THE INSTANT Fan Yun leapt forward, Feng Xiao moved as well, launching a palm strike at Fan Yun's back. If Fan Yun hoped to protect himself, he would have to abandon his attack on Cui Buqu.
But when Cui Buqu flinched back from Fan Yun's incoming strike, the fierce air currents of the blow gentled, transforming into a soft breeze that caressed his face. Fan Yun turned from his feint and lunged toward Feng Xiao.
Cui Buqu saw at once—Fan Yun's target had been Feng Xiao all along. With Feng Xiao dead, Cui Buqu would have no choice but to surrender, while if Feng Xiao escaped, Fan Yun would be plagued with endless troubles.
It was too late for Feng Xiao to switch tactics in time; Fan Yun was already at his back. He withdrew his hand and turned to catch Fan Yun's strike hard on his shoulder. A zither string flicked out from his other hand, forcing Fan Yun to leap back.
Feng Xiao had taken a blow to his shoulder, but Fan Yun had fared no better—the qi-infused string had opened a gash on his arm. Blood soaked through the torn cloth of his sleeve and enveloped his arm in crimson.
From start to finish, everything had happened in the space of one of Cui Buqu's breaths. The two clashed again in the next moment, ignoring Cui Buqu entirely. Their collision was like a violent tempest, complete with roaring thunder as their qi exploded outward to sweep up the rain-wet leaves littering the ground outside the cave. The fallen leaves churned through the air in a howling dance, accompanied by grit and debris. If anyone escaped the array now, they'd barely have time to celebrate before finding themselves tossed back into the cave by the maelstrom of qi.
The force of their battle surged toward Cui Buqu, shoving him back step by step. In the blink of an eye, he found himself at the edge of the cliff. He wrapped his arms around a tree trunk just in time, or he'd have found himself plummeting to his death without Fan Yun having to lift a finger.
Only now did Cui Buqu truly grasp his teacher's strength. Fan Yun was a man of great knowledge and breadth of mind. He'd traveled the world when he was young, and later his talents had been recognized by Liuli Palace when they invited him to join them as a consultant. But in truth, he had little connection with the record-keeping sect. He'd retained all his old habits—he was carefree and unrestrained, roaming the land like an idle cloud or wild crane. All that was known about him was that he was a descendant of the Fan clan. His martial arts, his origins, his education—all remained a mystery.
After taking over the Zuoyue Bureau, Cui Buqu had sent his people to secretly investigate Fan Yun and found that he was closely associated with Linchuan Academy, the largest sect in the Southern dynasty. Though his martial arts incorporated his own innovations and improvements, the shadow of Linchuan Academy's signature style was perceptible in his moves.
Linchuan Academy was a dedicated proponent of Confucianism, and their academy masters were all renowned Confucians in addition to being formidable martial artists. They devoted their lives to the idea of assisting a wise emperor in unifying the Central Plains and restoring the land to the Han people.
Cui Buqu raised his hand and coughed a few times. The salty tang of blood rose in his throat and trickled from the corners of his mouth to dampen his fingers. He swiped it away with the back of his hand, indifferent, and slumped against a large boulder, settling in to observe the battle. His eyes narrowed slightly as he fought down nausea and dizziness.
"Fan Yun," he called, "you went to great lengths to lure me here. Xiao Lü may not have shown himself, but what's transpired here today will be a harsh blow to him. I've already outlived my usefulness—why not kill me first?"
Fan Yun laughed. "It's no use trying to provoke me. Deputy Chief Feng is a peerless martial artist; I won't have any peace if I don't defeat him now. Buqu, do you know why I refused to accept you as my disciple?"
His next attack missed, but he didn't force the offensive. His steps were feather-light as he and Feng Xiao circled each other, each patiently awaiting his chance.
"It was I who refused to take you as a master," said Cui Buqu coolly. "Don't get it backward."
Fan Yun continued to smile, pretending not to hear. "I read your fortune from your face when we first met. Your fate is a grim one, devoid of kin to aid you. You are destined to meet with calamity after calamity, and the moment you fail to overcome one, you will die a premature death, dragging those around you into disaster. Those close to you will find only misfortune. Look what happened this time: You were forced to come alone because Qiao Xian was injured. Isn't that right?"
He appeared to be talking to Cui Buqu, but it was clear his words were meant for Feng Xiao. Other than exceptions like Cui Buqu, who refused to acknowledge the influence of the heavens, everyone from the most exalted emperor to the lowliest peddler believed in fate. Even Fan Yun himself, who'd seen nearly everything there was to see of the world, believed fate was not something humans could change. He'd once tried—when his old friend was gravely ill, he'd attempted to exchange part of his friend's destiny with his own. But in the end, this too had been in vain.
Cui Buqu's face was a mask of indifference, as unmoved as sturdy bamboo standing tall amid the wind and rain. His frail, sickly body contained a core as hard and cold as steel. But even if he was indifferent to fate, it didn't mean others would be too. There were hundreds of ways to break one's enemy, but a blow to their mind was most effective.
A loud scoff broke the silence—Feng Xiao was laughing. "What a coincidence. A fortune teller once said my fate is the most fortuitous possible. I was born with glory in hand, a silver spoon in my mouth. Even the lone star of calamity3 is helpless against me. Lao-Fan, at your age, you really oughtn't put yourself through this. If you surrender now and admit defeat, my venerable self might be convinced to leave your body intact. You'll at least be saved from roaming the underworld in search of your head!"
He lunged forward in another strike. Fan Yun met his blow, and their qi exploded with a roar that tossed them both backward. Fan Yun landed smoothly on his toes, his expression composed.
"I forgot," said Fan Yun. "As a demonic practitioner, you're more open-minded than most."
Seeing Feng Xiao couldn't be distracted with words, Fan Yun fell silent. He drew his blade, and a sword glare burst from his qi and ripped toward Feng Xiao.
At once, heavy rain and clouds choked the sky. As the attack streaked toward its target, the mist and rain melded, dappling a clear and rippling lake surface with shimmering scales beneath the crimson of the setting sun. It was a magnificent, fantastical sight.
With a tap of his toes, Feng Xiao flew backward, his sleeves spread like wings as he shattered Fan Yun's illusions. The storm vanished in an instant, leaving a gloriously clear sky.
Fan Yun didn't stop. He swept forward with the sword glare and was in front of Feng Xiao in the blink of an eye. The afterimages of his bright sword wove themselves layer upon layer into a curtain of qi. As the misty rains scattered, another scene materialized, persistent and unfading as a wall of storm clouds. Rocks and sand flew from the force of the sword qi, and splintered leaves swirled through the air like rain. Feng Xiao was engulfed, with nowhere to run.
In the thick of battle, Feng Xiao could feel the depth of Fan Yun's swordplay: brilliant and ethereal, yet brimming with bloodlust. The moment he slipped, he'd be dead.
Feng Xiao had known Fan Yun was a skilled martial artist, but he'd never taken him seriously as an opponent. The man was over fifty, yet he had no reputation within the jianghu. Whatever skill he had, it could hardly be spectacular. He'd obtained his position in the Thirteen Floors because the pavilion leader valued his strategies, not his martial arts. In contrast, Yuxiu and Yuan Sansi were some of the finest martial artists of their generation.
Now Feng Xiao saw he'd been mistaken.
Fan Yun wasn't simply a good martial artist. Even Feng Xiao, with all his pride, had to admit that his skills ranked far above the top tier—this man could compete on even footing with the grandmasters.
Why would such a powerful martial artist be completely unknown? Thoughts racing, Feng Xiao suddenly hit on a possibility.
Liuli Palace of Fangzhang Isle was responsible for all martial rankings. Their records of the martial world weren't perfect, but they were close. Fan Yun could easily have used his connections there to expunge his name from the sect's records. He wasn't a member of the jianghu and did not travel its roads, nor did he fight often. It was unsurprising few people knew of him.
Pain spiked through Feng Xiao's back where he'd expelled Yuxiu's needle. His meridians there were undoubtedly injured.
But Feng Xiao's hand remained steady.
The zither string shot from his sleeve, stretched taut. One end remained in his grip, while the other dove toward the onrushing sword glare, ringing brightly as it tore through the arcing sword qi and shattered the mirage. As the note from the string reached Fan Yun's ears, sound waves infused with Feng Xiao's internal energy blasted away the qi protecting Fan Yun and funneled into his eardrums.
Fan Yun hadn't anticipated that his opponent would transform sound itself into a weapon; he looked at Feng Xiao in surprise.
The Fajing Sect specialized in the use of the zither in combat. Feng Xiao would have been more at ease if he'd had one with him—alas, he'd already removed the precious Yuyin's strings one by one. Fan Yun was an educated man; had he known the string attacking him came from a zither on par with the renowned Raoliang, he'd have likely flown into a rage and stabbed Feng Xiao to death right then and there.
But he didn't know—and so his hand only trembled slightly as the sound waves disrupted his attack. The sword glare shivered, and the curtain of afterimages scattered its layers into the sky. Like the howling sea winds, it gathered the fury of raging waves to churn the clouds and batter the shore as it once again swallowed Feng Xiao.
From within the sword glare, Feng Xiao flicked another string at Fan Yun.
Like adversaries rushing toward each other on a narrow road, they met head-on. Victory would be determined not by their minute difference in skill, but through the smallest variables.
And there were countless such variables in a duel of this caliber. Feng Xiao's injuries hadn't escaped Fan Yun's notice. Feng Xiao's right hand was unsteady, and his attacks were slightly weaker on that side. It was an extremely subtle difference, but Fan Yun saw it. Of course he took advantage. The right side of the screen of sword qi grew denser as it continued its assault.
Suddenly Fan Yun heard Cui Buqu's voice: "I know who entrusted you with this task."
The words were as faint and misty as drizzling rain on a spring night, tiny pinpricks of silver. But Fan Yun's sharp ears would have picked them up even if they were soft as a mosquito's buzz.
"It was the emperor of Chen," said Cui Buqu. "Not the current emperor, Chen Shubao, but the previous emperor, Chen Xu. Emperor Xuan was a skilled and capable leader who accomplished whatever he set out to do. His reign lasted more than a dozen years. Though he wasn't among the most brilliant of emperors, he was wise. Unfortunately, he died young, leaving no one qualified to succeed him. His son Chen Shubao is wholly unlike him, an immature fool who has wasted generations of his forefathers' blood, sweat, and tears."
In that moment, Fan Yun wished he could turn back time itself and stop Cui Buqu from speaking. But such a thing was impossible—Cui Buqu had already spoken, and all Fan Yun could do was let the words drift into his ears. The chief of the Zuoyue Bureau truly deserved his reputation: Every word was a knife, stabbing unerringly into the tenderest spots in Fan Yun's heart and shattering his composure.
"Xiansheng, you were close to Emperor Xuan. On his deathbed, he entrusted you with his son—yet that son was a fool beyond saving. But your old friend had passed, and you'd given him your solemn word. You had no choice but to dedicate yourself to carrying out his request, just as Zhuge Liang attempted to prop up that foolish emperor of Shu Han. You've been turning this way and that, spinning in futile circles. You instigated our conflict with the Thirteen Floors of Yunhai, all for the sake of the emperor of Southern Chen. But the greatest pity is that the emperor will never understand your kindness. No matter how exemplary your martial arts, no matter how clever your plots and schemes, I fear you're fated to walk the path of that great strategist and perish on the Wuzhang Plains. You know it's impossible, yet you must attempt it. Surely Xiansheng knows what awaits him at the end of this road."
Cui Buqu's words rushed out faster and faster, each a dagger striking its mark, carving open flesh to reveal white bone. Fan Yun's breath hitched, and his sword glare wavered. Had Cui Buqu spoken these words at any other moment, they wouldn't have had the effect they did now. Fan Yun suddenly regretted the mercy he'd shown Cui Buqu. He should have killed this man first.
He lost his composure for the briefest moment—but that was enough for Feng Xiao.
The zither string tore through the screen of afterimages and pierced Fan Yun's sword hand, and Feng Xiao shot forward, right behind it.
Fan Yun paled in alarm. Before he could dodge, Feng Xiao's palm slammed into his chest. Fan Yun stumbled backward and hacked up a mouthful of blood.
Feng Xiao gave him no chance to recover. He pressed forward, striking thrice in rapid succession. Fan Yun took the first two head-on, staggering back as his face turned ashen. By the time the third blow arrived, he'd had enough. He turned and ran, leaping down the cliff and landing on the stones below. Within a few more bounds, his figure vanished into the mountain mists.
"Erlang!"
Moments after Fan Yun disappeared, a large group rushed over. At their head was Ming Yue, the third chief of the Jiejian Bureau, with the bureau's eagle riders behind him. Among them was another familiar face: Lin Yong, the young master of Yandang Mountain Estate.
Cui Buqu had used up all his breath with his final speech. He could hold on no longer—he slumped to the side, pain spiking through him as his injured body struck the rocks, yet unable to stop himself. Feng Xiao swiftly caught him before his head slammed into the ground.
He looked up at Ming Yue in surprise. "You certainly know how to make an entrance," he said, acid.
Ming Yue's smile was strained. "Their lair was well-hidden; we looked over half the mountain and couldn't find it. I happened to capture this man and had him guide us here."
Feng Xiao jerked his chin, signaling for Ming Yue to unseal Lin Yong's mute acupoint.
The instant his voice was freed, Lin Yong cried, "Yuntian! I've never done you any harm; I wouldn't help them hurt you! Yuan Sansi told me to poison you, but I refused! From the first time I laid eyes on you, I've always admired you. Even a glance from you is enough to make me happy—"
Feng Xiao's mouth twitched. "Gag him!"
"Don't! I'll stop talking, all right!"
Feng Xiao knew perfectly well that Lin Yong only appeared open and sociable. In reality, he was a schemer—why else would he have feigned harmlessness to conceal his membership in the Thirteen Floors of Yunhai? No matter what he babbled, Feng Xiao remained unmoved. "Where are the others?"
"When the fire broke out, that old bastard Ning Shewo fled even faster than I did. I was trapped within the array and delayed for some time. I didn't see anyone when I came out—the only ones I ran into were your subordinates here."
"Then where's your Pavilion Leader Xiao? Can he really remain uninvolved after an incident like this?"
Lin Yong composed himself. "The Thirteen Floors of Yunhai place great value on hierarchy. I've never met the pavilion leader. Only the likes of Fan-xiansheng and Yuxiu saw him regularly."
Cui Buqu coughed. "He's lying. Extract a confession from him once we get back. Use incense of helplessness."
Lin Yong's face fell. Burning hatred flashed in his eyes; he shook off the riders holding him and turned to flee.
Silver light shot from Ming Yue's sleeve and struck Lin Yong's shoulder. He fell down with a cry, and the eagle riders pounced on him to restrain him.
A drizzling rain had begun to fall again.
Feng Xiao had neither the strength nor inclination to interrogate Lin Yong just now; he waved a hand for eagle riders to take him away.
Spotting Cui Buqu still on the ground, Ming Yue strode over to help him up. Cui Buqu accepted his assistance, thanking him in a low voice. Behind him, Feng Xiao said coolly, "This invalid can't even stand, and you want him to walk by himself. How far do you think he'll get?"
Cui Buqu felt his feet leave the ground. A moment later, he was cradled in Feng Xiao's arms.
Ming Yue was an upright person. This sight was a shock to him. "Erlang, you're injured! Let me carry him!"
"I've already picked him up. Switching hands now will only be a hassle." Feng Xiao wrinkled his nose at Cui Buqu. "You smell like blood and dirt. It's nauseating. Didn't you hear what that Fan bastard said? Your fate is harsh; anyone who gets close will suffer. I may be destined for greatness, but don't think for a moment I'll let you leech good fortune from me when we get back to the capital. Hurry up and find a fortune teller; change your fate. I don't want your bad luck rubbing off on me…"
Cui Buqu was exhausted; the jostling as Feng Xiao carried him made his stomach churn. He could only press his lips tightly shut against the rising desire to cough up blood and use what little strength he had to roll his eyes.
Behind them, Ming Yue listened in confusion. If he's worried about bad luck, why carry him down the mountain? Is he actually complaining, or is this some bizarre attempt at sarcasm?