Chapter 794: The Tyrant Raises the Talisman, the Xuan Iron Token Reveals Its True Form

Chen Yan removed his blue cloth headscarf, and early‑spring wind poured through the archway's cracks, lifting a few stray hairs on his forehead.

The moment that face was revealed, the air pressure in the whole venue seemed to be slammed down by an invisible giant hand.

It wasn't because the face was especially fierce.

On the contrary, it was a face so youthful it seemed unreal, with features that were both rugged and delicate, a clean, sharp jawline, and would be taken for a Gongzi (Young Master) of a noble family anywhere.

But the problem lay in those eyes.

The thing churning in those pupils, once the blue cloth headscarf was removed, had no more cover, like two unsealed abysses, pouring out unreserved murderous intent and oppressive pressure onto the heads of everyone present.

Zhao Lìzhèng's legs went weak.

He had never seen Chen Yan, and few in Rangping County had ever seen Chen Yan's true face, but he heard those two words.

This Duke.

Throughout Xiazhou, throughout the Great Zhou Northern Border, only one person is qualified to call himself by those two characters.

Zhao Lìzhèng's mouth gaped wide, the flesh of his jaw seemed to be pried open from within, and his teeth clattered together with a rapid ka‑ka sound.

Then his crotch got wet.

A warm liquid surged from beneath his hips, flowing down his trousers over his knees and calves, finally pooling in his mud‑splattered cloth boots as a pale yellow, foul‑smelling puddle.

His legs felt as if all the calcium had been drawn from his bones; with a pa‑ji sound he slammed onto the rotten mud, his forehead recklessly striking the ground, splashing mud, and his browbone emitted an uncomfortable thud.

"Zhu Guo, spare me, Zhu Guo, spare me, the lowly cannot recognize Mount Tai, the lowly should die, the lowly should die!"

His throat had changed pitch, each word carrying a sharp tremor squeezed from the deepest part of his throat by fear, and saliva mixed with mud dripped from his mouth corner as a filthy thin line.

Liu Daba lay in a pool of blood, fresh blood still spurting from his severed wrist, his whole body convulsing from excruciating pain.

He heard Zhao Lìzhèng's desperate pleas, heard the words "Zhu Guo", but the pain turned his mind into mush; the fierce, domineering spirit cultivated over ten years of roaming the countryside, at this moment not diminished by fear, was instead ignited by the pain into a near‑death, beast‑like madness.

He propped himself on the mud with his still‑intact left hand, half his body heaved up from the blood, his blood‑splattered face contorted into a nauseating, snarling visage.

"What do you think you are!"

His voice, hoarse and trembling from blood loss, nevertheless forced the sound to a volume that everyone in the crowd could hear, driven by his reckless arrogance.

"What about Zhu Guo? Does Zhu Guo get to cut people's hands at will!"

His eyes bulged blood‑red from pain, staring toward Chen Yan.

"Listen, I tell you, my distant paternal uncle is Master Zhou, who oversees the prison in Juncheng, a man with eyes and hands that reach the heavens; all the cases in Qinghe and Rangping fall under his jurisdiction!"

He spat a mouthful of blood‑stained saliva, his voice growing sharper.

"Who do you think you are? You dare lay a hand on me; when Master Zhou sends an official document to the prefecture, even you, you damned Zhu Guo, won't be able to get away!"

Zhao Lìzhèng trembled in terror, crazily turned and roared at Liu Daba.

"Shut up, shut your mouth for me! Do you know who he is!"

Liu Daba couldn't hear at all; the blood gushing from his severed wrist blurred his consciousness, yet the poisonous bile in his mouth grew fiercer as he spat.

"I don't care who he is!"

He struggled forward two steps, pointing at Chen Yan with his left hand.

"I have the backing of the wealthy merchants of Qi State, tens of thousands of taels of gleaming silver; those Qi State lords said, as long as I keep a grip on Qinghe's territory, they'll pay any price!"

A twisted, grotesque smile, warped by excruciating pain, curled at his mouth corner.

"Even if you were the Heavenly King, you couldn't overturn the heavens within these ten li; my uncle's single word makes every Cha Yi in Juncheng back me up!"

The moment those words landed, the faces of the watching villagers and Liuren turned a uniform ash gray.

Some bit their lips and lowered their heads, some closed their eyes, and more wore a despair even deeper than before.

Official–business collusion.

And the silver of Qi State.

Those three words stacked together, for these impoverished people who have struggled at the bottom all their lives, are a mountain that three generations cannot surmount.

They thought that the young Gongzi before them, no matter how formidable, could not contend with such a deeply entrenched behemoth.

Chen Yan listened to every word Liu Daba uttered.

His expression did not change at all during this, and his stance remained so steady that his center of gravity did not shift even half an inch.

Then he smiled.

It was not a sneer nor a mockery, but a wildly unrestrained, cloud‑piercing, boisterous laugh that rose from deep within his chest.

The laughter ricocheted between the stone pillars of the archway, shaking the few remaining dry leaves off the withered locust tree overhead, and sending fine ripples across the pool of blood on the ground.

Zhao Lìzhèng lay prone in the mud, his body convulsing from the laugh, the bowing motion halted, leaving only the clacking of his teeth.

The laughter stopped.

It ceased instantly, like a blade drawn from its sheath and sheathed again, so swift that no one could discern the flash's path.

Chen Yan's right hand slipped into his chest, retrieving an object from the hidden pocket of his close‑fitting collar.

The object was palm‑sized, entirely dark‑red, made of refined Xuan Iron, its front bearing a line of large seal script characters, its back engraved with a soaring eagle crossed with a drawn Horizontal Blade.

Governor of Xiazhou's Great Seal.

Chen Yan raised the Great Seal to a height level with his eyebrows; early‑spring sunlight streamed through the archway's cracks, striking the dark‑red Xuan Iron surface and reflecting a dazzling blood‑colored glare.

His voice boomed from the deepest part of his chest, like a massive bell struck hard with an iron hammer, each word striking clearly into the eardrums of everyone present.

"Great Zhou's Zhu Guo, Duke of Wei Chen Yan is here!"

He extended the Great Seal forward half a foot, the dark‑red Xuan Iron blazing in the sunlight.

"This Duke wants to see how many heads your uncle has that are worth cutting!"

The breath of everyone in the venue was cut off in that instant.

The blood‑splattered elderly couple kneeling beneath the withered locust tree, the skinny girl whose collar was torn, the Liuren youths standing at the edge of the crowd with clenched fists yet too afraid to advance, and the local old farmers who bowed their heads in shame—all eyes were drawn in that instant to the dark‑red Great Seal.

Chen Yan.

Chen Zhuguo.

That Chen Zhuguo, who allocated tax‑free land, handed out divine plows, and took in hundreds of thousands of Qi State refugees.

That person whose name is engraved on the Longevity Tablet they set on the stove, burning three incense sticks daily.

Just standing here.

Standing on Changjie of Liujia Bao, a street full of bloodstains and mud, standing among them.

The silence lasted three breaths.

Then, the whole scene exploded.

The old man was the first to collapse; he lay on the ground, clawing toward Chen Yan with his dislocated arm, his forehead repeatedly striking the mud, his wailing sounding as if a lifetime of pent‑up bitterness had finally found an outlet.

"Chen Qingtian! It's Chen Qingtian!"

The old woman then fell to the ground, pounding the mud with her fists as if her life depended on it, crying so hard she could barely breathe.

"Heaven has opened its eyes, Chen Qingtian is here, Chen Qingtian is here!"

Immediately after, the Liuren in the crowd thumped their knees on the ground, the muffled sounds merging into a continuous roar, like dense drumbeats.

Long live Zhuguo!

Chen Qingtian, a thousand years!

The young men who moments ago had been so frightened by a single word from Zhao L izheng that they released their fists now knelt on the ground, crying like children, the humiliation and fear built up over countless days and nights turning at this moment into scorching tears that fell onto the yellow mud of Rangping County.

Liu Daba's face turned white.

It turned so white as if the last drop of blood had been drawn from his veins.

His mouth was open, the overbearing, invincible words he had just uttered still hanging at the corners, not yet wiped away, but his eyes were fixed, glued to that dark‑red Xuan‑iron Great Seal; the pupils no longer reflected madness, but a pure, unblemished despair that seeped from deep within his marrow.

Long live Zhuguo.

Duke of Wei.

Chen Yan.

Liu Daba had just, to this man's face, said he would have his uncle issue an official document that would prevent him from walking away with it.

He had just, in front of this man, personally confessed the silver of the Qi State.

The excruciating pain at the broken wrist was at this moment completely drowned by the cold that rose from his heart, his teeth began to clash uncontrollably, and his whole body curled up in the pool of blood, like a snake whose spine had been stepped on and broken.

Chen Yan put away the Great Seal and casually tossed the bleached blue cloth headgear onto a stone by the roadside.

He lowered his head, looking at the common folk and Liuren on the ground crying as one; the turmoil in his eyes finally slowed, settled at the deepest layer, turning into a complex radiance that even red leaves could not decipher.

He bent down, and with one hand lifted the trembling, skinny girl from the ground, gently wiping the mud and tear marks from her face with his fingertips.

"Don't be afraid."

When he said those three words, his voice was as different from the thunder that had shattered the scene moments before as night from day, light as a spring breeze brushing the thinnest frost on an ice surface.

"I, the official, have arrived; no one can lay a hand on you."