Volume One: The Emperor's Command Chapter Eighteen: Wildfire Drives Out the Northern Chill

Within the city of Changle, dragons and tigers lay hidden; on the surface, it appeared to be a place where nobles indulged in pleasure, but in truth, many reclusive masters made their homes here.

Hu Lie’s residence stood directly opposite the Shen family’s shop, so any disturbance at the Shen household was as clear to him as if it happened under his own roof.

An elderly man, gripping a cloud-head saber, straightened his robes and made ready to leave. But an arrow whistled through the night, striking the ground before him and barring his path.

“Who goes there?” he called out. “My old eyes are dim—show yourself.”

With two crisp thuds, a figure in a cloak vaulted over the courtyard wall. The lining of his cloak was forged of metal, clattering noisily as he moved.

“Iron Cloak—Mo Beihan, one of the Eight Swordmasters under the Crown Prince?” the old man asked, recognizing him at once. “What brings you to Changle City on a night like this?”

Now that he knew his visitor’s identity, the old man realized haste would not serve him. He drew a tobacco pipe from his belt, lit it, and took a deep drag. The chill of late night pricked at his bones.

“I come by order of the Crown Prince,” Mo Beihan replied, “to keep you company for a while. I trust you don’t mind, old master?”

The Eight Swordmasters in the Crown Prince’s service were rarely seen. Their appearance here tonight could only mean some grave event was unfolding in Changle City.

The old man grew restless—his grandson was still outside, and he was certain something had happened at the Shen household. The Fourth Prince had once visited, hoping to recruit him as an instructor in the capital, but he had declined, citing his age and frailty.

“I have no wish to meddle in imperial affairs,” the old man said. “But my grandson is still out there. I must go find him. Shall we go together?”

“Old blade master, at your age, it’s best not to invite trouble,” Mo Beihan said coldly, resting his hand on his sword hilt. “I doubt your grandson would wade into these murky waters either.”

The Prince’s orders were clear: delay Hu Tianyi, keep him from interfering.

Mo Beihan thought little of the task. What threat could a man of seventy or eighty truly pose? He, after all, was in his prime—a master ranked ninth in the Earth Soul realm, famed across the north. Why should he fear a frail old man?

Hu Tianyi patted the back of his saber. Near the hilt, the blade was narrow, widening and curving at the tip—resembling a great cleaver for butchering meat.

“You’re young, strong in skill, with a boundless future,” the old man said, his tone less light than before, for anger had begun to smolder within him. “But I have no part in the capital’s affairs. My advice: stand down.”

Each moment lost meant greater danger for his grandson. Old as he was, his hand did not tremble as it gripped the saber.

“If you step so much as half a foot from this courtyard, I’ll have failed my duty!” Mo Beihan crouched, sword in hand, and lunged.

Blade met blade: the saber’s head caught the sword, the cloud-head saber angled perfectly, and Hu Tianyi stood firm, unmoved.

Mo Beihan pressed harder, but could not budge his foe. With a twist of his cloak—its edge tipped with a hidden blade—he swept low, aiming to cut the old man’s legs.

Half of his power was invested in that iron cloak. Yet Hu Tianyi advanced rather than yielding, leaping—his toes tapping the sword’s flat—soaring more than ten feet into the air.

Raising his saber high, he unleashed the “Heaven-Scorching Fire” technique. The blade blazed, flames streaming down in a single, sweeping stroke.

Perhaps Mo Beihan overestimated his cloak’s protection, or perhaps he simply underestimated the old master. He spun, flinging the cloak to intercept the blow.

The fiery blade carved three inches into the iron, setting Mo Beihan’s clothes alight. He shrieked as his swordplay faltered, sending waves of sword energy lashing through the courtyard.

Stone tables and stools shattered. The ancient tree by the gate was left stripped and scarred.

At the ninth level of the Earth Soul, true energy could flow freely through the body, harmonizing with technique and intent. Swordmasters at this stage could kill at a distance with a gesture.

The old saber master, famed as the Wildfire Blade in his youth, had made his name in the southern wastes, earning many enemies in his arrogance. His clan was wiped out in revenge, leaving only a single infant alive.

Before retiring to Changle, he was already at the eighth level of the Earth Soul realm. People thought him broken, his will to train lost. Yet while teaching his grandson, he had unconsciously advanced to the eleventh level.

All martial artists knew: the Earth Soul realm refined the body; the Heavenly Sun realm cultivated the spirit. Each realm was divided into twelve levels—clear boundaries, each step harder than the last.

The higher one’s cultivation, the more pronounced the pressure between levels. Despite his reputation, before that blazing saber, Mo Beihan seemed almost childish.

True energy fed the flames, nearly melting the iron cloak and searing deep marks into his back.

Wracked with pain, his composure shattered, Mo Beihan’s footwork fell into chaos. After only a few exchanges, the old man’s saber knocked his sword aside, sending it spinning into the earth.

“Have you any last words?” Hu Tianyi asked, resting the long blade against Mo Beihan’s right shoulder, its icy chill pressed to his neck.

“You old devil, you still have tricks left! But look—what’s this?”

Mo Beihan twisted, the saber’s edge slicing off his topknot. With a roar, he detonated the iron cloak, sending shards of metal flying like a hailstorm across the courtyard.

The old master could not dodge them all. Shards raked his belly, arm, and cheek—over a dozen wounds blooming crimson through his robes.

He tried to lift his saber—but Mo Beihan’s snarling face was suddenly right before him. At some point, he had drawn a flexible sword from his waist, aiming straight for the old man’s lower abdomen.

A shattered core meant lost cultivation—Hu Tianyi’s life’s work would be forfeit.

In desperation, Hu Tianyi formed a blade with his fingers, slashing at Mo Beihan’s face, while his left hand, pressed to his belly, gathered true energy in defense.

The flexible sword stopped short, blocked by the old man’s palm. True energy surged, halting the point before it could pierce his core.

But Hu Tianyi’s palm cleaved into Mo Beihan’s head, splitting it cleanly down the middle—one half to the left, one half to the right.

The old master exhaled in relief, gently pulling the sword’s tip from his abdomen. Mo Beihan’s lifeless body slumped to the ground.

Slowly, he bent to retrieve the cloud-head saber, hanging it at his waist. Blood poured from his wounds as he staggered toward the courtyard gate.

At his age, he could not afford such loss of blood. He had barely reached the street when dizziness threatened to overwhelm him. Yet the sounds of battle from the Shen household spurred him on, and he forced himself toward the main street.

Among the Eight Swordmasters, the pride of the Iron Dynasty, one had died tonight in an old man’s courtyard. The ground was littered with fragments of the iron cloak; from the corpse, it was almost impossible to recognize Mo Beihan.

He had never imagined that the old master’s lifelong pursuit of the martial path was no longer bound to his saber.

The blow that split Mo Beihan’s head had nearly fractured the old man’s own hand. Blood dripped from his trembling fingers, curving in the cold night as he limped onward.

The tavern Hu Lie frequented was at the far end of this street. On ordinary days, it was a walk of three hundred paces; tonight, for Hu Tianyi, it seemed impossibly far.

Before his eyes, two moons danced, then split into four spinning lanterns. His knees buckled, and he collapsed in the center of the street, face pale as death.

“Lie’er…” he whispered, reaching for the cloud-head saber, but his arms would not obey. Instead, his whole body listed sideways to the ground.

He lay thus, in the same posture as Mo Beihan within the courtyard. After roaming the martial world for decades, in the end, he too was bested by time. The cloud-head saber let out a mournful ring—its spirit waning, unable to remain.