Chapter 1: Broken Temple, Rainy Night — the Wooden Sword Enters His Arms

The rain in Han Zhou falls like blades the moment it begins.

The long street of bluestone was washed bright by the rain; at the street's end, inside the Broken Temple, water dripped from the eaves like beads, striking the mud puddle and sending up ring after ring of murky ripples.

Inside the temple, a youth leaned against half a collapsed divine statue, a fox-fur cloak whose color could no longer be told draped over his body.

The fox-fur cloak was very old, yet one could still faintly make out the noble air it once carried.

The youth's name was Jiang Che.

Three years ago, he was still the Little Marquis of Zhenbei Marquis Manor — rode the fiercest horse, drank the most expensive wine, and the best blade-master of Han Zhou followed at his side; wherever he went, people would bow their heads and call out "Little Marquis."

Three years later, all he had left was a Wooden Sword.

The sword was carved from peach wood, crooked and uneven, its edge so dull it couldn't even cut through meat.

But Jiang Che held it close the whole time.

Because it was what his mother had left him.

Outside the Broken Temple, the sound of hooves suddenly rose.

Clip-clop, clip-clop.

In the rainy night, more than ten riders stopped outside the temple gate.

The man at their head wore a black rain cape, a long blade hung at his waist; he glanced up at the Broken Temple and said coldly, "Jiang Che, come out."

Jiang Che slowly opened his eyes.

The campfire inside the temple was nearly out; the firelight fell on his face, making him look somewhat pale.

He coughed twice, lowered his head to look at the Wooden Sword in his arms, and said softly, "Haunting me like a ghost, aren't you."

The man outside the gate laughed coldly: "The Marquis Manor is destroyed, Han Zhou has a new master. Someone is paying three thousand taels of silver for your head. Little Marquis, don't make it hard for the brothers."

Jiang Che smiled: "Three thousand taels? Back in the day, a single meal of wine cost me more than that."

The black-caped man's gaze turned cold: "That was back in the day."

The next instant, the temple gate was kicked open with a single stamp.

Cold rain poured into the temple, and the fire was snuffed out completely.

More than ten blade-wielders filed in, the gleam of their blades glinting cold in the dark night.

Jiang Che rose slowly, his body swaying a little.

He did not know martial arts.

At least in everyone's eyes, he did not.

Back then, Marquis of Zhenbei Jiang Xuan had guarded the Northern Border, commanding three hundred thousand iron cavalry; everyone assumed Jiang Che, his only son, must be gifted beyond compare. Yet Jiang Che had been born with blocked meridians — he could not master the blade, could not learn the sword, could not even perform the simplest breathing exercises.

So the common folk of Han Zhou whispered among themselves that the Marquis of Zhenbei was a hero for a lifetime, yet had sired a useless son.

The black-caped man knew this too.

So he was in no hurry.

He even felt that killing a useless Little Marquis like this was somewhat beneath his blade.

"Do it."

At the command, three blade-wielders lunged out at once.

Their blades sliced through the rain, going straight for Jiang Che's throat, heart, and belly.

Jiang Che's pupils shrank slightly; he clutched the Wooden Sword tight, yet his feet seemed nailed to the spot.

He could not dodge.

Nor could he block.

The instant the first blade was about to fall, the Wooden Sword in Jiang Che's arms suddenly trembled faintly.

Woooong—

A very faint sword-hum rang out.

That sound was soft, yet within the Broken Temple it drowned out the rain, the blades, and the horses' whinnies.

In Jiang Che's mind, a lazy voice suddenly sounded.

"Tsk, how pathetic."

"A strapping seven-foot man, chased down like this by a few third-rate blade-wielders?"

Jiang Che's whole body stiffened.

Who?

"Stop looking, I'm inside the sword."

That voice let out a drunken burp and said unhurriedly, "I had planned to sleep another eighty or hundred years, but you little brat are about to die. Fine, I'll lend you one sword."

Before Jiang Che could react, the Wooden Sword in his arms suddenly grew scalding hot.

The next instant, an indescribable breath surged from the sword into his four limbs and bones.

The meridians, blocked for many years, were like ice and snow meeting spring Thunder — cracking inch by inch, clearing inch by inch!

A searing pain struck.

Jiang Che clenched his teeth, his eyes instantly filling with bloodshot veins.

Yet what followed was a strength he had never felt before.

He raised his hand.

Drew the sword.

The Wooden Sword had no edge.

Yet it carried Sword Qi.

The three blade-wielders froze mid-motion.

The black-caped man's face changed: "Fall back!"

Too late.

Jiang Che swept his sword horizontally.

No flashy moves, no earth-shattering momentum.

Just a gentle flick.

The rain inside the Broken Temple was cleaved in half by this sword strike.

The long blades in the hands of the three swordsmen shattered simultaneously; a line of blood exploded across their chests, and they were sent flying backward, crashing heavily into the muddy water outside the temple gate.

Absolute silence fell over the scene.

Jiang Che looked down at the Wooden Sword in his hand, his breathing rapid.

The voice in his mind said lazily, "Not bad, your hand isn't shaking too much."

Jiang Che's Adam's apple bobbed: "Who are you?"

"Me..."

That voice chuckled.

"A Sword Cultivator who loves drinking, loves speaking reason, and loves even more to cut down those who refuse reason with a single sword strike."

The hand holding the sword tightened slightly.

The man in the black rain cape stared at him fiercely, his eyes full of shock and doubt: "You... you are not trash?"

Jiang Che looked up.

Rainwater streamed down from the tips of his hair.

He smiled.

The smile was faint, yet it carried a sharpness he had never possessed in three years.

"I was before."

"Now, it seems I am not."

The man in the black rain cape roared: "Attack together! Kill him!"

More than ten swordsmen drew their blades simultaneously and charged into the temple.

Jiang Che closed his eyes.

Inside his mind, that Alcohol Sword Immortal said softly, "Boy, remember this."

"When a Sword Cultivator draws his sword, he asks not of right or wrong, nor of order."

"He asks only if there is injustice in his heart."

Jiang Che opened his eyes.

The Wooden Sword rose.

He took a single step forward.

The rain outside the Broken Temple suddenly rolled upward into the sky.

That night, outside Hanzhou City, someone killed thirteen riders with a Wooden Sword.

When the rain stopped, a stream of blood flowed before the Broken Temple.

Jiang Che stood at the temple gate, gazing at the dark, looming Hanzhou City in the distance.

Three years ago, the Hou Manor was annihilated, and he fled that city like a dog.

Three years later, he gripped the Wooden Sword tightly and asked in a low voice, "Senior, may I return?"

The Sword Spirit smiled:

"Return."

"Not only must you return."

"You must also make them know what it means for one man and one sword to overturn Han Zhou."