Chapter 157: Peace Under Heaven!

That blade was one commonly carried by the people of Jinzhou.

Jinzhou was rife with wild beasts, and its folk were accustomed to the hunt for sustenance. The blade was used to carve meat.

Jinzhou was also a land of bustling prosperity, blessed with scenic beauty wherever the eye fell. That same blade could be used to clear paths through mountain forests, or to cut down blossoming branches, held between the lips as one wandered carefree beneath spring skies.

But now, that blade had passed through an age of chaos. It had even taken the lives of disaster-stricken folk driven mad by hunger.

Now, it rested in the hand of the Seventh Prince, and it pierced through layer upon layer of silken, embroidered robes—driving straight into the chest of the Emperor.

The Seventh Prince’s eyes were bloodshot. Before his eyes flashed scenes from childhood—of his father playing with him, lifting him high upon his shoulders. In those days, he was still young, waving a wooden sword, declaring proudly that he would grow to be a great hero, a mighty warrior under Heaven. He did not wish to be an emperor, but a grand general. But now, all those innocent dreams had scattered like smoke.

Though resolute as ever, his face was streaked with tears.

The short blade pierced straight through the Emperor’s chest, protruding from his back.

Within three paces—the domain of supremacy in the path of warfare—the Seventh Prince, as a leader of the School of Military, was already among the most decisive and ruthless under Heaven. Even a Daoist True Person caught unprepared at such close range would meet only death.

And in that moment, the tide of fate shifted dramatically.

The aura of the Military School—the fierce tiger that symbolized its spirit—suddenly surged forth with violent intensity. After several sorrowful howls, it crumbled and scattered into nothingness.

A son slaying his father. A subject slaying his lord.

Even if the act had not fully succeeded, such a transgression was enough to trigger the violent backlash of the very essence of human order.

In but an instant, all of the Seventh Prince’s Human Fate and Fortune evaporated like mist.

The Seventh Prince stood stunned, as if sensing something… he opened his mouth to speak, but blood poured forth. Then, he fell backward to the ground.

Outside, the eunuchs and imperial guards heard the commotion. As they rushed in, they were greeted by a scene of overwhelming impact.

The Seventh Prince lay collapsed on the jade-bright floor, and beside him spun a battered, broken blade, gradually coming to rest.

The Sage Emperor sat on the ground, clutching his chest. His face had turned deathly pale.

In that instant, all the eunuchs and guards turned ashen. Their minds went blank, unable to comprehend what they were seeing.

The Emperor pressed a hand to his wound and waved his other hand faintly, his voice low and steady: “…Old Seventh has been bewitched by the soul-seizing arts of the demon race.”

“Take him away. Lock him within the Palace of Heavenly Observation. Let him calm down.”

“As you command!”

“The year’s end is upon us; it is a time for renewing with the people. To have such an incident occur now is bound to unsettle hearts.”

“This matter is to be kept secret. Not a word is to be spread.”

“Yes…”

“You may all withdraw.”

And thus, only the Emperor remained in that secluded hall. He took out a wondrous spiritual elixir and swallowed it. Only then did the pallor of his face recede slightly.

Yet in that now empty and silent hall, footsteps once more echoed forth.

The Emperor, who had shown such pride and calm before the Seventh Prince earlier, now changed expression. Still kneeling on the ground, he turned his body and bowed low in full prostration.

“That’s not necessary. You’ve done a good job.”

The voice was calm and composed, yet carried a faint indifference. A man dressed in plain white garments stepped forth—barefoot, a wooden hairpin securing his hair. His gaze was tranquil, yet the face he bore was identical to that of the Emperor. He spoke lightly: “You performed quite well. But unfortunately, you made one mistake—a true Emperor does not explain himself to others.”

The one kneeling—‘the Emperor’—bowed again, knocking his head against the ground, admitting guilt aloud.

The white-clothed Emperor spoke coolly: “Merely confining him? It seems that over these years, you’ve grown far too immersed in playing my double. In the end, were you truly thinking of leaving him a way out?”

“Did you even begin to believe you were really his father?”

The stabbed ‘Emperor’ turned even paler. Though his features still bore the gravity of imperial majesty, there was now a trace of pleading in his eyes.

The man in white said softly:

“And yet, my Seventh Son’s nature remains unchanged from before.”

“That he could make such a decision—he has, at last, completed his Dao Heart in the path of warfare. You receiving this stab is a good thing.”

“Had he not made this strike, how could he ever achieve hegemony? How could he be truly worthy of the title: [Commander of Formations and Forces]?”

“Only now has this piece on the chessboard been truly forged.”

He walked to the great hall’s doorway and looked peacefully into the distance. In his hand was a small handful of grain. As he opened his palm, birds fluttered down and began to peck gently at his hand. His eyes were tranquil. Though dressed only in white garments, he seemed as though clad in armor, with legions of war generals and mighty soldiers behind him. He murmured:

“I did not intervene in the matter of Jinzhou precisely to see how many fish would rise to the bait…”

“The world only knows of military formations and momentum…”

“But who truly understands my art of stratagem?”

“Three million lives—is that not a small price?”

“Just now, your ‘justification’ was filled with emotion and sincerity. But tell me—when you spoke of your inner struggle upon standing at the pinnacle of power, how much of that was acting, and how much came from your true heart?”

As he turned to leave, he added faintly: “Take your own life.”

That “Emperor” wore a pale expression. After kowtowing deeply, he retrieved a single pill, glimmering with radiant light and flowing with color. He swallowed it.

Agony contorted his face.

In the span of a moment, his entire body ignited in silent flame—burning to ash, vanishing utterly from the world, leaving not the slightest trace.

Shortly afterward, the great hall was cleaned, the desk tidied, scrolls laid out in orderly fashion.

And once more, an Emperor sat there—radiant in spirit, completely uninjured—as though nothing had ever occurred, calmly leafing through memorials.

Day turned to night. The resplendent capital had now fallen into dusk.

At the sounding of the final nightwatch drum, a spy from the military school opened his eyes. Rising abruptly, he strode out in great haste. Seeing two waiting handmaidens by the walkway, his voice turned low and steady: “May I ask—has His Highness not returned today?”

The plumb, gentler of the two responded: “No, he has not returned. General, is something the matter…”

The spy’s expression shifted slightly.

He turned to depart, but the two handmaidens stepped forward to block his way, saying: “His Highness instructed that you were to wait.”

As they raised their hands, their movements revealed refined, graceful technique, underpinned by faint Daoist qi. Clearly, these two were not mere handmaidens—they hailed from extraordinary backgrounds. Yet even so, at such close range, the spy moved in a flash, capturing them both in a single breath. His tone remained utterly indifferent, emotionless: “Yesterday, His Highness said: [Wait for his return today].”

“If he has not returned, then something has changed.”

Releasing their arms, the spy turned and departed without hesitation. Following his unique sensitivity to weapons, he quickly tracked down the elderly man and young girl from earlier that day. The old man was still stroking the sword, a frown of unease on his brow, when suddenly, he felt a tremor in his wrist. The sword within its sheath let out a screeching cry, as if roaring.

The military spy had arrived. The longsword flew forth of its own accord, falling into his grasp.

With it came the unique spiritual resonance of the military school, accompanied by a final, brief instruction left behind by the Seventh Prince—transmitted straight into the spy’s mind.

After quietly calming the old and young pair, he asked about the events that had transpired earlier. Once he heard the full account, he turned to the girl and asked in a steady tone: “Which direction did the Seventh Prince head today?” 

A fierce and distinct emotional shift crossed his face.

Without delay, he said: “Come with me.”

He immediately led the old and young toward the residence of the Fourth Prince, located at a distant corner of the city. His pace was swift, every step firm and resolute.

Upon arrival, he knocked on the gates. The Fourth Prince had yet to retire for the night. He summoned the visitor inside. When he laid eyes on the spy, his expression remained composed, his aura deep and impenetrable. His robes were neat, clearly showing no intention of sleeping.

“You are a military school spy. Why have you come?”

The spy cupped his hands respectfully: “By order of His Highness the Seventh Prince, I have come to seek refuge under the Fourth Prince.”

The Fourth Prince’s expression did not change, though his gaze lingered on the spy with subtle depth. After a long pause, he spoke slowly: “Refuge? They say that Old Seven entered the palace today and has yet to emerge. It seems you know something. Speak—tell me everything that has transpired.”

The spy recounted the events truthfully and without embellishment. Then, he lifted the sword that still bore the unique spiritual resonance of the Seventh Prince.

The Fourth Prince’s expression shifted several times. Finally, he grit his teeth and muttered: “So he found out… about the matter in Jinzhou.”

The spy answered: “Yes. His Highness learned of it today. He also found an old man and a young girl from Jinzhou. It was from them that he made his final decision.”

“He feared that once he acted, His Majesty would retaliate, eliminating the two of them. With the authority of an Emperor, it would only take a single glance for them to die without a sound.”

“Thus, His Highness believed, in this world, only the Fourth Prince could protect them.”

The Fourth Prince let out a dry chuckle: “Quite the burden he’s dropped on me…”

The spy paused briefly, then cupped his hands again: “His Highness once said: ‘The Crown Prince has grand ambition but lacks the talent to match.’”

“Though he speaks of quelling all under Heaven, of restoring order to the world—”

“He is incapable.”

“To entrust weapons and command to him would be an act of folly.”

“Should something befall him, the military school shall temporarily fall under Your Highness the Fourth Prince’s command.”

The Fourth Prince’s pupils contracted slightly. He was well aware that he already held deep ties with the great scholarly clans and civil officials. If now he gained the support of the military nobles as well, it would be tantamount to holding the full backing of both civil and martial powers. At that point, though not Crown Prince in name, he would bear all the appearance of one. It was an immense temptation.

And the current Sage Emperor was known above all for balancing powers.

To maintain that balance, the Seventh Prince would not be allowed to die.

Because so long as he lived, he would remain the Commander of the Military School, and the great generals and military clans of the realm would hope for his survival. Yet if the Seventh Prince were to die, then the military school and the frontier’s iron cavalry would inevitably shift. Driven by grief, they would follow the last order left behind by the Seventh Prince and pledge themselves to the Fourth Prince.

It was a perilous thing. A flaming-hot potato pressed into one’s hand.

But the Seventh Prince had been certain—the Fourth Prince would never be able to resist such a temptation.

The Fourth Prince, dressed in plain robes, long known for his modest demeanor and scholarly grace, remained silent for a long time. At last, he said:

“No wonder he was the Commander of the Military School. The world has misjudged this younger brother of mine.”

“No matter. I shall protect those people—this, you may count on.”

“Take that grandfather and granddaughter down. Let them rest well for the night.”

The spy of the military school cupped his hands and withdrew.

Left alone, Fourth Prince Li Hui rested his palm upon the priceless sword. Suddenly, a bitter smile touched his lips. He muttered to himself in self-mockery: “Old Seventh, he’s always been resolute and fierce in temperament. So unlike me. Sometimes, I truly envy him.”

“I knew of these matters three years ago. And yet, I only assessed the situation, judging clearly that I could never match my father.”

“I told myself the truth would one day be laid bare. That, for now, I would simply hide and bide my time.”

He placed the sword on the table and said with self-mockery:

“But this justification—does it truly hold weight, or is it merely a lie I tell myself, to ease my conscience, so I may continue to avoid confronting Father, and with clear conscience play the role of the fourth prince whose name resounds through the realm?”

“Each time I witness what Eldest Brother does, each time I see the people of Jinzhou wandering homeless…”

“I only need to remind myself it is for the greater good, that I must bide my time and hide my edge, for now. But seeing my younger brother today, I suddenly wonder: what difference is there between what I’ve done and simple cowardice?”

“All these years—was it truly for the sake of uncovering the truth that I chose to sheathe my blade?”

“Or was it that I wished first to cultivate my wings, conceal my strength, and only then pursue the truth?”

“One path is deliberate, aimed with purpose. The other, nothing more than a salve for my heart. I no longer know the difference.”

He pressed his palm against the sword, eyes closed in silence for a long time, then murmured to himself: “Seventh Brother has always been straightforward in nature. Upon learning such a truth, after many inner struggles, he would inevitably choose mutual destruction. Within three steps, as the foremost among the School of Warfare, he would strike with sudden ferocity. He had a real chance at success…”

“If he truly did slay the Sage, then given his character, he would surely have taken his own life.”

“He would have killed the traitor for the sake of all under Heaven, and having slain his father, ended his own life. First for the world, and then for himself.”

“Just like cavalry charging—there was never any retreat from the outset.”

“If he failed to kill the Sage, then I would serve as the fallback, ensuring he would not be assassinated in secret.”

“Planning for what was to come—he might have even dragged me into the fray from the very start.”

“A master of military form and strategy at merely sixteen years of age…”

The Fourth Prince seemed, for the first time, to truly understand this younger brother who had been sent to the frontier seven years prior. He looked out the window. Dawn had arrived. The moonlight poured like water, yet the day was peaceful and calm. No tremors had shaken the capital over the attempted assassination of the Emperor. No war drums had thundered to rouse the city’s people from their sleep. The Fourth Prince said quietly:

“As it stands, it seems Seventh Brother has ultimately failed. He did not succeed in killing the Sage. And the Sage—bound by the fact that this was the commander-in-chief of the frontier, the foremost of the military school—could not act rashly, and has temporarily imprisoned him instead.”

The Fourth Prince let out a breath of relief.

But then, unexpectedly, he found a faint trace of regret rising within his heart.

Regret that his younger brother had not slain their father.

Regret that this brother—destined to be a general of unmatched fame—had not taken his own life.

A chill ran through his soul!

His hand gripped the sword reflexively. With a clang, the sword rang out. The Fourth Prince’s eyes turned deep and obscure as he gazed toward the sky outside. Suddenly, he thought of the past—his father, his uncle, and all they had experienced. He thought of those blood-soaked characters in the historical records.

A cold sweat soaked through his plain robes.

He stood silently for a long, long time, without saying another word.

There were three hundred and sixty wards in the capital, each bustling with prosperity. The watchman made his rounds.

Winter’s chill bit to the bone. When two passed one another, they’d share a mouthful of cheap liquor to ward off the cold. Then would come the age-old call: “The air is dry, beware of fire!”

And so—

Another peaceful night passed beneath Heaven!

“Ahhh… comfortable, so comfortable…”

Stretching with a long yawn, Yue Shiru strolled out from the Lianyang Monastery. Though he had earlier dozed in some luxurious abode—with a bed soft beyond words, pleasant and warm—he still found it was only this Daoist temple that truly let him rest easy. After a quick wash, he headed off to pay respects to the elder Daoist.

The old Daoist sat upright in stillness.

Beside him, the young Daoist boy Mingxin gave a small cough. Hugging a yellow-feathered chicken in his arms, he sat with all the seriousness of one deep in cultivation.

Yue Shiru gave a wry smile and saluted respectfully: “Greetings, Grandmaster Martial Uncle.”

Then, turning to the small figure sitting up so straight, chest puffed out, and chin held high, he cupped his fists again:

“Greetings, Martial Uncle.”

At that, the little Daoist boy beamed with joy. “Good! Very good!”

“Ahem—I mean, ah, this humble Daoist says… This humble Daoist says, my little disciple grand-nephew is very well-behaved!”

“I’ll slaughter that chicken for you later, and stew up some soup!”

At these words, the yellow-feathered chicken in his arms froze. It twisted its head around and locked eyes with the young Daoist—wide eyes staring into wide eyes. With a shiver of its wings, it leapt free and darted off. The little Daoist panicked, leapt to his feet, and chased after it in a flurry: “Ah! No—don’t run! I won’t eat you! I won’t eat you!”

“Come back!!”

Yue Shiru watched this little Martial Uncle of his, utterly helpless.

Earlier, upon stating his intentions and comparing the ancestral lineages, it became clear—things were far from simple.

Though the Lianyang Monastery was but a small offshoot, its line of transmission could be traced directly back to Ancestor Chunyang. The seniority of its lineage was absurdly high. Should even the True Person of Yue Shiru’s own sect come in person, upon meeting this young Daoist boy, they might very well have to address him as “Junior Brother”. As for the elder Daoist imbued with Innate Qi—there’d be no avoiding the respectful “Martial Uncle”.

The old Daoist smiled and said: “Pay him no mind—he’s still just a child at heart.”

Yue Shiru replied: “The heart of an innocent child—is it not the very seed of Dao cultivation?”

“Speaking of which, last night you mentioned someone staying in the sutra library nearby. Why is it they’ve yet to return today?”

The elder Daoist stroked his beard, composed and serene, brimming with the bearing of a recluse from beyond the mortal world. Only the sight behind him—of the little Daoist shouting and chasing after the yellow-feathered chicken—somewhat spoiled the atmosphere. Thus, he replied: “He merely took temporary lodging in our Lianyang Temple. Often, he spends long days outside. As for his origins, I too do not know what lineage he hails from.”

“But tell me, Shiru—what business brings you here?”

“Ah, this disciple comes by decree of the Patriarch.”

Yue Shiru smiled and said: “Upon the Dao Sect Mountain, there lies a sword called the Pure Yang (Chunyang) Sword. Its rightful master is Senior Martial Sister Cui Yuanzhen, a natural-born banished immortal. As for this Lianyang Temple, it bears the name ‘Refining the Yang’ precisely because it was used to temper the fierce nature of that ruthless blade. Now, sensing a great upheaval in the realm, our Patriarch was moved, and so ordered this disciple to come retrieve the sword—”

“And afterward, to seek out its destined master.”

“Oh? And how do you intend to retrieve it?”

“The Patriarch naturally bestowed a spiritual treasure for that purpose.”

Yue Shiru produced a white jade crescent hook and said with a smile: “This item was originally used by the Patriarch to suspend the sword. All things possess their inherent nature; each has its counter. Though this sword’s temperament is ferocious, it cannot escape the influence of this artifact. With this in hand, even one such as I need only give a single summons—and it shall return, as though called by the Patriarch himself.”

He cupped his hands and said, “I humbly invite the treasured sword to return.”

That sword hung suspended beneath the tower, yet gave no response.

Yue Shiru was momentarily dazed, then bowed once more and called out: “I beseech the treasured sword to return!”

The blade let out a sharp cry but did not move, as if mocking him. Yue Shiru’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. He bit through the tip of his finger, sprinkling fresh blood to awaken the spirit of the treasure. Holding the treasure, he followed the instructions of the True Person, and in imitation of the Ancestor’s voice, rebuked sternly:

“Stubborn and unyielding—return!!!”

But this sword was fierce by nature. It cried out even louder and leapt from its scabbard, ferocity undiminished, diving downward in a deadly assault. Sword-light slashed with killing intent. Yue Shiru’s pupils contracted—he had not imagined that even after centuries of refinement, this sword remained so domineering.

He tried to evade, but how could he escape? His face turned deathly pale—there was nothing left but to await death.

Yet just then, a hand stretched out from beside him and flicked a finger.

The sword froze midair. With a final resonant cry, it returned obediently to its scabbard.

Completely subdued.

Wind rose, dust swirled. Beneath the Daoist temple, the sound of windchimes rang ceaselessly.

The little Daoist who had just captured the Three-Yellow Chicken stumbled and fell to the ground. Lifting his head, he cried out in joy, “Ah! Uncle Master Qi, you’ve returned?!”

Uncle Master Qi?

Yue Shiru turned his head in shock. A faint chill passed over him.

A Daoist robe dipped in a baleful aura swept past him. Upon the blue robe, cloud-and-water patterns shimmered faintly. Upon his back was a sword case; a wooden hairpin bound his black hair. His gaze remained serene. He recognized this young Daoist, Yue Shiru saw the other raise his right hand in a Daoist greeting, voice calm, worldly dust behind him, clarity before him, as he spoke:

“We meet again.”

“This humble Daoist is Qi Wuhuo.”

The Daoist has returned.