Chapter 25

Under the starry, moonlit sky, Pei Ye lay on a courtyard lounger, a cat as quiet as a brainless creature curled in his arms, a candle burning as he held a scroll.

Pei Ye thought for a long while before realizing the cat was merely a “tool” created to fulfill the Pact of Shared Fortune and Decay.

It was not the true body of the dragon, but something the dragon had fashioned to coax him into “saving” it—something like deliberately losing a game of grass-fighting to amuse a child.

Late today, officials from the prefecture arrived; Pei Ye went to meet them, only to learn that the special envoys from the imperial capital suspected ties between this case and their mission, and had taken custody of the case from the prefecture—so Pei Ye could assist their investigation later.

After finishing official matters, Pei Ye stayed at the county yamen and shared a simple meal with several officials, squatting beneath the hall. These prefectural officials were warm and cordial, lavishing him with titles like “young hero,” “talented one,” and “champion”—yet Pei Ye was truly unlettered, a genuine country bumpkin. He couldn’t understand the poetic compliments, nor had he heard of the ancient knights used as comparisons; even when they praised him plainly, if their wording slipped even slightly into elegance, he’d freeze for a moment.

After the awkward meal, Pei Ye felt a pang of shame; Chang Zhiyuan smiled and asked if he’d like to take two books home to read. Pei Ye nodded eagerly.

Chang Zhiyuan pulled two volumes from the shelf, about to ask whether he preferred the Analects or the Mencius, when he turned to see the boy holding two official gazettes, casting a tentative glance—Chang Zhiyuan sighed helplessly and put the books, along with his entire prepared recommendation, back.

Now, lying peacefully in the courtyard, listening to the distant chirping of insects, bathed in the cool, clear nightlight, Pei Ye opened the national gazette and felt a long-absent languor.

As usual, he skipped the political sections and turned to the part about the southern states’ envoys arriving in the imperial capital—something he hadn’t fully read last time.

Such martial and literary contests served first to enliven entertainment and broaden publicity. After all, if people merely heard that southern envoys had come to pay homage, few would care—but if they learned which princess was stunningly beautiful, which young genius was legendary, or even surpassed a Tang genius, rumors, debates, and even quarrels would erupt. Once quarrels began, people naturally began paying attention to the southern envoys who came every year, subtly planting a sense of friendly recognition.

Second, they genuinely enhanced mutual understanding; under geographical isolation, both sides had real fog around their knowledge of each other’s literary and martial arts—contests allowed them to verify and improve together.

Third, and most keenly watched by spectators though subtly implied by officials, was the unspoken competition for superiority.

Pei Ye was watching for this too.

The editors clearly understood, and didn’t dampen the crowd’s enthusiasm; after a few brief preliminaries, they detailed the process and results of the literary and martial contests.

In the literary contest, the two categories—poetry and policy essays—were both won by Xu Chuo, daughter of the former chancellor; the Emperor personally bestowed upon her the courtesy name Lingzi, and her winning compositions were appended; Pei Ye glanced at them and his eyes blurred—he skipped them outright. In the martial contest, Tang again unsurprisingly swept the top three: Guanmen disciple of the Qingwei Daoist Sect, [Fire-Within-Heart] Yan Feiqing; the Twenty-Seventh Generation [Sword Demon] Yang Zhenbing of the Bai Lu Palace; and the Right Divine Martial Army’s Si Ge, [Sleeping Dragon] Qin Shang.

Yan Feiqing… Pei Ye gently traced the name, lost in quiet recollection.

Just as Cheng Feng admired him, Pei Ye at thirteen or fourteen had his own idol.

He remembered that first time he saw the Crane-Frog Register, with Uncle Lin; the dizzying array of names had troubled him, so he asked Uncle Lin who was the strongest.

Uncle Lin pointed to a name near the bottom: “The Qingwei Sect’s last disciple, just sixteen, a prodigy of heaven. Don’t be fooled—he’s ranked eight hundred eighty-nine now, but within two years, he’ll break into the top hundred.”

Back then, Pei Ye was too young to know the man’s character, his martial style, or even his face; he simply watched as this man won one impossible battle after another, saw the name “Yan Feiqing” steadily and swiftly climb the Crane-Frog Register—where even a single rank was hard-won—by leaps of hundreds, and his awe naturally hardened into reverence.

He remembered Lin Lin saying: “If you train hard, we’ll recommend you for the martial examination. In the capital, you might even see Yan Feiqing in the flesh.”

Now, those feelings felt distant; Pei Ye didn’t know where this genius stood on the Crane-Frog Register today.

To win the martial championship for the nation, he must be at least top thirty?

Once at such a rank, could he still climb as swiftly as before?

Sadly, just as he hadn’t seen the official gazette in years, Pei Ye hadn’t laid eyes on the Crane-Frog Register in nearly three years.

Now, seeing this familiar name again, his restored body stirred with eagerness; the old dream of climbing the Crane-Frog Hero Register seemed to return with it. Pei Ye seized the sword beside him and leapt up, performing the Snowy Night Flying Geese Sword Form in the courtyard.

After one full round, he ended again with the first technique, [Clouds Veil the Sky, Feathers Lost]; the blade traced a fluid arc and sliced cleanly into a pear.

Though he had mastered this move, the sublime beauty flowing from it still stirred Pei Ye’s spirit.

He stared, entranced, at the sword’s gleaming, water-white blade, murmuring: “What level would this sword form be considered in this world? Could it even pressure Yan Feiqing?”

“Upper-upper sword,” came a voice from beyond the wall, clear as cool night water.

Pei Ye instantly sheathed his blade and fixed his gaze on the wall—he had sensed no one watching.

“Apologies, I mean no harm—I merely continued your thought,” the voice said, calm and cool, still from outside. “This sword is cold, deeply restrained; its techniques are exquisitely refined, its intent piercing to the bone—already worthy of the world’s finest. Yet its most wondrous quality lies in that its intent does not linger within oneself, but strikes directly at the enemy’s heart. The ‘Preface to the Washing Sun Pavilion’s Discourse on Swords’ says: ‘Lower swords strike bones, middle swords strike flesh, upper swords strike hearts.’ The sharpest edge of this sword lies precisely in ‘asking the heart with blood.’”

This sword had been conceived in the old man’s mind; last night was its first appearance in the world, tonight its second. In other words, the man outside had merely watched Pei Ye perform it once, yet dissected it with such clarity—Pei Ye was left speechless, awestruck by such insight.

“Yet, if you intend to use it against Yan Feiqing, it is unsuitable,” the man added.

Pei Ye had already forgotten to explain he never meant to oppose Yan Feiqing; he only stared blankly: “Why?”

The man beyond the wall didn’t find it absurd that a country boy with no qi whatsoever would dare challenge Yan Feiqing; he remained calm and earnest: “Because Yan Feiqing fears nothing more than ‘asking the heart.’”

Pei Ye suddenly understood, and cursed himself for being foolish—the Crane-Frog Register’s verdict on Yan Feiqing was precisely: Fire-Within-Heart.