Jinghong Zhui stood at the street corner, gazing at the gate of the Shuntian Prefecture office in the distance. One hand gripped his sword; the other reached into his robe, fingers brushing the folded petition inside.
That petition had been personally written for him yesterday by Lord Su—accusing Marquis Fengan, Wei Jun, of abducting and imprisoning a common woman and raping his sister, Jing Hongtao.
“This thing is useless,” he had said. “Officials always protect each other. That old dog Wei is imperial kin—Shuntian’s magistrate wouldn’t dare cross him, let alone uphold justice.”
Lord Su had replied: “Whether it’s useful or not, you won’t know until you try. They say it’s easy to abuse the common folk, but there’s another saying: ‘Water can carry a boat, but it can also overturn it.’ Never underestimate the power of the people.”
Even so, Jinghong Zhui had still been reluctant.
So Su Yan had said, “Then consider it helping me. I’ve encouraged several other victims to go to the Shuntian Prefecture and submit petitions—it’s part of the impeachment plan. Go help them get in, in case the Wei family’s dogs block them at the door.”
Only then did Jinghong Zhui nod, take the petition, and leave without another word.
Now that Lord Su had yet to return from court, Jinghong Zhui kept his promise and escorted those victims one by one into the government office. But when it came time for his own turn, he hesitated.
Once, as a starving commoner and drifting assassin, Jinghong Zhui had never expected or believed in government justice. He had a deep-rooted aversion to officialdom, and that hadn’t changed even now.
Even becoming Lord Su’s personal guard had nothing to do with wanting a government title. He simply wanted to stay by his side.
And to stay, he had to learn to understand and accept Lord Su’s beliefs.
Su Yan had once said: “Taking a life for a life is easy. But if we use righteousness as a weapon to eliminate an entire malignant force, saving countless would-be victims from future harm— Isn’t that far more meaningful?”
Standing at the lonely street corner, Jinghong Zhui turned that sentence over in his mind again and again—until at last, he stepped forward toward the government office.
But he had only taken a few steps when suddenly, a strange, eerie flute sound rose in the air, like ghostfire drifting and flickering in the breeze.
…That flute—it sounded like the Crane Bone Flute once used by Fuyin?
Jinghong Zhui froze.
But Fuyin was already dead. Even if they never recovered a body, he had stabbed his own sword into Fuyin’s dantian—he was sure that blow had ruined his cultivation.
So the one playing now couldn’t be Fuyin.
Someone was pretending to be a ghost!
Jinghong Zhui shut his eyes and listened. Then, without hesitation, his sword flashed from its sheath like lightning splitting the sky—he struck toward the rooftop beside him.
The flute player appeared on the eaves, face hidden beneath a bamboo hat, movement ghostly and evasive, but a corner of his robe was still sliced by the fierce sword qi, instantly disintegrating into powder.
Jinghong Zhui didn’t speak a word or ask a question. No hesitation, only attack.
His blade surged forward like raging waves, merciless and endless. Whatever the man’s intentions were—he would find out after he had beaten him into helplessness.
The flute player narrowly dodged stroke after stroke, now bearing several fresh wounds, but continued to play.
The flute’s sound stirred restlessness in the blood, making the chest burn with fury. Even Jinghong Zhui’s inner qi began to slow and reverse—this was clearly a demonic soul-invoking technique, a bewitching flute song played with illusory enchantments.
Jinghong Zhui became even more certain—this was not Fuyin, because this flute master’s power far exceeded his.
A top-level assassin from the Heaven group of the Seven Kill Camp! A flash of killing intent swept across Jinghong Zhui’s eyes. His sword surged forward with unstoppable momentum—like a thunderclap chasing a wild goose, like a waterfall that could not be dammed—piercing straight toward the flutist’s throat.
That strike was dazzling and deadly— A light forged from the very essence of death.
The flutist couldn’t dodge.
The overwhelming sword qi froze his fingers on the flute—his playing abruptly stopped. He thought he would surely die.
But at that very moment— A man in red robes appeared out of nowhere, stepped in front of him, and caught the sword.
“Camp Leader…”
The flutist gasped in disbelief, narrowly snatched from death.
Jinghong Zhui retracted his sword into a guard stance, staring coldly at the figure before him—the leader of the Seven Kill Camp.
He remembered all too well:
The last time he had tracked Fuyin, this person had suddenly appeared, using unfathomable martial arts to defeat and capture him, then force-fed him a secret drug.
That was their first encounter— He had only held out for a hundred exchanges.
After recovering, he had repeatedly reviewed the Camp Leader’s moves in his mind, trying to find a way to counter them. Night after night, the sword light never ceased in the courtyard.
Now, facing this person again— Victory was uncertain, but he was ready to fight.
The Camp Leader didn’t attack immediately. A genderless voice came from behind the mask: “Number Twenty-Three… Your swordsmanship has improved again. Such a fine specimen— A shame your mind is too wild, your thoughts too many. Seems like only ‘Blood Eyes’ truly suits you.”
“Cut the nonsense,” Jinghong Zhui said icily. “Draw your sword!”
Before the words had even fallen, his sword qi shattered hundreds of roof tiles, raining down on the enemy like a storm.
The Camp Leader swung a crimson sleeve, conjuring a burst of inner force that blasted the tiles to dust before they could reach him.
But within that swirling dust, a single thread of sword light flew— Like a beam of clarity through fog, laced with the sharpness of severed hatred and the resolve to die.
That sword was so fast, so fierce, so absolute, it seemed no longer bound by physical form,
ascending from the realm of mere “sword” to something deeper—a glimpse of the “Dao.”
Even the Camp Leader could not take it lightly.
This feels almost like Old Hunchback Luo’s “No Sword, No Self”…
At that moment, the Camp Leader suddenly thought of the Hidden Sword Sect’s late master.
That hunchback had always treated his thousands of disciples like vegetables—plucking the promising ones often, ignoring the weak ones entirely.
Who would’ve thought that the one who inherited the essence of his sword art would turn out to be a wretched kid—a bottom-ranked student, cast into the Seven Kill Camp to live or die?
…A pity.
Still a bit too raw.
The Camp Leader drew from within his long robe a pair of sinister, razor-sharp weapons—Disembowel Hooks, their jagged, twisted blades exuding a chilling menace. His gloved fingers gripped the crescent-shaped handles with ease.
As the sword light shot toward him like a flash of lightning, the hook in his left hand moved like a flood dragon roused from slumber. It twisted sharply with a cunning angle, hooking and locking onto the opponent’s blade so tightly that it couldn’t move. At the same time, the right-hand hook slashed toward the opponent’s neck.
The left hook restrained the enemy’s weapon, while the right hook claimed their life. A single move, one instant kill. This deadly twin-hook technique was aptly nicknamed: “The Twin Halls’ Yama”.
If Jinghong Zhui wanted to avoid being decapitated, he would have to withdraw his sword to defend. But the hooks were like shackles—pulling the blade out of their grip was incredibly difficult. Moreover, Jinghong Zhui’s sword intent was rooted in one concept: Advance without retreat. To harbor even a single thought of withdrawing would weaken both his momentum and fighting spirit— His will might collapse even before the battle did.
In that life-or-death instant, Jinghong Zhui made a move that caught the Camp Leader completely off guard— He let go of his sword, driving a surge of inner force into his right palm and struck the hilt’s end, treating the longsword as a projectile charged with true qi, forcing it through the hooked lock using the sheer hardness of Wootz steel— and blasted it straight toward the Camp Leader’s chest.
If the hook had decapitated him as expected, the sword tip would also have pierced through the Camp Leader’s heart.
The Camp Leader had no choice but to switch techniques mid-motion, twisting to deflect the deadly blade just in time.
At the same moment, Jinghong Zhui’s figure glided away like mist, like a phantom, past the Camp Leader’s front. From his sleeve, he slid out a slim, willow-leaf throwing knife. With a flick of the wrist, he hurled it straight at the throat of the flute player—
The sword strike against the Camp Leader had been a feint. His true target was the flute player.
With a soft “puff,” a small crimson blossom of blood bloomed from the flute player’s throat. The eerie, mind-invading flute melody ceased instantly. The Crane Bone Flute slipped from his limp fingers and fell.
Jinghong Zhui then threw a second flying knife, infused with true qi, aiming to shatter the flute mid-air.
But just then, a soft sigh of regret echoed from somewhere unseen.
Jinghong Zhui’s heart tensed.
He saw a slender, fair-skinned hand extend from behind the flute player—like a musician plucking a string, it flicked his flying knife aside with impossible speed. That hand was young, lean, like that of an elegant scholar or refined artist— Yet it moved with a swiftness no words could capture, and snatched the falling Crane Bone Flute from mid-air.
The flute player’s body, still wearing the wide-brimmed hat, finally collapsed to the ground. And from behind him, a white-robed figure with loose hair turned around, leaving only a view of his back— A graceful silhouette, flute in hand.
…That person looked ethereal, almost otherworldly— But the aura he gave off was even more dangerous than the Camp Leader.
Jinghong Zhui rasped hoarsely, “Who are you?”
The man in white gave a faint chuckle. Without answering, he raised the Crane Bone Flute to his lips— and began to play.
It was like a giant hammer slammed into Jinghong Zhui’s chest. His organs shattered with agony, and he coughed up a mouthful of blood.
The sharp, eerie melody twisted and spun, piercing into his ears like arrows, storming into his mind to churn his thoughts into pulp. His soul felt like it was being ripped to shreds.
Jinghong Zhui could barely bear it. He clutched his ears tightly.
But the flute sound wasn’t just mental—it became steel needles surging through his meridians, forcing his inner qi to reverse. It reactivated the Nightmare Enchantment Technique that had suppressed him for so long.
A crimson fog seemed to cloud his vision— The whole world bathed in the glow of blood.
Half-kneeling on the ground, he pressed his palms tightly over his eyes, struggling desperately against the chaos and pain, growling like a trapped beast.
The Camp Leader walked over and placed the hooked blade against the back of his neck. His tone was flat: “Surprised? Besides secret drugs, there’s another way to force you into the Blood-Eye state: Bewitching Sound Technique. But Fuyin was too weak—unworthy of the name ‘Tianyin Sect Master’.”
Fuyin… Tianyin Sect…
Through the fog of agony, Jinghong Zhui vaguely recalled—
When investigating the case of the Oirat envoy drowning at the Court of State Ceremonial, Lord Su had said he’d asked the North Surveillance Bureau to look into sects that use sound as a weapon. Shen Qi had given a name—Tianyin Sect.
But that sect was said to have been wiped out in Jianghu conflicts some twenty years ago.
Twenty years ago… about the same time Fuyin would’ve been born.
When they were still in the Seven Kill Camp, Fuyin had occasionally mentioned his past— His family had been killed on New Year’s Eve by old enemies, leaving him an orphan who later wandered into Jianghu and eventually joined the Hidden Sword Sect.
So, it now seemed likely that Fuyin was the last surviving member of the Tianyin Sect. That would explain how he inherited its secret music-based inner techniques, and created the Bewitching Sound Technique by fusing it with the Nightmare Enchantment Technique.
But like Fuyin himself, that new art had become a tool of cruelty, And even after his death, it still haunted the living.
His eyeballs felt like they were burning. His reversed inner qi was like steel scraping bone. Worst of all, his consciousness was fading fast.
Jinghong Zhui gasped for breath, his fingernails tearing bloody streaks into the stone ground.
“The less you resist,” said the Camp Leader coldly, “the less it will hurt.”
He kicked a longsword toward Jinghong Zhui’s hand.
“Pick up the sword—Blood-Eyed Wuming.”
From deep in his throat, Jinghong Zhui howled brokenly:
“I am not… Blood-Eyed Wuming… I am—Jinghong Zhui!”
The Camp Leader ordered: “Pick up the sword. Walk into the market. Let everyone see your Blood-Eyes. Let blood fly, screams ring out—kill as much as you can. This is your fate.”
—
An Embroidered Uniform Guard lieutenant dismounted in a hurry and entered the Shen residence. Upon saying he had come with a message from Lord Su, he was immediately brought before Shen Qi.
Shen Qi asked directly, “Did something happen at court?”
The lieutenant explained how Marquis Changning, Wei Que, had suddenly launched an impeachment against Su Yan, recounting the details thoroughly. Then added: “Lord Su only said a few words to this humble officer: ‘Go find Shen.’ Nothing else.”
Shen Qi frowned, thinking for a moment. Then instructed: “Return to the Meridian Gate and wait. Report the moment Lord Su finishes court.”
The lieutenant agreed and withdrew.
Shen Qi took a deep breath, suppressing the dull ache from his unhealed wounds. Then rose to his feet.
“Someone—help me change.”
Before putting on his court uniform, Shen Qi first donned the gold-threaded soft armor that Su Yan had returned to him. It both guarded against blades and kept his wound compressed.
At that moment, his most trusted agent, Gao Shuo, who had overheard the conversation at the door, entered and asked: “My lord—where are you heading?”
Shen Qi countered, “What do you think?”
Gao Shu thought for a moment and said, “If the Wei family was able to uncover Jinghong Zhui’s origins, someone with inside knowledge must’ve tipped them off. Now that they’re using it as a weapon to attack Lord Su, it’s looking a bit troublesome.”
“You know what’s more troublesome?”
“…This subordinate is dull-witted. I beg my lord to enlighten me.”
Shen Qi fastened his belt, lifted the embroidered Spring Blade, and walked outside. Gao Shu hurried to follow. As he walked, Shen Qi said, “That d*mned Jinghong Zhui’s background can’t be wiped clean. Even if Qinghe testifies until his mouth is dry—saying he already betrayed his sect, turned his blade against the Seven Kill Camp, and even made immense contributions in taking down the Void Sect—it’s still no match for the risk that one day he might lose control again and go on a killing spree under someone’s manipulation. If that happens, Qing He won’t be able to defend himself no matter how many mouths he has.”
Gao Shu sucked in a cold breath. “Then what should we do? Lord Su must’ve foreseen this, which is why he sent someone to inform you—hoping you could pull Jinghong Zhui out of the fire.”
Shen Qi let out a cold laugh.
“Pull him out? No. I’m going to kill him—before the Void Sect makes a move and causes an irreversible disaster.”
Gao Shu helped him onto his horse. Shen Qi frowned and touched the wound that had been tugged, a savage look flashing across his face.
“Immediately summon the Embroidered Uniform Guard blade formation unit. Follow me to the Shuntian Prefecture.”
