An Ping slept in the City God Temple that night, tossing and turning.
Too much had happened recently, a tangled mess of a thousand threads. He found himself fearing sleep; whenever he closed his eyes, the iron hooves of cavalry trampled into his dreams, bringing visions of mountains of corpses and seas of blood. During the day, he had wanted to ask Mu Gesheng what happened afterward, but the words died in his throat. Regardless of whether the man remembered, some memories were like perennial sores—healed on the surface, but festering within.
Red lanterns hung inside and outside the temple, some electric, others burning wax. One hung just outside An Ping’s wing room, swaying slightly in the wind. An Ping stared at it until the wick sparked, blooming into a small "lamp flower."
*The lamp flower burns away another night, amidst the desolate wind and rain.*
Suddenly, someone picked up a pair of scissors and trimmed the wick. The light brightened.
An Ping blinked and realized the lantern had suddenly become exquisite and ornate. Gauze silk was inlaid upon a hexagonal lacquered frame, and a faint fragrance drifted through the air.
The furnishings in the room had changed as well. Red candles burned high; there were embroidered mandarin duck quilts and brocade curtains. On a small mahogany table sat a pair of wine cups—cloisonné over gold.
An Ping saw the "Double Happiness" character pasted on the window and suddenly realized—this was the bridal chamber he had seen in his dreams before!
Not far away lay the remains of the vase he had overturned during his last visit, blue and white porcelain shards littering the floor. An Ping’s heart jolted as he realized something. He turned his head and saw that, besides the bride, there was another person in the room.
The man stood with his back to An Ping, placing a glass shade over a candle. He wore bright red wedding robes, his posture upright and elegant, like a jade tree standing in the wind.
The man leaned down and took the bride’s hand. Through the tassels of the veil, he whispered something.
"...Since I have seen my lord."
His voice was very soft, like an expectation that would shatter at a touch, yet heavy with years of deep affection.
"...He has not abandoned me."
An Ping couldn't help but hold his breath. The two figures faced each other as the carved lampshade filtered the light into mottled shadows. The walls were covered in the golden hues of ginkgo leaves.
In that moment, the lamps went silent and the people grew still; the moonlight filled the room.
Suddenly, the door was blown open by the wind with a loud clatter. An Ping snapped his eyes open.
He had actually fallen asleep leaning against the bed.
An Ping felt a sense of trance. The scene in the dream was similar to his first intrusion into the bridal chamber, yet fundamentally different. The room full of red candles had felt thick with devotion.
But as he recalled it carefully, something about it felt eerie.
The lantern outside the window had gone out at some point. The door was wide open, and a bone-chilling wind rushed in. An Ping shivered and stood up to close the door, only to see that the entire City God Temple was plunged into darkness. The ancient buildings were submerged in the night, their red beams barely visible.
The scene was indescribably haunting. An Ping shuddered and hurried to shut the door, but then he heard a loud *clatter* nearby—something had fallen over. His first instinct was to close his eyes and ignore it, but whether driven by curiosity or a faint premonition, he gathered his courage and walked toward the sound. He found a room with its door ajar.
An Ping pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight. The room wasn't large—white walls and grey bricks, sparsely furnished to the point of austerity. Only one wall had a table set before it, holding an incense burner and fruit offerings, enshrining a memorial tablet.
It seemed the wind had blown the door open and knocked the tablet over; that must have been the sound. An Ping breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't unusual for a City God Temple to have offerings. He stepped forward, placed the tablet back in its original position, and used his light to read the characters inscribed upon it.
In the next instant, a chill surged from his soul, drenching him like ice water. An Ping froze, paralyzed by shock.
A sudden crack of thunder exploded across the sky. A flash of white light was followed by a torrential downpour. Outside, the wind howled, and the shadows of trees danced wildly.
Thunder and rain were rare in winter, but Mu Gesheng had said there would be rain tonight. Sure enough, at midnight, the heavens opened.
The sound of a lighter flicked in the rain, followed by the glow of a lamp. An Ping snapped back to his senses, hurriedly replaced the tablet, and walked out. At the end of the corridor, the main gates of the temple stood open. Amidst the vast sound of rain, Wu Biyou sat on the threshold, smoking.
A lamp glowed beneath the eaves. By its light, An Ping saw what the boy held: the Guwang Pipe.
The youth smoked slowly, with a touch of composure. He was uncharacteristically quiet. Through the haze of smoke and mist, An Ping seemed to see that elegant, tall figure from years ago once more.
That man had also finished a bowl of tobacco just like this before marching toward life or death.
"Glory is always swept away by the wind and rain."
Wu Zixu stood at the end of the long street. In the distance, black clouds pressed down upon the city, and the roar of artillery was deafening.
"You're about to die, and you're still fucking reciting poetry," Song Wentong sat on the eaves, drinking. "Stinks of academic pedantry."
"That doesn't sound like something you would say, Second Brother." Wu Zixu held his pipe, standing leisurely in the rain. He was once again that noble, jade-like gentleman—not hysterical as he was when fighting Song Wentong, nor powerless as he was when arguing with Mu Gesheng. It was as if he had briefly reverted to a youth a few days ago, but now, facing ten thousand troops, he had regained the elegant poise of the Wuchangzi.
Nearby was the intersection where the Yin-Yang Ladder had been sealed. As the cannons thundered outside the city, the ground began to vibrate. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning tore through the night sky with a world-shaking explosion. The earth cracked open, and from deep underground came the neighing of ten thousand horses.
The rain poured like a deluge.
Wu Zixu struck a match and lit his pipe, staring at the black hole at the street corner. "It has begun."
Song Wentong leaped from the eaves, unsheathed his blade, and stood at the very front. He said grimly, "Do your job."
Wu Zixu patted his shoulder and turned toward the other end of the street. Behind him, the thundering of hooves drew closer. Song Wentong let out a thunderous roar, and a massive blade-light rose from the ground like a second moon. Wine jars shattered on the pavement, and the clashing of weapons became a chaotic din. The air was instantly thick with the scent of blood.
Wu Zixu did not look back. He walked steadily toward the opposite end of the street and exhaled his first puff of smoke into the rainy night.
Meanwhile, the city walls were already a sea of corpses.
Mu Gesheng’s voice was hoarse from screaming. "Hold the line! Carry the wounded down! Move the bodies of the dead! Vanguard, suppressive fire! Do not let them take the battlements!" His throat was nearly ruined. He tilted his head back to swallow a few mouthfuls of rainwater, then raised his hand to blow the head off an enemy soldier climbing the wall. Blood splattered across his face; he didn't have time to wipe it before biting the pin out of a grenade and hurling it down.
The enemy had come out of nowhere. The siege had lasted a day and a night. Of the three thousand defenders, fewer than a thousand remained. They were outmatched in strength and short on ammunition; everyone was at their breaking point. But he had to hold. The Yin-Yang Ladder had only opened tonight. He had to endure until dawn to earn a sliver of hope for Second Brother and the others.
If it were only about winning or losing, the riot of the Yin Soldiers would actually be a great help—he could lead the enemy into the city and let everyone perish together in a glorious explosion. But he knew all too well that neither the defenders nor the tens of thousands of enemy troops were a match for the Yin Soldiers.
Once the enemy was allowed in, the result would be total annihilation. The Yin Soldiers would absorb even greater resentment, and by then, there would be no one left to stop them. They would pour out of the city, and what awaited the land would be a true apocalypse.
Perhaps the Seven Great Houses were waiting for exactly this—to use the power of the Yin Soldiers to purge the chaotic world, fighting poison with poison to completely overturn heaven and earth, only to step in and reorganize the mortal realm once both sides were decimated.
It was indeed a calculated move. For the Seven Houses, it was the optimal solution. Perhaps for those in power, it was the best choice. But he couldn't do it. Mu Gesheng wiped the rain from his face and laughed self-deprecatingly. He really wasn't suited to be the Tiansuanzi. He was just a common soldier, a ruffian. He couldn't sit by and watch a city fall, leaving the heartland with no more passes to defend. He certainly couldn't watch the Yin Soldiers rise, bringing slaughter to all living things until white bones littered the fields for a thousand miles and the banks of the Wangchuan River were filled with wronged souls.
He cared about the gain and loss of every inch of his country; he fretted over the lives of his compatriots, young and old. He lacked the cold-blooded courage to look down upon the world with indifference.
Bullets rained upon the walls. Below, the defenders were practically using corpses to block the gates. "Report—!" A soldier arrived on horseback, shouting breathlessly at Mu Gesheng, "The Chief of Staff sent me! The southern gate is about to fall!"
Mu Gesheng roared back, "Send the last of the gunpowder there! Tell him to hold it even if he has to use his own guts!"
The ancient city originally had four gates. Last year, Commander Mu had the foresight to seal one. Of the remaining three, Mu Gesheng had forced Song Wentong to work overtime to block another a few days ago. That left two: one in the east and one in the south. Before the battle, Mu Gesheng had issued a death order: heads could roll, but no gate could be lost.
Before he could finish, a stray bullet flew toward his head. He couldn't dodge in time, but someone suddenly lunged at him, pinning him firmly to the ground. When Mu Gesheng pushed the person off, his hands were covered in blood. Dust and stones flew overhead; everyone was covered in grime. He froze for a second, then suddenly recognized the person. "Xiao Feng?! Who the fuck let you enlist? You're only fourteen!"
"Master... Master Mu." Xiao Feng was covered in blood, gasping for air. "No... I should call you 'Officer' now."
"What about your parents?!" Mu Gesheng roared, losing control. "You rushed up here to die—who's going to take care of your sister?"
"My family has always been blessed by you. You were the one who drove away the corrupt officials who tried to seize our house. When my father was gravely ill, the Chai family took us in... You and Master Chai didn't leave. My father said a person must keep gratitude in their heart..."
"I've been following you since I was a kid. When thugs came to take over our neighborhood, you led us to kick them out. Now that bigger thugs are coming to steal our city, of course I have to follow you... follow you to drive them away..."
Xiao Feng spat out a mouthful of blood and gripped Mu Gesheng’s hand, smiling fitfully. "The clothes you ordered at our shop... I delivered them to the Yushui Zhuhua. It's a pity everyone ate their fill that night, but you didn't show up to your own welcome banquet... It's... it's okay. When you win, we'll drink the victory wine together... You'll look so grand in the long robe I tailored for you..."
Mu Gesheng wiped the blood from his face. "Stop talking. I'll have someone take you for treatment."
He handed Xiao Feng over to the messenger on horseback. The medical camp was not far inside the city. "You better hold on, kid," he said fiercely, pressing down on Xiao Feng’s wound. "Wait for me to come back. I'll treat you to victory wine and we'll eat until the Yushui Zhuhua goes bankrupt."
Smoke rose everywhere; no one had a moment to breathe. Mu Gesheng turned away. The stairs were already covered in the dead. He stepped over the remains of his comrades to re-ascend the city walls, back to the mountain of corpses and sea of blood.
The messenger galloped with Xiao Feng to the medical camp. Chai Shuxin, covered in blood, came forward to meet them. "Give him to me." He lifted Xiao Feng off the horse, and the messenger sped away. He carried the boy into a tent where the stench of blood was overwhelming and the air was filled with screams and moans.
"Brother!" A girl assisting nearby saw the person in Chai Shuxin’s arms, her eyes instantly turning red with panic. She helped settle Xiao Feng on a patch of empty ground. "Master Chai, is there any hope for my brother’s wounds?"
The girl had seen more life and death in the past two days than most see in several lifetimes. She didn't ask if the injury was serious; she asked directly if he could be saved. If he could be saved, they would save him. If not, a quick end was better than lingering in agony. She had been dragging away one corpse after another; she still had the strength to carry her brother out properly.
Chai Shuxin glanced at her, grabbed his medicine chest, and said softly, "He'll be fine."
The girl burst into tears but immediately tried to stifle them, fearing she would disturb Chai Shuxin’s needlework. She ran to the side to tend to other patients, sobbing quietly.
The sound of wind, rain, and gunfire was piercing. Huge raindrops hammered against the tent, and stray shells exploded nearby.
The entire camp was shaking, but Chai Shuxin’s hands remained steady as he applied the needles. He calmly cleaned the wound, removed the shrapnel, stopped the bleeding, and stitched him up. Finally, he said to the girl, "I remember there are some herbs left. Follow the old prescription, add dried tangerine peel and rhubarb, and brew a bowl for him."
The girl hurriedly agreed and ran out of the tent. Mu Gesheng—no, Chai Shuxin—looked at Xiao Feng. "Your sister is gone. If it hurts, you can cry out."
Xiao Feng groaned, "It's raining outside... tell her to put on another layer of clothes..."
"I will." Chai Shuxin checked his pulse and asked after a moment, "How is the battle on the walls?"
"I don't know much... but so many people die before they can even reach the medical camp. Everyone is fighting to the death..."
"...And Mu Gesheng?"
"Officer Mu is alright. He's injured, but he's holding on..."
"I see," Chai Shuxin said softly. "You did well."
"...Are you cold?"
"I'm fine." Chai Shuxin took off his own outer coat and draped it over Xiao Feng. "Rest well. I'm here."
During their brief conversation, his hands had been shaking—shaking even faster than the boy’s pulse.
Wine jars lined both sides of the long street. The Yin Soldiers surged from the Yin-Yang Ladder but could not step a single inch past the jars. The street was packed with ghost soldiers; Song Wentong’s eyes were bloodshot as he harvested heads like he was cutting grass. Any Yin Soldier decapitated by the Shihong Blade instantly turned into a puff of green smoke, their ashes scattering only to be washed away by the torrential rain.
More and more Yin Soldiers were rushing in. Although they had set a formation by placing Mountain Ghost coins in the wine jars, a single street could not hold back an army forever. The street entrance was too narrow for the Yin Soldiers to spread out, so they stepped on their comrades' heads to climb into the air, layer upon layer, their armor stacking like a massive wall of bronze.
Someone blew a horn, and the Yin Soldiers let out a raspy howl.
Song Wentong watched the ghostly wailing with cold eyes. He bit down on a lock of wet hair, his muscles tensing until his bones let out a sharp *crack*. Finally, he cracked his neck, seemingly growing an inch taller. He threw off his outer shirt; sweat and heat poured from his pores, and the rain couldn't even touch his skin, evaporating in mid-air.
This was the Penglai secret technique, "Snow Burn." He had spent three years in the Sword Pavilion to master it, adjusting his bones and limbs through his meridians to push human potential to its absolute limit. On the day he mastered it, there was a heavy snowfall; he had buried a seed, and after finishing his breathing exercises, a lotus flower bloomed in the snow.
He breathed slowly, his entire body tuned to its peak. A secret technique alone was not enough; the ultimate martial art required an ultimate external force—the Shihong Blade technique, passed down through the Mo family. This strike originated from Pangu’s creation of the world; at the moment the blade was drawn, even Yin and Yang could be severed.
A familiar voice echoed in his ear: *When you have a blade in your hand, nothing can stop a member of the Mo family.*
"I figured you wouldn't want to miss such a lively scene, Mom." Song Wentong smiled at the woman in his memory, took a long breath, and then let out a thunderous roar as he charged forward like an arrow. The wine jars along the street exploded one by one, the spirits mixing with the rain to carry Song Wentong into the air like a tidal wave. He channeled his full strength and unsheathed his blade, striking down with incredible ferocity.
It was a beautiful and violent strike, drawing a perfect circle in the air. The blade-light crashed into the bronze wall like a setting sun sinking into a river, setting off a monstrous wave. The mountain of Yin Soldiers collapsed instantly, howling as they were turned to dust. His strength spent, Song Wentong fell to the ground. He scrambled up, leaning on his blade, and roared, "Wu Nie!"
"Insolent brat, call me Great Grandpa Tai Sui!" A red light burst from the Yin-Yang Ladder, cutting through the crowd and throwing the Yin Soldiers into chaos from behind. Wu Nie fought as she moved, quickly breaking through the encirclement and throwing a flower ball toward the distance. "Kid, catch!"
The flower ball soared into the air. Song Wentong kicked it mid-flight, sending it flying to the end of the street.
The ball hit the ground and exploded, turning into a vermilion drum. The rain hammered against the drumhead, sounding like the hooves of ten thousand horses.
Wu Zixu stood before the drum, looked up, and slowly exhaled his last puff of smoke.
He tossed the pipe aside and leaped onto the drum.
An Ping watched as Wu Biyou threw away his pipe and stepped into the storm. The low sound of drumming drifted over. He chased after him and found a large drum standing at the end of the street.
Wu Biyou leaped onto the drum. The youth stood in the rain, his body arched, hands turning in the opening gesture of a dance.
Mu Gesheng stood not far away, cradling a pipa. He met the youth’s gaze from afar and slowly began to sing—
In an instant, the sound of rain ceased. Heaven and earth fell silent.
Wu Nie moved to block the Yin Soldiers. Song Wentong broke through the crowd and ran into the "Guan Shan Yue" building beside the street. The music pavilion’s doors and windows were wide open tonight, and the top-floor terrace was filled with instrument stands—pipas, zithers, and harps were all on display. Song Wentong grabbed a pipa and began to pluck the strings frantically in the rain.
*The silver vase shatters, the water splashes out; the iron cavalry charges, the swords and spears ring.*
Mu Gesheng looked at Wu Biyou.
Song Wentong looked at Wu Zixu.
The pipa sounded hurried and sharp, like the tearing of silk. A song rose from the ground—
"How can you say you have no clothes? Red robes and white shrouds!
How can you say you have no words? A thousand poems burned!
How can you say you have no song? A long song for the weeping!
How can you say you have no war? To the bitter end we fight!"
The figure on the drum danced like a startled swan—fierce yet graceful, like a sword breaking a formation, yet soft as silk. Unstoppable killing intent and breathtaking beauty merged into one, possessing the weight of a mountain-lifting hero and the lightness of a white crane spreading its wings. As the dancer leaped like a sword being drawn, the surrounding air seemed to solidify. Between heaven and earth, all things obeyed.
This was no ordinary dance. It was the peerless secret of the Yin-Yang House—the General’s Nuo Dance.
The Yin-Yang House could command gods and ghosts. With the Guwang Pipe in hand, they could even order the Yama Kings. However, against tens of thousands of Yin Soldiers that even the Ten Kings of Hell could not handle, the only counter was this ancient dance, long lost to time.
"The General’s Nuo Dance has been lost for centuries." Back then, at the Western Gate, Wu Zixu had looked at Wu Nie in disbelief. "The last time it appeared was when Prince Lanling played the music of the breaking formation in the army. You actually still possess this secret?"
"I’ve lived in Fengdu for nearly a thousand years; I have more than just age." Wu Nie tossed a flower ball. "Have you seen the ghost market plays? The 'Twelve Cases Dance' I perform is actually a segment of the General’s Nuo Dance."
Nuo dance was also known as the dance of sacrificial gods. Ancient people wore Nuo masks to signify inviting a god to possess them, dancing according to the divine will to manifest it to the world. Later, the Yin-Yang House emerged, practicing the arts of inviting gods and commanding ghosts, and integrated the Nuo dance into their family teachings. Among them, the most beautiful and deadly was the General’s Nuo Dance.
A battlefield was a place where ten thousand ghosts gathered, no less than the Western Gate. When the ancestors of the Yin-Yang House created this dance, it was to borrow the power of the God of War to dissolve the resentment of the battlefield. Once the dance was performed, ten thousand ghosts would submit. But the God of War was a being of endless slaughter; once the god was invited, a massive baleful aura would inevitably weigh upon the dancer. Several generations of Wuchangzi had died violent deaths because of this dance, and thus it had gradually been lost.
"To learn this dance, you must have the will to die," Wu Nie had told Wu Zixu. "The aura of slaughter, the intent of the vertical and horizontal, the heart of disdain, and the resolve for death. Only then can you perform this peerless dance."
"Of course, I won't watch my own descendant die." Wu Nie had suddenly smiled. "During the Warring States period, a musician saw this dance and, in a moment of inspiration, composed a piece called 'No Clothes.' Playing it alongside the dance can reduce the baleful aura."
"But this piece was lost even earlier than the dance. I haven't heard the full version, but I reconstructed a melody based on fragments from a thousand years ago. Later, while drinking with someone, I sang it, and my drinking buddy helped me fill in the lyrics."
"The Mo family still has the inheritance of this piece. When the Yin Soldiers riot, the outcome will depend on the two of you."
Song Wentong’s fingers flew over the strings, sounding like ten thousand horses charging into battle. The five strings were like clashing weapons.
There was killing intent beneath his fingers. The music cut through the rain like a blade, but it couldn't last; the strings soon snapped. But the terrace of Guan Shan Yue was already filled with instruments. He discarded one pipa and immediately switched to another. He wasn't particularly skilled in music, and there were instruments he had never even touched, but a melody gushed out the moment he struck them—what Aunt Zhao said was true: this song was an inheritance, already merged into their blood and bones.
This was a song to stop slaughter with slaughter—anyone with a battlefield in their heart would remember its melody!
An Ping stood in the rain, watching Mu Gesheng sing at the top of his lungs—
"How many times have we looked at swords in our cups? Countless glories!
How many times have we seen iron hooves and armored horses? Bones buried in green hills!"
The music rang out sharply. Song Wentong threw away the last instrument, drew his blade, and sang while striking a pillar.
"Fame and fortune are but dust; success and failure, a single stroke of the pen.
Old stories told by fishermen and woodsmen; a moment of prosperity, ten thousand bones turned to rot!"
"In prosperity, the people suffer; in ruin, the people suffer;
Rising and falling, I ask: who rules the world?
Through a thousand generations, what sin have the children committed?"
One dance to break the formation.
As Wu Zixu’s body spun, it was as if an invisible scepter brushed through the void, and the Yin Soldiers dissipated in waves. However, the General’s Nuo Dance was a deadly art; the dancer was essentially burning themselves for warmth, consuming immense internal energy. He had only studied with Wu Nie in the land of Avici for a few days; forcing himself to hold on until now, he was already at his limit. He suddenly spat out a mouthful of blood.
Song Wentong’s voice was gone. His fingers were dripping with blood, and the sound of his blade striking the pillar was like the "Songs of Chu from Four Sides"—a desperate, final stand.
Just as the two were about to collapse from exhaustion, a piece of spirit money drifted into the air.
The crisp sound of a wooden *bangzi* clapper echoed from deep underground.
Mu Gesheng was leaning over the battlements changing a magazine when he suddenly felt the world spin. Blood gushed from his nose, and his mouth was filled with the metallic taste of it. He knew the medicine was wearing off. He reached for the bottle Wu Nie had given him, but it was empty.
He had been pushing himself for days, essentially using his own life as oil for the lamp. Whenever he couldn't hold on, he took the medicine, far exceeding the dosage Wu Nie had warned him about. Mu Gesheng coughed up blood, gripped the wall, and roared hoarsely, "How many men are left?"
"Report! Fewer than three hundred!" someone ran up. "The southern gate can't hold!"
"If you can't hold, retreat!" Mu Gesheng estimated the time was almost up. He stood, his vision darkening as he nearly collapsed again. "We'll fight in the streets!"
"Officer!" A soldier nearby supported him, his voice muffled by the artillery. "The southern gate has already fallen!"
"What?!"
"The thirty-five remaining men at the south gate refused to retreat. Led by the Chief of Staff, they strapped on the remaining explosives and jumped from the wall!"
"Every single one of them died for the country!"
Mu Gesheng spat out more blood and wiped it away. He slapped himself hard and bit his tongue, forcing himself to stay calm. "How many people are left in the medical camp? Hide those who can't move. Send everyone who can still stand to the south gate. Hold them for as long as possible!"
"They've already been sent." A voice interrupted Mu Gesheng. He blinked in surprise. "Why are you here?"
The newcomer was Chai Shuxin. " I can still move. I came to help you hold the wall."
Chai Shuxin was covered in blood, his usual neat and cold demeanor gone. He held a rifle, his hands caked in mud and gore. Mu Gesheng’s gaze lingered on his hands for a moment. "Do you have medicine? I'm out of the stuff Great Grandpa Wu Nie gave me. I need to hold for at least another half hour."
Chai Shuxin handed him a bottle. "I'm here. You won't die."
Mu Gesheng smiled, opened the bottle, and emptied it into his mouth, chewing until his mouth was red with blood. "How are Xiao Feng and the others?"
"They're fine," Chai Shuxin said softly. "Everyone is fine."
Just moments ago, several stray shells had hit the city, crashing right through the roof of the medical camp.
Chai Shuxin had been worried about Mu Gesheng’s dosage and was about to bring him medicine. He had just led his horse out when he was knocked to the ground by a blast of sand and stone.
When he looked back, the entire camp had been turned to scorched earth.
Wu Zixu stood on the drum. The sound of the *bangzi* drew closer, and the Yin Soldiers were gradually turning to ash, the dust forming thick clouds of mist.
Someone walked out from the depths of the mist. Unlike the other Yin Soldiers, this person wore no armor, but a white robe with flowing sleeves, holding a wooden *bangzi*.
The figure met Wu Zixu’s gaze from afar and slowly spoke, his voice sounding as if it came from the dawn of time.
"Soul, come back—"
A song rose, its melody entirely different from "No Clothes." it was vast and desolate, carrying an indescribable coldness. The moment the song began, the dissipating Yin Soldiers froze in place! As if injected with some profound, mysterious power, the crumbling soldiers rioted once more!
This song seemed to have the power to absorb resentment; even the souls of those newly dead on the distant battlefield were drawn to it—they abandoned reincarnation on the spot, transforming into new Yin Soldiers and rising with a roar!
Wu Nie, who had been blocking the soldiers in the middle of the street, let out a roar: "Mo family kid!"
Song Wentong leaped down from the building, and the two swapped positions. The Shihong Blade flew from its scabbard, its light sweeping horizontally and instantly toppling all the iron cavalry within ten feet. Wu Nie sprinted toward the end of the street and kicked Wu Zixu off the drum. "Focus! Do your job!"
Wu Nie took Wu Zixu’s place, arching her back and planting her feet to dance upon the drum, continuously suppressing the rioting soldiers. But the *bangzi* and the song did not stop. With the battlefield nearby, the resentment was endless, and more Yin Soldiers followed. Without the accompaniment of "No Clothes," the General’s Nuo Dance took an even greater toll on the dancer. Even Wu Nie was struggling; the two sides fell into a stalemate.
Song Wentong was at the front, Wu Nie at the back. Wu Zixu stood in the middle of the street, staring at the Knocker not far away. The torrential rain poured down, and through the curtain of water, the sound of clashing weapons seemed to recede into the distance.
He remembered a conversation he had with Wu Nie in the land of Avici.
At that time, he had already learned the final part of the General’s Nuo Dance. "I know what you want to ask," Wu Nie had said calmly. "About your father’s whereabouts."
This was indeed one of his greatest burdens. The fate of the Wuchangzi throughout the generations was an unsolved mystery among the Seven Houses; even the Master of the Ginkgo Library had remained tight-lipped about it. He had taken over the title of Wuchangzi at the age of seven when his father died, but his father’s soul had not entered Fengdu, nor was there any record in the Register of Life and Death. All that remained was the Guwang Pipe and a handful of ashes in the tobacco pouch.
"You are the Wuchangzi; you should know something about the Yin Soldiers. They have heart-protecting mirrors; as long as the mirror is there, they have no consciousness and only follow the commands of the Knocker," Wu Nie said. "The so-called Knocker is actually the guide for the Yin Soldiers, using the sound of the *bangzi* to drive them and keep the land of Avici peaceful."
"I know," Wu Zixu replied. "The Knockers are chosen by the Underworld; their cultivation is no less than that of a Yama King."
"That’s where you’re wrong." Wu Nie looked at him. "The Knocker is a secret position in Fengdu. Except for high-ranking ghost officials, few know of its existence. The explanation you heard was specifically crafted for the Yin-Yang House."
"What do you mean...?"
"Or rather, it was specifically crafted for the Wuchangzi."
Wu Zixu bit his finger and dripped blood into the Guwang Pipe. The slender pipe instantly turned vermilion. The pouch seemed to burn with fire, like a lamp. He slowly took a step, then began to move swiftly through the rain, finally sprinting toward the source of the *bangzi* sound like a blur.
He brushed past Song Wentong. As they crossed paths, Wu Zixu grabbed the blade from the other’s hand and slashed it across his own arm. Blood instantly soaked the long blade. He then struck the Guwang Pipe hard against the edge of the blade. Sparks flew, and the fire followed the blood, snaking along the metal until the entire blade seemed to be ablaze, cutting through the long night.
"The origin of the Knocker is a lie created by Fengdu specifically for the Wuchangzi."
"But now, there aren't many people left who know it’s a lie."
"After every Wuchangzi dies, their soul is escorted by a specific person to become the next Knocker."
"In the nine hundred and twenty-seven years since I took over Fengdu, I have personally escorted every single Wuchangzi."
That day in Avici, Wu Nie had told him the truth: "In the millennium since, the origin of the Knocker became more and more mysterious, becoming a mystery even within the Yin-Yang House itself. Because not every Wuchangzi is willing to contribute their soul to guard this sunless, heavenless place."
"Once a soul becomes the Knocker, they lose their memories and consciousness from when they were alive. They exist only to guard the Yin Soldiers. Until the next Knocker takes over, they follow only this one mission."
After what felt like centuries, Wu Zixu asked, "After the next Knocker takes over, what happens to the previous one?"
"Any soul that stays in Avici for too long will be gradually eroded. All Knockers eventually turn into the same baleful creatures as the Yin Soldiers. Why do you think the Yin Soldiers are rioting now? The world is in chaos, the ley lines are unstable, and the resentment in Avici has surged. All the Yin Soldiers are enraged, and the Knocker is no different. Resentment dominates him, and he has the power to dominate the Yin Soldiers. The consequences are unthinkable."
"In my nine hundred and twenty-seven years in Fengdu, I have escorted thirty-five generations of Wuchangzi," Wu Nie said with a faint smile, her expression unreadable. "And I have personally taken the lives of thirty-four Knockers."
"Your father was willing to become the Knocker. He spent his life devoted to the Yin-Yang House."
"Before me, there were other Escorts who led the Wuchangzi to become Knockers. And the last time the Escort was replaced was because nearly a thousand years ago, there was also a riot of Yin Soldiers."
"During that riot, the Seven Houses failed to completely eradicate the Yin Soldiers, leaving behind a hidden danger. After I died and became the Tai Sui of Fengdu, I spent these nine hundred years slowly wearing them down."
"I have two flower balls. Each contains nearly five hundred years of my cultivation. I used one to form the lotus formation; this one, I give to you for the General’s Nuo Dance. Consider it a return for the favor your father did me back then."
"You asked why I’m willing to help you and the Tiansuan brat? This battle seems like a joke, but it’s not impossible to win. If we seize the moment, we might even have a chance to wipe out the Yin Soldiers for good."
"Great Grandpa Tai Sui, a beauty causing trouble, killing his own descendants for nine hundred years—I am truly tired."
"The Yin-Yang House doesn't need any more Knockers."
Wu Zixu let out a roar—mad with rage, deep with sorrow. He threw himself recklessly into the crowd of Yin Soldiers, the Shihong Blade like a soaring fire, igniting everything in its path.
The strikes Wu Zixu swung were not flawless. His hands even trembled slightly under the weight of the blade. He was no martial arts expert, nor was he skilled in brawling; usually, he preferred to turn conflict into peace. But at this moment, he used his blood to sacrifice to the blade, carving out a crimson path.
A true rage must always draw blood.
Sometimes that blood turns into fire. If it doesn't burn you to death, the searing pain can lead to a rebirth.
At the moment the long blade split the Knocker’s skull, amidst the pouring rain, Wu Zixu suddenly remembered an afternoon years ago in the Ginkgo Library. Mu Gesheng had been rambling about how unreliable his old man was, then suddenly turned to him. "Third Brother, what kind of man was your father?"
What kind of man was the previous Wuchangzi?
Wu Zixu’s memory of his father was blurred. In his impressions, the man was always busy with official business. Once, the man had taken him to see the ghost market plays. The girl dancing on the twelve cases with a flower ball had leaned down toward him and smiled. "Oh? So this is my grandson from I-don't-know-how-many generations back?"
He had been dazed by Mu Gesheng’s question. In the end, it was the Master of the Ginkgo Library who rolled in on his wheelchair and patted his shoulder.
"Zixu, you had a good father."
"A father's love for his son is endless."
"The previous Wuchangzi had profound cultivation. If he hadn't been willing to become the Knocker, I would have had a headache."
"But he accepted it willingly. He only asked one thing of me."
"To take good care of his son."
That day, fire broke out in the city. Though a great rain fell, the flames could not be extinguished.
Upon the city walls, Mu Gesheng had fired every bullet, spent every ounce of strength, and exhausted every curse he knew. Artillery thundered, smoke and shells filled the air. The sounds of weapons, cannons, explosions, and cries—the roar of the world swept over him. Then came a sudden explosion, a collapse, and finally, a thick, heavy silence.
The moment the shell hit, Chai Shuxin grabbed the person beside him. In the next instant, the heavens fell and the earth split; everything crumbled.
Amidst the broken walls and ruins, Song Wentong looked up at the sky as dawn approached. He fell backward, blood splattering.
Wu Nie fell from the drum. The rain washed the makeup from her face, revealing the countenance of a young girl.
Wu Zixu knelt in the rain. He pulled out the Guwang Pipe and gathered a handful of ashes from the ground.
*In the dream, I knew not I was a guest; how many times have I known war? A lonely grave a thousand miles away; the boundless mountains and rivers.*
At dawn, the city fell.
One dance toppled the city.
Then the nation.
***
**Glossary**
Chinese | English | Notes/Explanation
---|---|---
将军傩舞 | General's Nuo Dance | An ancient, sacrificial exorcism dance of the Yin-Yang House used to suppress ghosts.
敲梆人 | The Knocker / Clapper-bearer | A guide for the Yin Soldiers who uses a wooden clapper (bangzi) to control them.
无衣 | No Clothes | A classic poem/song from the Book of Songs, used here as a martial melody.
雪燃 | Snow Burn | A secret technique of the Penglai/Sword Pavilion that pushes human potential to the limit.
舐红刀 | Shihong Blade | "Crimson-Licking Blade," the signature weapon of the Mo family.
引渡者 | Escort / Ferryman | A role (held by Wu Nie) responsible for leading deceased Wuchangzi to become Knockers.
邺水朱华 | Yushui Zhuhua | Likely the name of a high-end restaurant or establishment in the city.
关山月 | Guan Shan Yue | "Moon over the Mountain Pass," the name of the music pavilion.
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