Chapter Fifty-Seven: An Encounter with Assassins on the Road

Without realizing it, the two had already walked several miles, the trees around them growing denser. They gathered some dry branches, intending to carry them back, when suddenly a bird called out in the night sky, “Cuckoo!”

Li Chongyuan laughed and said, “Cuckoos are never heard at night. Why is it calling now?” Li Chongjun, seasoned and sharp from years in the martial world, immediately grew wary. Just then, the whistling of weapons tearing through the air sounded above, and a dense volley of iron-shafted crossbow bolts rained down. He cried out in alarm, “Careful!”

With a swift motion, he drew his sword and, deploying the Tianshan Sword Technique, protected himself and deflected the incoming bolts. Li Chongyuan, whose sword had earlier been shattered by Xuan Fa along the riverbank, now grabbed a wooden staff to fend off the arrows.

They had both crossed swords with Ghost Sword White Serpent before and had seen the Iron-Spined Eight-Shot Crossbow used by the Eight Servants of Fortune and Peace. However, they were unaware that after the Great Ming Palace incident, Ghost Sword White Serpent had long since vanished into the martial world, and the Eight Servants had defected to the imperial court. Mistaking this as another vengeful pursuit, they braced themselves.

Wave after wave of bolts flew at them, lasting for the time it takes half a stick of incense to burn. The ground was soon thickly carpeted with fallen iron shafts. It became clear that these attackers could not be the Eight Servants; there were only eight of them, and there was no way so many bolts could be fired in such a short span. Clearly, someone else was behind this.

Sure enough, the barrage soon thinned. With a shrill whistle, several dozen night-clad figures wielding blades and swords burst from the depths of the forest. Li Chongjun sneered, “I must be quite important—someone’s even broken out the forbidden Iron-Spined Crossbows. Who sent you, Wei or Wu?” The assailants answered not a word, but rushed in with wild, slashing blades.

Li Chongjun shouted in anger, meeting them head-on with his sword. Li Chongyuan tossed aside his staff and unleashed his Wind and Thunder Palm techniques in support. Their opponents all used the same style of blade work—steady, ruthless, and without flourish—but what truly set them apart was their seamless cooperation. One would strike overhead while the others would slash at the back or legs, their formation moving as one.

Astonished and enraged, Li Chongjun cried, “Military formation! Who are you—Anxi or Beiting?” The attackers pressed in tighter, silent as before.

Li Chongjun called back, “Whatever you do, don’t let them surround you! Use your Primordial Force to keep them three paces away!” Li Chongyuan nodded, channeling his energy into his arms. The Wind and Thunder Palm howled with power, each strike ringing with the sound of bone snapping. Blood sprayed as more than a dozen foes fell. Meanwhile, Li Chongjun’s sword danced like wind and shadow, severing heads as he moved. In moments, only a handful of foes remained standing. Those who were wounded on the ground made no sound; those still standing showed no sign of retreat, instead gathering and advancing with their blades, utterly fearless of death.

Li Chongjun sighed, “You are no men of the martial world. Clearly you’re soldiers. Your commander is truly heartless, letting you die while he hides behind.”

“Stand down!” came a cold, harsh voice. A tall, thin, masked man strode out. The remaining fighters nodded, withdrew, and then methodically finished off their wounded comrades, who did not struggle but instead stretched out their necks to receive the fatal blow.

Once the wounded were dispatched, the survivors turned and rode out of the woods. The masked man did not move, his presence still as deep water and prison gates, exuding the bearing of a true master. The two men dared not let down their guard, silently steeling themselves.

When the hoofbeats faded, the masked man suddenly twisted his waist, a gleaming, icy sword appearing in his hand, and struck at Li Chongjun with lightning speed.

Li Chongjun parried, riposted, and thrust for the man’s chest. The stranger twisted midair in a bewildering move, suddenly bearing down for Li Chongjun’s crown chakra. Mastering the true essence of the Tianshan Sword, Li Chongjun unleashed “Snow Lotus Blooming,” his blade splitting into dozens of shimmering afterimages, enveloping the man’s legs. But the masked man was a true expert, knocking his left foot against his right and suspending himself in the air just long enough to evade the strike.

No sooner had he landed than Li Chongyuan’s Wind and Thunder Palm struck. The masked man’s movements were preternaturally fast; in the instant the palms should have landed, he slipped away to their backs. Never since entering the martial world had they seen such speed. Both men were inwardly alarmed.

After nearly a hundred exchanges, they grew more unsettled. The masked man’s internal strength was no greater than theirs, and his swordplay, though strange and ruthless, revealed no unexpected tricks. It was only his speed that defied belief—almost beyond the reach of the eye. Thus, though both were first-rate fighters, they found themselves gradually contained by this masked adversary, who seemed to move with ease. At times, he would break Li Chongjun’s sword technique, then vanish in a blur, reappearing behind Li Chongyuan to dissolve the Wind and Thunder Palm with sword energy.

Their dread mounted. They did not fear overwhelming skill—Xuan Fa’s martial prowess, after all, was unmatched, and Li Chongyuan had never been cowed by defeat. But this opponent was unnerving in a way they had never known, a phantom impossible to counter.

Li Chongjun had thought that, with their combined skills, there were few in the martial world who could stand against them. He had not intended to trouble their master, believing they could handle the situation alone. But confronted with such ferocity, he dared not be reckless. Finding an opening, he leaped into the treetops and let out a long, piercing cry.

The masked man’s eyes turned sharp; he launched a killing blow at Li Chongyuan, his sword cold and bright as a falling star, aiming at every vital point. There was simply no way to dodge; wherever Li Chongyuan tried to evade, the attacker seemed to anticipate, already waiting. It was as if Li Chongyuan was throwing himself onto the blade. Since leaving Tianshan, he had seen many fierce battles, but never such a foe, and for the first time, he felt helpless.

Desperate, he unleashed the Wind and Thunder Palm in a wild, reckless flurry. The masked man, initially responding move for move, was taken aback by this suicidal style. His sword faltered for a moment. Li Chongjun, seeing this from the tree, shouted, “Brother, this fellow has some trick that counters us at every turn, but if we just attack at random, he’s helpless!” He leaped down, thrusting at the masked man’s face. The man dodged with inhuman speed, appearing behind Li Chongjun in a flash. But Li Chongjun, not bothering to turn, simply whirled his sword in an unending frenzy. The masked man froze, unable to break through.

Seeing their ploy succeed, the two were mightily relieved, but did not dare let up for a moment. Yet their wild assault could not drive the enemy back. The masked man sneered, “A clever tactic. But if you keep this up, you’ll just exhaust yourselves to death, saving me the trouble.”

A cold voice echoed through the night, “Do you really think you’ll get the chance to wait for their exhaustion?” It was Zi Wuzhuo, who had heard Li Chongjun’s warning cry and hurried over. As the words fell, so did his sword, descending like a night owl from the darkness.

His blade stabbed straight for the masked man’s throat, man and sword as one, weaving an impenetrable net of afterimages. The masked man twisted and flickered, attacking and countering with blinding speed. The two moved so fast it was impossible to tell who was pursuing whom. Li Chongyuan and Li Chongjun wanted to help, but could not even tell which figure was master and which was foe; they only saw two phantom shapes merging and splitting.

No sound of clashing steel could be heard. Li Chongyuan, though apprenticed to Zi Wuzhuo, had been taught entirely by Li Chongjun and had never seen their master’s true skill. Now he realized how far he still had to go and felt a deep sense of shame.

In the blink of an eye, more than a hundred moves were exchanged. Suddenly, with the faintest sound, a blurred figure broke from the melee—it was the masked man, a shallow cut on his arm. He didn’t so much as glance at his wound, but clasped his hands in salute: “Of the Four Great Swords, Zi Wuzhuo’s blade is the fastest. Your reputation is well deserved. I am enlightened. If fate allows, I hope one day for a true contest with you.”

With that, he used a strange footwork to make his escape, his form fading in and out until he vanished completely. Zi Wuzhuo sheathed his sword and exhaled softly. Seeing the two were battered but unharmed, he relaxed.

Examining the corpses, he found no valuable clues. All wore ordinary black hemp outer garments, but underneath, each had close-fitting underclothes of fine raw silk.

Such silk attire was costly—beyond the means even of low-ranking officials in Chang’an. Moreover, silk undergarments were typically reserved for women as intimate wear; men rarely used them. Only the most profligate scions in Chang’an could afford an entire set of such clothing, and even they would never have the skill or nerve for such bloody deeds.

At the same time, such garments were not worn by common martial artists. Li Chongjun pondered for a moment, then said softly, “They’re from the Anxi Protectorate or the Beiting Protectorate—imperial troops.”

Li Chongyuan asked in surprise, “How do you know?”

Li Chongjun gave a wry smile. “I grew up in the provincial office and often saw the bodyguards from the border. They all wore this type of underclothes. I once asked about it, and they explained: on the frontier, where men live and die by the year, anyone with a little money tries to get raw silk undergarments. Silk is extremely tough; sometimes an arrow will pierce the body but not the silk, so the medical officer can pull the arrow out wrapped in the cloth. Also, silk against a wound keeps it from festering. It’s not as protective as armor, but it’s another line of defense that can save a man’s life.”