Greed unites, and so they share the same bed yet dream different dreams. Wei Wei was contemplating how to seize fame in battle, but drew the line at allowing the yellow-haired youth to shoot Master Xu. Meanwhile, the heir to Prince Jing’an began to weigh whether he could ruthlessly sacrifice Wei Wei and his group of young men from Qingzhou as expendable pawns.
Wealth and power are sought through peril. When compared with titles and authority, the lives of others weighed nothing at all in the mind of a royal prince. Born into the imperial family, the entire realm was the domain of the Zhao clan. Whether one was a grand academician or a governor of thirty provinces, no matter how politely they might be addressed, could they ever escape being looked down upon in heart?
Among the heirs of the six major feudal Princes, only two could inherit their princely titles unbroken, as permitted by the Royal Clan Laws. The other four had long abandoned any hope of wearing the five-clawed yellow satin dragon robes. Just one claw separated four-clawed from five-clawed dragons, but the difference in rank was like heaven and earth. More terrifying still, when a nine-dragon five-clawed robe was downgraded to nine-dragon four-clawed, what became of the next generation? In such an era of peace, where could one seek military exploits? The northern borders were guarded by Prince Beiliang, while the southern lands were controlled by Prince Yan Ci—both acknowledged as ruthless and cunning titans unwilling to let anyone else share their spoils. Worse still, the Royal Clan laws bore four merciless characters: “no official titles for clansmen,” a decree that had forever severed the path to office and status for the imperial descendants.
Prince Jing’an’s heir frowned deeply, weighed down with dark thoughts as heavy as the wine in his cup. He did not bother to hear the distant screams of battle beyond the window.
“Damn it all! That fellow with the great halberd is no man—he split the ship’s beam to pieces with a hundred-jin iron halberd!” A Qingzhou noble shouted in disbelief. The black-armored general truly was a match for ten thousand men, his long halberd easily deflecting volleys of arrows, and even shattering the massive beam that bore stones onto the deck.
“How come hundreds of Huangtou archers are being suppressed by just a hundred Beiliang brutes? They crouch behind their shields like frightened turtles and don’t dare lift their heads!” Another cowardly young noble whispered in awe, peering cautiously outside before ducking back again. He failed to realize he and the Huangtou archers were one and the same. At least those he cursed stood face-to-face with the enemy. What was he, then?
Outside, the battle had descended into brutal close-quarters combat. Despite the Beiliang crossbows having superior range, the Huangtou archers aboard the warship still rained down a barrage of arrows, unleashing six thousand bolts from their stores. Yet after each volley, few Beiliang riders fell, while the deck of the Huangtou vessel was left scattered with dozens of casualties. Each arrow strike reverberated through the entire ship, delivering a chilling clarity—this was not the easy victory they had expected. Far from it.
“That fellow isn’t afraid of death at all, just calmly parrying arrows with his blade,” muttered the son of the Prefect of Shu Prefecture, amazed.
Birds of a feather flock together. Anyone who could call Wei Wei—”the Evil Dragon”—his brother was no mere man, nor from common noble stock. Any of them could trace their ancestral lines back to famed warriors of history. For a thousand years, imperial thrones turned like dancers, one dynasty rising for four hundred years, another falling within a few.
Yet one truth remained unshaken: the aristocratic clans. Xu Xiao, the greatest hero of the Spring Wars, was most often condemned for slaying a million enemy soldiers. But those who cursed the Grand Commander never fixated on that act. Instead, they mourned the fall of nobility after the Spring Wars—the destruction of half a hundred mighty families, the loss of scholarly traditions, and the collapse of morality and etiquette. To those scholars who believed it was their sacred duty to uphold the rites of civilization, this was a crime for which Xu Xiao deserved a hundred deaths. After the Battle of Xilei, no scholar dared to rise—how many generations of literati wept bitterly at this? How many dying ministers cursed Xu Xiao’s treachery with their final breath?
But alas, curses cannot kill.
Thus, Prince Xu Fengnian found it hard to truly believe in loyalty and righteousness. He acknowledged such virtues existed, but blind faith in them was a fool’s errand. What one could truly rely on was only the sword in one’s hand. Imagine if Xu Xiao had been nothing more than a scholar reciting Confucian virtues—would he have commanded the loyalty of three hundred thousand armored riders? Why would the likes of Zhao Guangling and Li Yishan, peerless strategists of their age, offer their counsel to a common-born upstart? Was it merely Xu Weixiong’s brilliance that earned her a place as a scholar at the Shangyin Academy? Standing at the prow of the ship, Xu Fengnian deflected an incoming arrow with a flick of his blade. Watching the battle unfold, he considered how paltry this skirmish of six hundred men truly was. Master Li had never taught him by conventional wisdom—if one could see only part of the pattern in a bamboo tube, why not learn to extrapolate and grasp the whole truth from a glimpse?
The four thousand naval troops of Qingzhou, praised endlessly by the Qing Faction as the mightiest on the water, boasted they could rival the Guangling fleet, yet in truth, they were nothing but a brocade pillow—ugly and useless. Xu Fengnian mused that this skirmish might be the first tolling of their death knell.
Wei Wei glared at Xu Fengnian in fury, angered by the incompetence of his father’s navy and filled with deep resentment toward the young prince of Beiliang. Yet beneath his anger stirred a fear he dared not admit. If this Beiliang heir succeeded to the throne and donned a five-clawed dragon robe, backed by thirty thousand riders instead of just a hundred soldiers, how would his father—a mere lake-dragon lord—survive? Worse still, should they lose this battle, Qingzhou would be thrown into chaos. And the Qing Faction’s senior lords—those who now watched closely with narrowed eyes at secret messages from all quarters—were truly terrifying. Though they rarely turned on each other, when it came to disposing of useless pawns, they acted swiftly and decisively.
Xu Fengnian turned to Ning Emei with a smile. “General Ning, lend me a short halberd.”
Ning Emei had little else to do. The Huangtou archers had been utterly routed in the exchange of arrows, their volleys feeble and cowardly. A mere shadow of true valor! Ning’s iron halberd had already shattered two ship beams, a feat worthy of a mighty general. Hearing the order, he respectfully handed over a short halberd from his satchel.
Xu Fengnian, gripping Xiuxia in his right hand, caught the halberd in his left and hurled it through the air toward the third-floor window of the enemy ship. It flew with terrifying force. If Wei Wei dared openly to shoot arrows, then Xu Fengnian dared to retaliate against the heir of Prince Jing’an himself—and scare the legs off the lot of them.
The halberd struck the window. The Prefect’s son, peeking outside, barely dodged in time, but a gash split his cheek. The weapon embedded itself into the ceiling.
The Qingzhou nobles, until now merely gossiping about the Beiliang prince, now felt war’s terror firsthand. Pale as ghosts, especially when they heard the Prefect’s bleeding son wailing like he had lost both his parents, they nearly crumpled to the ground in panic without someone to hold them up.
Cornered and enraged, Wei Wei sneered, “Order the other warship to ram them! Crush these insolent Beiliang brutes!”
As the Huanglong warship’s commander prepared to obey, Wei Wei whispered, “But first, strike the other two ships.”
The commander hesitated, then suddenly understood. He exhaled in relief. If he truly sank the ship of this fiery-tempered Beiliang prince, what punishment would await a lowly ship captain like him? A hundred scapegoats like him wouldn’t be enough to appease the wrath of such a noble.
The cabin descended into chaos. The heir of Prince Jing’an tapped his fingers lightly on the table. A personal bodyguard, who had earlier shielded the prince with his own body, leaned closer.
The prince uttered but a single word.
“Kill.”
There was no need for further instruction. The trained killers understood exactly how to handle the matter with utmost subtlety.
In this one cabin, it was clear that the true hatred ran between the Evil Dragon Wei Wei and Xu Fengnian, yet Wei Wei dared not risk ramming the Beiliang prince’s vessel. Yet it was the prince, who had met Xu Fengnian for the first time and bore no obvious grudge, who coldly ordered the massacre. As for the noblewomen, their reactions were most amusing—they had been startled by the short halberd piercing the cabin walls, but instead of fearing the prince, they found themselves drawn to the commanding figure who directed his troops as though they were household servants. Qingzhou women prized achievement above virtue—an insight that struck straight at their hearts. Such a divided group, pretending at unity, how could they ever hope to achieve great things?
The Qing Faction, currently in power through political scheming, how long could they maintain control? Does no one see through their fragility? They gather when profit beckons and scatter when it vanishes—how are they any different from rats and snakes? The Grand Chancellor Zhang, the most influential voice in court, had always spoken in tones of unity with the Qing Faction but never entrusted them with true power. Could it be for this very reason?
Jiang Ni had trouble concentrating on her book for some reason. Beside her, the old swordsman Li sat barefoot, picking between his toes with his fingers, sniffing them, and occasionally popping a peanut into his mouth. His mastery of the Dao was beyond beyond comprehension.
The old sword sage noticed Jiang Ni’s brows alternately furrowing and relaxing. He chuckled and said, “You want to watch the naval battle? If you do, I can take you out there and protect you. Whether it’s a hundred arrows or a thousand, even if the heavens rained down steel, I’d see you through unscathed.”
She asked earnestly, “Truly?”
Li Chun’gang chuckled, “I may have exaggerated a bit. To withstand a hail of ten thousand arrows without a scratch would require the peak of Qi Xuanshen’s immortal powers. As for me, at the current level of Tiantai cultivation, I lack the skill. But then again, it’s only because I have no sword in hand. Don’t laugh at this old man.”
Jiang Ni persisted, “But you’re such a great swordsman. Can’t you fight as if you wielded a million blades even without one?”
For once, the old swordsman didn’t boast. He merely murmured, “I could, yes, but the mind is different when you hold a blade. One day, when you’ve mastered swordplay, you’ll understand. Until then, no matter how much I explain, you won’t see.”
Jiang Ni simply said, “I see,” then stood up.
Without a word, she moved toward the cabin door. Though she had no strength, she went all the same.
Old Master Li tugged at his sheepskin cloak and followed closely. By the time they reached the door, he was already in front of her. Arrows flew, but none dared to approach them.
Li Chun’gang’s name included “Sword Aura.”
That saying was no idle boast.
Perhaps it was the swordsman’s impatience with the arrows, or perhaps he could not bear to see the girl frightened, but as she watched Huanglong rushing toward a nearby ship, she cried out instinctively when Xu Fengnian, sword drawn, dashed off with Ning Emei and four guards.
Li Chun’gang snorted coldly.
He took one step.
And leapt.
Flying past all of them, he landed upon the Huanglong vessel.
His silhouette danced like a green dragon.
With one stomp, the warship was overturned into the water!
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