Chapter 130: Star of Calamity (Yinghuo)

In that very instant, the Crown Prince’s mind went completely blank for a split second. All he could perceive was the afterimage of that sword-light, streaking straight toward him. He had never been one to lack decisiveness—he had survived multiple assassination attempts in the past and had always maintained composure and calm, even during dire moments. There were times when assassins struck while his guards fought bitterly outside, yet he could still pour and sip his wine with ease.

But this time was different. Perhaps it was because his own Human Dao Qi Fortune had been attacked and fractured.

Or perhaps it was because that furious cry of “Kill the Thief!” had shaken his Dao Heart.

Just a fleeting moment of blankness—and as that sword-light descended, he found himself incapable of the slightest reaction. Only his Human Dao Qi Fortune spiraled and roared in his stead, and with the price of expending several times more Qi Fortune, it forcibly intercepted and clashed with the sword-light, letting out a crisp and clear ring before it was finally extinguished. Yet compared to the countless years of accumulated destiny of the Human Emperor, that sword gleam was as feeble as a mantis trying to stop a chariot.

Under the Human Emperor’s command: the race of men, countless in number; three million armored riders; the vast expanse of the Nine Provinces; and unnumbered commonfolk.

The Qi Fortune that had struck him just now—at most—was equal to that of a single army’s iron cavalry.

How was it any different from a mantis trying to halt a chariot?

And yet—despite being so weak, despite clearly lacking in strength—he could not understand why it had struck a fear within him so pure, so terrifying, far beyond what any of the feudal princes’ great Qi Fortune could induce, even surpassing the resplendent pillar of fortune radiating from his own imperial father.

This was not a matter of [quantity]—but of [quality]. His pupils contracted violently. Though the sword-light had been blocked, a single lingering wisp of its edge had still struck him—landing upon his ornate robes, faintly drawing blood.

A long moment of heart-pounding silence. A deathly stillness.

The surrounding guards clad in heavy armor all instinctively held their breath, lowered their heads, not daring to look.

The Crown Prince’s breath was heavy. After a long pause, he said coldly: “All of you—withdraw…”

“Investigate! I want this investigated thoroughly!”

“There is a traitor hidden in Zhongzhou—find them!”

“Find them!!!”

By the end, his voice was trembling with repressed fury—a low roar of rage.

And an unshakable fear.

The attending guards and servants all bowed in unison, then fled the courtyard as if escaping the suffocating aura of death that hung in the air. A long while later, the Crown Prince rose. His luxurious robes were already soaked through with sweat. He changed garments, drank tea in hopes of steadying his mind, but even that failed to calm him. His hands trembled uncontrollably, and he felt an unmistakable panic. It was as if his own Qi Fortune had been cleaved—no longer whole, no longer pure.

Those who cultivate Qi Fortune value, above all else, the integrity of Qi Fortune itself.

It is often said: “When fortune rises, even Heaven and Earth lend their strength; but when fate declines, even heroes lose their freedom.”

Though he did not know exactly how much of his Qi Fortune had been severed, it felt as if he had lost something supremely precious, leaving him no choice but to feel panic and confusion.

After a long silence, he finally composed himself and spoke: “Gather the [Ode to the Great Roc] at once. I don’t care whether you buy it or seize it—bring it back to me. Once it is secured, we depart for the capital immediately. This place, something is wrong. Terribly wrong.”

The Crown Prince muttered to himself. After issuing his orders, he sank into contemplation once again and made a decision to change his previous plan.

He no longer intended to slowly probe Qiong Yu and her brother. No longer would he maneuver from the shadows, weaving pressure from all directions like peeling silk thread, carefully dismantling Qiong Yu’s hidden defenses. Now, he would go directly and crush them with sheer force of authority!

As this thought struck him, he suddenly rose to his feet, placing the teacup aside with a clatter, striding toward the door with firm steps.

But just as he stepped outside, he hesitated. Moving so hastily, it might cause Qiong Yu to sense something amiss, placing him at a disadvantage. He slowly exhaled a deep breath, thought for a long while, then retracted his right foot, walking back into the room. He realized that he had, for reasons unknown, fallen into a state of panic, heart palpitations, and an unsettled mind.

It was as if that sword had struck directly upon his Dao Heart as the Human Emperor’s Heir, cleaving a rift straight through it.

“This must not be, this must not be…”

The Crown Prince slowly sat down again, concentrating his mind for a long time.

“Three days from now—I will act.”

“I shall first compose a letter to be sent to the Imperial Father.”

“To present this matter in full.”

He returned to his chambers and retrieved a wooden box. Inside lay a jade seal—carved with auspicious symbols, radiant and exquisite. A brilliant stream of Qi Fortune coiled and danced around it, wondrous beyond words. But just as he took out the seal, his expression froze.

Upon that very jade seal, intertwined with the Crown Prince’s own Qi Fortune, a crack had appeared.

With a series of sharp snapping sounds—ka-cha, ka-cha—it collapsed before his eyes.

The Crown Prince’s face turned deathly pale.

No—speaking in terms of Qi Fortune—

He was no longer the Crown Prince.

A single sword strike—stripping fate, severing destiny, casting him down!

Such an immense shock struck like a heavy hammer crashing down upon the top of his skull, leaving him dizzy and disoriented. He could barely remain standing, staggering as he reached out to press a trembling hand against the table, barely managing to hold himself upright. His body continued to shake, his eyes gradually reddening:

“Those lowborn wretches…”

“How… how could this be?”

“Mere commoners, no better than pigs and dogs—”

“How could you possibly have done this…”

He seemed unwilling to believe it. His gaze was vacant for a long time, and his body trembled with rage. Suddenly, he growled in a low, hoarse voice, erupting into a furious roar:

“How dare you demote me!”

“How dare you strip me, this prince, of my destiny!”

“How dare you—!”

“How dare you!!!”

He swept his arm violently across the table, flinging everything atop it to the floor. His breathing was ragged, his fury surged to the heart, and the collapse of his Qi Fortune rebounded in backlash. Blood gushed from his mouth, and he collapsed, unconscious.

Capital City—

At the very moment that the young Daoist comprehended something—when the Kill the Thief Sword began to gather Qi Fortune upon its blade—

Though the sword had not yet been drawn,

A red surge of Qi had already begun to flow along its edge.

And the Heavenly Secrets Pavilion had already fallen into chaos.

Before this disturbance, an elderly man had been standing atop the highest floor of the Star-Plucking Tower, instructing a group of young disciples.

“Ziwei Doushu, the art of star-divination, draws upon the eternal forces of the celestial constellations that have endured since time immemorial.”

“It attempts to peer into all things, past and future.”

“All that exists in this world—from the beginning of the Dao to the tribulations of the Dao—has its own fated course. And the stars of the heavens bear witness to all of it. They are the unchanging constants from ancient days to distant ages yet to come. Only by anchoring our spirits to that which remains unchanged can we glimpse the faint traces of the far-off future. Heaven and Earth span all directions; time moves from past to present—this is the true field in which divination must dwell.”

“Just as script records history, so too does this art record the will of the heavens—thus it is named astral calculation, or Heavenly Astrology.”

“Because of this, the study of [Astronomy] has ever been a forbidden discipline within the mortal empire. You are all fortunate to have the chance to learn it—if it were anyone else, whether commoner or noble, merely touching this knowledge could provoke a calamity, perhaps even death.”

“The so-called arts of Qi observation and the Liu Ren method are but lesser branches—far beneath our path!”

The Astrologer Grandmaster, clad in robes of deep violet, stroked his beard as he expounded upon the mysteries of Doushu. His voice was calm, but his tone carried vast authority. The young disciples, all cultivators of astronomy and calendrical arts, could not help but feel their hearts stir with anticipation. The elder smiled faintly and was about to continue when someone came rushing forward in great haste. The figure stopped beside the old man and bowed low, whispering several words. The old man’s expression changed drastically. He abruptly stood up and said:

“How could this be!”

“You’re not speaking nonsense, are you?!”

The middle-aged man seemed even more anxious than he was.

“This concerns our very heads! How could I dare to speak falsehoods?”

“This… what are we to do?!”

The elder who had just moments before spoken so serenely, as if all the stars were under his control, now leaped to his feet and left behind only one order: “Wait here. Do not touch the archives!” Then he and the middle-aged man swiftly departed, ascending all the way to the topmost floor of the Star-Plucking Tower. Though the tower was tall, it afforded an expansive view of the skies. Countless streaks of light gathered and crisscrossed, forming an immense astral chart.

It was a grand artifact forged from the imperial fate of the human realm—

A tool for observing the universe, divining the heavens, and calculating the flow of time from past to future.

In the depths of winter, it was supposed to be the Ziwei Star of the North Pole that shone the brightest. Yet just now, the Star-Plucking Tower had observed the appearance of a star hitherto unseen. The old man strode forward, first raising his head to gaze at the twilight sky, then lowering it to examine the astral chart, which at all times mirrored the stars above. 

At the very center of the chart should have been the Ziwei Star, symbol of imperial authority.

Yet now, within the Ziwei Doushu’s divinations, a red star had emerged.

Though the Human Emperor’s star still shone with brilliance—

This red star was faint and dim.

Like the sun compared to a firefly.

Yet at this very moment, that flickering red star—its light faint as a firefly—had appeared only briefly, and even so, it caused the star that had shone brightly for untold ages, the star that represented imperial authority and the Human Emperor, to sway unsteadily. And soon after, that red star’s light faded, as though it had been no more than an illusion. For a long, long while, not a single word was spoken among the officials of the Celestial Oversight Directorate gathered atop the Star-Plucking Tower.

“What star was that…?”

“We do not know. Since the first Human Emperor, through the succession of dynasties, this star has never appeared.”

“At least, not once in the past several thousand years of the Human Emperor’s reign.”

Once again, a heavy silence fell.

The old man slowly let out a breath and spoke: “From the beginning of the Dao to its tribulations, all things have already been set.”

“What we are to do is borrow the eternal constancy of the stars to glimpse, from the past, a single thread of the future’s variance. Then let the Sages judge it—to lead the entire realm toward fortune and away from calamity. Thus, the sudden appearance of this star must signify an omen.”

“It must be investigated.”

“Begin by searching the ancient records for its name.”

At this, all the officials of the Celestial Oversight Directorate sprang into motion.

They gathered the oldest records, some etched onto stone tablets, preserving the earliest catalogs of the stars, and began searching for even a single word, a single reference to the red star.

Yet there was no ritual orbit, no divine configuration pointing toward that star.

All the stars in the heavens are overseen by their respective Star Sovereigns.

But this one—this red star—had long since fallen into silence. There was no Sovereign presiding over it. For in the eyes of Ziwei Doushu, a star’s presence is not only astronomical—it is a message from the heavenly design. Not all stars or constellations have Sovereigns, and not all Sovereigns reside among the 365 Celestial Spirits or even among the rarer, more exalted ranks of Star Lords.

Thus, they could only dive into the vast sea of ancient texts, seeking a trace, a mention—anything.

Fortunately, the officials of the Directorate were all steeped in the classics. Each had long committed the contents of the archives to memory. They swiftly sifted past the records of the current Human Emperor’s dynasty. Then, past the chaos of the prior dark age. Until at last, they reached texts dating back over ten thousand years—before the founding of the imperial dynasty, before even the rise of the first Human Emperor. A brief, fragmentary record from the age of chaos.

Long ago, there had once been a dynasty that ruled over vast lands. But it, too, eventually fell into ruin.

Before its collapse, the Directorate of Celestial Affairs of that era had seemingly also observed the appearance of a red-hued star.

Yet after that, the star vanished—as though it had fallen into a slumber. It had never appeared again. What could have occurred now, to cause it to flicker back into life, if only for a fleeting moment? Though its reawakening had lasted but the briefest instant, it had indeed appeared.

And if the configuration of stars foretells something far, far in the future, then what, precisely, does this star signify?

After much deliberation, it was finally decided: they would employ Ziwei Doushu to peer into the threads of fate. Thousands of astrologers gathered, each bringing forth a treasured artifact of the Celestial Oversight Directorate—a tortoise shell, long revered as one of the greatest relics in their possession. It was said to have come from a mythical divine beast, and had endured for thousands of years, having served the astrologers since the founding of the Human Emperor’s dynasty. Back then, the Directorate had still borne its old name: the Directorate of Heaven’s Observance.

This shell had helped the dynasty weather thirteen great calamities—and so, its surface was now covered in cracks.

They cast their calculations for a long while. At last, the cracks upon the shell revealed an augury. The middle-aged diviner, drenched in cold sweat, read the fractures aloud:

“A dim flickering flame, spreading across all lands…”

“The first name of this star is [Ying].”

“It belongs to the Ying constellation!”

Stars often bore names that connected them to certain individuals or events. So they immediately refined their divinations—burning the tortoise shell with true fire—seeking to discern why this Ying Star had awakened, and for whose sake it had appeared. In the flames, new cracks emerged. The diviner stared closely, then interpreted them:

“The second word is [Huo].”

The old master asked, puzzled: “Huo, as in calamity?”

“No, Huo, as in confusion.”

“The [Yinghuo Star].”

“Its rising foretells the unsteadying of the Imperial Star. The augury says: A flickering flame, brilliant without confusion. The Arbiter of Fate portends misfortune.”

Just as he was about to continue his deductions, the middle-aged man saw the final eight characters—an omen foretelling events yet to come. Suddenly, a chill coursed through his heart. He glanced at his fellow officials to either side, then gritted his teeth, raised his arm with force, and hurled the treasured tortoiseshell into the fire. Under the searing blaze of true fire, it cracked apart.

Everyone was struck dumb with shock.

“You’re mad?!!” The old man cried out in fury, his voice trembling with rage.

“I am not mad!”

The middle-aged astrologer said: “It is precisely because I am not mad… that it must not be spoken.”

The old man still wished to rebuke him, but in that instant, he perceived the terror hidden behind those words—and so he fell silent.

What the middle-aged astrologer dared not say was: if we come to know this prophecy, we shall all die.

The tortoiseshell that had once revealed thirteen calamities for a former Human Emperor’s reign—treasured beyond compare—shattered within the flames and turned to ash, as if releasing a helpless sigh beneath the gaze of those who, it seemed, had already guessed the truth.

The officials of the Celestial Oversight Directorate dared not delay. They compiled all matters related to the event—save for the destruction of the tortoiseshell—into formal memorials and submitted them to the Emperor. Yet the Human Emperor remained composed, merely stating, “I understand,” before dismissing the court. Later, the chronicles recorded this as: the first appearance of the baleful star, Yinghuo. 

The Emperor, still smiling, turned to the beauty at his side and sighed: “Zhen is the Emperor over millions upon millions. The realm lies beneath Heaven, and the Mandate rests with me. Even ghosts and spirits dare not show disrespect. When Zhen smiles, the world rejoices; when Zhen is wroth, all tremble. Ten thousand bow their heads, and blood may flow like rivers.

What fear Zhen has for this so-called astral omen?”

Then, falling silent once more for a long while, he at last spoke with a smile:

“Let benevolence and virtue be the rule of the realm. Let Heaven’s will be met without fear.

Zhen… fears not.”

The beauty praised him with admiration, singing in harmony with his words. The Emperor was pleased and laughed.

—The Annals of the Emperor, Volume Thirty-Seven: Youli

As the sword’s edge slowly slid back into its scabbard, it was as though someone were softly humming a tune of home beneath the setting sun. Drop by drop, fresh blood fell. Though the primary burden of fate rested upon this Kill the Thief Sword, the young Daoist who wielded it had still suffered injury—his right hand torn at the tiger’s mouth, a vicious wound now laid bare. Blood dripped onto his Daoist robe, then onto the tome about the Human Destiny, blooming into crimson flowers. The little peacock beside him was startled.

The little peacock asked instinctively: “Ah Qi, what are you doing?”

The young Daoist thought for a moment, then replied: “I am cultivating.”

“Cultivating myself, cultivating truth, cultivating the Dao.”

“To follow the will of my heart.”

“To repay kindness.”

His voice paused. He clenched his hand. Blood fell once more. Because this trip had originally been to heal others, he had brought clean, washed cloth. The young Daoist took a strip, wrapped it around his palm. With the control of a cultivator at the stage of Innate One Qi, he stopped the bleeding. But the wound, backlash by fate itself, was slow to heal. He added:

“All of that is just empty talk. I know it myself.”

“There really isn’t some lofty reason. It’s not about seeking justice or upholding the law.”

“It’s just that, after having seen so many things, I simply couldn’t stomach them. And I failed to restrain my own heart.”

“When all under Heaven is unbalanced, voices will cry out. I saw injustice. My heart grew restless. That’s all there is to it.”

“And didn’t I already say? I can’t really do much. But whether one does it, and whether one succeeds in doing it—those are two different matters.”

The young Daoist squatted down, gently ran his fingers over the downy feathers of the little peacock, and smiled:

“I really am a lawless Daoist, aren’t I?”

“Sometimes I can be quite petty too, don’t you think?”

“Oh well, let’s bring the sesame cakes back. You still don’t have a name.”

The young Daoist was not disheartened by the sword’s failure to achieve full effect. This was, after all, a time of peace and prosperity. The power of this sword was still not enough. That only proved the iron cavalry’s resolve had not yet been broken. If their determination could be so easily cut, and the Fortune of the human Crown Prince severed, then the Great Wall of Human Fortune would have long since crumbled—and the myriad demons would already be invading from all sides.

Moreover, even the force used to condense this sword’s Fortune had come from the [protective] power of the Human Sovereign’s Dao. To use the method of gathering human fate to sever the Human Dao Fortune of its bearer, even Qi Wuhuo himself felt this was truly a fanciful delusion.

To act with the root of [protection], and yet walk the path of [slaughter].

Such things stood in contradiction.

It was like trying to flow eastward while walking west.

Even his senior sister’s Hunyuan Sword Canon could not accomplish such a feat.

One might claim to draw the sword with the heart to protect all living beings, but when the sword is drawn and the fate moves, it does not heed your intentions. Killing is still killing. No matter how pure and kind the heart behind it, slaughter remains slaughter. That would not change. Upon that Kill the Thief Sword, the two cloud-script characters “Kill” and “Thief” had once borne a heavy aura of fate, representing the breath of the Black Armor Army, with that commanding officer as its example.

But now, the Fate Qi Wuhuo had forcibly condensed using his Primordial Spirit and Primordial Qi exploded apart with a thunderous shatter.

The sword returned to its original state.

The path of the Human Sovereign had undergone countless refinements by many before him—it was not something he could glimpse through sheer effort alone. What he had done just now was to forcibly twist and shape a strand of Fortune using his own Primordial Spirit and Primordial Qi. And when that spirit receded, the force naturally dissipated. It could not remain, shift, or evolve on its own like true Human Dao Fortune.

The young Daoist ran his hand across the sword, sensing the subtle changes in its body. Vaguely, a trace of insight stirred within him.

“Still lacking in measure…”

“But—”

“If I make a trip to Jinzhou…”

“And then draw the sword again—it may be different.”

The young Daoist purchased the blood-soaked tomes and placed the sword case into his sleeve. After bidding farewell to the steward of the Mingzhen Dao Alliance, who personally escorted him to the gates, the youth stepped into the mortal world one footfall at a time. As he wandered among the bustle of the red dust, his heart gradually settled. Yet amidst the prosperity and peace, he could not help but think of those more than three million lives.

His thoughts dwelt there. Though the recent strike of his sword had been satisfying, it could not entirely calm his heart.

On the contrary—it felt like pouring water into a blazing fire at its fiercest. Not to extinguish the flames, but to make them burn even fiercer.

Is this, then, why the Eight Tribulations cause one to descend ever deeper?

Qi Wuhuo’s thoughts turned contemplative.

In the beginning, the nature of one’s spirit can still recognize itself.

But in time, one sinks further and further. Until, at last, even the spirit can no longer remember who it is. Perhaps this was what the old master, Ao Liu, meant when he once said—One must plant a tree.

So that one’s spiritual nature would have an anchor. Each time one gazes upon that tree, the self would remember peace and its original state.

Qi Wuhuo returned to the Lianyang Temple and shared some sesame cakes with the young Daoist Mingxin.

The little Daoist, who had only studied for a day, was already dizzy with excitement, stepping outside and getting warm sesame cakes right away.

He cheered with delight.

Amid the shouts of “Long live Uncle-Master Qi!” and “Uncle-Master Qi is the best!” from the little Daoist, the young Daoist returned to the Scripture Pavilion.

He took out a mirror and performed the [Round Light Manifestation Technique].

Ripples of light danced across the mirror’s surface. Even before the image fully formed, a voice rang out—

“Dun-dun-dun-dunnn, Fairy Yun Qin of the Black Tortoise Constellation has arrived!”

“Little Daoist Wuhuo!”

“Ahem! Have you prepared the Sesame Cake’s Xuantan Altar yet?!”

The voice carried a deliberately dignified tone, as though trying to act proper and formal. But soon, a girl’s figure appeared in the mirror—bright-eyed, resting her chin on her palms while seated on a small stool. She wore embroidered shoes with two tiny fuzzy pom-poms on them. The moment she saw Qi Wuhuo, all that pretended dignity fell away in an instant. Cradling a scroll in her arms, she grinned and said: “Wuhuo, it’s been so long!”

“Hehe, did you miss me?”