The south wind blew, and the layered clouds gathered.
The rain shifted from a sparse drizzle to a dense downpour. With half an hour remaining before dawn, the surroundings remained as pitch-black as an eternal night.
By the mountain path near the cliff, the purple-clad swordsman snapped his blade straight, holding it still beneath the falling droplets to let the rain wash away the bloodstains.
It had been a long time since he had been in such a wretched state. His clothes were torn, and he counted a total of seven wounds on his body. Three were on his thighs, two on his arms, and one on his waist, but none were fatal—merely shallow cuts through flesh and skin.
The most perilous strike had been between his ribs. A short blade had thrust upward from below; another half-inch, and it would have pierced his thoracic cavity and struck his heart.
Yet, she had been half an inch short.
Perhaps if she were a bit taller, she might have reached that half-inch and taken his life.
But she no longer had the chance. She had neither the chance to grow taller nor the chance to strike again.
Such was the cruelty of a duel between masters, and he often found himself intoxicated by this cruelty. Even the pain from the blade wounds fascinated him.
He was usually dull to his surroundings. Yet now, he felt a sense of presence unlike anything he had ever known; even the passage of time seemed to have taken on a physical weight.
When he was a child, he would often sit upright on a stone threshold, remaining there for an entire day and night.
His days were quiet and tedious, but his nights were fiery and clamorous.
His grandfather, who was obsessed with meteoric iron ore, always quenched his blades at night. This was because the pure black of the night allowed the human eye to discern the exact hue of the glowing metal, ensuring the tempering occurred at the perfect moment.
The sound of hammers striking the blade rang out through the night, yet he never found it monotonous. He knew that was the sound of a sharp edge being forged. To become the sharpest and strongest thing in the world required such tempering, day after day, year after year.
The loneliness that the iron could endure, he could also face with equanimity.
Most of the time, his heart was empty. He was born this way, he had been this way before, and he would be this way hereafter.
This was his unique, singular talent.
Before he was eight years old, his hands had already felt the sharpest tips and edges in the world, and his thirst for the ultimate became increasingly difficult to satisfy.
He sparred with the wanderers of the martial world who came to collect their blades. From seeing through their patterns to delivering a lethal strike, it rarely took him longer than the time it took for a stick of incense to burn.
Praise and rewards turned from many to few. Gradually, he began to read fear and loathing in those startled faces.
He knew that they could no longer give him what he wanted. He had to go to higher, more dangerous places to catch a glimpse of the ultimate end of perfection.
When forging a sword, the fewer impurities in the iron, the purer the blade after annealing.
This was the lesson his maternal grandfather had taught him.
When gripping a blade, the fewer stray thoughts in the heart, the faster the strike.
This was the truth he had realized for himself.
The day he entered the academy was the day she left Andao Academy. At that time, he did not know who she was.
He saw a short, stout figure being dragged out of the academy gates in a fit of rage, cursing Xie Li with every step and looking back three times before finally spitting on the ground and being shoved into a carriage.
He thought: *That must be a useless waste with terrible natural talent and poor skills.*
Andao Academy truly lived up to its reputation; it never harbored the weak.
The weak were prey for the strong, and the victor was king.
And he never lost, so he had always been at home in such a world. He was satisfied with his choice.
On the night of his admission, the Head of the Academy, Xie Li, bestowed names upon the new disciples in the Hanling Pavilion.
The so-called bestowing of names was actually a drawing of lots. Since the founding of Andao Academy, the names of all disciples had originated from those left behind by the first Head, Lady Yin. Rumor had it that Lady Yin was fond of feathered creatures and had collected thousands of tail feathers from across the world in the pavilion. All disciples of the pavilion received their names from these; a name could not be removed unless one was expelled from the academy, and it could not be changed unless by imperial decree.
The current Head, Xie Li, was originally named Xie Li—the character for "Lark." She had only changed her name after assuming the position of Head.
During the naming ceremony, the entering disciples would choose a sealed bamboo slip from a receptacle pool filled with feather-names. The tail feather inside the slip represented the name they would receive.
Inside his slip was a grey-purple tail feather.
It was the feather of a swallow. His name was "Yan."
He did not like the character. The swallow was a domestic bird that flew into the homes of ordinary folk, while he was a kite that could not rest even while gazing at the mountain peaks.
No matter. He would settle for a moment within these four walls, less than thirty feet high. Once he had mastered the legendary saber technique, he would leave.
He believed that with his talent, the Dou Family Saber Technique would eventually be his.
However, three or four years passed, and Xie Li still made no mention of teaching him the technique.
"Weapons have no rank of noble or lowly; martial arts have no level of high or low. Why obsess over a specific blade or a specific set of techniques?"
This was the answer he received when he questioned Xie Li.
He did not consider it an answer; it was merely a perfunctory dismissal.
He later heard people say that Xie Li had passed the saber technique to a disciple named Qing Zhuang. He thought for a long time but still could not recall the man's face, only vaguely remembering a silent man who liked to wear green clothes—someone so ordinary he was forgotten at a glance.
It no longer mattered who had received the saber technique; what mattered was that it was not him.
The process of casting raw iron into a blade was a process of refining the soul; this was a truth he had witnessed countless times since childhood. There were no two identical weapons in the world; from the day a blade was forged, it was decided whether its sharp spirit was sufficient.
A top-tier martial artist was also determined at birth as to whether they could reach the pinnacle of martial arts.
He was born destined to wield the sharpest blades and the most powerful martial arts in the world.
All who entered Andao Academy remained members of the academy until death. Without the Head's consent, one could not leave the gates.
But if he wanted to leave, no one in this world could stop him.
Before departing, he slipped into the depths of the Hanling Pavilion and chose an incomparably sharp longsword for himself.
He would prove that Andao Academy's decision was wrong.
An inferior short blade was not fit to contend with a sword. An inferior bladesman was not fit to contend with him.
The blade was held vertical, its cold light restrained. He could even see the raindrops being sliced in two by the edge as they fell.
It was indeed a fine sword.
As the last drop of blood was washed away, Yan Zi's wrist gave a slight tremor, shaking the water droplets from the blade.
An instant before sheathing the sword, his hand suddenly froze.
Yan Zi lowered his head to look closely, a rare look of astonishment appearing in his eyes.
The originally smooth and straight blade showed a slight irregularity. At the red crossguard, a crack had actually formed.
****** ****** ******
On the battlefield at the foot of Mount Douchen, separated by a single ridge, the air was thick with the scent of death.
A fire arrow streaked across the night sky. Upon landing, it instantly erupted into a sheet of flame, illuminating the entire battlefield as bright as day.
To enhance visibility, the Black Feather Camp had brought arrowheads soaked in oil. These arrows were fired in a circular pattern, encircling the entire mountain base. Ignited by the previous flaming arrow, it was as if heavenly fire had descended upon the earth, lighting up a scene of hell.
The surroundings were littered with corpses and armor, with arrows standing upright everywhere. Despite the damp and muddy ground, the oil kept the flames burning fiercely. The crackling of the fire was interspersed with the groans of those hovering between life and death. Amidst the deathly stillness, there was an occasional movement; a black arrow would then strike as if it had eyes, instantly snatching away the soul of the struggling person.
Yan Guang, the commander of the Geng Battalion of the Yanchi Camp, stood a hundred paces away from the firelight.
Before the hunt began today, he had expected a fierce battle, but he had never imagined things would develop into their current state.
When he arrived as part of the support from several battalions guarding the perimeter, he found the battle already decided; there was no place for him to intervene.
That the Bai clan's private soldiers refused to surrender was not unexpected, but the standoff between the Black Feather Camp and the Subei Heavy Cavalry was something he had not anticipated.
The Bai clan had already been executed, yet the Subei Heavy Cavalry showed no intention of sounding the retreat.
Such a situation had only one possibility: the commanders of both sides had not ordered a withdrawal.
Some invisible force was wrestling with itself. The battlefield, having just experienced upheaval, was now like a wobbling scale struggling to maintain balance; the slightest disturbance would shatter the peace, and everything would collapse in an instant.
Before dawn, the temperature rose, and the rain falling in the mountains turned into mist. In just half a quarter-hour, the morning fog spread across the entire foot of Mount Douchen, making the situation even more blurred and confusing.
The flames burned quietly in the mist, like ghost fires beside the River of Forgetfulness.
Sweat broke out in Yan Guang's palms as he gripped the reins. He had never witnessed such an eerie battle scene—silent, yet overflowing with a murderous aura.
Finally, someone was the first to break the deathly silence.
The sound of a zither drifted out from the dense forest where the Black Feather Camp lay in wait. It arrived leisurely, rippling through the mist.
The sound of light footsteps came from all directions, but the sound of bowstrings tightening was uniform.
It was only at this moment that the ominous premonition in Yan Guang's heart turned into reality.
Though he was not of the Black Feather Camp and did not know the details of their formations, the Shang Sound Formation was unique in its design; even having seen it once, it was difficult to forget.
*Shang is the sound of autumn. A spirit of chilling execution, it brings decay and ruin, causing all grasses to bow.*
This was a formation used only when one was determined to thoroughly annihilate the enemy. As long as a single enemy remained within the formation, it would not disperse until the last person died beneath the arrows.
Only now, the Black Feather arrows were not aimed at the Bai rebels, but at the Subei Cavalry.
A single rider emerged slowly from the Black Feather ranks, holding a command flag high as he entered the space between the two opposing armies.
"By His Majesty's command, sound the retreat!"
The Subei Heavy Cavalry deep in the mist remained unresponsive.
The oil gradually burned out. In the heavy rain, the two armies faced each other in silence before the smoke-filled battlefield.
"Marquis Qinghuai, receive the order! Quickly—"
The messenger's voice stopped abruptly. Then, his entire body was severed at the waist, slowly sliding off his horse. The corpse hit the ground with a dull thud.
Everything happened in an instant. Yan Guang's eyes widened; he felt
