Chapter 146 – Affairs Concluded, One Brushes Their Sleeves and Leaves, Hiding Name and Form Deeply

The interior of the carriage was quite spacious. On one side stood a finely crafted table, atop which rested an exquisite and costly tea set. Inside the lower drawers were all kinds of sweets. In his youth, Zhou Nuchang had lived in dire poverty, and though he now held great power, his desire for the things he had once longed for yet could not obtain remained strong. Now over twenty years of age and in a position of authority, he retained an intense fondness for sweet things.

Everyone among the capital’s officials knew that this Commander Zhou’s favorite snack was malt sugar—a treat often associated with the poor.

Even while handling cases, he was often seen chewing on it in his mouth.

The scabbard of the sword in the young Daoist’s hand shifted slightly. Just then, the carriage jolted—and in the next moment, several sharp thwacks sounded as poison-laced crossbow bolts shot forth with the force to pierce through armor. Yet all of them were deflected with nothing but the sword’s sheath. The Daoist sect’s Innate One Qi, in truth, signified a transcendence of life itself. One’s physical form alone had already surpassed that of martial cultivators.

Depleting one’s Innate Qi did not mean the Daoist arts were thus exhausted.

Even when too weary to wield divine powers, a Daoist True Person, sword in hand and armored, could still move unhindered across the battlefield.

To kill Qi Wuhuo now using mere martial force—assuming he neither deployed divine arts nor attempted to escape—would still require over a hundred heavily armored elite soldiers to besiege him. Of course, if one employed Human Dao Fate and Military Murderous Qi, the outcome would differ—but the young Daoist had his own means.

He brushed aside the bolts and swept his spiritual sense across the carriage.

Inside were many lavish items. The gold and silver carried with the carriage alone were enough to purchase a manor in an ordinary town. In addition to that, there were spare garments, two treasured swords worth a thousand gold pieces each, and a jade pendant. There was also a thick bundle of land deeds—likely spoils gained from this journey.

At the very core of it all was the Great Roc Ode.

Qi Wuhuo unrolled the scroll. The characters upon it were wild and unrestrained, full of audacity and pride. He could immediately sense the vigorous aura of Human Dao Fortune emanating from it and confirmed it was genuine. This was a text written through [literary spirit] and the [fortune of the human realm]—a tangible manifestation of that very fate. Though imbued with the Human Dao’s Qi, it bore no ties to the royal family, and thus it possessed true value.

The emperor’s effort to gather such items stemmed less from love of the arts and more from the necessity of keeping such objects within the royal house.

For this object represented a certain possibility—

That Human Dao Fate might take many forms.

Brilliant literary talent, too, was part of it.

The imperial family’s Mandate of the Human Sovereign was but one aspect of Human Dao Fate—not its entirety.

The young Daoist finished reading the Great Roc Ode, then rolled it up again and set it aside. He then picked up a thick scroll lying nearby. It seemed to belong to Zhou Nuchang. Surprisingly, the scroll’s cover had been coated in poison—clearly, it was something not meant to be seen by others. Upon opening it, he saw line after line of text—it was an account ledger:

[Central Province, Three Cities – Zhao Yipin, age 7. Impoverished. Orphaned. One hundred taels of silver entrusted. Ten scrolls of books.]

[Shuili Village – Li San. Young. Father dead, mother ill. Thirty taels of silver were entrusted, along with a medicinal decoction from the palace.]

[Zhao Alley – Zhao Shiqi, age 6. Wandering the streets. Monthly silver sent. Seek retired agents of the Hidden Dragon Guard for adoption.]

Qi Wuhuo flipped through it and saw entry after entry recording where the silver was sent.

All of it had gone to destitute, orphaned children.

Some pages also contained scattered lines—private musings of Zhou Nuchang:

‘He thanked me for helping him and said that in the future, he wanted to become someone like me. I don’t know why I was angry—I beat him up and told him to get lost. The look on his face was full of fear; it reminded me of myself, the day I was sold into the palace. I still don’t understand why Uncle Wang gave me a meal of red-braised pork and then sold me off. But the palace men said it was for five taels of silver.’

‘I didn’t know how much five taels of silver was.’

‘Later I found out—five taels could buy enough red-braised pork to make you sick of it.’

‘That little brat probably doesn’t even understand why I hit him.’

Qi Wuhuo paused for a moment, then flipped to the beginning. At the very front were the earliest entries:

‘He handed me over to the palace guards and said I went there willingly because I couldn’t bear the poverty. Wang Sangou—I’ll kill him.’

‘But now, my elder sister has married Wang Sangou’s son. I can’t kill him anymore.’

Whole sections were scratched out.

Qi Wuhuo turned more pages and saw what seemed to be drunken reflections from Zhou Nuchang:

‘I can’t be kind to them. I even have to hold a whip in my hand, lashing them without mercy. I’ve killed too many nobles. Whoever I treat well dies. Just like A-Liu. I was ordered to investigate a corrupt official. But when I returned to the capital, I found A-Liu had been sold to a brothel of dark repute—tortured until unrecognizable.’

‘I am the emperor’s dirty blade. I’ve killed too many nobles. They can’t touch me—but they can touch the common folk around me.’

‘So I must bow to the powerful. I must treat the people cruelly. Only by standing alone can I survive.’

‘The order for my transfer came from the Crown Prince himself.’

“They made a deal.”

“So that’s how it is. Master, I understand now what you meant by those words.”

“In this imperial city, being a mad dog who thinks nothing is far better than being a man.”

The entries that followed were all fragmented notes—records of whom he had killed.

The silver earned through slaughter, and the gold and silver extorted from high officials, were mostly dispersed.

Secretly, it went to aid children who had suffered as he once did in his youth. Some of it was used to buy sweets.

As the killings increased, so too did the number of dead. And with that, the silver he used to help others grew heavier and heavier in weight. Only one passage stood out—perplexing in its clarity:

“To seek revenge is nothing more than throwing an egg against a rock. It would only draw the wrath of the Sage and provoke another blood purge against those involved in the past. Not only would revenge fail, but more lives would be dragged down with it. Why even do such a thing?”

“What happened back then is already over.”

“Silence may bring survival. But like the great clans, showing lingering indignation only invites death.”

“Why not let go and simply live?”

At the end, there was a final note:

If I die, please don’t tell those children.

Don’t let them know that the one who helped them was a man with blood on both hands.

Qi Wuhuo closed the scroll. The names recorded within numbered more than a thousand killed by his hand. The children he had secretly supported were several times that. Whether it was to find peace of mind, or the result of something twisted and tangled within him—the bloodshed and inner struggle were unmistakable. So too was the stench of blood hidden beneath the imperial city’s boundless splendor.

“Ah Qi! Ah Qi!”

It was the voice of the little peacock.

Qi Wuhuo swept his Primordial Soul outward. The rain was falling, veiling the world in mist, washing away the traces of brutal slaughter. The little peacock flapped up into the air. It was still too young—when it rose into the sky, it looked like a plump little chick trying to soar. If it relaxed its effort even a bit, it would wobble and sink. But then, with a burst of strength, it flapped again and floated upward with a leisurely grace.

At last, displeased with the rain soaking its wings, the fluffy little thing twisted midair, drawing an arc as it avoided the droplets.

Its demeanor held both the gluttonous plumpness of a spoiled bird and the airy lightness of a creature born to fly.

The young Daoist turned. His left hand lifted the curtain. His gaze was gentle, and his right hand extended forward.

Innate Qi stirred the flowing wind.

It was like a moving bridge—one that carried the little peacock steadily into the young Daoist’s palm. The bird swayed slightly, then found a comfortable position and nestled in. Rubbing its head against the center of the youth’s hand, it chirped in delight: “Ah Qi, Ah Qi! I found you!”

“I want sweet pastries! And handmade noodles! And warm, steaming meat buns fresh from the oven!”

The young Daoist replied gently, “Mm.”

Turning around, he glanced at the Great Roc Ode. The satisfied little peacock hopped onto Qi Wuhuo’s shoulder and stared curiously at the scroll:  “What’s this? Doesn’t look tasty!”

The youth said, “An opportunity.”

“Opportunity?”

“Mm. Perhaps it is the opening to break the belief that only the royal family can possess the Human Dao’s Fate. The Human Dao’s Fortune can be divided—into the royal line, the military schools, the literary fame, and the livelihood of the people. If one is not of the royal bloodline but has merit toward the human race, they too may bear fortune. Warriors who defend the nation, scholars whose words inspire generations, and common folk who till the soil—all of them, more or less, ought to be granted return in kind.”

“Though the emperor’s fate remains the strongest, what can be changed is his right to confer fate.”

“Strip him of that right, and he would no longer be placed above all, revered as a Sage.”

“Whether he is merely a Son of Heaven and Human King, or is truly worthy to be honored as a Human Sovereign by all people—that shall depend on the emperor’s own deeds.”

“If I’m not mistaken, the current royal clan has overstepped its bounds.”

His gaze fell once more upon the scroll of the Great Roc Ode, thoughts stirring and churning within. Then, with a sweep of his sleeve, he stored it away and drew out from the carriage another scroll—blank white paper, yet lined with hidden patterns. Its texture was fine and smooth like gold leaf. Such paper was extraordinarily expensive; only the Hidden Dragon Guard, who bled the great clans dry, would carry such stock.

And it was precisely the same kind of paper used in the Great Roc Ode.

The little peacock blinked curiously.  “Ah Qi, Ah Qi, what are you doing?”

“I’m going to write a new Great Roc Ode.”

“Eh? This big-moon-moon-bird ode—did you write it?”

“Big moon-moon bird?”

 The young Daoist let out a helpless chuckle and corrected:  “It’s Great Roc.”

“Oh, oh! Great Roc Bird! Great Roc Bird!”

The little peacock nodded solemnly, then tilted its head in thought before asking:  “So this Great Moon—er, Great Roc—can it be eaten?”

“They say it’s a giant bird, so it must take a long time to eat it all.”

“That really is one incredible bird!”

Qi Wuhuo gave a helpless smile, while the little peacock seemed already to be imagining that enormous “Big-Moon-Moon Bird” filling an entire room. One leg roasted, the other stewed in red sauce—after all, it was a big bird. The massive cauldron in the Daoist temple probably couldn’t even fit a single drumstick!

Ahhh, Big-Moon-Moon Bird, you’re truly the best!

So the little peacock dreamed in delight. Though it hadn’t tasted a bite, joy blossomed on its face as if it had feasted.

It took a good while before the creature pulled itself back from its delicious fantasy. Seeing the young Daoist grinding ink, it blinked and asked:  “Ah Qi, are you making a fake?”

The young Daoist lifted his brush.

The flowing wind gently held the golden cassia paper aloft. He replied,  “Though I wasn’t the one who wrote this scroll, I knew the man who did.”

“I will rewrite it. There may be flaws.”

“But the Crown Prince—he won’t be able to tell.”

His voice was calm and composed, yet carried a natural air of poise and dignity.

In the midst of pooled blood and fine rain, with sword intent as chill as frost, the young Daoist sat and began transcribing the Great Roc Ode. His brush moved with unwavering grace. Yet each stroke carried the unmistakable style of that “Great Dao Sovereign”—the calligraphy came effortlessly, but within it surged sword intent, vast and unrestrained. A fierce and unshakable personal will was infused into this scroll of the Great Roc Ode.

At first, nothing seemed particularly mystical.

Until his right hand continued writing, and his left hand suddenly rose—forming the sword mudra.

With a sudden sweep—

The Slayer of Thieves’ Sword stirred, as though it possessed spirit. It turned into a beam of sword light, flying directly into the carriage and hovering midair.

The young Daoist lifted his gaze and ran his palm lightly across the blade.

The sword pulsed with surging will.

It was as if one could still hear that one-legged elder, sitting beneath the moon, lamp by his side, staring at his blade and roaring in fury and grief:

“Kill the Thief…”

The young Daoist caressed the sword.

The child who had once escaped with his life only because a tear in the iron cavalry’s line gave him a sliver of hope—now stood tall, responding to those warriors who, back then, turned their backs to the world and rode into death: “I will help you.”

“Even if I likely won’t succeed in killing him.”

“But at the very least, I can help you unleash this sword.”

“Before all the civil and military officials, before all eyes, before Heaven above and Earth below—let it cleave apart the so-called immaculate fate of the Sage.”

“Only then can there be a path forward.”

“The vows you all made—since this poor Daoist has already agreed to them, then even if I cannot fulfill them immediately, I shall at least collect a bit of interest first.”

Thereafter, the young Daoist lifted his brush. Using the final obsession and unwillingness of the Xuan Armor Cavalry as his ink, with the boundless red dust of the mortal world as his brush, he sat amidst the sword rain and the blood-soaked earth, focused his spirit, and in one breath completed the final verses of the Great Roc Ode. And when he finally lifted the brush, made from the fur of a Howling Moon Silver Wolf, it seemed unable to endure the surge of qi and crumbled apart, dissipating into nothingness.

The words on the Great Roc Ode glimmered faintly for a moment, then faded into silence.

Qi Wuhuo had seen Uncle Niu imitate the patina of age before, so he clumsily attempted it once himself, making the Great Roc Ode appear less new.

Then, he rolled it up once more and returned it to its original place. Rain fell in a fine drizzle, washing away the scent of blood and scattering the hidden threads of fate. The Crown Prince had always been cautious by nature, and after the recent ordeal, he would become even more wary and mistrustful—like a bird startled by the mere twang of a bowstring.

But presenting the Great Roc Ode was his final chance to curry favor with the Emperor.

Even if suspicion lingered in his heart, he could do nothing more.

The young Daoist stood, turned, and stepped down from the carriage. The rain fell like blades. Of the more than thirty Hidden Dragon Guards, their souls had already scattered. Only Zhou Nuchang still clung to life, barely enduring the sword-like rain. Orphaned from a young age, he had struggled to survive, and even within the palace, rose step by step to become the Left Commander of the Hidden Dragon Guard. Regardless of good or evil, his tenacity was unmatched.

But when he saw that scroll of documents in Qi Wuhuo’s hand, his expression changed dramatically, as though his soul had begun to collapse.

Yet, the young Daoist did not draw his sword.

He clasped his hands in salute, bowing slightly as he said, “In ten years, you saved over three thousand lives.”

“This bow may be shallow—”

“But this poor Daoist thanks you.”

He straightened his back. With a sweep of his sleeve, the scroll slipped from his hand. Innate Qi surged forth and engulfed it in flame. Those names—each one a sin, a redemption, a killing, a saving—a past, a stubborn clinging—all were consumed by the fire. Zhou Nuchang roared in fury and instinctively lunged forward, as though that scroll meant more to him than his own life.

A sword rang, clear and cold.

The young Daoist finally drew his blade. With a single horizontal slash, he shattered Zhou Nuchang’s soul, grinding it to dust. A lifetime of sins, of obsession, of struggle—were wiped away. When the sword was returned to its sheath, his soul and the ashes of the scroll mingled into one, and with a gust of wind, vanished—never to be seen again.

“To slay demons and cut down monsters, wind and fire unceasing. A thousand thousand deaths, ten thousand ten thousand bodies destroyed.

The Three Souls scattered forever. The Seven Spirits, utterly lost.”

The young Daoist held his sword in one hand. With his left, he formed a Daoist seal, and chanted an incantation.

His wide sleeves hung low. His figure was desolate. The wind was desolate.

This was no longer the venting of anger or the killing of enemies—but the settling of karma.

He simply sheathed his sword.

One cause, one effect. One drink, one peck. Cause begets effect—this body now enters the tribulation.

The little peacock asked curiously, “A-Qi, A-Qi, what was he trying to do?”

The young Daoist pondered for a moment and replied:

“I don’t know.”

“He’s already dead. No one knows anymore.”

“And I do not wish to know.”

The sleeves fell gently. The Daoist drew his sword and inscribed words upon the stone wall—then, holding his blade, walked away, step by step.

The death of the Left Commander of the Hidden Dragon Guard inevitably stirred some ripples. In his sleep, the Crown Prince suddenly dreamt of a young Daoist riding in an ox-drawn cart, a five-colored bird perched on his shoulder. The youth’s face was obscured, but he wielded a sword and severed the Crown Prince’s left arm. The Crown Prince stared wide-eyed, yet still could not discern the Daoist’s features. All he could hear was the wailing of what seemed like countless souls—cries of grief from thousands upon thousands of people.

Writhing in agony, he suddenly heard those cries burst into wild laughter.

Those countless figures reached out their hands, as though to drag him into the endless hell.

His severed left arm gripped his own throat tightly, trying to strangle him.

The Crown Prince jolted awake in terror. That day, his spirit was scattered—he could not speak for some time. When news arrived of Zhou Nuchang’s demise, he immediately dispatched men to investigate. They found that all were dead, the heavenly fate there had vanished, and even the souls had dissipated without a trace. Only upon a stone wall, a list of names had been inscribed—each one a lingering veteran of the Xuan Armor Army. Twenty-seven names, like twenty-seven pairs of eyes.

Gazing at the blood that flowed like a river.

Gazing at the Crown Prince’s noble station.

Watching to see—when shall you perish!

The killer—an old acquaintance from Jinzhou!!!

The Crown Prince was stricken with fear. He urgently inquired: was the Ode to the Great Roc still intact?

Someone replied: “Aside from the deaths of the Hidden Dragon Guards, the gold, silver, treasures, land deeds—all remain untouched, including that scroll of the Ode to the Great Roc. It seems the killer acted only for vengeance, not for wealth.”

“All of it remains, all still there…”

Upon hearing that the Ode was unharmed, the Crown Prince finally breathed a sigh of relief. He muttered, “Good… good…” His complexion shifted repeatedly—first pale upon hearing the report, then loosening with relief, only to flush an unnatural red soon after. After a long moment of dazed muttering, he hastily gave orders for the local officials to gather and bury the bodies of the Hidden Dragon Guards, and to send the Ode to the Great Roc to him at once.

When he opened and read through it, he confirmed it was indeed the Great Roc Ode, and at last he could ease his breath—but fear still clung to him. He could no longer sleep soundly, neither day nor night. Each time he awoke, he seemed to see those calm, detached eyes of the young Daoist—eyes that seemed devoid of joy or sorrow, yet vast enough to contain the world. His heart could not find peace.

So he clenched his jaw, rose in the dead of night, and issued a secret decree.

He drew five hundred men from the imperial guard to serve as escort, and under cover of night, fled Zhongzhou, taking the [Great Roc Ode] with him, bound directly for the capital.

A sudden upheaval had struck, throwing the Crown Prince into dread, altering even the course of a future Human Sovereign.

All who saw it were curious—where had this change come from? What had shaken him so?

And as for the young Daoist who had delivered death—he did not return to Lianyang Temple. Instead, he made a stop along the mountain path.

To visit an old friend.