Chapter Thirty-Seven: Battle in the Night

Deep within the mountain forest, a solitary figure darted swiftly among the trees. As he moved, his light-footed steps barely left a sound, yet he kept glancing anxiously over his shoulder. Though caution was writ large upon his features, his eyes could not conceal a glimmer of irrepressible excitement.

Dressed in yellow robes, tall and slender, with a prominent, hawkish nose, this was none other than Xu Fangkai, who had just escaped from the underground stronghold.

He had not gone far when suddenly, ahead of him, stood an elderly man in coarse hemp garments, a felt hat upon his head and straw sandals on his feet, his back turned toward Xu. Xu’s heart leapt with joy. He halted at once, dropped to one knee, and said reverently, “My deepest gratitude to the Immortal for your rescue. I did not fail in my task and have brought you the counterfeit imperial edict.” With that, he drew a yellow scroll from his robe and offered it forward with both hands.

The old man turned. His face was the very same as that of the fortune teller who had once read Liang Yan’s fate at the inn.

He accepted the false edict with a nod of satisfaction, but then snorted, displeased. “You act too rashly and impulsively. Had you shown a little patience, waited for both sides to clash before launching a surprise attack to seize the edict, I wouldn’t have had to waste a ‘Fog Summoning Talisman’ to save you.”

Xu Fangkai bowed his head immediately. “It was indeed my rashness, Immortal. Please forgive my error!”

Then, with a hint of puzzlement, he ventured, “With your boundless powers, Immortal, since you discovered the false edict, why not simply reveal yourself and destroy Chen Zhuo’an and his cohorts outright?”

The old man’s brow furrowed. Truth be told, he had considered such an approach. But ever since his last clandestine meeting at the Kong residence, he’d learned that the Yi Xing Pavilion had likely already sent disciples to Yongle Town to investigate the spirit mine. An unaccountable unease had taken root in his heart.

As a mere itinerant cultivator with meager talent, who in old age had reached only the fourth level of Qi Refinement, he owed his survival to his skill with talismans and his timorous, cautious nature. He had resolved never to act rashly or expose his cultivation unless absolutely necessary. After all, he carried a jade pendant bestowed by the guild master that could conceal his aura. Even if the Yi Xing Pavilion’s disciples had infiltrated Yongle Town, they would never discover him.

To Xu Fangkai’s doubts, the old man responded only with a cold snort. “What do you know? Do not ask questions you ought not.”

Xu paled, sweat beading on his brow. He dared not speak again.

Yet if he was cowed into silence, there were others who were not. From the woods came a girl’s mocking laughter:

“You sounded so imposing back in the stronghold. I thought your master must be fearsome indeed. Who’d have guessed he’d turn out to be a decrepit old man!”

Two figures stepped from the trees—a man and a woman. The woman was dressed in white, her beauty peerless, a magnificent sword in her hand; the man was upright and handsome, with sword-like brows and starry eyes. These were none other than Liang Yan and Tang Diexian, the pair who had vanished from the underground base.

Seeing them, the old man felt a measure of relief, though he sneered, “You fool, look at the mess you’ve made. You left two loose ends and didn’t even realize it.”

Xu Fangkai, having just incurred the old man’s wrath and eager for a chance to redeem himself, saw opportunity delivered to his door. Without hesitation, he rose and sneered, “Immortal, please rest a moment. I shall take their heads for you.”

Drawing a gleaming dagger from his belt, he sprang forward, arriving before Liang Yan in a blink. With a shout, he brought the blade crashing down on Liang Yan’s forehead.

From the moment Xu drew his dagger, Liang Yan had stood unmoving. It was only when Xu’s blade was about to strike that Liang Yan reacted—he raised his right hand, extended his index and middle fingers, and caught the blade between them.

With a metallic clang, Xu’s vicious blow was caught and held fast, suspended in midair.

Xu Fangkai gripped the dagger, his face turning crimson, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Liang Yan had sent spiritual energy surging through the blade into Xu’s body, throwing his internal energy into chaos, little different from a man possessed.

“Let go!”

The old man’s shout snapped Xu back to himself. He hurriedly released the dagger.

Liang Yan’s fingers tightened, and the steel blade snapped cleanly in two. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the tip whistling through the air, where it pierced Xu’s throat and pinned him to the ground.

Xu lay on his back, eyes wide open, his final expression one of utter disbelief.

At this, the old man could no longer deceive himself that these two were mere mortals. He took a deep breath, forcing a genial smile, and laughed, “My friends, it was my subordinate who wronged you. He paid the price for his own folly. A mortal’s death is of no consequence—if it pleases you, I shall not pursue the matter.”

He hesitated, then added, “As the saying goes, ‘No discord, no concord.’ Perhaps we should become friends—should we face trouble in future, we might help one another, eh?”

Liang Yan smiled. “You are most magnanimous, sir. However, while you may be content to let the matter rest, we still have some questions for you. Since you are versed in the arts of calculation, can you divine how much life remains to you tonight?”

The old man’s pupils contracted. “You’re disciples sent by the Yi Xing Pavilion to investigate!”

Liang Yan gave only a faint, ambiguous smile. Tang Diexian pouted beside him, “Why waste words? Let’s take him down and question him ourselves.”

“Very well!” Liang Yan agreed, stepping forward.

Seeing this, the old man’s face darkened. With a swift motion, he shook out his sleeves, sending three earth-yellow talismans fluttering to the ground. They did not fly toward Liang Yan and Tang Diexian, but landed at his feet.

Where the talismans fell, the earth churned, and from the ground emerged three soldiers clad in yellow armor, each wielding a broadsword, looking every bit like battle-hardened veterans.

“Earthen Soldiers Talismans!” Tang Diexian cried in alarm.

...

While Liang Yan and Tang Diexian pursued Xu Fangkai, in the underground stronghold the flames of battle were about to ignite.

Xiang Anran watched as the thick fog dissipated; none of his own men were lost, while Chen Zhuo’an’s side had lost two and another had fled in betrayal. He did not know the reason, but seeing his enemy’s numbers diminished, he let out a hearty laugh. “Chen Zhuo’an, you’ve defied Minister Li, and even Heaven has abandoned you. Today is your day of reckoning!”

With a wave of his hand, his black-clad assassins closed in, surrounding Chen Zhuo’an and his companions.

“So, this is fate?” Chen Zhuo’an murmured. Had all his efforts been for naught? Was he destined to lose to Li Hong?

Beside him, Min Rou saw the fleeting confusion in his eyes. She quietly squeezed his hand and shook her head. “Though Heaven may be indifferent, true hearts remain in this world. No matter life or death, victory or defeat, I shall face it all with you.”

Chen Zhuo’an felt a surge of spirit. He was a hero of the jianghu, unbound and free-spirited. Though his resolve had wavered a moment before, Min Rou’s words rekindled his courage. Though trapped in peril, he felt no fear—on the contrary, his fighting spirit blazed all the brighter.

With a clang, the Swimming Dragon Sword was drawn. Chen Zhuo’an called out, “Chu Laosan, Min Rou, form the Threefold Talent Sword Formation!”

At his command, Chu Laosan and Min Rou sprang into position, forming a tripod stance to support each other, engaging the black-clad assassins.

Though called a Sword Formation, the Threefold Talent Formation did not require swords. Heaven, Earth, and Man—Chen Zhuo’an held the Heaven position, commanding the field; Chu Laosan, at Earth, provided support; Min Rou, at Man, adapted as needed. Their cooperation allowed the few to stand against the many—a masterful martial formation.

Though the assassins outnumbered them, under the trio’s seamless teamwork, they gained no advantage and were forced back step by step.

Xiang Anran, angered, drew his twin copper clubs and leapt at Chen Zhuo’an. His inner strength was formidable—before he even reached his foe, a fierce wind from the clubs swept toward Chen Zhuo’an.

Chen’s face hardened. He raised his sword to parry, meeting Xiang’s blow head-on. The force was like a tidal wave; he staggered back two steps, his energy churning before he could steady himself.

Xiang Anran also retreated two steps, his face turning pale then dark. With a deep breath, he said, “Well met, Chen Zhuo’an. Take another blow!”

He lunged forward, copper clubs aiming for Chen Zhuo’an’s vital points.

While Chen Zhuo’an engaged Xiang Anran, Min Rou was locked in battle with the one-eyed youth. Clearly Xiang’s chief lieutenant, the youth was silent but his blade was lightning-fast, each move ruthless and deadly.

Min Rou, though, showed little fear. Trained from childhood by a master, her “Errant Blossom Fist” was tailored to counter speed with measured slowness.

The youth’s knife-work was sharp and swift, but Min Rou, unarmed but for her fists, held her ground firm. Though her punches were slow, their force was soft yet unending. The one-eyed youth felt as if every strike landed on cotton, sometimes even redirecting his blade elsewhere—a sensation akin to striking a Tai Chi master.

Though Chen Zhuo’an and Min Rou held their own, the surrounding assassins left them constantly on guard. Without the mutual support of the Sword Formation, they might have already lost.

If the three were struggling, it was Chu Laosan who fared worst. Wounded already, he now faced eight or nine assassins alone. His injuries worsened, slowing his movements, and after a scant score of exchanges, he was in dire straits.

Suddenly, a stifled grunt rang out. A black-clad assassin’s blade stabbed into Chu Laosan’s abdomen, blood gushing forth. Staggering, Chu Laosan seized the attacker’s arm, bellowed, and rammed his head forward.

The assassin, terrified, tried to break free, but Chu Laosan held him fast. With a sickening crack, like smashing a melon, Chu Laosan shattered the man’s skull.

Having killed his foe, Chu Laosan felt his limbs grow cold. He yanked the blade from his belly and collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath.

The assassins, cowed by his ferocity, had hesitated, but now, seeing him fallen, knew his strength was spent. They drew their blades and advanced.

“Laosan!”

Chen Zhuo’an, seeing this, was enraged. Forcing Xiang Anran back with a flurry of sword strokes, he rushed to Chu’s side, his blade flashing at the assassins to drive them off.

Sparks flew as sword met saber. Chen Zhuo’an’s Swimming Dragon Sword spun through the air, piercing a would-be killer straight through the chest.

Xiang Anran, spotting Chen’s exposed back, grinned savagely and followed close behind, swinging both clubs at Chen’s head.

The Swimming Dragon Sword was still embedded in the assassin’s chest—there was no time to retrieve it or turn and defend. Chen could only release his sword and roll aside, barely avoiding the deadly blow.

But Xiang Anran was a true master. Seeing his strike miss, he swept his leg sideways, kicking Chen hard in the lower back with all his inner strength.

Chen tumbled across the ground, blood spurting from his mouth. Min Rou cried out in alarm and rushed to his side.

Unable to worry about the one-eyed youth, she turned to attack Xiang Anran. He sidestepped, but behind her the youth saw his chance and slashed at her back.

Startled, Min Rou twisted aside, sparing her vital organs but taking the blade across her right arm.

Her sleeve tore with a rip, revealing a delicate, bloodied arm, the fresh wound staining her clothes crimson.

Staggering back, Min Rou stubbornly placed herself between Chen Zhuo’an and their attackers.

Chen struggled up. “Move aside!” he urged.

She bit her lip, silent and unmoving, refusing to yield.

“Haha! What a pair of doomed lovers! Let me send your husband on his way first!” Xiang Anran jeered, ignoring Min Rou as he charged at Chen Zhuo’an. Of the three, only Chen truly worried him—once he was dead, the rest would be easy prey. Now, with Chen wounded, he knew better than to show mercy.

Min Rou saw him trying to slip past and attacked, but the one-eyed youth slashed at her injured arm. She dodged but, disregarding him, turned to pursue Xiang Anran, leaving her back fully exposed.

But her lightness skills were no match for Xiang’s. With the delay, he had already reached Chen Zhuo’an, raising both clubs for a killing blow.

Chen, gravely wounded, barely managed to stand—there was no way to dodge.

Xiang Anran could almost see his clubs smashing into Chen’s skull, his rival’s brains spilling across the ground.

But oddly, he saw no fear in Chen Zhuo’an’s eyes—only a flicker of surprise.

“Has this man lost his mind?”

That was Xiang Anran’s final thought.