Chapter 13: Chapter Thirteen: The Black Robe

In the Immortal Platform, a peculiar bird is bred, feeding on jade; if raised from youth on jade tempered by a single person’s qi, it will never eat another’s jade, so every external inspector carries a jade bead to tether their bird.

The soul-bird has two primary uses.

First, it delivers messages. The bird flies with extraordinary speed and locates its target with uncanny precision, possessing great spiritual insight; all urgent and secret correspondence can be delivered swiftly and accurately to the intended recipient.

Second, it reports death. If the master dies suddenly, the jade bead gradually loses its human qi; the bird, with nothing to feed on, flies back to the Divine Immortal Platform. Seeing the bird return is proof the master is dead—hence the terms “soul-bead” and “soul-bird.” This is the inspectors’ safety net when traveling the world, allowing them to investigate crimes alone, for the soul-bird normally stays apart from its master, making it hard for enemies to kill both simultaneously.

But sometimes this process takes too long; by the time the Platform learns of the death, the killer has long vanished. Thus, there is an emergency method: when trapped in mortal peril, the inspector may shatter the jade, burn it, or cast it into deep water—any means to rapidly destroy the human qi within. Within hours, the soul-bird will return to the Immortal Platform.

From Fenghuai to Bowang City is roughly three hundred li; ideally, the bird could make the round trip in under an hour. But though the soul-bird can fly through thunderstorms, its speed is still affected, so two hours is considered generous—yet more than three hours have passed since its release, and it has not returned.

The county officials do not even know where the incident occurred; the worst possibility is that the city never received the report at all.

“We don’t know what to do now,” Shen Yanping said, his voice hoarse. Pei Ye noticed his hand instinctively extend, then clench the sword hilt again—his palm must have grown slick with sweat. “Action or inaction may only differ between seeking death and waiting for it.”

“We’ve ultimately decided you should leave separately—at least… those not chosen won’t die,” Chang Zhiyuan added. “But be careful—”

The second half of this sentence seemed to drain the old man’s strength; his once-straight, pine-like spine slumped, his sword-like white eyebrows drooped, yet he still spoke: “Best… don’t let them return home.”

Pei Ye stood silently, saying nothing.

The boys inside the room would never imagine that what awaited them was not the long-awaited continuation of their stories, but an inevitable abandonment.

“We will die before them,” Shen Yanping whispered.

Pei Ye knew that if no reinforcements came, this might be the least costly option—but the weight in his heart could not be lifted. He murmured “Mm,” placed the two official bulletins on the table, and turned to leave.

At that moment, the wind and rain seemed to still—the armored figure before the platform suddenly rose.

The others turned their heads, but Feng Zhi said nothing.

“Lord Feng? What’s wrong?” Shen Yanping frowned and stepped forward.

Feng Zhi turned his head slowly, stiffly, eyes bulging, beard bristling, a vertical slit of blood gashed across his throat.

He opened his mouth soundlessly; blood gushed from the corners, and his massive body collapsed to the ground.

The heavy iron armor had not granted him even a few more moments.

Every throat felt choked by iron; coldness crawled like centipedes up their skin.

The light from the room spilled outward, revealing the scene beyond the door.

A shadowy figure in black stood perfectly still in the courtyard, beneath the drizzling rain and faint breeze; a slender, blade-like shape subtly protruded beneath his robe, his left hand just sheathing the hilt.

The boots on his feet were brand-new, as if freshly made.

He did not look at the people in the hall; he kept his head lowered, calm and still.

Yet no one doubted that beneath that stillness lay a fury beyond restraint—his black-robed body could end any life in the room at any moment.

The moment this man entered their sight, Pei Ye’s hair stood on end, as if a child faced a tiger—his heart pounded like a drum, his limbs stiffened with tension.

The blue bird’s delayed good tidings had been overtaken by a death-bringing demon standing in the courtyard.

The most decisive was still Shen Yanping—he flicked open a porcelain vial, tilted his head, and swallowed every pill inside.

Simultaneously, as Chang Zhiyuan roared “Run!”, Pei Ye unleashed all his strength and sprinted toward the back courtyard.

As if his blood had exploded in his belly, Shen Yanping’s eyes turned blood-red; thick blue qi burst free his hairpin, his long hair whipping wildly, his once-refined, gentle face twisted into a ferocious, monstrous visage.

To master the Sword of the Serpent and Dragon, one must first comprehend the Way of Cloud and Thunder. The core of the “Rouyun” lineage of the Small Cloud Mountain lies in blending gentleness with fury. The ninth-generation junior disciple, however, was soft-natured and easygoing, lazy in training; once he reached the Fifth Life realm, he refused to strive further, his swordplay stagnating at the “Cloud” aspect—soft, scattered, variable—but never grasping the true meaning of “Thunder.”

Yet perhaps due to years spent drinking tea and playing chess with his master, chatting about heaven and earth, he had been given before leaving for service at the Immortal Platform a vial sealed with his master’s true qi—a Thunder Pill. With this martial skill and the vial as backup, choosing a remote mountain county as a permanent inspector should have been a life of ease and grace.

But fate defied wishes. Now, even using the entire vial of Thunder Pills could only delay death a little longer.

His blue robes flowed like clouds, his qi thundered—Shen Yanping burst through the door, his dazzling momentum actually forcing the black-robed man to step back.

His sword surged like thunder; Shen Yanping pressed forward—the black-robed man retreated again.

But after this single strike, the consequence of swallowing too many Thunder Pills struck: countless tiny blood cracks erupted across Shen Yanping’s skin; his already contorted face grew even more horrific.

At most, four more strikes.

Shen Yanping felt his body—and reached this conclusion.

One more strike—the black-robed man still avoided it without drawing his blade. As they passed each other, the hood revealed a young, cold, ruthless face, lips curled in a mocking sneer.

To the black-robed man, Shen Yanping was now a fish tossed into a basin, thrashing from lack of air—not because he couldn’t hold it down, but because it would be messy. He only needed to wait ten seconds, let the fish recover its strength, then easily pin it and sever its head with one cut.

So though he knew three more strikes meant death, Shen Yanping dared not pause for an instant—because any gap between two strikes would be filled with a fatal slash.

Another strike—they passed beneath a locust tree; the thunder qi shattered leaves into dense darts that embedded themselves in the earth.

Only two strikes left.

In the back courtyard, the pale-faced boys spilled out of the rooms; Pei Ye anxiously handed the reins to every one who hadn’t clearly answered “I can’t ride.”

“Run as far as you can! Into the mountains! Down the river! Into the woods! Head for the city! Anything!”

“If,” Pei Ye tore off the bandage from his forehead, pointing to the fire-charm, “the person traveling with you shows this mark on their face—those without the mark must flee far away immediately. Do you understand?!”

“We understand.”

The bewildered boys had not yet grasped the cruelty in these words. Pei Ye looked at these youths, still childlike, faces as white as paper—two even trembled so badly they could not hold the reins.

How could they possibly escape their pursuers?

The best outcome would be that “those meant to die” die.