The gray-clad man appeared to be around twenty years old. His features were delicate, and on his left cheek was a crescent-shaped dimple. When he spoke, this slight vertical indentation tugged along with his expression, lending him a hint of innocent sweetness. Yet, his amber eyes remained utterly emotionless, like the slit pupils of a cold-blooded creature.
At the sight of Jinghong Zhui, a ripple flickered through those still eyes—then swiftly vanished. “Senior Brother, it’s been a long time.”
If he was a deep, frozen pool, then Jinghong Zhui was an unmoving glacier. His tone was indifferent: “Did they send you?”
The man in gray did not answer but tilted his head slightly, studying him. “You look… a little different from before. Has the life of freedom been treating you well?”
Jinghong Zhui’s hand tightened around his sword hilt, his gaze fixed on the crane bone flute between the man’s fingers. “Enough talk. Draw your weapon. Old rules—winner leaves, loser dies.”
The man suddenly smiled. The curve of his lips extended toward his dimple, yet the emotion never reached his eyes, creating a strange sense of disconnect in his expression. “I am no match for you, Senior Brother. Why should I seek my own death? Back then, when you left Qisha Camp without permission, it was already an act of betrayal. Every assassin they sent after you has died by your sword. How could someone like me—Fu Yin—ever hope to kill you?”
He paused for a moment before adding, “Besides, you and I are not like the others. Must we really reach the point of life and death?”
At those words, Jinghong Zhui sensed the shift in Fu Yin’s energy—his qi was no longer tense but relaxed, as if he had completely lowered his guard. His stance was so defenseless that Jinghong Zhui could take his head with a single move.
This kind of openness, this near-submissive gesture, stirred something deep within him.
—The last time he had seen Fu Yin lower his defenses was during a Gu Duel in Qisha Camp.
Gu Duel—as the name implies—means using people as Gu. Each squad battles to the death until the most resilient, the most ruthless, and the most skilled killer emerges as the victor.
Hidden Sword Sect recruits rootless drifters from all corners of the world—orphans, displaced outcasts, even wanted criminals. Anyone who feels they have no other path can seek refuge there. Entry has virtually no restrictions. But once one begins training in swordsmanship and internal techniques, they are sent into the Qisha Camp, where they must endure a brutal series of eliminations. The price of failure is death.
Only after earning the Qisha Token can one become a true disciple of Hidden Sword Sect, eligible to carry out missions assigned by the Camp Chief.
The sect leader of Hidden Sword Sect serves as the master to all disciples. He is a stooped, hunchbacked old man with white hair. Though he teaches swordsmanship, no one has ever seen him use a sword. He exudes no sword aura—no one knows if it’s because he has transcended swordplay… or if he’s all talk and no substance.
The Qisha Camp Chief is even more mysterious. Whenever he appears, he is always clad in crimson robes and wears a mask. No one has ever seen his true face—not even his gender is known.
The sect’s infamous Nightmare Enchantment technique is taught within the Qisha Camp.
During one Gu Duel, Fuyin nearly lost his life. While using the Nightmare Enchantment technique, something went wrong—he fell into Qi Deviation and transformed into a Blood-Eye.
A Hidden Sword disciple who enters the Blood-Eye state undergoes a complete personality shift, becoming feral and beast-like. If the reversed internal energy can’t be guided back into the meridians, they will eventually die, crazed and broken.
Worse still, 99% of those who suffer Qi Deviation into the Blood-Eye state never regain their sanity. They become mindless killing puppets, obeying orders until their final drop of blood burns out in battle.
Blood-Eye Fuyin slaughtered his entire squad, but in the final duel against Wu Ming, he was defeated—and miraculously regained his mind. Coughing up blood, he clutched at Wu Ming’s robes and rasped, “Senior Brother… give me a quick death…”
He was the only person in Hidden Sword Sect who called Wu Ming “senior brother.”
Jing Hongzhui, under the alias Wu Ming, was already fifteen when he entered Hidden Sword Sect—his bones had started to stiffen with age. Though he was rebellious and wild, he had never trained in martial arts before. No one had high hopes for him; most assumed he’d be eliminated in the very first round.
Fuyin was two years younger but had joined half a year earlier. By then, he had already achieved some skill in swordsmanship. By seniority, Wu Ming should have called him “senior brother”—though in truth, such formalities were a joke in the sect. With such brutal competition, no one used titles; aliases were used instead.
But for some reason, Fuyin had taken a liking to this seemingly doomed newcomer, and secretly helped him on multiple occasions. Later, Wu Ming defied all expectations, rising to become one of the sect’s top experts with his self-created Wuming Sword. From then on, in private, Fuyin began calling him “senior brother.”
In a Gu Duel, there can only be one winner. If Wu Ming didn’t kill Fuyin, he himself would die.
As the tip of his sword was about to pierce Fuyin’s forehead, Wu Ming suddenly turned to the observing Camp Chief and asked:
“Camp Chief, have you ever seen anyone recover from the Blood-Eye state?”
The Camp Chief gave no reply.
Wu Ming pressed on: “Wouldn’t he make an excellent research subject?”
The Camp Chief finally broke the silence. His voice echoed dully inside the bronze mask, making it impossible to discern whether it belonged to a man or a woman: “Not bad.”
Those two words determined Fu Yin’s fate.
He survived, reassigned to another squad, and rarely saw Wu Ming again.
Another year passed. By then, Wu Ming had become the Qisha Camp’s most formidable assassin—until Fu Yin heard that he had defected.
On the mountainside boulder, Fu Yin idly twirled the bone flute between his fingers before sitting cross-legged. With an airy, fleeting smile, he said to Jinghong Zhui, “The Hidden Sword Sect is finished.”
A flicker of something unidentifiable crossed Jinghong Zhui’s eyes.
“Too greedy. Too ambitious. They tried to swallow an elephant whole, and in the end, got crushed beneath its foot. Isn’t it laughable?”
Jinghong Zhui had long suspected that the Hidden Sword Sect was nothing more than a tool—perhaps even the Qisha Camp itself was just a tool—controlled by an unseen force lurking in the shadows, like the tip of an iceberg barely peeking above the waves.
Fu Yin continued, “Once the imperial edict was issued, the empire’s full strength descended upon them like a storm. A mere Hidden Sword Sect never stood a chance against such an onslaught. Nearly all of its disciples were slaughtered. Even those who tried to flee were hunted down one by one.
“The sect leader is dead, too. Turns out, he did have real skill—he’d reached the level of ‘no sword, no self.’ It’s a good thing we never listened to those other disciples and tried to challenge him back then. But no matter how great one’s martial prowess, it can’t hold up against a regiment of firearms from the Heavenly Mechanism Camp.”
Jinghong Zhui asked, “What about the Qisha Camp?”
“Anyone too closely tied to the Hidden Sword Sect was killed. The rest scattered into hiding. The Camp Chief has vanished, but I know he’s still alive. He’s probably gathering the remaining assassins, biding his time in the shadows. Right now, everyone is too preoccupied with their own survival—no one will come after you anymore. No one cares where I go, either.”
Fu Yin took a deep breath of the crisp, night air, as though savoring a newfound freedom. Then he repeated his question, “Isn’t the life of a free man a good one?”
Jinghong Zhui slowly released his grip on his sword hilt. “It is.”
Fu Yin absentmindedly traced the holes of his bone flute with his fingertips and looked up at him. “Senior Brother, let me stay with you.”
Jinghong Zhui didn’t hesitate. “No.”
“Why not? I won’t be a burden. I don’t need you to support me, and I can even be of use to you. I just want a safe place to stay—a sturdy tree to shelter under, so that if the court ever hunts down the remnants again, I won’t be the one caught in the storm.”
Jinghong Zhui’s expression turned cold, his voice stern. “I cannot be your shelter.”
Fu Yin twirled the flute between his fingers and chuckled. “But the lord behind you can. Why don’t you ask him if he accepts retainers?”
Jinghong Zhui’s sword left its scabbard. His once-contained killing intent surged forth again, blade aimed straight at Fu Yin. “He does not! Leave, now.”
“You’re afraid I’ll drag him into this? But you were part of the Hidden Sword Sect, too. Aren’t you afraid? The court has issued public decrees across the provinces: ‘Anyone associated with the Hidden Sword Sect, whether noble or common, shall be punished without exception.’ Did you know that?”
“You’re threatening me?” Jinghong Zhui’s killing aura flared.
Fu Yin remained unbothered, sighing lightly. “I’m begging you. Senior Brother, a storm is raging, and you have an umbrella. What harm is there in letting me stand beneath it for a while? I helped you once. You saved me once. Isn’t this just mutual aid—helping each other through hardship?”
“If you’re worried about disturbing your lord, I promise never to show myself before him or let him learn of my presence. If you’re only unwilling for the time being, I can serve as a temporary guard in exchange for shelter. Is that truly too much to ask?”
Jinghong Zhui contemplated for a moment before speaking in a low voice, “No. I will not let him be entangled in any danger. If that danger ever comes from me, I will leave before it reaches him.”
Seeing Fu Yin’s disappointed expression, he added, “If you truly have nowhere else to go, I’ll direct you to a place where you can lie low.”
Fu Yin took two steps forward—but only two. A third step would have run into the firm resistance of Jinghong Zhui’s protective qi. Unbothered, he halted and played a light melody on his flute.
Jinghong Zhui recognized the notes as a wordless expression of gratitude. He responded coolly, “Unless necessary, do not contact me again. As long as we stay out of each other’s affairs, we remain senior and junior brothers. But if you ever harbor ill intentions toward me or my lord, then we will settle it by the sword.”
“Senior Brother is always so cold.” Fu Yin’s tone was lighthearted, even as he complained. “So? Where is this so-called safe haven you’re sending me to?”
Jinghong Zhui tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yu Wang’s manor.”
—
Mist curled over the hot spring.
Su Yan had only been soaking for a short while before his blood circulation quickened, warmth suffusing his entire body. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Even with his chest exposed to the frigid twelfth-month wind, he didn’t feel cold.
His head felt light, as if he were dissolving into the heat, his thoughts drifting.
He hadn’t expected that, despite being a frequent visitor to hot springs in his past life, this new body would be so sensitive to them. If he’d known, he wouldn’t have overestimated himself and plunged in without an adjustment period.
Su Yan thought about sitting on a nearby rock to cool down before continuing. The sky was growing darker; he wouldn’t be staying much longer anyway.
He had just started swimming toward the edge when he suddenly sensed a faint, eerie presence behind him—like a wisp of wind teasing his damp hair.
Alarmed, he turned his head sharply.
There was no one there. The pool was empty except for himself.
…Was it just his imagination? He shook his head slightly, which only made him dizzier.
Steadying himself against the warm rocks at the pool’s edge, he stood up. The water level dropped to his waist, and the rush of cold air made him inhale sharply, clearing his mind somewhat.
Beneath the water, a tiny fish circled his waist, brushing against his skin with a fleeting touch—
A fish? In a hot spring?
The realization struck him like a bolt of lightning. Without giving anything away, he murmured, “Something feels off. Could it be the spirit of the Plum Immortal? Fairy sister, if you think this humble scholar is worth guiding, why not bestow some enlightenment?”
As he spoke, he reached up and grasped the gnarled plum branch hanging over the pool.
Then, in a single sharp motion, he yanked it.
A flurry of pale yellow blossoms shook loose from the tree, drifting down like a golden snowfall, obscuring everything in sight.
Seizing the moment, Su Yan lunged for the edge of the spring, scrambling up onto the rocks while opening his mouth to call out for help—
But before he could make a sound, a hand clamped over his throat.
Another arm encircled his waist.
And then, he was being dragged back into the water.
Su Yan was both shocked and furious, cursing inwardly. He mentally berated the dozens of Embroidered Uniform Guard outside—what the h*ll were they clearing? The person attacking him—had they slipped in unnoticed, or had they been lurking in the hot spring all along?
He struggled violently, splashing water everywhere. A deliberately coarse and raspy voice whispered in his ear, “Don’t move, don’t scream, or I’ll r*pe you.”
Su Yan froze.
Whoa. That threat sounded awfully familiar.
This trick never got old, huh?
His back was forced against the man’s bare chest. He steadied himself, stopped struggling, and patted the hand covering his mouth, signaling the other to let go.
The other man did stop covering his mouth, but his fingers then roamed across Su Yan’s brows, cheeks, and face, while his other arm remained tightly wrapped around his waist. Su Yan took a deep breath and said, “No wonder Gao Shuo was so eager to lure me into the ‘Plum Immortal Spring.’ So, you two were in on this together, setting me up here?”
The man behind him chuckled. “I’m just here to welcome Lord Su with a cleansing bath.”
Su Yan grabbed the wandering fingers on his face and, out of spite, bit down hard. “If you won’t send me off, I don’t need you to welcome me either!”
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