spear and sword. Duanbolihui was still a powerful crossbow, but Xu Fengnian was now a threadbare force. The mirror shattered upon impact. Spring Thunder was flung backward, its trajectory slightly altered, but the spear still pierced Xu Fengnian’s ribs. Piercing through, it struck the ground with such force that it left a crater as tall as a man, sending dust flying. In this, Duanbolihui had avenged Tuoba Chunsun’s earlier injury from the flying sword.
Qinch’a and the hundred riders exhaled in relief. This man had been too much trouble. Surely, this time he would die?
Xu Fengnian crashed heavily to the ground, struggling to sit up. He could no longer stand. Grabbing Spring Thunder beside him, he sat cross-legged, placing the sword across his knees. Blood poured from his mouth, now black and thick. He made no move to wipe it—there was no point. He simply reached up and adjusted his hair bun, tied with strands of his own hair. *The body and hair are gifts from one’s parents.*
Since childhood, he had been teased by Master Li Yishan as having the refined features of a southerner despite being born in the north, explaining why he had been born into the Xu family. His eldest sister Xu Zhihu often joked that among the four siblings, he looked most like their mother—his eyes, his nose, even his hair. She always pretended to be jealous. Xu Fengnian’s vision blurred. Memories flickered through his mind—small, trivial moments. He thought of Xu Xiao’s hunched back, the laughter of his siblings, the mourning songs of Qingliang Mountain, the white-robed figure who had haunted him since childhood, the old man in the sheepskin cloak who once said “sword comes,” the bloated little hill on the Guangling riverbank. So many people, so many things, flashed by. At the end, aside from feeling he had failed his father, who had doted on him and carried the burden of thirty thousand iron cavalry, he thought only of a woman’s dimpled smile. Though they had grown up together, theirs had never been a poetic, idyllic childhood. He had lived only twenty years, seen countless women. Perhaps, as his maid Hongshu once bluntly said, he was *seemingly affectionate but truly indifferent*. He had cared for many women, but seemed to let them all go—except her. Whether during the three years of hardship with Lao Huang, or later journeys, or this trip into the Northern Barbarians, he always thought of her—and felt a quiet ache in his heart.
If the world knew that Xu Fengnian, already heir to the throne, had come alone to the Northern Barbarians, they would laugh and call him a fool—why give up a comfortable life as a prince to risk death? His father had already proven with his horseback conquests that no matter how brilliant the martial world was, it would still bow before cavalry. Why not just wait for Northern Liang King to pass away, then don the noble robes of a feudal lord and enjoy life? Even if all knew of the thorn in the throat—Chen Zhibao—who would likely take everything, what could Xu Fengnian do? Close one eye and pretend not to see? At worst, military power would shift. Northern Liang King would remain in Northern Liang, and the White-Clothed War Immortal would stand at the border—clearly divided, never to cross. That alone would be enough to make anyone envious. Don’t be insatiable. Don’t overestimate yourself. Whether you are a prince with hidden talents or a fool in fine clothes, how can you hope to match Chen Zhibao? Can you rival the achievements of the late strategist Ye Baikui? Do you have enough time to build your own military faction under Chen’s watchful eyes? Even if you could, Chen once pierced with a single spear the legendary Wang Xiu, who had stood alongside Li Chungan, the Green Robe Ghost, and the Red Armor Fiend—how could you, Xu Fengnian, dare to challenge him? The entire Liyang Dynasty doubted that he could ever command the thirty thousand iron cavalry like his father. Ironically, this might be precisely why the Emperor in Tai’an City allowed this heir to act recklessly.
In the vast empire that ruled the Spring and Autumn Period, no other young man was so deeply on the Emperor’s mind.
Xu Fengnian’s fingers trembled as he tightened the loose knot in his hair.
That night, Xu Xiao had said, *Fengnian, if you die in the Northern Barbarians, I’ll leave Northern Liang to Chen Zhibao. The army can change its allegiance—it means nothing to me. But if you die, I, as your father, can never avenge you, just like your mother once entered the palace alone.*
Xu Fengnian had joked, *You’re such a cowardly father. If I really died in the Northern Barbarians, wouldn’t you lead the Northern Liang cavalry straight into their capital? How Dominancewould that be?*
Xu Xiao had been silent for a long time before finally laughing softly, *I do want to. I would do it. But I was just saying those words to scare you. I’m afraid you’ll really die. My thirty thousand iron cavalry will crush half the Northern Barbarians’ thirty years of accumulated might. That kind of Dominancedeed, I’ll do it. But wouldn’t it be better if you did it?*
Xu Fengnian had smiled and said, *Of course I don’t want to die. Nothing is more miserable than a white-haired parent burying a black-haired child.*
Xu Xiao, who had never struck his son, had slapped him on the head and, despite never believing in ghosts or gods, spat several times in disgust, *Don’t say such cursed words!* Then he muttered to himself, *Children’s words are harmless.*
Xu Fengnian had replied helplessly, *I’m already an adult. What child’s words?*
Xu Xiao had shaken his head and said no more.
Now, Xu Fengnian closed his eyes, hands resting on Spring Thunder. He began to understand. Why did Xu Xiao still enjoy sewing shoes like a farmer? Why did Xuan Yuan Jingcheng, who should have become a strategist like Zhang Julu or at least joined forces with Xun Ping, remain trapped at the foot of Xuan Yuan Mountain, locked outside the door of his own family? Even after becoming a Confucian Sage, he never stepped beyond. Why did the Taoist boy finally descend the mountain, yet what difference was there between being on the mountain or off it? Why did the old man in the sheepskin cloak, who reached the Diamond Realm at sixteen, the Fingering Heaven Realm at nineteen, and the Celestial Realm at twenty-four, still return to the river with a flying sword, laughing bitterly at his own green-robed past?
In the end, it all came down to one word.
Thinking of her dimpled smile, Xu Fengnian swayed to his feet.
Even if he refused to admit it, he knew—he loved her. If he didn’t love her, how could he have watched her for so many years and never grown tired?
Only now did he realize how deeply he loved her.
If he had never confessed, he could not die here!
Opening his eyes, Xu Fengnian wiped the blood from his face with his sleeve and shouted with a smile, *Jiang Ni! I love you!*
Tuoba Chunsun sneered, but once again, he could not laugh.
A young woman flew in on a sword, followed by a scholarly figure gliding effortlessly through the air.
She stood atop a longsword, hovering before the man who had just escaped certain death.
Glaring, she snapped, *Why did you call me? You shameless man!*
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