Gan Nineteenth Sister Chapter 4

Heaven and earth had darkened to a single leaden pall, and the wind keened without ceasing.

Upon the snowfields all around, not a single set of tracks could be seen. A few dried tumbleweed balls skittered across the white expanse, driven by the gusting wind, and crows swept low overhead, loosing harsh, grating cries that pierced the very soul.

The body was unearthed quickly.

When their eyes fell upon the frost-locked face of the dead man, all three stood thunderstruck, as though lightning had split a cloudless sky. Their limbs went rigid and they could not move from where they stood.

Xie Shan¹ the Unified Innate Palm² lay with teeth clenched and eyes bulging wide—a mask of agony, of one who had died unable to close his eyes upon the world. The face of Kong Song³ the Cloud-Grasping Hand⁴ had gone white as ash. A long time passed before the faintest trace of colour crept back into his cheeks. He reached out and gently pressed Xie Shan’s eyelids shut, then stepped back.

“Bury him,” he said.

The two disciples⁵ started, then obeyed without a word. They covered Xie Shan’s body once more with snow, mounding it over him as before. Kong Song’s shoulders shifted in a barely perceptible motion and he slipped into the bamboo grove. His two disciples followed close on either flank.

Zhao Tianbao⁶ the God of Might⁷ spoke first. “It seems the enemy is concealed somewhere nearby. We would do better to carry Hall Elder Xie’s body back and deliberate afresh.”

Kong Song shook his head. “There is nothing more to deliberate. The plan stands as it was. We press on.”

He turned and set off toward the lake, Wang and Zhao hurrying to keep pace. The three men moved along the bamboo path in the opposite direction from whence they had come. They had gone perhaps a hundred feet when Kong Song halted.

His grief, held in check until now, at last broke through. A faint tremor ran through his frame. He raised one long sleeve and drew it across his eyes. Behind him, the two disciples could restrain themselves no longer, and a low, muffled sound of weeping rose from them both.

Kong Song turned. “You must show no sign of it,” he said, his voice low and taut. “If the enemy is close at hand, the three of us are dead men.”

The words struck like a pail of ice water dashed upon their heads.⁸ The weeping ceased at once.

Kong Song’s keen eyes swept the surrounding terrain. “Fire a spread of Linked Branch Arrows⁹ toward the gate as a warning signal. Go swiftly, and return swiftly.”

The two men answered as one, then launched themselves forward, each displaying his movement arts. They covered several hundred feet in a blur of motion, loosed the signal arrows in the direction of the Yueyang Gate,¹⁰ and doubled back.

In that brief span, Kong Song too could not wholly master the dread rising within him. He thought of the old saying—that life and death are written in the stars—and at last hardened his resolve. He looked at his two disciples and gave a single curt nod.

“Let us go.”

His mind was set. He did not waver again.

The three of them followed the bamboo path straight toward the lakeside. Along the way they encountered not a living soul—never mind a man, there was not so much as a stray dog to be seen. The ground here stood higher than the surface of the lake, and a row of stone posts had been driven along the path’s edge for the purpose of guiding travellers. Anyone wishing to cross the water had to descend a flight of stone steps to a desolate landing, where a ferryboat could be hired.

Few folk dwelt in these parts. Without particular cause, a man might live out month upon month, year upon year, and never venture beyond his own threshold. Merchants were a rare sight. The only vessel moored at the landing was a battered old ferry, tended by a lame old man whose sole charge was to carry passengers across. At present, the old craft still sat rocking gently at its mooring, and the boatman himself—driven indoors by the bitter cold—was huddled beneath the cabin’s eaves, arms wrapped around his knees, head buried in the crook of his elbows, dozing.

On the bank above, a tea house stood—the sort that also sold odds and ends of food. When the three men arrived, they found the little shop doing scant trade. Two small donkeys were tethered outside. Within, an old man and a young woman sat hunched in a corner over bowls of noodles. Kong Song stood with Wang and Zhao at the shop’s entrance and surveyed the interior. Nothing seemed amiss.

The proprietor—who doubled as his own serving man—was a thin, wiry fellow of middle years called Lao Jiang.¹¹ He was out front shovelling snow from the doorstep. Seeing customers approach, he set aside his tool and came over at once.

Kong Song pulled his hat brim low, fearful of being recognised. Affecting a broad Hunanese drawl, he said, “Beg pardon—I’m after a pouch of tobacco. Would you have any?”

Lao Jiang nodded eagerly. “Yes, yes… I’ll fetch it straight away.”

He returned a moment later bearing a bamboo pipe stuffed full of tobacco leaves. Kong Song took it, pressed two copper coins into the man’s palm, and smiled. “Business treating you well?”

Lao Jiang clicked his tongue. “Don’t get me started. Four customers all day, and that’s the sum of it. Come, come—step inside, the three of you. I’ll brew you each a bowl of hot tea to ward off the chill.”

Kong Song waved the offer aside. “Kind of you, but we’ve a road to keep.”

Lao Jiang looked at the three of them with something like disbelief. “You’re heading out on the lake at this hour?”

“Just so,” Kong Song answered readily. “We arrived too late. All we can hope for now is the run of pike that comes in with the ebbing tide.”

Lao Jiang tucked the two coins into his waistband and turned to retrieve his shovel.

Kong Song called after him. “There are only two customers inside your shop, yet you said four. Where are the others?”

“Those two? Just left,” Lao Jiang said without looking up.

Kong Song stiffened. His eyes darted left and right, but there was no one in sight. He forced a smile. “Tell me, friend—those two who left, were they in our line of work? Fishermen?”

Lao Jiang bent to his shovelling and shook his head. “No, no, no… Fine gentlefolk, those two. Wearing fur coats, they were—lined with dark fox.” He straightened and pointed. “Went off that way.”

But in the direction he indicated, there was no one at all.

Lao Jiang blinked and scratched his head. “Well, that’s odd. They only left a moment ago…”

A chill ran through Kong Song’s heart. Close, he thought. Had we arrived a quarter of an hour sooner, we would have walked straight into them. He reckoned that they had slipped past that particular danger, and the relief that surged through him was immense. He thanked the shopkeeper and, with Wang and Zhao at his heels, descended the stone steps toward the landing.

The lame old boatman, seeing custom at last, clambered to his feet and hobbled forward to greet them.

The three men boarded in haste. Kong Song waved a hand. “Cast off. Quickly.”

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Context/Terms

New terms introduced:

• 醍醐灌顶 (tíhú guàndǐng) — A Buddhist metaphor, literally “pouring the purest cream upon the crown of the head.” Refers to a moment of sudden, piercing clarity or awakening. In Buddhist ritual, anointing with ghee (clarified butter) during initiation symbolises the transmission of wisdom. Here it describes how Kong Song’s warning instantly jolted his grieving disciples back to alertness.

• Linked Branch Arrow (连枝箭, liánzhī jiàn) — Previously established. The Yueyang Gate’s signature distress signal, a type of concealed projectile designed to be visible from a distance. Here, Kong Song orders his disciples to fire a spread toward the gate to warn those remaining inside.

• Dark fox (玄狐, xuánhú) — A luxury fur. The dark fox, also called the silver fox or black fox, produced one of the most prized pelts in imperial China. A coat lined with dark fox fur signalled considerable wealth and status—precisely the kind of detail that would make Lao Jiang remember his customers. The presence of such affluent strangers at this remote lakeside tea house, on this particular day, confirms Kong Song’s suspicion that the enemy’s agents are operating in the area.

• Pike (梭子鱼, suōziyú) — A freshwater fish found in Dongting Lake. Kong Song’s cover story—that they are fishermen who arrived too late and must wait for the tidal run of pike—is plausible enough to satisfy a shopkeeper, though the season and the hour make it a thin excuse.

Narrative observations:

This section pivots from the visceral shock of discovering Xie Shan’s body to the taut, nerve-fraying tension of Kong Song’s attempt to reach the ferry undetected. The contrast is deliberate: where the previous section ended with Ruan Xing’s annihilating speed, here the threat is invisible, the enemy a presence felt but unseen. Kong Song’s grief—suppressed, then briefly exposed, then ruthlessly locked away—reveals a man operating at the limit of his composure. His warning to his disciples is simultaneously practical (if the enemy sees them weeping, they are compromised) and psychologically devastating (they must deny themselves even the comfort of mourning).

The tea house scene is a masterclass in suspense through mundane detail. Lao Jiang’s cheerful, garrulous patter—his complaints about business, his eagerness for company—contrasts sharply with the life-or-death calculus running through Kong Song’s mind. The revelation that two wealthy strangers in dark fox furs have “just left” ratchets the tension to breaking point. Kong Song’s relief at having narrowly missed them is palpable, yet the reader knows what Kong Song does not: the enemy is not merely nearby but has already anticipated his movements. The deserted ferry, the sleeping boatman, the empty snowfields—every detail that Kong Song reads as safety is, for the reader, heavy with foreboding.

The lame old boatman hauled at his mooring rope and asked, “Crossing the lake, the three of you?”

Kong Song³ replied, “Anywhere will do, the farther the better.”

The wooden boat rocked and swayed as it left the bank. The old man hoisted his tattered sail, and the boat caught a bearing and drove straight toward the heart of the lake.

The three men exchanged glances, and the stone that had weighed upon each of their hearts began to lift. By their reckoning, they had escaped with their lives after all.

The wind was fierce upon the open water. Kong Song turned to the boatman and proposed a bargain. “I say, boat master, might we shelter in your cabin out of this cold? We shall pay you a few extra coins when we go ashore.”

The lame old man said, “The space is rather cramped. I fear it won’t hold three more.”

Kong Song chuckled, “No matter.”

He lifted the door curtain and began to squeeze inside.

He had scarcely thrust himself halfway when he froze, rigid as a clay figure, rooted to the spot.

The cabin was occupied.

A square table was laid with a lavish spread of wine and food. Three people sat around it, cups in hand, drinking amongst themselves. The two in white were strangers to Kong Song’s eyes, but the lean fellow clad in crimson he knew all too well—the sharp white face, the knife-thin brows. It was none other than Ruan Xing,¹² the red-robed attendant of Gan Shijiu Mei.¹³

The sudden discovery sent a chill of dread flooding through Kong Song the Cloud-Grasping Hand.⁴ He felt as though he had been plunged into an ice cellar. Behind him, Wang Renjie¹⁴ the Azuer Duckweed Sword¹⁵ and Zhao Tianbao⁶ the God of Might⁷ had not yet seen what lay within. Bewildered by Kong Song’s sudden halt, each craned forward to peer past him.

One look, and they too turned to stone!

Kong Song’s wits returned first. Sensing the peril, he barked a single sound, “Back!”

His two disciples snapped awake as from a dream, and with Kong Song’s cry still ringing in their ears, they flung their weight backward and hurled themselves out of the cabin.

Too late.

Almost in the same instant, the crimson-clad man’s white hand flicked outward. A pair of bamboo chopsticks shot from his fingers like twin dragons lunging for a pearl.

They hissed through the air with deadly intent.

The movements of both sides were too quick! A flash of scarlet blood seemed to flashed across the sky, faster than the eye could follow.

The two disciples’ backward flight was swift as golden eels sporting in waves. Still airborne, they hurtled a full twenty feet before they struck the water with a sharp hiss, twin furrows splitting the lake’s surface as they plunged beneath.

Hard on their heels, two white shapes burst from the cabin and sprang toward the boat’s edge.

Kong Song the Cloud-Grasping Hand had likewise twisted away in retreat. But Ruan Xing, even as he loosed the chopsticks, had not forgotten the third man. His lean frame coiled and uncoiled in a single fluid motion as he swept out after Kong Song, his left palm already lashing forward.

In the space of a breath, the cabin emptied like a gust of wind. Every occupant surged onto the deck. The sudden shift in weight set the wooden vessel pitching wildly, great waves slapping against its hull.

Kong Song the Cloud-Grasping Hand tracked the cutting edge of Ruan Xing’s palm strike and spun away rapidly, his body slamming hard against the cabin wall with a heavy thud. He had narrowly evaded the blow, yet even the residual force of the crimson-clad man’s palm was ferocious beyond reckoning.

Kong Song held the rank of Hall Master¹⁶ of one of the Inner Four Halls at Yueyang School, a station of no small distinction. He could not simply turn tail and flee as lesser men might. And in truth, when he had seen his two fellows plunge into the lake, half the dread in his heart had eased. He resolved to pit all his skill against the enemy and hold his ground.

But the moment he chose to stand and fight, a thousand fleeting chances of escape slipped through his fingers.

A sudden chill swept over him. Ruan Xing’s murderous aura had locked onto him like a shroud, and white shapes flickered at the edges of his vision. The two men in white had already flanked him, sealing off his retreat on both sides. Kong Song carried a long sword concealed within a fishing rod. Seeing how dire matters had become, he snatched it free and drew the blade.

The crimson-clad Ruan Xing regarded him, and two deep creases of amusement carved themselves into his gaunt cheeks.

“Old Kong,” he said, “Heaven offered you an open road and you refused it. Hell had no gate, yet here you come knocking of your own accord. You were dead men either way, why not simply wait at home for the end?”

Kong Song had clashed with this man before and knew well how blindingly fast those hands could move, for he had been bested by that green bamboo riding crop. He kept his eyes fixed upon the crimson-clad man, not daring to let his attention waver for an instant.

Hearing these taunting words, he sneered, “Ruan, do not presume too much. The three of us let our guard down and blundered onto your trap of a boat, but that does not mean we have fallen into your snare. For all your scheming, you could not prevent my two disciples from escaping into the water. That much, I think, you did not foresee.”

The red-clothed Ruan Xing snorted through his nose, “Is that so? Old Kong, you truly have eyes but fail to see.”

As he spoke, those cold, severe eyes shifted towards the lake. In that same moment, a great splash broke the surface. Amid the churning spray, two figures bobbed up one after the other. Kong Song recognised them at once as Wang and Zhao, and his heart leapt with bewilderment as he wondered why had they not swum away. But when his gaze sharpened and he looked again, horror seized him. After a brief, violent convulsion, the two bodies went rigid, floating flat and motionless upon the water, turning into two utter corpses.

The shock drained every trace of warmth from Kong Song’s body. His eyes flew wide. He looked again, desperate to be wrong, but there was no mistake. Wang Renjie and Zhao Tianbao.

They had died the same way, each with a bamboo chopstick driven into the centre of the forehead. The neili¹⁷ that drove those throws must have been sufficient to pierce stone and penetrate walls. Nothing less could have driven a chopstick so deep into a man’s skull.

The two corpses rose and fell with the gentle swell, trailing ribbons of blood through the water. The sight was ghastly beyond endurance. Kong Song the Cloud-Grasping Hand staggered, his footing giving way, and very nearly collapsed where he stood.

Ruan Xing smiled, cold and chilling. “Old Kong, you can abandon all hope now.”

Even as the words left his lips, he stepped back, and his two white-robed disciples launched themselves at Kong Song from left and right. A pair of ox-ear daggers¹⁸ flashed from their sleeves, stabbing simultaneously toward his ribs. Kong Song swept his sword in a ringing arc, parrying both blades with a double clang, and in the same motion surged forward, driving straight for the crimson-clad Ruan Xing.

A man driven to the uttermost extremity often discovers a strength beyond all reckoning. In this desperate hour, the force behind Kong Song’s sword was extraordinary, formidable and fierce from every angle.

Man and blade arrived as one, the sword thrusting straight for the heart in a blaze of silver radiance.

The crimson-clad Ruan Xing remained supremely unconcerned. To his eye, apart from the zhangmen Li Tiexin himself, not a single soul in Yueyang School merited his regard. Kong Song the Cloud-Grasping Hand was beneath his notice.

With a cold laugh, he shifted half a foot to the left and snapped, “Impudent!”

He arched backward, his body turning in a supremely elegant execution of Reclining to Watch Artful Clouds,¹⁹ and as his lean frame whirled through the turn, both pale hands shot inward and clamped together.

With a soft, sharp sound, he caught the gleaming blade between his palms.

It was a feat to stop the heart.

To dare the art of seizing a bare blade barehanded required, at the very least, neigong²⁰ profound enough to master qi circulation—for only with qi flowing unbroken through the body, making it supple yet unyielding, could flesh withstand the bite of steel. It was an internal martial art that permitted no shortcuts or tricks. Ruan Xing might not have counted among the foremost masters of this art, but his hands, his eyes, his footwork, and his stance revealed that he had glimpsed its innermost mysteries.

The instant his palms closed upon the blade, Kong Song’s entire body shuddered violently. A lesser man would have lost both sword and composure on the spot, but Kong Song was no novice. He was a veteran of Yueyang School’s senior ranks. And what appeared a simple catch was in truth an exquisite contest of neili between the two men.

Kong Song’s sword trembled fiercely in his grip. His face flushed scarlet, veins standing proud at his temples, his brows drawn taut and his eyes blazing. He was channelling thirty years of Pure Yang neigong through the blade. The sword blazed with sudden radiance, cold light dancing along its length. Ruan Xing’s gaunt hands, clamped upon the steel, flushed an angry red; they appeared to have swollen to twice their natural size, yet still they gripped the blade with unyielding force.

The sight was deeply unsettling. Ruan Xing was clearly finding this far harder than he had anticipated. Perhaps he had underestimated Kong Song at the outset, and now found himself mired in a struggle of his own making. His hands kept parting and closing again, parting and closing, as though gripping a bar of white-hot iron. And yet Kong Song could no more wrench his sword free than his opponent could hold it steady. His face grew redder still, and his body shook with ever greater violence.

As matters stood, if Ruan Xing could maintain his grip, victory would be his. Conversely, should Kong Song wrest the blade free, the advantage would swing to him in an instant.

The two white-robed men stood to either side, making no move to intervene. A restraint that, at the very least, upheld the dignity of martial honour.

Gradually, Kong Song began to falter.

Beads of sweat rolled down his flushed, vein-ridged face. His body, which had stood so steadfast, began to sway. Ruan Xing saw that the moment had come. Through sheer, punishing endurance, he had outlasted his opponent, though not without considerable alarm of his own. Creases of grim satisfaction spread across his sallow face. He exhaled sharply, releasing a low grunt.

He sank his shoulders, twisted his waist, and kicked—three movements flowing into one, executed with devastating precision.

A single kick, aimed squarely at Kong Song’s throat.

In his panic, Kong Song glimpsed something wrong with the oncoming foot, but it was already too late. A short blade concealed in the toe of Ruan Xing’s shoe drove clean through his throat. Blood sprayed in an arc as his body lifted like a bird taking flight, and with a sharp hiss he plunged headfirst into the lake. The jade-green water split open to swallow him, then closed again with scarcely a ripple.

The boatman, the lame old fellow, had watched this chain of horrors unfold and was now white to the marrow with terror. He stared at the three murderous figures on his deck and could not utter a single word; he could only huddle against the planking, trembling as though every sinew in his body had been severed.

Ruan Xing, in this moment, seemed to recover his customary composure. Standing upon the gently heaving deck, he examined the sword now resting in his hands—still held in that same seizing posture. Then, with a sudden flick, both hands shot out and the blade rocketed skyward, climbing and climbing until the eye could scarcely follow, before arcing downward and plunging into the depths of the lake.

Under the two white-robed men’s handling, the boat changed course and struck out toward the vast, mist-shrouded heart of the lake.

Darkness gathered by slow degrees.

The wind blew. The clouds dispersed. Across the leaden vault of sky, the stars of the Silver River²¹ pricked through like the far-shore fishing lanterns that glimmered across the waters of Dongting.²²

For some, the waiting is worse than death itself.

Death seldom strays far from the dark, and darkness, it seems, is forever the handmaiden of evil. And so, as night crept in on soundless feet, every soul within those walls felt the slow, suffocating press of dread. Smiles had long since vanished from their faces. They seemed already to have caught the scent of death upon the air, and when their eyes met, what they saw reflected back was nothing more than hollow, lifeless masks, drained of all vitality.

Duan Nanxi²³ the Eight Drunken Immortals²⁴ sat in his chair like a man deep in his cups, staring at nothing, his mind an empty void. In his hand he gripped a hidden weapon: a set of Linked Arrows.²⁵

The discovery of this weapon had already put every surviving disciple of Yueyang School¹⁰ on the sharpest edge of alarm, pealing like a funeral bell. Now they sat, each one stripped of courage, waiting for death to come.

From a distant temple came the tolling of a bell. Its resonant pulse seemed to stir the handful of souls in that hall back to some dim semblance of life.

The great hall was pitch black. With all four sets of window shutters drawn, one could not see a hand before one’s face.

Duan Nanxi started to his feet.

“Light the lamps,” he commanded.

Light flared at that very instant. Yin Jianping²⁶ came walking in from the corridor, a lamp in his hand. Its glow fell upon his open, resolute features, the look of a man who would challenge death itself, and the sight brought a flush of shame to the older man’s cheeks.

Lamplight flooded the hall. Five figures—one elder and four young—blinked in the sudden brightness, as though the light had restored to them something they had lost. Yin Jianping set down the lamp and with it the tray he carried. Upon the tray lay a great platter of steamed buns and several plain mantou.²⁷

The others stared at the food, then looked more closely at his face, and only then did comprehension dawn. Every one of them was startled.

Duan Nanxi blinked. “You… went outside?”

Yin Jianping nodded. “The kitchen fires have gone cold. There is nothing fit to eat within these walls. It occurred to me that you and my three shixiong²⁸ had not taken food or drink all day, Hall Master,¹⁶ so I went out and bought what I could.”

Duan Nanxi let out a hoarse sigh and gave a slow nod. “You are the most thoughtful among us.”

He reached for a bun and bit into it without ceremony. The three younger disciples seemed to remember their hunger all at once, and hands reached out from every side. They fell upon the food like a gale tearing through autumn leaves, and in moments the platter was bare.

Duan Nanxi’s gaze settled upon Yin Jianping. “Will you not eat?”

“I have already eaten.”

“You have…?”

“Yes,” said Yin Jianping. “At a small shop by the lake.”

“Then…” Duan Nanxi appeared to seize upon a sudden thought. His eyes sharpened. “Did you discover anything?”

Yin Jianping nodded. “I discovered a great deal… though perhaps it would be better if you did not hear it, Hall Master.”

“No, no!” Duan Nanxi said, steadying himself. “Say it. Heavens—at a pass like this, what is there that cannot be said? Come, sit down and tell us.”

Yin Jianping nodded and sat, yet for a moment could not find the words to begin.

Duan Nanxi said, “Have you found the enemy’s trail?”

“I have.” Yin Jianping paused, then he finally said, “And I found something else.”

“What did you find?” Duan Nanxi pressed.

“Several bodies.”

He let out a quiet sigh and slowly bowed his head.

“Bodies?” Duan Nanxi’s expression shifted. He stiffened, then forced himself to remain calm. “No need to mince words. Out with it.”

Yin Jianping gave a bitter smile. “Out in the snow, I found the body of Hall Master Xie.²⁹ He had been slain by a bladed weapon that pierced his heart and lungs.”

“Xie shidi³⁰…?” Duan Nanxi’s voice turned suddenly hoarse. “He is… dead?”

Yin Jianping gave a slow nod and continued. “Not far from Hall Master Xie’s body, on the hillside, I also found the bodies of Fang Gang³¹ shixiong and Liu Yong³² shixiong. They too had suffered horrible deaths. A ghastly spectacle to behold.”

Duan Nanxi sat down heavily. “All three of them… dead.”

“No.” Yin Jianping shook his head, his gaze hollow. “Not just the three of them… there were more.”

Every face in the room went rigid. Four pairs of eyes fixed upon him like drawn blades.

“You mean…?” Duan Nanxi’s tongue would scarcely obey him. “Kong shidi and his companions… surely they have not met with misfortune as well?”

Yin Jianping gave a bitter smile. “I fear so.”

“Y-you are talking nonsense!” Duan Nanxi’s eyes went wide. “Did you see it with your own eyes?”

Yin Jianping shook his head. “No. I only heard it from Old Jiang, the shopkeeper, when I was buying the buns.”

“What did he say?”

“Old Jiang said that three bodies had been found… out on the lake.”

Duan Nanxi shot to his feet. Yin Jianping’s voice broke off. The three young disciples were stricken with visible horror.

Yin Jianping sighed. “Hall Master, if you would compose yourself so I can finish what I have to say.”

Duan Nanxi lowered himself slowly back into his chair and clenched his jaw. “Speak.”

Yin Jianping said, “According to Old Jiang, the three dead were an old man and two younger ones—fishermen. They had stopped at his shop to rest and bought a pouch of tobacco before setting out again. When I reckoned the time, it matched precisely with when Hall Master Kong and the two shixiong left. That is what led me to this grim conclusion.”

Duan Nanxi sat frozen, stunned beyond all speech, and two lines of tears crept silently down his cheeks. The three disciples bowed their heads and wept.

“It is over.” After a long silence, a single broken sigh escaped him. “Seven generations of Yueyang School… it all ends here.”

One of the disciples, Sheng Xiaochuan³³ the Iron Fist, stepped forward abruptly. “Give the order, Hall Master. Let us go out together and fight them to the death.”

This Sheng Xiaochuan had a leopard’s brow and round, glaring eyes—the very image of Zhang Fei³⁴ reborn. Besides him, the remaining two disciples were Zhang Songming,³⁵ whose dark complexion and high cheekbones gave him a hawkish cast, and Guo Boxiong,³⁶ a towering figure with an untamed mane of hair. Together with Yin Jianping, these four young men were all that remained of Yueyang School’s once-flourishing ranks.

Hearing the Iron Fist’s words, Duan Nanxi the Eight Drunken Immortals regarded him with a cold, mirthless smile. “That would accomplish nothing but the venting of a moment’s fury.”

The other disciple, Guo Boxiong, spoke up. “Hall Master, what shall we do? Night has fallen. If we mean to leave, we should leave now.”

Duan Nanxi glanced toward Yin Jianping. “Perhaps Jianping had the right of it. Better to be still than to act rashly. Let us hold fast and watch how matters unfold.”

Sheng, Guo, and Zhang exchanged glances, plainly unconvinced, yet bound by the rules of their school, they dared not voice their doubts.

Duan Nanxi continued, his voice cold and measured. “If Jianping is correct, then our enemy has already cast a net across both land and water. Whichever way we break out, we cannot escape their eyes and ears. Better to hold still and let them come to us.”

Zhang Songming, the dark-faced disciple, said, “Hall Master, what do you mean by ‘hold still and let them come’?”

Duan Nanxi’s five fingers drummed upon the tabletop in slow succession. Then, abruptly, he stiffened, as though he had caught some distant sound.

Yin Jianping had heard it too.

“Someone is coming,” he said softly, a note of alarm in his voice.

Every one of them was already a bird that had felt the bowstring’s snap. The fright was more than their frayed nerves could bear, and one by one the colour drained from their faces.

“Douse the lamp!” Duan Nanxi hissed.

Yin Jianping bent low and blew. The flame guttered and died with a soft puff. The hall plunged into darkness. Each of them could sense the others only by memory and instinct, knowing where they stood because they had seen them standing there a moment before. Gradually, as their eyes adjusted, dim shapes began to emerge from the gloom.

They held their breath and listened. Nothing. Only the wind, hissing and gusting, beating against the mulberry-paper windows with a muffled drumming.

Duan Nanxi let out a slow breath. “Perhaps I was mistaken.”

His gaze turned toward Zhang Songming, who stood nearest the door. “Songming, go outside and take a look. If anything seems amiss, come back at once.”

Zhang Songming answered with a curt nod, crossed the room in a single swift bound, pressed himself flat against the door and listened, then slipped through the gap and out into the night.

The courtyard lay deep in snow. Several tall stalks of bamboo swayed and clattered in the wind. Row upon row of snow-laden cedars stood like silent sentinels, their stillness almost worse than movement. It was the sort of scene where a man hears cranes crying in the wind and sees soldiers in every shadow.

Zhang Songming steadied his nerves and swept his gaze across the yard. Under the pale reflection of the snow, the courtyard was visible at a glance, clear and empty. Not a soul in sight. His courage grew. He reached behind his back, drew the long sword from its sheath, and in a single crouching lunge hurled himself toward the top of the far wall, then dropped silently into the front courtyard beyond.

Then something struck his nostrils—a strange, heady fragrance.

At first it seemed no more than the scent of osmanthus in autumn, sweet and familiar. But by the time he realised that this perfume was far richer and more cloying than any osmanthus blossom, his body had already begun to betray him. First came a languid heaviness, a weariness so deep he longed for nothing more than a bed beneath him and the mercy of sleep. Then the weakness sharpened, spread, and in the space of a heartbeat his legs could no longer carry him. His knees buckled, and he collapsed into the snow with a muffled thud.

What truly shocked him came next.

In the instant he hit the ground, his eyes fell on something strange in the front courtyard. He saw the vermilion-lacquered thatched pavilion. There was nothing unusual about the pavilion itself, but the figures within.

Through a pale veil of drifting smoke, what first caught his eye was a lantern fixed to one of the pillars. It was sheathed in a shade of pink glass,³⁷ and through that translucent shell the light it cast was so deeply red that everyone inside the pavilion seemed bathed in its crimson glow.

A young woman of perhaps nineteen or twenty sat upon the corner of a stone bench, half-turned. A long silver cloak trailed from her left shoulder, leaving the right side of her figure exposed in a flowing line of slender curves. With a face lovely as blossoms and bright as the moon, she might, at first glance, have been a celestial maiden descended from the Jade Terrace,³⁸ or Chang’e³⁹ herself alighting from her palace in the moon. In the rosy wash of the lantern light, she seemed all the more unearthly—mysterious, luminous, wreathed in an almost dreamlike beauty.

A tendril of pale smoke curled upward from a slender jade vase upon the stone bench, thin as gossamer, spreading as it rose until it hung in the air like mist. The fragrance so reminiscent of osmanthus emanated from this very source.

Besides the young woman, three others occupied the pavilion. Two tall men in wide-brimmed hats stood at her back, one to each side. The fourth figure stood before her, and his posture was one of unnatural rigidity, as though he were a corpse propped upright. Clad from head to toe in red, with a red cap to match, and leaning upon that riding crop of his, he looked for all the world like a clown from a stage play.

The instant Zhang Songming’s³⁵ gaze fell upon this figure, cold sweat broke across his skin. He recognised the crimson-clad attendant Ruan Xing¹²—the same man who had accompanied the sedan chair on the day of the provocation—and before the shock had even registered, the red figure’s body launched skyward like a plume of smoke streaking across the open sky. Between one heartbeat and the next he had descended and now stood directly before Zhang Songming. In the same fluid motion, the green bamboo crop in his hand plunged deep into the man’s chest. Poor Zhang Songming never uttered a word. Under that single heart-piercing thrust, blood sprayed and he died where he lay.

The young woman in the pavilion seemed not to have expected Ruan Xing to strike so swiftly.

“Wait!” she called out, but it was already a beat too late.

Ruan Xing spun on his heel and swept back to the pavilion like a whirlwind. He bowed low. “What are your orders, young mistress?”

The silver-cloaked maiden’s fine, tapering brows twitched with the faintest displeasure.

“You are too hasty,” she said, her voice a soft, petulant reproach. “I meant to question him.”

Ruan Xing bowed again. “Did you wish to probe Yueyang School’s remaining strength, young mistress?”

The silver-cloaked maiden gave a slight nod. “That was precisely my intention.”

Ruan Xing gave a thin, hissing laugh. “Set your mind at ease, young mistress. By now, Yueyang School is all but spent. In my estimation, you need only walk straight in. There will be no one left to bar the way.”

A dimple appeared in the maiden’s cheek as she rose slowly from the stone bench. “Is that so? I am not so certain. Li Tiexin⁴⁰ is surely done for, but the old one may yet live.”

“Do you mean old Xian Bing, young mistress?”

“Who else?” Her eyes glittered with cold light. “The others are no cause for concern.”

“You raise a fair point, young mistress,” Ruan Xing conceded. “Yet even if the old man still draws breath, he can have no one left to call upon, no soldiers to deploy. Never mind you coming in person. I alone would be more than sufficient to finish him.”

The maiden turned those deep-set eyes upon him, and a single, withering glance cut him short. Ruan Xing realised at once that he had overstepped. He retreated a pace and bowed low, awaiting her rebuke.

The silver-cloaked maiden extended one pale hand and swept a lock of hair from her brow, dislodging a few flakes of snow. Those luminous, black-and-white eyes slid toward Ruan Xing, and she gave a cold, delicate snort.

“Ruan Xing. Have you forgotten what I told you before we set out?”

Ruan Xing flinched as though struck. He cupped his fists. “I would not dare!”

The silver-cloaked maiden tossed her hair behind her shoulders. “We cannot afford a single misstep on this venture. Caution is the better part.”

“Yes!”

“And the ambushes I ordered, are they all in place?”

“On three sides, south, north, and west, all set according to your instructions, young mistress. Sentries posted, and Seven-Pace Gut-Severing Red⁴¹ laid across every approach. If anyone in Yueyang School still breathes, they will not set so much as one foot beyond the perimeter.”

“And why should there be none left alive?” She jutted her chin toward the corpse in the snow. “That one was alive when he came out, was he not? I should think at least two or three more yet remain. Come, let us go inside and see for ourselves.”

Ruan Xing answered at once, stepped forward, and plucked the pink glass lantern from the pavilion pillar. He took the lead. The party of four followed a flagstone path through a moon gate into the second courtyard, advancing steadily toward the looming bulk of the great hall.

Snow lay thick across the yard. The four of them moved with such lightness that their footfalls made not the slightest sound. When they had closed to within some thirty feet of the hall, the silver-cloaked maiden halted. She gave Ruan Xing a slight nod, signalling him to go no further, and the four of them stood motionless before the hall’s main entrance. Ruan Xing was about to speak when she silenced him with a small wave of her hand. She turned her head, listening intently.

“I was not wrong,” she said at length. “There are still living souls inside.”

“Shall I go in and look?” said Ruan Xing.

“Why bother?” A faint smile touched her lips. “Two Soul-Severing Pills⁴² will be more than enough to flush them out to their deaths.”

A look of delight crossed Ruan Xing’s face. “You think of everything, young mistress.”

He pulled on a pair of specially made gloves, opened the leather pouch at his belt, and drew out a bamboo tube. From within it he tipped two pellets, each no larger than a sparrow’s egg, white as bone. The moment they left the tube, a faint hissing filled the air, and a thin white smoke began to rise.

The silver-cloaked maiden, who appeared to have cultivated some form of poison-repelling art⁴³ that rendered her immune, nevertheless took an instinctive step backward. Ruan Xing and the two hat-wearing men had already placed antidote pills beneath their tongues, and all three now sealed their breathing.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Ruan Xing tapped the ground lightly, shifted his body a full ten feet to one side, and with a flick of his wrist sent both white pellets hurtling toward the hall like hidden weapons.

Two soft thuds sounded as the pellets punched through the mulberry-paper windows and vanished inside.

In the space of a breath, violent coughing erupted from within. Then two figures burst through the shattered window like swallows darting through rafters, landing in the snow in a flurry of panic. Guo Boxiong³⁶ and Sheng Xiaochuan.³³ They had plainly been unable to withstand the poison’s assault and had broken out in desperation. Sheng Xiaochuan let out a furious bellow and hurled a flying dagger straight at the lantern-bearing Ruan Xing.

A flash of cold steel, aimed true at Ruan Xing’s face, but the angle was fractionally off. In a shivering blur of reflected light, the blade’s tip lodged itself between Ruan Xing’s clenched teeth. He spat it back the way it had come. Sheng Xiaochuan swung his sword backhanded, and the dagger fell with a clang, but before he could shift his footing the two white-clad, hat-wearing men were already upon him. In his fury, his agony, and his despair, Sheng Xiaochuan threw every last measure of his strength into a single cleaving stroke.

Guo Boxiong, wild-haired and beyond all restraint, loosed a savage roar, whirled round, and slashed at the nearest white-clad attacker bearing down on him. But the enemy was simply too strong. Setting aside Gan Shijiu Mei¹³ herself, whose skill transcended mortal reckoning, even her attendant Ruan Xing and these white-clad retainers were fighters of terrifying ability. These two hat-wearing men, to judge by the precision of their hands, eyes, body, and footwork, were no common underlings.

The swords of Sheng and Guo were the desperate strikes of men who knew they were about to die, and the force behind them was fearsome. But the two white-clad men evaded them with an identical technique—some exquisite method of evasion, clearly the product of masterful training. In a single, swift sidestep at the very instant the blades came screaming down, both swords cut nothing but empty air.

Before Sheng and Guo could launch a second attack, the white-clad men surged forward like wind and wave, like shadows cleaving to their forms. Almost simultaneously, two powerful hands drove deep into the young men’s backs.

The hands withdrew. Blood sprayed.

The two disciples staggered forward several paces and crumpled into the snow one after the other, dead.

The reek of blood hung heavy in the air. The white-clad men disengaged and drifted back, light as thistledown, to take their places at the silver-cloaked maiden’s flanks. The advance and retreat had been swift as a whirlwind, seamless, leaving no trace—as though they had not, bare-handed, slain two men in the blink of an eye.

Through the shattered paper of the window, everything that had transpired outside was visible with dreadful clarity.

For Duan Nanxi²³ the Eight Drunken Immortals,²⁴ it was an agony beyond endurance.

He was employing a technique of breath-sealing,⁴⁴ reducing his breathing to a thread so fine it was almost imperceptible, using neigong-regulated respiration⁴⁵ to sustain himself in place of ordinary breath, clinging by sheer will to survival through this desperate hour. Yet even so, beads of sweat had gathered upon his brow, and his body swayed and trembled as though at any moment he might collapse.

By contrast, Yin Jianping²⁶ seated opposite him, appeared remarkably composed. Stranger still, there seemed to emanate from his body an invisible force that repelled the poisoned smoke as it drew near, holding it at bay, within arm’s reach yet a world away, unable to touch him. He had watched every moment of the slaughter outside with perfect clarity, and his attention had fixed in particular upon the silver-cloaked maiden. He surmised that she must be the famed Gan Shijiu Mei.¹³

Her prowess he already understood well enough. He had gleaned all he needed from the Jade Dragon Sword⁴⁶ that the zhangmen had left behind. He would not be so reckless as to throw his life away by charging out to meet her. After a deep and searching deliberation, he arrived at a plan and broke his silence. He rose without haste and moved to Duan Nanxi’s side.

“You… are still alive?” Duan Nanxi’s voice was a ravaged whisper. “I… have underestimated you all along. But it makes no difference, we are dead men either way. Jianping! Let us go out and fight that girl to the last!”

Yin Jianping pressed a finger to his lips. “Hall Master,¹⁶ softly.”

Duan Nanxi blinked and fell silent.

In the darkness, Yin Jianping leaned close.

“If you do that, Hall Master, then it truly will be a dead end.”

“A dead end?” A bleak, desolate look settled over Duan Nanxi’s features. His ruined voice rasped out, “Do you imagine we can walk out of Yueyang School¹⁰ alive? No… you are too naive. That is impossible.”

Yin Jianping kept his gaze fixed upon the window. “If you will cooperate with me, Hall Master, there may yet be a chance.”

Something stirred behind Duan Nanxi’s eyes.

Yin Jianping whispered, “Consider, Hall Master, why has the enemy not yet stormed the hall?”

Duan Nanxi paused, then shook his head.

“Because they believe Old Patriarch Xian is still alive.”

“Ah!” A soft, weary sigh escaped Duan Nanxi, and he nodded slowly. “You may be right. But even if the old patriarch were still among the living, I fear he could do nothing.”

“This young woman clearly possesses world-shaking skill,” said Yin Jianping, “yet it is plain that she still harbours a measure of wariness toward Old Patriarch Xian. Her martial arts may be sufficient to defeat him, but she dare not be careless.”

Duan Nanxi nodded. “True enough. And so?”

Yin Jianping stole a glance toward the window and lowered his voice further. “Therefore you need only imitate the old patriarch’s manner, Hall Master, and address the girl directly. Even a brief deception will buy us the delay we need.”

Duan Nanxi gave a bitter smile and shook his head. “Delay… delay… and what good is delay?”

“A great deal of good,” said Yin Jianping. “I believe that apart from the girl herself, none of the others are beyond me. And with you supporting me from the flank, Hall Master, we may yet break through.”

Duan Nanxi stared at him, eyes wide with sudden shock. “You… you entered our school already trained in another art?”

“That is so,” said Yin Jianping. “Hall Master, this matter I shall explain in full once we are safely away, and submit myself to whatever punishment is fitting. But now is not the time. I beg your forbearance, Hall Master.”

Duan Nanxi studied him with new eyes, and slowly nodded. “No wonder the old patriarch showed you… such particular regard. Very well, then. Speak—I will not conceal it from you. I… have not a single idea left.”

“Speak at once, Hall Master,” Yin Jianping urged. “Invoke what the old patriarch said in life to expose this girl’s origins. If we can secure even a moment’s reprieve, we may yet live.”

Duan Nanxi let out a long sigh and gave a slow, reluctant nod. “So be it.”

The words were scarcely past his lips when the ruddy glow of a lantern flickered beyond the window. Through the half-open shutter they could see all four of the enemy, guided by the crimson glass lamp, advancing steadily toward the hall. Duan Nanxi hesitated. Yin Jianping caught his eye and gave a sharp, unmistakable signal. And then, despite himself, Duan Nanxi let out a cold laugh.

That single laugh brought all four figures to an abrupt halt.

“Who goes there?” Ruan Xing¹² bellowed. “Xian Bing⁴⁷! Are you truly not dead, you old fellow?”

Duan Nanxi laughed again, cold and scathing. “And who might you be, to dare speak so insolently before this old man?”

Ruan Xing glanced at the silver-cloaked maiden. A flicker of surprise crossed his face. He gave a chilling smile. “Xian Bing! So it is you after all. Besides yourself, who else is in the hall?”

“Besides me,” said Duan Nanxi, “there is no other.”

But even as his voice died away, the silver-cloaked maiden smiled. “Xian Bing, do you really expect me to believe that? I distinctly heard whispering inside—two voices at least. Who is the other?”

The shock jolted through Duan Nanxi. Yet he was, after all, a man seasoned by worldly affairs, and quick enough on his tongue when need demanded.

After the briefest pause, he let out a weary sigh. “The young lady’s hearing is extraordinary. It would seem you have indeed inherited your shifu’s⁴⁸ true teachings. You are the one who calls herself Gan Shijiu Mei, are you not? Why do you treat me with such discourtesy?”

The silver-cloaked maiden laughed coldly. “I am Gan Shijiu Mei. And given what you did in years past, old Xian, I would say I have been remarkably civil.”

Duan Nanxi breathed another sigh. “Then it is true… Shui Hongshao⁴⁹ is your shifu?”

Gan Shijiu Mei gave a light chuckle. “You only realise this now? Far too late.”

Though Duan Nanxi and Yin Jianping stood hidden in the dark recesses of the hall, they could see everything beyond the window. As Gan Shijiu Mei’s voice fell silent, she took a step forward.

“A moment, young lady,” Duan Nanxi said quickly.

Gan Shijiu Mei halted. Her tone was ice. “What more have you to say, Xian Bing?”

“I would ask but one thing,” said Duan Nanxi. “Your shifu… Shui Hongshao… is she well?”

As he spoke, he let out a long, desolate sigh. The sigh itself was pure contrivance, yet mingled with the genuine anguish of his own desperate plight, it rang with such heartrending sincerity that it might have wrung sympathy from a stone.

Gan Shijiu Mei paused for a beat. “What does it matter now?”

“A man cannot help but feel…” said Duan Nanxi. “And your shifu and I were, in years past, no mere acquaintances. All these years, I…”

“Enough!” Gan Shijiu Mei cut him short. “I came here today for your life. What use is any of this? If you think I shall stay my hand out of sentiment, you are gravely mistaken.”

“There, young lady, you are wrong.” Duan Nanxi spoke slowly, deliberately. “Consider this, my Yueyang School—every soul within these walls, more than a dozen lives. Not even the youngest disciple, not even the old gatekeeper, was spared. Do you imagine this old man harbours any thought of clinging to life? Young lady… at your tender age, to have wrought such slaughter, do you not think it… excessive?”

Gan Shijiu Mei smiled.

Though the distance was great, the two men inside the hall could see with perfect clarity the lovely dimple that appeared upon her face.

“You are wrong there, Xian Bing. ‘The well runs dry because its water is sweet; the plum tree endures because its fruit is bitter.’⁵⁰ The same holds true for men.”

“I would hear more.”

“Then I shall tell you,” said Gan Shijiu Mei, her voice smooth and unhurried. “Take my shifu as an example. If she had kept to her original nature and trusted no man, if she had shown no mercy and left none alive, she would never have suffered the calamity that befell her. The lesson is plain: one must not be soft of heart. If you do not kill, so be it—but once you raise your hand, pull the weed up by the roots. Leave nothing. Not a blade of grass.”

Such words from the mouth of a brute or a roughneck might have raised no more than an eyebrow. From a young woman of such rare and unearthly beauty, they struck the ear like a clap of thunder.

Duan Nanxi gave a cold snort.

“What? Does that displease you, old Xian?” She continued, her voice icy, “If my shifu had not been deceived by your honeyed words, she would never have fallen into your trap and come to such an end.”

Duan Nanxi laughed bitterly. “That accusation ought rightly to come from my lips, not yours.”

“Speak, then.”

“If I had been as ruthless as you are today—” Duan Nanxi’s voice dropped to a frigid whisper, “—then when the tunnels beneath Phoenix Mountain⁵¹ were set ablaze, I would not have shown mercy and opened one end, allowing your shifu to escape. And today’s annihilation of my school would never have come to pass.”

Gan Shijiu Mei’s slender frame gave an involuntary shudder. “Xian Bing—you dare speak of that? In that, you were wrong. Wrong because your actions were those of a man whose heart was divided. Do you know the true reason my shifu despises you?”

“I would hear it.”

A sudden frost swept across Gan Shijiu Mei’s face. “Then I shall tell you. For forty years, the thing my shifu has never ceased to hate you for is this: you should never have opened that tunnel. You should never have saved her.”

Duan Nanxi recalled the account Xian Bing had given before his death, and comprehension struck him like a bolt. He let out a sigh. “What the young lady speaks of… is your shifu’s fabled beauty, as it was in those days?”

Gan Shijiu Mei gave a cold, thin smile. “So you do understand.”

Her expression darkened in an instant. “Ruan Xing—attend!”

The crimson-clad Ruan Xing stepped forward. “What are your orders, young mistress?”

“Go inside and bring me old Xian’s head. See that it is done.”

Ruan Xing answered with a ringing acknowledgement. “At once!”

“Hold!” Duan Nanxi’s voice cut through the night. “Young lady Gan—do you truly think that sending a lackey will be enough to take my head? You underestimate me.”

Ruan Xing let out a thin, sniggering laugh. “Old Xian! Death stares you in the face and still you have the gall to boast? I shall show you what comes of such defiance.”

He levelled his bamboo staff and made to charge the hall, but a sudden peal of laughter from within, low, sinister, and utterly devoid of mirth, froze him mid-stride.

The laughter ceased, and Duan Nanxi’s voice drifted out in a murmur. “Try it, lackey. Set one foot inside this hall, and I promise you will die within five paces.”

Ruan Xing faltered for a heartbeat, then recovered with a cold sneer. “I do not believe that. Let us put it to the test.”

He raised his bamboo staff to his chest a second time and prepared to spring, but Gan Shijiu Mei stopped him.

“Wait.” A frigid smile played about her lips. “Ruan Xing, contain yourself. Since it comes to this, I shall go in myself.”

She unfastened her silver cloak and cast it aside, revealing a fitted warrior’s garment of the same hue beneath. Her waist was narrow, her bearing tall and graceful. The night wind caught her hair and sent it streaming, and in that moment she seemed a tree standing against the wind, a maiden born with natural beauty.

“There is no need.” Duan Nanxi breathed a long sigh. “Take your people and withdraw fifty feet. Give me half a cup of tea,⁵² and then you may come to claim my head.”

Gan Shijiu Mei smiled faintly. “That was my intention precisely. Since you have said it yourself, so much the better. Half a cup of tea it is. After that, I shall come to collect your corpse.”

With a wave of her hand, she and her three companions withdrew fifty feet in unison.

Inside the hall, Duan Nanxi and Yin Jianping had observed every moment with perfect clarity. Concealed in the dark recesses behind a folding screen, they had no fear of being seen.

A single corridor connected the great hall to the elixir chamber⁵³ in the rear courtyard. On all other sides lay open ground. Any attempt to flee under Gan Shijiu Mei’s watchful gaze would be nothing short of fantasy.

Duan Nanxi’s impersonation of Xian Bing had forced the enemy to retreat, but the danger was far from over.

He turned to Yin Jianping with a bitter smile and murmured, “You think this is enough? Alas… it is hopeless.”

Yin Jianping’s eyes glinted with keen intelligence. He rose and said softly, “You played your part admirably, Hall Master. Time is short—we must not delay. Let us go.”

Duan Nanxi answered with a grunt and made to rise, but his legs buckled beneath him and he sank back into his seat.

“Ah—” The colour drained from his face. His voice came weak and hollow. “I forgot…”

“Hall Master—what’s wrong?”

“I forgot…” A ghastly smile twisted Duan Nanxi’s lips. “I was using my breath-sealing art to ward off the poison… but when I spoke to her just now… without realising it… I breathed in the residual fumes still lingering in the hall… I fear… I am done for.”

Yin Jianping stood stunned, his head sinking in dismay. For all his quick wits, it had never occurred to him that this might happen. He wore a poison-repelling jade ring⁵⁴ that shielded him from harm, and in his confidence he had forgotten that the toxin still hung in the air. The realisation struck him like a blow. He felt the strength drain from half of his body. Aside from the man before him, not a single other soul of Yueyang School still drew breath.

Yin Jianping had been commanded to honour Xian Bing’s dying wish, and he was willing to serve Yueyang School with all the loyalty of a true disciple—yet in truth, he was not of the school’s direct lineage. He was determined to keep Duan Nanxi alive, for with the Hall Master’s rank and authority, Yueyang School might yet retain some measure of rallying strength.

And now even that hope was slipping away.

Duan Nanxi smiled with terrible resignation. “Child… this is fate. It is destiny. The Yueyang School deserved this calamity. Ah—I nearly forgot.”

His hand groped behind his back and found the iron casket strapped there. At the touch of it, his thoughts flew to the school’s founding treasure: the Iron Casket Codex.⁵⁵

Duan Nanxi’s breathing had grown shallow and laboured. “Although the old patriarch ordered me to give this casket to you… in all honesty… at the time, I could not bring myself to agree. It seems now… that the old patriarch was right all along. I cannot but admire his foresight. Perhaps… you truly can escape with your life. Who can say?”

He tapped the casket once, gave a bitter laugh, and added, “Take it.”

“Hall Master, the poison in your system may not have penetrated deeply,” said Yin Jianping, his voice steady and cold. “Perhaps the fumes have already dispersed. What remains may not be enough to kill.”

Duan Nanxi only shook his head. His face was a mask of inexpressible despair.

Yin Jianping crouched beside him. “Whatever happens, I will not abandon you. Come—let me carry you on my back. We leave now.”

Duan Nanxi breathed a faint sigh. “You refuse to give up… Very well. Let us try.”

With effort, he dragged himself upright and slumped across Yin Jianping’s back. Yin Jianping bound him fast with a silk sash, then straightened, cast a swift glance about the hall, and snatched up the Jade Dragon Sword⁴⁶ the zhangmen had left upon the table. In a single fluid motion he was at the rear door.

He paused there, peering out into the night. Silence. Not a figure in sight.

Gan Shijiu Mei and her three companions were evidently still waiting at the front of the compound.

A dark cloud drifted slowly across the sky, and the courtyard sank deeper into shadow. Seizing the moment, Yin Jianping slipped through the doorway. His movements were astonishingly light and agile—the unmistakable mark of superb qinggong. In a few swift bounds, he had crossed to the shelter of a great banyan tree.

Footnotes

1. 谢山 – Xiè Shān. See earlier note. ↩

2. 混元掌 – Húnyuán Zhǎng. See earlier note. ↩

3. 孔松 – Kǒng Sōng. See earlier note. ↩ ↩²

4. 摩云手 – Móyún Shǒu. See earlier note. ↩ ↩²

5. Wang Renjie (汪人杰) the Azure Level Sword and Zhao Tianbao (赵天保) the God of Might. See earlier notes. ↩

6. 赵天保 – Zhào Tiānbǎo. See earlier note. ↩ ↩²

7. 大力神 – Dàlì Shén. See earlier note. ↩ ↩²

8. 醍醐灌顶 – tíhú guàndǐng. Literally pouring the purest cream upon the crown. A Buddhist metaphor for sudden, piercing enlightenment. The original image refers to the ritual anointing with ghee, believed to clear the mind instantly. ↩

9. 连枝箭 – liánzhī jiàn. See earlier note. ↩

10. 岳阳门 – Yuèyáng Mén. See earlier note. ↩ ↩² ↩³

11. 老江 – Lǎo Jiāng. Literally Old Jiang. A common form of familiar address using the prefix 老 (old) before the surname. ↩

12. 阮行 – Ruǎn Xíng. His name meaning “Action”. See Wuxia Wiki. ↩ ↩² ↩³

13. 甘十九妹 – Gān Shíjiǔ Mèi. Her name meaning “Nineteenth Sister,” indicating she is the nineteenth child. See Wuxia Wiki. ↩ ↩² ↩³

14. 汪人杰 – Wāng Rénjié. His name meaning “Outstanding Man”. See Wuxia Wiki. ↩

15. 青萍剑 – Qīngpíng Jiàn. ↩

16. 堂主 – tángzhǔ. Head of a hall within a martial arts school. ↩ ↩² ↩³

17. 内力 – nèilì. Inner power, the energy cultivated through neigong practice. See Wuxia Wiki. ↩

18. 牛耳尖刀 – niúěr jiāndāo. Short, broad-bladed daggers shaped like an ox’s ear, designed for close-quarters fighting. See Wuxia Wiki. ↩

19. 卧看巧云 – wòkàn qiǎoyún. Literally reclining to watch artful clouds. An evasive technique combining a deep backward lean with a barehanded blade-catch. ↩

20. 内功 – nèigōng. Internal cultivation or internal martial arts, the practice of developing neili through breathing techniques, meditation, and energy cultivation. See Wuxia Wiki. ↩

21. 银河 – yínhé. Literally silver river. The Chinese name for the Milky Way. ↩

22. 洞庭湖 dòng tíng hú. The second largest freshwater lake in China that is a flood basin of the Yangtze River. The provinces Hubei and Hunan are named after their locations relative to the lake, north of the river and south of the river respectively. See Wikipedia. ↩

23. 段南溪 – Duàn Nánxī. His name meaning “Southern Creek”. ↩ ↩²

24. 醉八仙 – Zuì Bāxiān. Literally eight drunken immortals. Referencing the Eight Immortals of Daoist legend. ↩ ↩²

25. 连枝箭 – Liánzhī Jiàn. Literally linked branch arrows. A type of concealed projectile weapon. ↩

26. 尹剑平 – Yǐn Jiànpíng. His name meaning “Sword’s Balance” or “Balancing the Sword”. ↩ ↩²

27. 馒头 – mántou. Plain steamed bread, a staple food in northern China, distinguished from stuffed buns by the absence of filling. ↩

28. 师兄 – shīxiōng. Senior martial brother. Male martial sibling who began training earlier. ↩

29. 谢堂主 – Xiè tángzhǔ. ↩

30. 师弟 – shīdì. Junior martial brother. Male martial sibling who began training later. ↩

31. 方刚 – Fāng Gāng. His name meaning “Upright and Resolute”. ↩

32. 刘咏 – Liú Yǒng. His name meaning “Chanting” or “Reciting”. ↩

33. 盛小川 – Shèng Xiǎochuān. His name meaning “Prosperous Little River”. ↩ ↩²

34. 张飞 – Zhāng Fēi. The legendary warrior-general of Shu Han during the Three Kingdoms period, famed for his ferocity and imposing appearance. See Wikipedia. ↩

35. 张松明 – Zhāng Sōngmíng. His name meaning “Bright Pine”. ↩ ↩²

36. 郭搏雄 – Guō Bóxióng. His name meaning “Fierce Combatant”. ↩ ↩²

37. 琉璃 – liúlí. Literally coloured glaze. A type of traditional Chinese glass, often used for decorative lantern shades, valued for its jewel-like translucency. ↩

38. 瑶台 – yáotái. Literally jade terrace. A celestial realm or palace in Chinese mythology, often associated with immortals and divine beings. ↩

39. 嫦娥 – Cháng’é. The goddess of the moon in Chinese mythology, who ascended to the lunar palace after consuming an elixir of immortality. A common literary comparison for unearthly feminine beauty. See Wikipedia. ↩

40. 李铁心 – Lǐ Tiěxīn. His name meaning “Iron Heart”. See Wuxia Wiki. ↩

41. 七步断肠红 – qībù duànchánghóng. Literally seven-pace gut-severing red. A lethal contact poison that kills within seven paces of exposure, spread along the ground to create an impassable barrier. ↩

42. 断魂丸 – duànhún wán. Literally soul-severing pills. Small pellets that release a fast-acting toxic vapour upon contact with air, incapacitating anyone who inhales the fumes. ↩

43. 辟毒功力 – bìdú gōnglì. Literally poison-repelling power. A rare form of neigong training that cultivates internal resistance to toxins and poisons, allowing the practitioner to withstand exposure that would incapacitate or kill ordinary people. ↩

44. 闭气 – bìqì. Literally sealing breath. A neigong technique that allows a practitioner to suspend normal breathing, relying instead on neili circulation to sustain the body for extended periods. Particularly useful for resisting airborne poisons or operating in toxic environments. ↩

45. 调息 – tiáoxī. Literally regulating breath. The practice of using neigong to control and replace normal respiration through qi circulation. ↩

46. 玉龙剑 – Yùlóng Jiàn. Literally jade dragon sword. ↩ ↩²

47. 冼冰 – Xiǎn Bīng. His name meaning “Ice”. See Wuxia Wiki. ↩

48. 师父 – shīfù. Master-teacher. The one who has formally accepted a student and imparted their martial arts teachings. See Wuxia Wiki. ↩

49. 水红芍 – Shuǐ Hóngshāo. Her name meaning “Red Peony”. ↩

50. 井以甘竭，李以苦存 – jǐng yǐ gān jié, lǐ yǐ kǔ cún. A classical Chinese aphorism from the Zhuangzi. The well is exhausted because people desire its sweet water; the plum tree survives because its bitter fruit is left alone. A warning that possessing something others covet invites destruction. ↩

51. 凤凰山 – Fènghuáng Shān. Literally phoenix mountain. The site of a past confrontation between Xian Bing and Shui Hongshao, where underground tunnels were set alight. ↩

52. 半盏茶 – bàn zhǎn chá. Literally half a cup of tea. A traditional Chinese unit of time, roughly five to seven minutes, measured by the time it takes to drink half a cup of tea. ↩

53. 丹房 – dānfáng. Literally elixir room. The inner sanctum or private chambers of a martial arts compound, often used for cultivation, meditation, or storing important items. ↩

54. 辟毒玉玦 – bìdú yùjué. Literally poison-repelling jade ring. A rare protective talisman, typically a ring-shaped jade pendant, imbued with properties that ward off toxins and venoms. ↩

55. 铁匣秘笈 – tiěxiá mìjí. Literally iron casket secret compendium. The Yueyang School’s most sacred heirloom, containing the school’s founding martial arts secrets. ↩