Volume One: The King's Command Chapter Twelve: A Treacherous Arrow Wounds the Most

The journey to Central Province proceeded at a steady pace, neither fast nor slow, and it would take about two months to arrive. When the carriage was making its way through the heart of a dense forest, disaster struck.

First, the carriage halted abruptly. Several dull thuds sounded outside the window, startling the three drowsy passengers from their slumber.

Then, a volley of heavy crossbow bolts pierced through the carriage, each over a meter long—an armament reserved for government soldiers. In an instant, the dense rain of bolts reduced the carriage to splinters, leaving scattered cargo strewn across the ground.

Both drivers were felled by short crossbow bolts, lying in pools of blood. From the thick underbrush emerged more than a dozen masked assassins clad in black, moving forward with caution.

“No sign of the targets—what’s going on?”

“Be careful!” Two assassins on the outermost edge suddenly toppled face-first, their night-garments torn to reveal soft silver armor beneath.

Liu Xiaoyi’s expression darkened. The assailants’ identity was obvious: government troops. Only officials possessed such heavy crossbows and armor.

The assassins, swift and deadly, drew their blades as soon as Liu Xiaoyi revealed himself.

One against more than a dozen, Liu Xiaoyi quickly found himself flushed and pressed. Each opponent was a master, his equal in skill.

Leading the assault against him was a wiry young man, whose blade work was especially cunning. Within a few exchanges, Liu Xiaoyi’s sleeve under the arm was slashed to ribbons; had he dodged a moment slower, he’d have died then and there.

Hidden in the grass, Xue Yiran’s face was stormy. Clenching her fists, she stood and shouted, “Ninth Elder! Why do you pursue me?!”

Her cry brought all movement to a halt—except for Liu Xiaoyi, who seized the chance to drive his sword at his foe’s face. The man parried, knocking the blade aside. “Sharp eyes, Lady Xue. You recognize me by my swordplay.”

He tore off his mask. It was indeed the Ninth Elder of Banner Mountain, whom Liu Xiaoyi vaguely recalled from a prior banquet.

“Aren’t you afraid the Second Elder will learn of this and hold you accountable?” Xue Yiran produced a signal flare and fired it skyward.

But before it could ascend more than three meters, a heavy crossbow bolt shot out from the woods and struck it dead-on, silencing the signal.

“Hand over the Sovereign’s Token and you may yet live. I have no wish to kill old acquaintances.” The Ninth Elder gestured, and five heavy crossbow carriages were wheeled into view, each loaded and aimed.

“So you know the Puppet Master? I thought Banner Mountain was united as one.” As Liu Xiaoyi spoke, a crystal-clear bead of water formed between his left fingers, a faint chill emanating from his palm.

Only the Puppet Master had known the Sovereign’s Token was in his possession. The Puppet Master was dead; the secret should have died with him.

The Ninth Elder had evidently long been in league with the Puppet Master, conducting clandestine dealings behind Banner Mountain’s back—the Sovereign’s Token among them.

“Enough talk—your life or the Token?” Fearing delay, the Ninth Elder motioned for his men to surround them.

Just then, Liu Xiaoyi dropped low and darted sideways. His left fingers flicked, scattering the water bead into a white mist that enveloped the area—his first priority to neutralize those heavy crossbows, as even his sword would be hard-pressed to deflect their bolts.

“You two, get down! Don’t move!” he called to the two young women, neither skilled in combat. Thanks to the mist, they narrowly avoided capture.

The Ninth Elder unleashed several palm strikes, gathering his inner force to disperse the mist, but still felt a chill seep through his body. He had heard of Xue Cangfeng’s Frost Sword technique, and now saw its reputation well-deserved. As the mist faded, more than a dozen bodies littered the ground.

“Damn you! Prepare to die!” The Ninth Elder steadied himself and attacked with his blade.

Martial cultivation was divided into the Earth Soul and Heavenly Sun stages, each with twelve ranks. The Ninth Elder was a fifth-rank Earth Soul master, yet found himself evenly matched with Liu Xiaoyi.

Over thirty moves passed. Though his swordplay remained precise, the Ninth Elder grew increasingly agitated. Where had this youth come from, to have such power at only fifteen or sixteen?

A moment’s distraction slowed his movement—his right leg failed to dodge in time, and an upward sword stroke sealed its meridians in ice.

Seeing defeat imminent, the Ninth Elder tossed his blade aside, rolled backward, and melted into the trees.

Liu Xiaoyi leapt after him, sweeping his blade through the foliage. Frost coated the leaves, flushing the Ninth Elder from his hiding place.

“Impressive, boy! No wonder you could kill the Puppet Master. Take this!”

At the sound, Liu Xiaoyi instinctively dodged—but saw the Ninth Elder smiling, empty-handed.

Tricked! From the brush at his side, three short bolts shot toward him. There was no time to dodge.

Suddenly, a pale figure appeared at his side. After three dull thuds, the figure crumpled to the ground.

“Ran!” came a cry from behind. Yu Wenwan rushed over in alarm.

Three bolts had pierced chest, lower abdomen, and left shoulder, staining the blue dress deep red.

Before Liu Xiaoyi could react, the Ninth Elder flicked his wrist, retrieving his blade on a thin wire, then vaulted skyward on one leg.

“Die!”

The blade flickered, sparks flying before it even touched the steel sword—Liu Xiaoyi’s blade snapped under the pressure. Luckily, he was quick; with his left hand he drew the Peach Blossom Sword, bracing its scabbard on his shoulder.

Clang! The impact sent him tumbling backward. He scrambled up, gripping the Peach Blossom Sword, his shoulder nearly dislocated, pain twisting his features.

For ten years, this sword had been impossible to unsheath. But now, as he grasped the hilt with his right hand, a spring clicked—the blade shot free!

Xue Yiran was aglow, her entire body shining like a gathering of fireflies drifting with the breeze to the Peach Blossom Sword.

For the first time, Liu Xiaoyi saw the sword in its entirety: a dim jewel set in the hilt, the blade engraved with a peach blossom, its surface gleaming—a rare double-edged weapon, sharpened at both ends.

“I want your life in return.”

Tears slid down Liu Xiaoyi’s face, salty on his lips.

He tossed aside the scabbard, gripped the Peach Blossom Sword in one hand, and with two swift steps closed in on the Ninth Elder. Suddenly spinning back, he swept the sword in a full arc, a cold gleam like a full moon.

The first move of the Nameless Sword Art, practiced for ten years—a move so familiar it was second nature. The arc of the sword engulfed the Ninth Elder, whose raised blade could not withstand the shining crescent; his body was split in two from the side.

As the image of the full moon shattered on the ground, bits of sword energy scattered. Xue Yiran’s lips curved in a faint smile; she tried to reach out, but her hand fell heavily halfway.

“Wan… sister… no one will… fight you… be good…”

Yu Wenwan lay sobbing over her body, which was growing colder with each moment.

Five ruined crossbows, corpses everywhere, chaos and ruin. Liu Xiaoyi retrieved the scabbard, knelt before Xue Yiran, and bowed low.

“From this day forth, my life is yours to command.”