Arrows were all spent, and the small scorpion crossbow could no longer be used. Su Yan, unwilling to discard it, strapped it to his thigh with a leather strip.
“Any spare blades? Lend me one,” he asked a nearby Embroidered Uniform Guard.
The guard wiped rain and mud from his face with a blood-stained sleeve and gasped: “Lord Su, you should stop using your blade. You can’t make a dent anyway… no, I mean, even if we fight to the last man, we’ll protect you to the death! You don’t need to wield the blade yourself.”
Su Yan glanced anxiously outside the cave.
The so-called “Labyrinth Woods” was just a hilly area with uneven terrain, dense vegetation, and a few caves, nothing like the legendary maze effect. Besides, the blood-eyed assassins were skilled at stealth, tracking, and killing; a simple forest wouldn’t stop them.
The guard suddenly changed expression. “I heard Shi Qianhu’s shout… too far to hear clearly. I’ll go check. Lord Su, stay here. This cave is hidden; they won’t easily find you. Once the fight settles, I’ll come back for you.”
Su Yan knew the cave was narrow, holding only a few people. The Embroidered Uniform Guards were bound by brotherhood; they couldn’t bear to see comrades struggle outside while they hid, so he nodded: “Go. If they breach the line and come in, even if you stay by me, it won’t help.”
The guard saluted and left the cave. Long minutes passed with no sign of return.
Only the sound of raindrops on leaves at the cave entrance, like a rapid heartbeat.
A sinister aura wafted in. Then, outside, a voice, ambiguous in tone, muffled yet unmistakable, called: “Come out, Your Highness. Hiding further won’t save you. Why cower and lose the face of the imperial family?”
The voice came from the cave entrance, this was no bluff.
Su Yan drew a deep breath. Facing imminent death, his nervousness strangely gave way to calm.
The enemy called him “Your Highness,” indicating they hadn’t seen through the deception. Su Yan silently estimated the time, two and a half days had passed since Shen Qi and Zhu Helin left; they should be out of Shandong and near the capital.
He smiled faintly, adjusted his hat and cloak, straightened his posture, parted the large wild yam leaves blocking the cave, and stepped out.
Outside, black-clad assassins surrounded him. Many pairs of crimson eyes fixed on him, exuding inhuman cold-blooded killing intent, sending shivers down his spine.
More terrifying, at the front stood a figure in a red robe, bronze mask, and black leather gloves, the same person whose voice had just spoken.
—The Seven-Kill Camp Leader?!
But the leader had clearly died last year, during the spring siege of the Wei family’s two marquis estates. Shen Qi and Yu Wang personally wounded him with the charging gun, and the leader, knowing death was inevitable, smashed his mask and ended his life.
Why now was he standing in front of Su Yan, unharmed?
Su Yan refused to believe in resurrection. His mind raced.
There was only one explanation: the “Seven-Kill Camp Leader” was merely an identity. Beneath the red robe, the strategist had cultivated multiple puppets moving through the world.
As long as the master lives, the brain worms will never die. Kill one, and another will rise to take its place.
For the first time, Su Yan felt a flicker of fear toward the hidden “Player” behind it all, but it was immediately replaced by an even stronger fighting spirit and a resolute, defiant determination.
Looking at the Embroidered Uniform Guards lying around, their fates uncertain, he clenched his fists in secret and said coldly: “No matter how arrogant you are, you’re nothing more than a pack of clowns. Let’s see the day you turn to ash!”
The new Seven-Kill Camp Leader sneered mockingly: “Such magnanimity, Your Highness. I wonder, when the blade is at your throat…”
Before he could finish, a black-clad assassin with normal eyes squeezed through the crowd and whispered something into his ear.
Su Yan couldn’t see the leader’s expression change, but noticed the fingers twitch once, as if struck by a current of shock and anger.
The once-flat voice turned sharp. Behind the mask, the leader’s eyes stabbed at Su Yan like swords: “You are not the crown prince! You are Su Twelve!”
Su Yan spread his hands mockingly: “Two and a half days herding you around like dogs, and only now you realize I’m not the target? Bit late, don’t you think?”
The Camp Leader’s vengeful resolve seemed far stronger than his predecessor’s. He sneered coldly: “So what if it’s late? You’ll die anyway. Kill you first, then chase the prince, it won’t be too late.”
He raised a hand, fingers wrapped in black leather twitching, and several blood-eyed assassins moved forward, fanning out to surround Su Yan. Their longswords glinted with the still-wet stench of blood.
Death closed in. Su Yan gritted his teeth, restraining the instinct to back away, but couldn’t help tightly closing his eyes,
Amid the oncoming sword winds, there was a faint, almost imperceptible sound, like the first tremor of a leaf flute, followed by the dull clatter of metal hitting the ground, one after another.
Su Yan suddenly opened his eyes. From the corner of his vision, he caught a shadow flick past, moving too fast to discern.
Instinctively, he turned to track it and saw, at the cave entrance along the rocky wall, a dried leaf, about two fingers wide, stuck at an angle.
Gray-yellow as a butterfly, light as a butterfly, yet at that moment, this fragile leaf was harder than iron, half firmly embedded in the rock fissure.
Su Yan widened his eyes in awe. Around him, he heard a series of dull thuds: puh, puh, puh… He turned, and the blood-eyed assassins surrounding him clutched their throats and fell, as if struck in the exact same place simultaneously.
The leaf… had slit their throats?
He recalled from martial arts novels in a past life the technique called “Flying Flowers and Plucked Leaves,” where one channels true energy into a flower or leaf, making the soft hard, the fragile firm. A casual flick could injure silently and lethally, an art that appeared effortless but demanded supreme control, strength, and mastery over the extremes of softness and hardness. Only a grandmaster could wield it.
…Who was the expert that saved him at the brink of death? Su Yan’s heart filled with gratitude as he scanned the scene.
One leaf had wounded four people in the blink of an eye.
The Camp Leader and the black-clad assassins, shocked by the sudden turn, spun to face the forest behind, only to see a gray figure emerging from the withered woods. At first glance, it seemed thirty or forty zhang away; in a few more blinks, it was right before them.
A young man in his twenties, wearing gray hemp clothes, hair unadorned with crown or pin, tied in a simple high ponytail with a gray cloth strip. In his hand, he held a branch with dried leaves, seemingly plucked from a nearby autumn tree.
He looked like an ordinary civilian, though it was impossible to tell his occupation, farmer? merchant? woodcutter? hunter? Perhaps all, perhaps none.
Yet that leaf, which had instantly cut four throats, had clearly come from his hand.
The Camp Leader, treating him as a grave threat, ordered: “Kill him!”
The blood-eyed assassins obeyed, surging forward. Countless sword flashes streaked toward the gray-clothed man like meteors.
He had no weapon, no combat stance, just steady steps forward. Flying blades of leaves cut through the storm of steel and rain, sharper than any metal, yet controlled with unparalleled ease.
Leaves flew from his fingers one after another, each striking the vital points of three to five assassins. So light and fast were they that blood didn’t even smear.
The assassins fell like harvested wheat, and the man’s leaves were spent, leaving only a long, thin, curved dry branch.
Yet he remained calm, wielding the branch as if it were a fishing net, a riding whip, a shepherd’s flute, striking precisely at the red eyes of his enemies.
In a single cup of tea’s time, hundreds of blood-eyed assassins lay scattered, either dead or severely wounded and incapacitated.
Only the red-robed Seven-Kill Camp Leader remained, stunned amid the carnage.
“…Who are you?” he croaked, stiffly. “What kind of martial art is this?!”
He had never seen such a technique; it was less a martial art than a natural force, a rain, a wind, the rustle of leaves, a wisp of smoke, appearing exactly when and where it should, unstoppable and uncounterable.
The gray-clothed man dropped the branch and stepped forward, gripping the leader’s mask.
Under an indescribable aura of mastery, the Camp Leader couldn’t move; his true energy froze.
The man removed the mask, examining the face. His empty left hand hung by his side, fingers twitching slightly as if recalling a texture. Finally, he said with certainty: “You are not Lian Qinghan, the former Seven-Kill Camp Leader. You are a substitute.”
Terrified, the Camp Leader asked: “Who… are you? How do you know the name Lian Qinghan?”
The gray-clothed man replied: “Seven years of martial training under orders, one day to disperse and clear the record. Only by personally annihilating the Seven-Kill Camp can this past be cleansed. From now on, whether called ‘Heaven No. 23’ or ‘Nameless Assassin,’ it has nothing to do with me.”
“—My name is Jinghong Zhui,” he said calmly, then extended a finger and pressed it against the Camp Leader’s medulla oblongata.
A surge of energy entered the brain, and from that moment, the Seven-Kill Camp ceased to exist.
Su Yan watched this without expression. He had expected that seeing Jinghong Zhui again would stir up a storm in his heart, yet he felt nothing, like a thick layer of ice frozen over a lake, hardened and numb from years of alternating hope and disappointment.
Jinghong Zhui approached him, looking slightly uneasy, as if he had carefully chosen words he now feared to speak, shy and hesitant, a stark contrast to the fluid decisiveness with which he had just dispatched enemies.
—Looks like your martial arts have improved another level, congratulations.
—Less than two years away, and you’ve found your “Dao.” I suppose I truly am the greatest obstacle on your martial path.
—Now how should I address you? Sword God? Sword Immortal? Grandmaster?
—You ran off to pursue your lifelong goal, fine, but why come back to bother me? Who cares that you saved me!
Countless words surged in Su Yan’s chest, grief, bitterness, anger, resentment, but in the end, he couldn’t utter a single one.
He turned away, expression cold, lowering his head to search among the forest for the Embroidered Uniform Guards’ bodies, flipping each over to see if any survived.
Jinghong Zhui followed cautiously, like a child who had done wrong, wanting forgiveness yet feeling unworthy, afraid to stir emotion, hesitant at every step.
Su Yan didn’t spare him a glance, red-rimmed eyes moving over the bloodied faces of the Embroidered Uniform Guards.
These were warriors who had sacrificed for faith and duty, yet he could not clean or bury them all. He had to first treat the survivors and bring them safely back to the capital.
After hesitating, Jinghong Zhui finally said, “None here. About three zhang to the right, there’s one alive, and two more further ahead.”
Su Yan said nothing but followed his directions, and indeed found several wounded, including Qianhu Shi Yanshuang.
Jinghong Zhui helped administer first aid and channel true energy to heal internal injuries. The surviving Embroidered Uniform Guards were mostly out of danger.
From six hundred elite Embroidered Uniform Guards, after days of brutal combat with the Wang clan “militias” and the blood-eyed assassins, only around thirty remained.
Shi Yanshuang bandaged the wounds and sighed, “Luckily, Lord Su is unharmed! Thanks to this…”
He glanced at Jinghong Zhui, feeling a sense of familiarity, like Su Yan’s former personal guard, yet with a completely different aura and realm. He looked again, curious: “May I ask… the name of this gentleman?”
Su Yan quickly replied, “His surname’s Zha, given name Paopao.”
Jinghong Zhui turned his face away, speechless.
“Zha Paopao? What a… name,” Shi Yanshuang chuckled awkwardly. “A name with a sense of free-spiritedness, truly a reclusive master.”
Su Yan grew increasingly annoyed, straightening to saddle his horse. “Your Qianhu position, you got it by flattering Shen Qi, didn’t you?”
Shi Yanshuang was baffled by the scolding, annoyed but unable to retort, mumbling in grievance, “I earned this honestly! And your… lover, do you not know what role he played? If you can’t even touch the tiger’s tail, how could you flatter him?”
“‘Lover’… do you mean Shen Qi?” Jinghong Zhui finally spoke, his voice cold and sharp like a sword reflected in a frozen pool, making Shi Yanshuang shiver.
That voice was familiar, confirming that this was indeed Jinghong Zhui, though he seemed transformed, having attained a profound realm in martial arts after leaving.
“You… really are Guard Jinghong Zhui?” Shi Yanshuang asked hesitantly.
Jinghong Zhui countered, “You speak so casually, is this already public knowledge internally?”
Shi Yanshuang realized that this former personal guard might have had a complicated, ambiguous relationship with Lord Su, clearly jealous! He immediately defended his master.
But Jinghong Zhui’s level was beyond reproach, so he lowered his voice, answering mischievously: “Not just internally at the Northern Surveillance Bureau; probably the whole capital knows. Just a few days ago, Lord Su, in front of the Crown Prince and all the Embroidered Uniform Guards, hugged our Lord Tongzhi warmly, oh, really… so much affection, passion and fire… ‘lover’ is a mild term; it’s basically like a husband and wife…”
Jinghong Zhui abruptly rose and walked toward Su Yan. Shi Yanshuang snorted mockingly behind him.
Su Yan seemed not to notice Jinghong Zhui’s approach. He addressed the wounded from horseback: “Brothers of the Embroidered Uniform Guards, can you still endure? If so, we leave now, returning quickly to the capital to check if the Crown Prince and Shen Tongzhi have arrived safely.”
The Embroidered Uniform Guards all nodded in agreement.
They retrieved their horses and set out again, taking the water route for speed and the wounded’s sake.
As for Jinghong Zhui, who followed silently, Su Yan neither sent him away nor spoke to him, treating him like air.
Late at night, in the cabin of the transport boat, Su Yan tossed on the narrow bed, exhausted but unable to sleep.
Whenever he closed his eyes, the image of the dark night star-patterned longsword “Oath” appeared, along with Jinghong Zhui’s words conveyed by Shen Qi:
“Tell Lord Su, I am pursuing my ‘Dao.’ I once thought it was him, but after this battle, I realized only the sword is my lifelong pursuit.”
A gentle knock at the door, and Jinghong Zhui’s low voice came from outside: “Lord, I brought some tea and snacks.”
Thirsty and slightly hungry, Su Yan didn’t want to see him. He said sternly: “Leave them at the door. Go!”
After a while, silence outside made Su Yan think Jinghong Zhui had finally left, which made him inexplicably more annoyed. He muttered in his heart: I told you to go, and you just leave? Not a word? Truly free to come and go, yet still meddling with my life!
He slammed the bedboard several times in frustration, but thirst eventually got the better of him, and he got up to open the door.
The tray with tea and snacks was left on the deck outside. Su Yan bent to pick it up, turned back into the cabin, and closed the door,
Then he nearly jumped out of his skin, Jinghong Zhui was sitting silently at the edge of the bed, and he had no idea how he got in!
He had entered as Su Yan bent for the tray, pressed against the doorframe, completely unnoticed? Was he a ghost?!
Startled, Su Yan dropped the tray. Jinghong Zhui flickered forward in a flash, appearing in front of him, steadying the cups and plates and placing them on the table.
Su Yan roared in anger: “Great martial arts, huh? Impressive! What are you showing off for? This is a mortal’s tiny room, I can’t host Sword Gods or Sword Immortals. Why don’t you go shatter the void instead, stop dragging in all these harmful emotions!”
Without a word, Jinghong Zhui hugged him tightly.
Su Yan fumed, smoke practically rising from his ears, struggling desperately against him. It was like an ant trying to shake a tree, utterly ineffective. Inside, he cursed: Leveling up really made him incredible, doesn’t even see his old master! Used to call me ‘Lord’ and wag his tail like a dog; now he’s so awesome he dares to lay hands on me. Screw this!
Jinghong Zhui didn’t press further, he just held him tightly, letting Su Yan pound, kick, and vent his long-suppressed rage until completely spent.
Finally, exhausted, Su Yan estimated that even a punching bag would have burst by now. He exhaled a long, weary breath and slid down: “You… you can go now. Stop provoking me! I’ve finally gotten used to having no one behind me, to facing trouble without yelling for ‘Ah Zhui,’ to warming my feet with a soup pot… And you want to peel off more layers of me? Leave me some dignity, let this be the memory of an acquaintance.”
Jinghong Zhui’s heart ached, eyes red. He clenched his teeth, swallowing back the bitterness, and gently laid Su Yan down on the bed.
Su Yan sighed in disappointment and reached for his belt: “You really had to do this break-up move?”
Jinghong Zhui held Su Yan’s hand, kneeling at the bed, staring unblinkingly, examining every detail, from brows and hair to every subtle new scratch that had appeared over the past year and a half. With each glance, he poured the longing he had restrained back into his dried-out body.
“Lord…” he murmured, “I have returned.”
Su Yan shook his head: “I don’t need that anymore. I’m fine now, I lack nothing that matters.”
Every word felt like a dagger to Jinghong Zhui’s chest. He drew a sharp breath through clenched teeth.
Su Yan continued: “Have you heard the story of the devil in the bottle? Trapped, the devil promised the rescuer a kingdom after a month, a chest of jewels after a year, but after centuries, he promised nothing, only wanted to tear apart the one who freed him. He had waited too long, and all debts and grievances became meaningless.”
“I am the same. From the capital to Shaanxi, Shaanxi to Nanjing, Nanjing to an unknown future. From the old peach tree in the courtyard where my sister’s ashes were taken, to the swordlight in my nightly dreams and the wind on the Great Wall… I don’t want to wait anymore.”
“People have their own paths. No need to force it. Where fate goes, it goes; where love is deep or shallow, it is not up to us. I do not blame you for choosing your path, but I will not fall again into the pit I barely climbed out of. Let it be…”
Jinghong Zhui clutched his hand tightly, like a cliffside tree battered by storms of guilt and pain, relying on the tiniest hold to avoid plunging into the abyss.
“It’s all my fault,” he said hoarsely. “If I had pulled myself together sooner, instead of wasting six months drowning in escape and alcohol… If I had regained my martial arts sooner, discovered my own ‘Dao,’ I could have returned to you sooner…”
Su Yan blinked, then blinked several more times, seemingly not understanding.
After a moment of shock, he asked aloud: “Drowning in escape? Regaining martial arts? What does that mean?”
Jinghong Zhui said: “The day you impeached the Wei family in court, I went to Shuntian Prefecture to submit a petition, and on the way ran into the Seven-Kill Camp Leader and the flute player…”
His narration remained plain, unsentimental, concise, just like his sword.
Yet Su Yan felt a cold sweat. Hearing about the dispersal of his true energy almost made him cry out.
He realized that when he had executed Wei Jun and avenged his sister, Jinghong Zhui had indeed been present, though he dared not reveal himself.
After leaving the capital, utterly desolate, he wandered. When he had money, he drank himself senseless; when he didn’t, he took odd jobs or fought bandits.
Before meeting Old Ghost Wei, he had endured the most despairing and humble experiences.
A year in the world, he cleansed the bloodstains of being an assassin, rebuilt himself, achieved enlightenment, and gradually cultivated new true energy.
He reclaimed his sword, it had never truly disappeared; it was Jinghong Zhui’s life itself.
“With the sword, I meet the people I wish to see, and walk through my life,” Jinghong Zhui said. “That’s why I returned. Whether you need me or not, my ‘Way’ is here.”
“…And Old Senior Wei?”
“He passed. I handled his funeral, dug the grave, made the coffin and tombstone. It’s on the hillside of that small village; the scenery is quite good.”
Su Yan kept his expression stern, but tears glimmered: “You said ‘with the sword.’ Where’s the sword?”
Jinghong Zhui boldly leaned closer: “Everything can be a sword, but those are just forms. My true sword… is with you.”
Su Yan turned his face uncomfortably: “I really… can’t get used to this…”
“Because you’re used to Shen Qi?”
“…”
Su Yan felt guilty, but more so righteously angry: “So what? It’s over. Am I not allowed to date someone else now?”
Jinghong Zhui said calmly: “When it wasn’t over, weren’t you secretly seeing someone? Back then you hid it under the guise of a brotherly bond; now, no pretense, holding each other and kissing openly. I worry a little, for the Crown Prince is watching, is that okay?”
This “subordinate” is anything but a subordinate! And now he dares to start bossing around the master!
Su Yan couldn’t understand how Jinghong Zhui’s temper and self-awareness had grown along with his martial arts, but that didn’t stop him from dealing with his runaway, cheeky little concubine.
“I and Qilang, we’re not just brothers, we’re—”
“I know,” Jinghong Zhui cut him off with just four words, blocking the rest of his sentence.
Su Yan was momentarily choked up, then continued: “I promised him we’d stay together for life. Maybe you and I shouldn’t try to patch things up… It wouldn’t be fair to you, and besides, I can’t handle any more…”
Jinghong Zhui countered: “Lord, haven’t you been handling it fine so far? Besides, he guards his side, I guard mine; neither of us interferes with the other. If anyone thinks it’s unfair, we can settle it with a duel.”
Su Yan was completely speechless.
He knew there had long been old grievances between Jinghong Zhui and Shen Qi. Regarding the dispersal of true energy, Shen Qi outwardly helped Jinghong Zhui conceal the truth, but there was no guarantee he hadn’t used the opportunity to eliminate a romantic rival. Jinghong Zhui understood that, even if he couldn’t find a reason to strike back, it was still a fresh grievance added to the tally.
Just coordinating between two people was already this difficult… sigh.
After a while, he muttered: “And the Emperor… I need to find a way to convince him to protect both of you…”
Jinghong Zhui sincerely said: “Lord, you really work hard.”
If Su Yan didn’t know this personal attendant’s nature, he might have thought it was sarcasm.
But the reinstated attendant didn’t see himself as sycophantic; he only escalated: “Even the Emperor must wait his turn. Also, for fairness, your subordinate requests a review of past events to learn anew.”
Su Yan felt mortified and grabbed a pillow, smacking it at his face: “Go! This is a crisis moment, who has time for your nonsense! The Emperor’s condition is uncertain, and Qilang and the young master’s whereabouts are unknown. I need to rush back to the capital to help the young master stabilize the situation.”
Jinghong Zhui said: “If we leave behind those dozens of useless injured guards, I can bring you back to the capital in a single day.”
“That sounds… weird. Could you not speak with that hostility toward Qilang and the guards?”
“…The wounded need rest and shouldn’t travel. Let them take the boat slowly. We go ahead first.”
“That’s better.” Su Yan tugged at Jinghong Zhui’s high ponytail, thinking that even if the man became a Grandmaster or Supreme Grandmaster, he’d still be his dogged attendant. “Let me sleep well tonight. We leave at dawn. You should rest too.”
Jinghong Zhui stepped out two paces, then immediately returned, asking seriously: “The autumn wind is cold, Lord. Do you really not need a hot soup?”
Su Yan pulled the blanket up, covering his flushed face, and muttered: “Get out of here… please.”
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