Chapter Thirty-Five: Zhang Zongcheng’s Sword

Jinhua Prefecture, Zhang Residence.

The opulent and imposing mansion of the prefectural lord was shrouded today in a stifling and oppressive atmosphere. Every maid and servant moved like autumn cicadas trembling in a cold wind, not daring to utter a sound, for fear that the slightest noise might bring fatal disaster upon themselves.

“Have you found out yet?”

Inside the Zhang family’s study, a cold voice rang out, and the room seemed to grow even colder at the sound.

“It’s been investigated, my lord! The one who paraded Commander Wang Jin and his men through the streets was an outsider known as Jiang Liunian!”

A man clad in a dark robe embroidered with golden clouds and serpent motifs knelt on the floor, reporting to Zhang Zongcheng, who sat behind the desk in a crimson official robe. He raised his head cautiously, stealing a glance at the master before him.

Though Zhang Zongcheng’s dignified visage betrayed neither joy nor anger, his mere presence filled the commander of the covert guards with dread.

“Where is this man now?”

Prompted by the prefect’s inquiry, the middle-aged man dared not linger, hastening to reply, “After delivering the captives to the yamen, he vanished! Now the yamen is besieged by those wealthy merchants and tycoons, demanding… that you execute Commander Wang Jin!”

“Heh! How amusing!”

Zhang Zongcheng’s voice was laced with mockery and disdain, as if ridiculing the other party’s overestimation of themselves, yet the chill in his tone was like a blade of ice.

The middle-aged man swallowed nervously, lowering his gaze to avoid the prefect’s eyes. The tension in the room grew palpable.

Zhang Zongcheng slowly lifted his head, fixing the kneeling commander with a cold stare. “You have one day. Capture this man and bring him before me.”

“At your command!”

The man in the dark robe, as if receiving a royal pardon, rose hurriedly to his feet. In the short time he’d been there, sweat had drenched his back. The prefect’s aura was more terrifying than ever—even as a master at the peak of his cultivation, he dared not breathe too loudly before him.

As he turned to leave the study, a cool voice sounded behind him: “Remember, there is no such person as Commander Wang Jin. There is only the river bandit Jiang Sha, who confessed and committed suicide in prison—Wang Jin, the Dragon-Catcher.”

“Yes… I understand, my lord.”

The commander’s voice was dry, and he felt a pang of sorrow for a fallen comrade. He knew that this former brother-in-arms had just received his final sentence. His subordinates, too, were doomed beyond hope. The prefect would not tolerate the slightest risk of his secrets being exposed.

After the commander withdrew, Zhang Zongcheng rose slowly, clasped his hands behind his back, and squinted at a sword hanging on the wall.

The blade was dull and dark, its surface densely engraved with mysterious runes and wormlike symbols.

Especially on the hilt, two sinister characters were inscribed—“Yellow Springs”—as if some evil spirit had left its mark, adding an even greater aura of malice to the sword.

Zhang Zongcheng stroked the icy blade with a lover’s tenderness. In his early days, it was with this ancient sword, the Yellow Springs, that he slaughtered twelve bandit strongholds in succession, securing the resources to ascend to the rank of grandmaster.

Yet after he attained power, he rarely drew this sword. For he had found another blade more useful—one named “Authority.”

The sword of Yellow Springs could only kill, but the sword of Authority was limitless.

So he would climb, step by step, to seize an even more formidable sword of power, to truly command his destiny—and the fates of all others.

But if the sword of Authority ever failed him, he would not hesitate to let the Yellow Springs taste blood again.

“Chisong Dao Palace… Daoist Yuchen? Jiang Liunian? Hah!”

Zhang Zongcheng’s eyes glinted with cold contempt. Did they think that capturing a few worthless fools could threaten him? Still, they had chosen a fine moment.

With Songyuan Festival approaching, and following his superior’s—Governor Guo Yi of Jinzhou—pronouncement, this was no longer just an ordinary gathering of martial artists.

At this moment, he truly wished to avoid stirring up trouble, lest the Marquis of Carefree seize upon his missteps.

Setting aside the long sword, Zhang Zongcheng paced to the desk, where a document lay weighted down with a paperweight.

Its cover bore two large vermilion characters—“Urgent Report!”

This indicated it was the highest-level secret dispatch in the Yu Kingdom, usually sent directly by express courier to the capital court, yet now it lay before Zhang Zongcheng.

The contents were brief, a single line: “Drought and plague have struck Jiangzhou anew; tens of thousands of refugees on the move!”

One short sentence, yet shocking in its gravity.

Zhang Zongcheng picked up the urgent dispatch—normally reserved for the highest echelons of the capital—as casually as if it were a scrap of paper.

“Truly a troubled time! A plague, is it? How interesting,” he murmured, gazing out at the sunset beyond the window.

…

Outside the Jinhua Prefecture Yamen.

A bustling crowd of wealthy merchants had gathered, drawn by news that the Daoists of Chisong Palace had captured the infamous river bandits of Jinsha. They had hurried over at once.

“Brother Wang, you’re here as well?”

A plump merchant, clad in silk and satin, greeted a familiar face.

“Indeed! Which of us here hasn’t had cargo stolen by that damned Wang Jin? My poor nephew—he lost his life at the villain’s blade!” the merchant surnamed Wang said bitterly.

“You got off lightly! If you’d had womenfolk with you, the outcome would’ve been far worse! These scoundrels are finally getting what they deserve!”

“Exactly! I don’t know what’s wrong with this government—years of bandit suppression and yet these outlaws remain! What a pack of useless officials!” another merchant muttered under his breath.

“Careful, Brother Li!”

Those nearby edged away, fearful of being implicated.

Yet as the conversation progressed, a sense of shared outrage united them, and they gathered at the yamen gates, demanding that the prefect judge Wang Jin publicly and execute him by dismemberment.

The crowd’s cries grew louder and more fervent by the minute.

At that moment, the yamen’s tightly shut doors swung open.

A stern scholar with a neatly trimmed beard stepped out.

“Silence!”

He barked at the crowd.

“Any further disturbance before the yamen will be punished as treason—on the spot execution!”

His words fell like a dousing of cold water, and the hubbub died instantly. The merchants exchanged uneasy glances, stunned by the yamen’s harsh response.

The middle-aged official, seeing the crowd subdued, allowed a slight relaxation of his features and announced with a cold snort:

“The criminal Wang Jin and his accomplices, in fear of the law’s might, have all taken their own lives in prison! By the prefect’s order, their corpses shall be cast into the marketplace for three days as a warning to others!”

With that, he gestured behind him.

Dozens of soldiers, swords at their sides and exuding a murderous aura, dragged out as many corpses from within the yamen, loading them onto donkey carts to be exposed at the market square.

Nearly all of the dead had their heads twisted to one side, eyes wide open as if unwilling to die, the marks of death suggesting not suicide but necks snapped by force.

The grisly sight drained the color from the merchants’ faces, and they quickly scattered in terror.

On a willow tree across from the yamen, a tiny paper figurine crouched, observing the entire scene with perfect clarity.

“How decisive! Looks like tonight, I’ll have to pay this prefect a visit,” the little paper figure mused, a trace of human cunning flickering in its eyes.