Volume One: The King's Order Chapter Five: Outside the Pavilion on the Eastern Embankment

“Hurry up, we’re already several days late—our sisters will surely blame us.”

Fifty miles beyond the city of Banners, there lay the picturesque Eastern Embankment. Around a lakeside pavilion, numerous tents had been pitched.

It was the season of August; the lakeshore at dusk was perfect for leisure. Several young gentlemen and ladies had already gathered, waiting only for Xue Yiran.

As soon as the Xue family’s carriage halted by the roadside, her familiar companions clustered around, their gazes settling not on the maid Xiaoling, but on the youth who followed behind, about the same age as themselves.

“Your family’s hired a new servant? How did I not hear of this?” One of the girls, a few months older than Yiran, pinched her cheek with a smile. “He’s rather handsome, isn’t he? Don’t tell me he’s your sweetheart? Tell us everything!”

“Wenwan, enough teasing. His family asked me to look after him for a few days, that’s all.” Yiran retaliated by tickling her under the arm, the two girls breaking into laughter and play, so much so that even the young men fishing by the river forgot to lift their rods.

Their families were separated only by a wall, and the two girls had been close since childhood. The Yu family had often aided the Xue family in business; they knew each other’s affairs well. Yet even so, Wenwan had never heard of her friend hiding a young man.

Truth was, just before leaving home, Yiran had noticed Liu Xiaoyi’s melancholy and suddenly decided to bring him along to the Eastern Embankment for a fortnight, hoping the change of scene might lift his spirits.

She imagined he had met with some misfortune, and after pondering all night, concluded he must be a pitiful soul whose family had been destroyed by bandits.

Girls of her age were prone to such fanciful stories. Little did she know that Liu Xiaoyi was being hunted for his life.

Behind the city of Banners rose Banner Mountain, a power in the Southern Wilds that rivaled the Sacred Sovereign Hall. These two martial sects had divided the region between them, ruling alongside the magistrate, an arrangement fraught with frequent skirmishes.

The Xue family were wealthy merchants with deep ties to Banner Mountain. Among these young elites, Yiran held a position of distinction, though she never put on airs and was warm and approachable.

Their amusements consisted of composing poetry, sparring, and showing off their skills. The young gentlemen, though not diligent in martial arts, still brandished weapons of dazzling quality.

Liu Xiaoyi’s arrival unsettled the young men. How could a mere boy share a carriage with Miss Xue?

Leaning against the ancient roots outside the pavilion, gazing at the clear sky, Liu Xiaoyi felt as though an age had passed. The death of Xia Liang had wiped away a decade’s worth of emotion. When he opened the wooden box last night, he found a letter in his father’s hand:

“Old Xia, if I do not die, I will bring harm to Xiaoyi. The Sovereign’s Command can be wielded not just by me, but by him as well. If the Iron Dynasty learns of this, we will not be spared.”

There was also a yellowed register listing the names of the border garrison. His father, a centurion, was listed alongside Xia Liang and others: Yuan Qingtai, Gu Bancheng…

The Sovereign’s Command could not be wielded by just anyone; only those it accepted could unlock its hidden fortune. Father and son had been chosen by its sudden appearance.

For the fifteen-year-old Liu Xiaoyi, the situation was no longer complicated. As he mulled it over, several stiff-faced young men blocked his sunlight.

“Hey, why were you in Miss Xue’s carriage?”

“She brought me here—why shouldn’t I be?”

Though etiquette dictated that unmarried ladies should not share their carriages with men, such rules were mostly observed by great families.

“I see you carry a sword. Are you a practitioner? Care to spar?”

“I refuse. Now, please stop blocking my sun.”

Irritated by his indifference, the young men’s faces twisted in anger. One reached for his arm, but Liu Xiaoyi deftly twisted his elbow and yanked him back.

“Liao! You’re done for, boy. You’ll regret this!” The others rushed to help their fallen friend, his face striking the tree bark, leaving a dent.

The Liao family name was tied to the imperial clan in the Central Province, and this Master Liao was indeed a distant royal relative, now a local magnate under official protection.

He was one among many suitors for Xue Yiran, tall and thin, already chasing after women at a young age—a fact reflected in his reed-like physique.

Pulled down by Liu Xiaoyi, he rose with a grimace, “Where did this country bumpkin come from? Such strength! Get him!” The others drew their swords without hesitation.

—

In the pavilion, the young ladies were chatting when raised voices outside drew their attention.

“Yiran, aren’t you going to help your young man?” they teased.

She gave a brief, fabricated explanation—he was a distant relative, here to relax.

The others were convinced, but Yu Wenwan was not. The Xue family had friends, but never had she seen one with callused hands. The young men were so pampered they would weep over a mere scratch.

Yiran blushed, “No need, we’re not close. Besides, Master Liao and the others won’t be too rough.”

Yet before she’d finished speaking, groans could be heard; the young men lay scattered on the ground. Liu Xiaoyi had appropriated Liao’s prized sword and scabbard.

“My sword won’t come free; yours will do. I’ll borrow it for a few days.”

Ten years of training with Xia Liang had not been in vain. These so-called martial youths weren’t even novices and didn’t deserve swords.

When they picked themselves up, they retreated in fear, keeping their distance at dinner, eyeing him warily—much to the amusement of the ladies.

“So, even our city of Banners has someone who can put Master Liao in his place!”

“Nonsense! Just wait until I learn a few moves from my master—I’ll flatten him!” Liao grumbled, sneaking glances at Liu Xiaoyi, afraid he’d act again.

Liu Xiaoyi quietly ate, marveling at the unfamiliar abundance of dishes.

Not in Lingshan Town; not in Sanshan City, either!

How could a simple fried egg taste so different here? He hurried to eat his fill.

Yu Wenwan observed, certain now he was no kin of the Xue family.

At night, everyone retired to their tents except Liu Xiaoyi, who lingered in the pavilion. In just over ten days, he had lost all ties again; the Sacred Sovereign Hall and the puppet master who pursued him were now marked for death.

The wooden box he carried contained Xia Liang’s treasures—a few gold bars, two jade ruyi scepters, some letters, and a sword manual: “Frost from Heaven.”

Xia Liang’s famed swordplay, whose final technique—Heaven-born Frost—he had never used before dying.

Having learned an unnamed sword style, Liu Xiaoyi found he could easily perform most of the Frost techniques, yet after ten years, he still only knew the first move of the nameless style.

“Who’s there?” He instinctively drew his sword; moonlight shimmered on its blade, slicing a few strands of hair.

It was Yu Wenwan, whom he’d noticed earlier. Unlike Yiran’s cool composure, Wenwan exuded warmth—like a princess, her sumptuous makeup lending her an easy grace.

He forgot to sheathe his sword.

“Little sir, you startled me. That blade is keen indeed,” she exclaimed. Though she had some martial training and lightness skills, her silent approach had nearly ended in disaster.

Liu Xiaoyi recovered, awkwardly sheathing the blade. “Master Liao’s sword is fine, though little used—already a bit dusty.”

“Yiran won’t tell me, but I know you’re not really one of them. But with me, you could be,” Wenwan said, taking his arm and sitting beside the lake. “The martial world is so fascinating. Will you take me with you?”

Liu Xiaoyi shook his head and tried to leave, but soft arms suddenly embraced him. “What are you—”

He turned, just as her lips brushed his, leaving him flushed. He twisted free in embarrassment.

“I’m tired of being a puppet for my family. Please, take me away with you!” Wenwan began to cry, dropping to her knees in genuine distress.

The fifteen-year-old boy was at a loss, unsure how to respond.

—

Suddenly, a noise outside the pavilion made him duck behind a stone bench, dragging Yu Wenwan with him. “Quiet!”

By the old tree stood a white-haired girl—Yiran—who, unable to sleep, had come out for air, only to witness the scene. Seeing them crouch, she assumed she’d been spotted and hurried back to her tent to avoid embarrassment.

But as she approached, she saw several black-clad figures holding incense at the tent flaps. She screamed, startling the intruders into drawing their swords.

Three crouched outside, one perched in the treetop, the fifth moved to attack.

Liu Xiaoyi saw all this clearly, released the sword’s mechanism, and crept along the pavilion’s base.

Yiran twisted away from a sweeping sword, her heart pounding.

“Stay aside!” A cold flash whistled past her ear, blocking a deadly thrust mere inches from her chest.

No time to think, Liu Xiaoyi swept her behind him, his borrowed sword scattering sparks through the night.

Finding their prey more skilled than expected, the five black-clad assailants leaped at him together, seeking a quick kill.

Liu Xiaoyi held the sword, breath steady. Xia Liang’s greatest lesson was the art of group combat: to survive, one must be swift and surefooted.

Each time a blade neared, he deflected it at the point of force, rendering the attacker powerless, then slipped aside to counter, fighting and retreating by turns.

Sometimes he swept the blade sideways or lifted it with both hands to break their forms—every move precise, never wasted, each stroke aimed at a vital flaw.

The assailants were astonished. Wealthy scions were rarely this adept—who was this boy?

“Moon falls! Frost rises!” The sword trembled in his grip, scattering crystalline light that dazzled the eyes. In that instant, a sword arc split one enemy in two.

The corpse fell in halves. From the pavilion, Wenwan retched at the sight, her legs too weak to move.

The remaining four, sensing danger, feinted and leapt away. A red flare shot into the sky, whistling.

“A signal! We must retreat!”

Yiran, seizing the opportunity, fired her own flare skyward, hands trembling.

Liu Xiaoyi lunged, his sword striking another down, but the rest vanished into the night with swift lightness skills.

He dragged the fallen man over, but found he had already bitten his tongue and died.

“Open all the tents. Miss Xue, fetch water and wake everyone.”

The incense was but a common soporific, easily dispelled by fresh air.

He approached Wenwan, whose face was pale from vomiting. Sensing his intent, she steadied herself, “I won’t change my mind. I’ll find a way—you must take me with you!”