The bloodstains on the long street had yet to dry, and the crowds on either side had long since dispersed. Collapsed market stalls and scattered vegetable leaves painted a bleak, desolate scene. At the far end of the street, four figures clad in black robes, sword cases strapped to their backs and conical hats shading their faces, approached slowly. Unlike the usual disciples of the Qingyi Sword Sect, these four wore ebony robes, each carrying a Huangli wooden sword case housing no fewer than three swords. Within the sect, those concealing three swords are revered as Five-Resonance Masters. The prowess of these four was formidable indeed, none weaker than Dao Sect's Han Lianxiao.
Behind them, squads of iron-blooded soldiers wielding long blades relentlessly pursued. Yet, despite their leisurely pace, the four sword masters moved with such swiftness that the charging soldiers could not catch up. Their mission was clear and unyielding: to seize the kingpin before all else. Beiluocheng was the Sword Sect's target, a city where they had long concealed themselves in its outskirts. Upon receiving word from Jing Yue, one of the Seven Heroes of the Sword Sect, they hastened their arrival.
Beiluocheng's young lord, Lu Ping'an, had descended into madness, unleashing slaughter that shattered all rules of engagement. This left the Sword Sect no choice but to abandon their usual cautious strategy and resort to desperate measures. Though masters themselves, entering the city to capture and kill Lu Ping'an was fraught with peril. Surrounded and overwhelmed by the military, death was a grim possibility. Thus, they resolved to strike swiftly, penetrating the enemy's heart to overpower and capture Lu Ping'an, then vanish before encirclement could ensue. With the might of the Seven Heroes, escape was certain—assuming they avoided entrapment.
The Sword Sect was renowned for producing assassins, whose swordplay embodied a frank reckoning of debts—resolute and direct. In a world steeped in bloodshed, they moved as shadows amidst blades. As the sun dipped westward, darkness settled with a somber and deadly chill upon the long street.
Yi Yue pushed a wheelchair forward, the wooden wheels grinding against the blue bricks. Lu Ping'an sat serenely clad in white robes, chin resting on one hand, hair tumbling across his cheek. Ni Yu, clutching a chessboard, nervously puffed out her cheeks, eyes fixed ahead. Nie Changqing, grasping a butcher's cleaver, bore a grim expression, each measured step charged with latent power. He knew an arduous battle was imminent.
Luo Cheng escorted key figures from the three great clans. Liu Ye, Zhu Yishan, and others wore ashen faces amid the crowd. Chen Beixun's eyes were dull as ash; his head bowed, beard filthy, his slight trembling born of fear. The Chen, Liu, and Zhu clans—once ironclad pillars—had been uprooted. Lu Ping'an's ruthlessness struck his spirit with brutal force. He had assumed that with Lu Changkong absent, Lu Ping'an might act restrained, but he had been grievously mistaken.
Lu Changkong's departure to the capital only emboldened Lu Ping'an to unleash havoc unchecked. The three great clans were utterly razed, and dozens of merchant leaders executed with a mere wave of his hand. This was a day soaked in blood. Even Sword Sect experts perished on the spot.
Chen Beixun's gaze lifted numbly toward the four sword masters approaching at the street's end. There was no excitement, no hope. He had long since abandoned faith in the Sword Sect. At Beiluohu, the masters fled on boats without a fight. Now, again, they struck the Chen estate but retreated with lightning speed. Twice their evasions had pierced his heart—his hope was dead.
A fierce wind howled. The sunset's final glow scattered across the stones, flickering like embers in a dying furnace. No grand preludes or idle words—both sides understood their purpose.
"We have arrived. Why does Jing Yue not show himself?" The leader, sword case holding five swords, frowned beneath his hat. His companions shared his puzzlement.
"Forget him. The target is Lu Changkong's son in the wheelchair—Lu Ping'an."
"I will block the Dao Sect's traitor Nie Changqing…"
"When you strike, one sword to the throat. Kill and retreat. Assemble outside the city." The leader's voice was hoarse and severe.
Steel tips pressed sharply against the cobblestones, grinding loudly as sparks flew. The masters' speed surged; their blood surged with fierce energy, strange sounds echoing. A violent gust swept up dust and leaves, flinging toppled vendor stalls far afield.
"Kill!" The leader's low roar shattered the air. Their Huangli sword cases trembled; swords sprang forth in unison. The four spun in perfect formation, feet kicking each soaring sword's hilt. Apart from their main swords, nine blades flew straight toward Lu Ping'an.
"Seven Heroes of the Sword Sect… Flying Sword Technique." A low, hoarse voice intoned.
Lu Ping'an turned slightly to see a hunched figure suddenly emerge from the shadows—Old Huang, concealed until now. This was his first appearance before Lu Ping'an, summoned by Lu Changkong to protect his son. Now, in this dire hour, he had no choice but to reveal himself.
Calm and composed, Lu Ping'an showed no surprise at Old Huang's arrival. His spirit had long sensed the elder's presence.
"One-Resonance Master, hiding in the shadows to protect me…" Lu Ping'an sighed. His father had truly cared. Had this master joined Beiluocheng's defenses, the three great clans might have reconsidered their betrayal. Alas, one master alone was insufficient for this battle.
Old Huang noted Lu Ping'an's indifferent reaction with mild astonishment. Yi Yue and Ni Yu were stunned; Yi Yue's hand rested instinctively on her whip's hilt. Without explanation, Old Huang hunched tightly beneath his black robe, eyes fixed fiercely on the incoming swords.
The Sword Sect's flying sword technique—he was prepared to sacrifice himself to shield the young lord from one.
Lu Ping'an's gaze rested on the flying blades; a faint smirk curled his lips.
"Flying Sword Technique… and this is what they dare call it?"
Nie Changqing stepped forward, the nine swords' rush making his robe flutter wildly. Clutching his butcher's cleaver, his eyes blazed, hair tossed by the wind, his blood trembling with fury. Then, with a low roar, he swung the cleaver. Spiritual energy surged forth like thunder, fused with his blood's resonance.
"Blade Control!" The cleaver, entwined in spirit energy, shot forth, cleaving through the nine swords in one stroke.
The four sword masters, faces obscured beneath their hats, quickened their steps, swords slashing the stone as they closed on Nie Changqing. The pace quickened unbearably.
Yet for Lu Ping'an, seated in his wheelchair, time seemed to slow to an infinite crawl. As cleaver met sword, he leisurely accepted the chessboard from Ni Yu, placing it on his lap and casually wiping his mouth.
Two swords bypassed the cleaver, speeding toward him. Old Huang's eyes widened in fury, but Lu Ping'an's face remained serene as his slender fingers gracefully lifted a black chess piece from the box.
As the last ray of the setting sun vanished, merging light with shadow, Lu Ping'an rolled up his sleeve. Around the wheelchair, strands of spiritual energy rose with the wind.
With a crisp click, the black piece landed on the board.
In that instant, waves of energy radiated outward from the wheelchair, invisible pressure filling the air.
The world fell silent. The flying swords froze mid-air.
On the long street, the four sword masters battling Nie Changqing staggered as their hats burst apart, pupils contracting in disbelief, hair disheveled. The air thickened, solidified into a towering peak that crashed into their bodies.
Each emitted a muffled grunt, sword tips touching the ground as they dropped to one knee.