A Difficult Stroke

The view by the man-made lake in the courtyard was shrouded in darkness; only the ripples in the water reflected the faintest glimmers of light, casting a subtle, ghostly glow. Zheng Fanren walked to the front of the lakeside pavilion. Separated by a sparse bamboo fence, he gazed into the hall, which stood without walls on any side. At once, he abandoned his plan for assassination, for the young man inside was already watching him.

This architectural design was meant for appreciating the surrounding scenery—a place ideal for drinking and merrymaking.

At this moment, a rather slender young man was seated on the immense stone chair, sipping tea.

A small lantern glowed softly with a pale, yellow light. The thin young man sat atop the stone seat, holding an elegant Yixing teacup in his left hand, while his right tapped lightly on the corner of an ebony tea table.

He looked calmly at the youth who had just entered, a faint, indifferent smile briefly appearing on his face. In a soft voice, he said,

“Brother Zheng, your unannounced arrival is somewhat at odds with the etiquette of tea. Wine is a matter of fate, but tea demands decorum. Perhaps we should be drinking wine instead?”

“It seems, Young Master Wan, you’ve finally realized that I am but one who cannot cultivate, and have so swiftly regained your former composure.”

The sound of Wan Lixing setting down his teacup was a touch too loud, betraying an underlying agitation. He immediately lifted the corners of his mouth in a slight smile and replied, “After all, in this world, nothing matters more than strength.”

Zheng Fanren watched his every movement, every expression, as though handling a matter of utmost gravity. Yet his words remained calm: “In fact, those unable to cultivate are generally of poor aptitude. Even so, I still surpass you by far in matters of learning.”

Wan Lixing suddenly seized his cup and, raising it, drained it in one gulp.

Zheng Fanren’s hand was already resting on the hilt of his blade.

Wan Lixing abruptly laughed. “You intend to strike me down in the instant I am provoked?”

Zheng Fanren remained composed. “When the saintess fell into misfortune and became a slave, there was a little girl from Anxi who befriended her. She died beneath your archers’ arrows.”

Wan Lixing said in astonishment, “You, a subject of the Han, would seek vengeance for a slave girl from Anxi?”

Zheng Fanren replied, “It may be hard to comprehend, but that is the truth. Yet I would also ask you: as a slave of the Anxi Empire, why would that girl risk herself to save our saintess?”

Wan Lixing frowned slightly. “I do not understand.”

Zheng Fanren smiled. “It’s just as well you don’t. Otherwise, my hand would not be so unhesitating.”

Wan Lixing suddenly snarled, “What makes you think you can kill me and act as though it’s only natural?”

As his words fell, a streak of light flashed from Zheng Fanren’s hand, instantly extending toward the crown of Wan Lixing’s head.

Wan Lixing, startled and unprepared to rally his mystical power in defense, leapt backward just in time to see the stone seat scored by a deep, long gash.

With a sudden, rapid slash forward, the body’s momentum propelled him onward. Zheng Fanren simply threw himself to the ground, using the floor to launch himself again, springing high toward the very ceiling of the hall.

As expected, after Wan Lixing’s backward leap, a dozen ribbons of yellow light whipped out from his fan, slicing toward the spot where Zheng Fanren had just been.

In midair, Zheng Fanren seemed to see the corpses torn apart as on that day, and he threw all his strength into a downward slash at Wan Lixing.

Even if Wan Lixing summoned his mystical energy again, he would suffer grave injury. He could only sigh inwardly: “By giving way to anger, I’ve already lost the initiative.”

He had no choice but to retreat again, but Zheng Fanren did not attack him, instead vaulting behind him. When he landed, he swept his blade in a fierce arc.

Wan Lixing countered with a surge of mystical energy, a desperate move, but the force of their attacks was not equal—Zheng Fanren was forced to fall back.

From the start of the fight to this moment, the two had just exchanged places—now both were outside the hall. Luckily, the little lake was not on this side, or both would have ended up in the water.

Having lost the initiative, Wan Lixing had not yet unleashed the full power of a sealed master’s arts—precisely why Zheng Fanren believed physical force could kill him.

Now both men fixed their gazes on each other, neither making a move.

He thought to himself, “It seems there’s no way out but to fight to the bitter end.”

He then smiled and said, “Without the help of your bodyguard squad, you can’t even use your mystical arts. Why not call for them? I’ll wait.”

The Han Empire’s mystical guards were deathsworn—utterly loyal but for one flaw: they obeyed only direct orders, as mechanical as automatons. Yet that was their greatest strength as well; there was never any question of their loyalty.

Their entire lives, they served one master only, but their obedience belonged to commands, not to the person. Even if their master were slain before their eyes, without an order, the deathsworn would not move an inch.

Those who care nothing for their own lives care even less for the lives of others.

Wan Lixing smiled in response: “When it’s time to call, I will. For now, there’s no need.”

Clearly, Zheng Fanren’s advantage was gone; both were now on equal footing. Wan Lixing no longer showed the slightest concern.

Zheng Fanren raised his blade with one hand, poised to strike. Wan Lixing flicked open his paper fan, and again a dozen yellow lights danced in the air.

This time, Zheng Fanren did not evade. Instead, he suddenly charged forward as Wan Lixing’s mystical attack shot out at blinding speed.

In an instant, the stone chair exploded in all directions. Zheng Fanren darted forward, using the shattered chair for cover. As the blast sounded, his dagger flashed, stabbing toward Wan Lixing.

Wan Lixing was shocked. He could no longer care whether Zheng Fanren had been injured by the debris—he could only retreat at top speed. Behind him was the bamboo fence Zheng Fanren had seen upon entering the hall.

As his body struck the bamboo, he managed to block the incoming dagger with his fan.

Sure enough, with a dull thud, the blade was knocked aside, clattering to the stone floor.

At the same time, the bamboo behind him toppled in perfect unison, falling onto him as well.

Zheng Fanren silently praised the precision with which he had slashed the bamboo upon entering. Had the bamboo fallen backward, it would have been useless.

Even as he admired his own handiwork, he surged forward, putting all his strength into a single, ferocious blow—the fastest and most powerful he could muster.

Wan Lixing panicked, desperately summoning his mystical energy. Instantly, yellow light enveloped his entire body.

Yet the blade had already struck his chest, and a surge of powerful mystical energy lashed out at Zheng Fanren.

There was no time to dodge, but Zheng Fanren was prepared. The mystical talisman he had placed on his chest shifted slightly as he moved, relying on instinct to adjust his position.

His judgment proved correct—the energy struck the book on his chest.

But reality is ever unpredictable. Using a book to block mystical force was a gamble, and in this crucial moment, the gamble failed. The book exploded against his chest, fragments scattering everywhere.

Zheng Fanren was hurled backward more than twenty feet.

The blade remained lodged in Wan Lixing’s chest. Zheng Fanren struggled to his feet, blood streaming down his own chest as well.

Step by step, he dragged himself toward the fallen bamboo fence, each movement excruciating, pain threatening to overwhelm him with dizziness.