The night descended like a veil of frost, draping the entire city of Beiluo in a misty, silver glow. Lu Changkong rode ahead, taking a deep breath. The air was thick with the stench of blood, so heavy it refused to disperse. His heart quivered ever so slightly. Could it be… Mo Tianyu's prediction had come true? Had Lu Fan truly perished at the hands of the alliance formed by the three great families and the Sword Sect?
Encased in frigid armor, Lu Changkong sat atop his sweat-blood horse. Suddenly, his back hunched slightly, as though weighed down by invisible sorrow. Luo Yue followed in silence. He, too, had caught the scent in the air, and his grip on the reins tightened, his face as grim as still water.
The grinding of wheels against stone echoed as a five-horse carriage approached, its hoofbeats gradually fading. The curtain lifted, and Mo Tianyu emerged, a large wine gourd strapped to his waist. He drew in a long breath, the blood-soaked air filling his lungs.
"This city reeks of slaughter," he remarked wistfully. "A divination of grave misfortune—this time, my reading was not mistaken. I had hoped the omen was wrong… but alas, fate does not bend. City Lord Lu, my condolences."
Unfastening the gourd, he took a deep swig. The pungent aroma of alcohol surged forth, momentarily suppressing the reek of blood. He perched upon the carriage shaft, grass sandals dangling, his scholar's robe carelessly open at the chest. He swayed slightly as he sat—wild, unrestrained, and uninhibited.
Lu Changkong glanced sideways at him, his gaze suddenly surging with murderous intent, as though a blade might be drawn and blood spilled within five steps. Mo Tianyu remained unfazed, let out a wine-soaked burp, and laughed heartily.
"That's more like it. Though the Peasant School has declined, it remains one of the Hundred Schools. As a descendant of the Peasant lineage, you should bear the pride and ferocity befitting such heritage."
Lu Changkong narrowed his eyes at Mo Tianyu. "Master, you would do well to choose your words with care. Speech carries consequence."
"Old Luo, let's return to the Lu Manor," he said flatly. "If something has indeed happened to Fan'er, I shall raise an army and raze the Zhongnan Sword Sect to the ground—even if it means abandoning Beiluo!"
With a crack of the whip, his steed bolted forward, hooves thundering toward the manor. Luo Yue's eyes flared with resolve. Resting a hand on his sword, he growled, "Your subordinate swears to follow unto death!"
Three hundred armored riders followed close behind.
Upon the main avenue of Beiluo's central district, only Mo Tianyu remained atop the carriage shaft, clutching his wine gourd. Watching the riders vanish into the distance, he grinned. Then, gesturing to the coachman, he urged the carriage onward.
...
Lu Changkong's expression was stormy, like waters before a tempest. Yet as he galloped through the city, a look of confusion and growing uncertainty began to cloud his features.
At last, he came upon a group of Ironblood soldiers handling corpses in the distance. His gaze sharpened.
"Chi-liu—" He pulled on the reins, slowing his horse to a trot. The sound of hooves striking stone became steady, like falling rain. He dismounted in one fluid motion and strode toward the soldiers.
The Ironblood men spotted him, and astonishment flitted across their faces. The City Lord had returned?
"Salute to the City Lord!" they chorused, dropping to one knee.
"How is the Young Lord? What happened? Where are the gate defenders and the others? What's the state of the battle? Casualties?"
Lu Changkong's questions came in rapid succession, his tone icy. The kneeling soldiers looked bewildered, stunned into silence by his barrage.
Behind him, Luo Yue could no longer hold his temper. He stepped forward, voice booming like a lion's roar.
"The City Lord asked you a question! Are you all mute? Cat got your tongues?"
The soldiers flinched.
"Reporting, my lord… the battle in the city—it has long since ended," one finally replied.
Lu Changkong froze. Before he could speak again, the soldier continued, recounting the events in detail.
"The Liu, Zhu, and Chen families were executed by the Young Lord under the charge of treason. Their households annihilated. Sword Sect elites—all slain. Hundreds of Confucian scholars who insulted the Young Lord on North Lake—he ordered them all imprisoned and executed…"
Though the soldier spoke swiftly, his words crashed like thunder in Lu Changkong and Luo Yue's ears.
What madness was this?! This wasn't what the intelligence had indicated. How had everything been turned upside down?
Lu Changkong's expression twitched. "Are you certain?"
The reporting soldier looked as if he were about to cry—did he dare lie about such a matter?
"What of the gate defenders? Only a few remain. Were there heavy casualties?"
"Reporting, my lord—eighteen wounded, three dead. The rest… were ordered by Commander Luo to move the corpses."
From the trailing carriage came a startled cry.
"Impossible! The Seven Swords of the Sword Sect sent five of their own. How could you possibly have triumphed?!"
Mo Tianyu's incredulous voice echoed from within.
Lu Changkong's face darkened instantly.
"Mo Tianyu, I warned you—your words bear weight. Because of your divination, was my son meant to die?"
His gaze turned glacial. Luo Yue, too, glared daggers at Mo Tianyu.
"Were you not the Chief Disciple of the National Preceptor, I would have severed your head on the spot."
Mo Tianyu, though proud, knew his words had overstepped. He cupped his hands in faint apology, then drew three copper coins from his scholar's robe and studied them closely.
Had his reading been wrong… again?
Lu Changkong took a deep breath and turned back to the soldier. His eyes narrowed, his tone gentler.
"Good… very good. So long as Fan'er is safe."
Though he could not comprehend what had transpired, it seemed Lu Fan had resolved it all.
Knowing his son lived, Lu Changkong no longer rushed to the manor. He had other matters to settle—cleaning up the aftermath.
...
"The Sword Sect's Seven Swords sent five. Unless Lu Changkong himself remained in Beiluo, commanding elite Ironblood riders to encircle and strike… with the city's guards alone, Lu Ping'an should have been doomed!"
"I don't believe it…" Mo Tianyu muttered within the carriage. He ruffled his messy hair, gripped the copper coins between two elegant fingers, took a swig of wine, and blew a mist of alcohol into the air.
The coins tumbled through the haze and landed flat in his palm. Under the moonlight spilling through the carriage window, he examined the omen once more.
"Still a hexagram of great misfortune. Lu Changkong's son… should have been doomed beyond salvation."
Frustrated, he gathered the coins and ran a hand through his hair.
"No. I must divine his fate directly—face to face with the Young Lord."
"To the Lu Manor!" he called to the driver.
...
At the Lu Manor, within Lu Fan's secluded courtyard.
Jing Yue sat cross-legged, a yellow pearwood sword case strapped to his back. He gazed up at the star-strewn sky, a trace of melancholy in his eyes.
He had survived.
Yet the image of Lu Fan, seated in his wheelchair, his indifferent eyes boring into him, still haunted him.
He had thought surrender would grant him life. But Lu Fan's cold words—"Give me one reason to let you live"—had chilled him to the bone.
He could not offer one. And so, death had loomed.
Lu Fan had uprooted the Sword Sect's power in Beiluo with overwhelming force. Four of the Seven Swords had been slain.
Had Jing Yue not offered the secret Blood Transfusion Technique and several sword arts in a desperate bid for survival… his fate would've been sealed, regardless of surrender.
He knew too much.
The moonlight was cold, as cold as Jing Yue's heart.
He was no longer one of the Sword Sect's Seven Swords.
Now, he bore a new identity—Lu Fan's servant. Nameless, statusless.
Indeed, to preserve his life, he had not only sold the Blood Transfusion Technique and sword arts… but even sold himself.
Yet he felt little shame.
After all, was life… not worth preserving?
Lifting his head, he spotted a figure atop Lu Fan's roof. In a flowing white dress sat Ning Zhao, bathed in moonlight like an ethereal immortal—peerless in grace and beauty.
Her eyes remained closed, cultivating in silence. Yet sensing something, her lashes fluttered. She opened her eyes and glanced coldly at Jing Yue.
His expression froze, and he awkwardly forced a smile toward her...