Chapter 535: Seizing and Protecting, the Choice

Only in the night three days ago.

The long wind swept across the sky of Zhongzhou, lanterns blazing like dragons; the elite of Ying State guarded here, with conflicts among many factions lurking beneath—by all accounts, it should have been lively.

Yet beneath this surface-level bustle, the city of Zhongzhou carried an inexplicable stillness.

Bustle, stillness, intensity, deathly silence.

Different atmospheres swirled and coalesced within the night of this city.

The Su Wang of the Xuegong lifted his head, gazing at the heavens where the long wind surged violently; the bells beneath the academy’s eaves chimed crisply.

In days past, the Xuegong was filled with voices; such a clear chime would have seemed delightfully whimsical.

Now the academy stood desolate; apart from these elders, no young ones remained—this chime of the night wind carried deep desolation and loneliness, stirring an inexplicable sorrow in the heart.

The old Qilin, missing one horn, gazed with melancholy.

Will the eight-hundred-year fortune of the Chi Emperor finally come to an end?

The Su Wang observed the qi, watching the entire night sky of Zhongzhou: countless fortunes, military qi, royal qi, imperial destiny, and the breath of common folk—all entwined, swirling into an ocean so complex even the Dao Sect could not discern it clearly.

Who can claim to see clearly the Mandate of Heaven, the will of the people?

The Su Wang of Gongyang whispered: “How fiercely the spearhead burns—Jiang Wanxiang’s spirit is vast and mighty. This time, he comes to swallow the fortune of the Chi Emperor’s line. Yet, my friend, since its founding eight hundred years ago, the Xuegong lineage has upheld that promise.”

The old Qilin murmured: “At the very least, we must protect the stability of the Chi Emperor’s line.”

The Su Wang said: “Yes.”

The aged Qilin shifted his form, becoming a small cat, curling upon the Su Wang’s shoulder. Though he had scolded the youngster, the First Master had once said, “When three walk together, one of them must be my teacher,” and from the young Qilin, he had learned the art and utility of transformation and shrinking for ease of movement.

The Su Wang held the ancient sword of the Confucian Way and said: “Yuwen Lie, He Ruo Qinhu, lead their armies here. In this chaotic age, the martial generals’ momentum is unstoppable.”

“If we confront these two generals head-on, we are no match.”

“Dying in the chaos is very likely.”

“The only chance is…”

The old Qilin murmured: “Kidnap him.”

The Su Wang nodded: “Yes.”

The old Confucian stroked the long sword: “The line of the Eight-Hundred-Year Chi Emperor cannot end this way. Even if he never claims the realm, he may still live as a peaceful prince, meeting a good end.”

Afterwards, the masters of the Xuegong secretly contacted the Chi Emperor, urging him to take Ji Zichang away, to a safe place—even without power over the realm, at least he might live in peace.

But the Chi Emperor gave no reply.

He only said that later, the Su Wang would see his answer.

The several masters of the Xuegong never abandoned rescue efforts; they exhausted all means—secret contacts, the Daoist Ziyang Zhenren, the Living Buddha of Central Plains—all had intervened, preparing escape routes and rear-guard support.

Yet when they reached Ji Zichang’s side,

What they saw was the true Emperor turning away, carrying eight hundred springs and autumns into death.

And now,

Swirling flames surged skyward, as if burning the heavens to ash.

The Su Wang and the Qilin, hidden among the crowd, watched this scene in silence.

They had come to rescue the Chi Emperor.

But now they could not advance—the eight-heaven Qilin could not pierce such flames amid Ying State’s generals and troops, and the Su Wang was no match for Yuwen Lie. The aged Qilin, once a follower of the First Master, stared at the raging flames, lost in stunned stillness for a long while.

The Qilin lowered his voice: “Is this his choice…?”

“His answer.”

The Su Wang looked upon it all and said: “Yes.”

The old Qilin said: “I met him many years ago—when his son, the son of Imperial Consort Wen, was born. He was overjoyed, came personally to the Xuegong, paid homage to the Daoist Primordial, Ziyang Zhenren, and begged for a longevity lock for the child.”

“Later, his son died.”

“His brows never relaxed again—until recently, I sensed a faint glimmer in his eyes, like morning dew catching the first light, as if he had once more yearned for life.”

“This was good.”

“Master, does he not wish to live?”

Gongyang Su Wang said: “He wishes to live—but he desires something greater.”

“That thing matters more than life.”

“What of Imperial Consort Wen?”

“She is the same.”

The aged Qilin fell silent for a long while.

Finally, the aged scholar could only sheathe his sword, offering a slight bow.

Even the Su Wang of the Confucian Way, though dwelling on the ninth heaven, could not act now.

Or rather, precisely because he was the Confucian Su Wang, he would not act now—he understood Ji Zichang’s blazing resolve, recognized his determination to end the eight-hundred-year fate of the Chi Emperor with his own hands.

For one who has made his decision, any intervention is the ultimate insult.

Gongyang Su Wang bowed solemnly:

“In honor of the Chi Emperor.”

“The gentleman dies with his cap intact.”

The disciple of the First Master of Confucianism died for the sake of adjusting his cap—not for the act itself, but for the righteousness and principle it represented; such death is called courage.

Before the blazing fire, some were bewildered, others panicked.

Gongyang Su Wang’s action was too abrupt.

He had drawn attention to himself.

The sound of weapons being readied suddenly pierced the air—blades lowered, edges gleaming with sharpness and cold light, locking onto Gongyang Su Wang, centered on Yuwen Lie and He Ruo Qinhu, two of the era’s top ten divine generals.

In single combat, Gongyang Su Wang held a slight edge over Yuwen Lie.

He firmly surpassed He Ruo Qinhu.

But in this chaotic age, the might of martial generals lies in their unyielding battlefield dominance—divine generals of the military school are invincible. In such an environment, Gongyang Su Wang too might perish.

Yet he remained calm. His farewell to the Chi Emperor did not depend on his safety or surroundings; he gazed only at the sharp formation before him, raised his head toward Jiang Wanxiang atop the nine-tiered treasure tower.

The aged dragon’s face glowed red in the fierce flames.

He seemed lost in stunned stillness for a long while.

He had forgotten that a monarch and minister, at such a moment, should disrupt the chaos, prevent the spread of the Chi Emperor’s death, seize control of the news, and suppress its negative impact to the utmost.

He simply watched quietly—the fierce, brilliant flames.

He had given Ji Zichang a dignified choice: to keep his fortune and title, and pursue what he wished. But Ji Zichang’s choice had caught Jiang Wanxiang utterly off guard.

Life and death—these are great matters.

After a long while, he turned his head toward Gongyang Su Wang, surrounded by divine generals, his white hair flickering in the fire, and said calmly: “Gongyang Su Wang, foremost of the Confucian Way—I still remember when I first met the First Master, you were merely a middle-aged scholar.”

“And I was but a young man in fine robes and galloping steeds.”

“Now time has passed, and we have both reached this age, this moment.”

Gongyang Su Wang simply said: “The world is ever-changing.”

Jiang Wanxiang held no killing intent toward the Su Wang, only said: “I have matters to discuss with you, Master Su Wang. This fire is no place for conversation. Please return to the Xuegong—I shall visit you personally.”

Gongyang Su Wang said: “Why does the Emperor of Ying not call himself ‘Zhen’ today?”

The aged dragon looked upon the blazing fire and smiled: “Today, seeing the Emperor, I realize that among all heroes and lords, across this land, there is only one sovereign.”

Gongyang Su Wang gripped his sword, turned, and walked away calmly amid the stares of Yuwen Lie and He Ruo Qinhu, drawing their attention—while the remains of the fallen royal family were gathered, and ministers and officials were guarded.

Only Yuwen Lie, the divine general who had instinctively moved to quench the flames, was stopped by Jiang Wanxiang—for the raging fire was the flame of the eight-hundred-year Chi Emperor’s fortune, toxic to divine generals with refined spiritual cores and mighty bodies.

Yuwen Lie stared at the flames, their reflection burning in his pupils.

Ultimately, regret.

Though still on guard, the proud general bowed his head slightly—the lowered head of a tiger, as a gesture of respect.

He Ruo Qinhu, seasoned and shrewd, stepped forward half a pace after Gongyang Su Wang retreated half a step, and said: “Your Majesty.”

“We have not seen Ji Yezhong, the strongest of the Ji clan.”

He lowered his voice: “All across the realm, every movement is being calculated. I have heard that Princess Changle, Ji Ning’er, was born and deeply cherished by Ji Zichang and his wife—and is the adopted daughter of Prince Li Guanyi.”

“From my observation, Ji Zichang’s resolve here clearly aims to bury the fortune of the eight-hundred-year Chi Emperor line. But men are not grass and trees—who can be without feeling? Even if the Emperor’s heart is iron, the monarch’s will a prison, even with the courage to destroy his own dynasty, there must still be a thread of paternal tenderness.”

“Likely, Ji Zichang and his wife used their lives as bait.”

“And entrusted her to Prince Li Guanyi.”

“As long as any descendant of the Chi Emperor survives, our great Ying cannot suppress what happened today. Your Majesty, strike hard, cut the roots, exterminate completely. The fate of the realm, the legacy of a thousand autumns, rests upon us.”

“I beg Your Majesty to grant me a royal decree, permitting me to go personally.”

“Eliminate Ji Yezhong and the Princess Changle.”

Yuwen Lie, who had bowed his head, suddenly raised it—his eyes blazing with chilling intensity.

He Ruo Qinhu’s expression remained unchanged.

Jiang Wanxiang fell silent, then said: “...Yuwen.”

Yuwen Lie stepped forward half a pace, bowed his head: “Your servant is here!”

Jiang Wanxiang said: “You heard what Master He said.”

“Yes.”

Jiang Wanxiang said coolly: “This matter is yours. Do not disappoint me.”

Yuwen Lie bowed his head: “Your servant, obeys!”

The divine general strode away.

………………

Ji Yanzhong’s breath grew slightly ragged; he clutched the child tightly, pushing his body’s movements to their absolute limit. As a master at the peak of the Seventh Heaven, he found the carriage prepared in advance after leaving the city.

It was drawn by dragon steeds, its chassis crafted with Mohist mechanical arts.

Even over rough terrain, it glided smoothly forward.

Beside Ji Yanzhong lay a longsword, sharp and sheathed. The carriage moved swiftly; the old man, descended from the Red Emperor’s line, forced himself not to think of what Red Emperor Ji Zichang intended, focusing all his mind on the child.

To the Qin King.

At the Qin King’s side, Li Guanyi would surely protect this child.

But as they raced forward, Ji Yanzhong’s heart suddenly skipped a beat.

The dragon steeds neighed sharply—they had encountered a ravine, nearly losing their footing. The carriage jolted, veered sideways around a bend, and came to a steady stop. Ji Yanzhong gasped for air, sweat beading on his forehead; he looked up toward the distance.

He had already traveled a great distance.

Yet within this hundred-li stretch, he could still see it: the city of Zhongzhou, where a blazing crimson hue erupted skyward like a divine sword, radiant and majestic, spreading crimson fire in all directions.

Ji Yanzhong had grown up in Zhongzhou.

He knew every inch of it.

Without even needing to think, he could deduce that this blazing, fiery crimson must originate from the imperial palace hall.

Ji Yanzhong instinctively urged the horses and carriage toward Zhongzhou—but as the carriage stirred, a look of torment crossed his face; he sensed the quiet, sleeping presence of Ji Ning’er inside.

Ji Yanzhong’s face twisted in conflict.

Finally, he gasped deeply, his grip on the reins trembling, his cheeks twitching; with sudden force, he yanked the reins, turning the carriage back onto the back roads, heading straight for Jiangnan.

He could almost feel the blazing aura-fire burning within the palace complex behind him; he imagined everything—his childhood footsteps on the bricks, the courtyard where he trained as a youth, the towering red pillars taller than his small frame, the osmanthus tree his mother leaned against while telling him stories—all collapsing.

Human memory is bound to place.

When those places crumble,

it is as if one’s memories and soul-flesh are torn apart.

Without a homeland, memory becomes a drifting ghost, with no place to rest.

A person loses their place of return in this world.

This emotion grows sharper with age.

Ji Yanzhong gritted his teeth, betraying his past, carrying the child onward—until, as they passed through a narrow path, he sensed something wrong: a sound like a crossbow bolt fired at full force.

Ji Yanzhong reacted instantly, his scalp prickling: “No!!”

Crimson fire exploded, forming spiraling scales that encircled the carriage. Arrows shot forth like dark rain, dense and countless—all Mohist mechanical crossbows, coated in poison.

Three hundred hidden, poised to strike.

Accompanied by an ancient dragon’s roar.

The Crimson Dragon manifestation, forged through mastery of the Crimson Dragon Shakes the Nine Provinces, roared and spun, forcibly intercepting all three hundred armor-piercing bolts. Ambushers—were they from Ying State? Other imperial clan members? Or—

The court ministers.

One possibility after another flashed through Ji Yanzhong’s mind. He let out a long howl, shielding the carriage and its child while unleashing his ultimate technique at great cost to his inner qi.

The Crimson Dragon manifestation spiraled, its roar shaking the air. Ji Yanzhong’s master-level aura flooded a radius of nearly a li; the dragon’s form split into multiple afterimages, smashing left and right, forcing hidden enemies into the open and annihilating them.

“Wen family’s secret guards?!!”

“And my brother’s Crimson Dragon Guards…”

Ji Yanzhong recognized the ambushers along the road to Qin.

Even more—members of Consort Wen’s family, imperial clan members. The old man instantly understood their intent: like gifted minds themselves, they had deduced Ji Zichang’s plan to take Ji Ning’er away.

And now, for their own interests, they moved.

To intercept Ji Ning’er.

“Ji Yanzhong, we have no interest in fighting you. We stand here with one demand: hand over Princess Changle!”

A white-haired old man stood there—the patriarch of the Wen family.

Consort Wen’s grandfather.

A master who had endured decades to reach his realm—but now he blocked the path. Ji Yanzhong roared: “Wen Chancellor, you are the princess’s blood kin! Why do you do this?!”

“Even tigers do not eat their own cubs!”

“You—your heart is as cruel as a wolf’s, your soul as base as a dog’s!”

The old man replied: “I am not merely Ji Ning’er’s elder—I am the patriarch of thousands in the Wen clan. Only by delivering the [Crimson Emperor’s sole bloodline of eight hundred years] to the Ying Emperor can our family survive!”

“For the clan, even I may die—even my most cherished granddaughter may enter the palace as a concubine. Besides, Jiang Wanxiang is magnanimous; he will not harm Ji Ning’er. He merely wishes her to become a new princess in the Ying imperial court!”

“That is the [righteous mandate of the Crimson Emperor’s eight hundred years]!”

Ji Yanzhong stared, dumbfounded. He looked at the ambushers, the blades and spears forcing him and the child back. A strange absurdity rose in him. This gentle, indecisive old man suddenly felt like laughing.

Absurd. Absurd.

The void rippled; the Crimson Dragon manifestation roared.

“ABSURD!!!”

His hands twisted—his ultimate technique, Crimson Dragon Shakes the Nine Provinces, erupted for the first time with such fury, such unbridled release. He was the elder who, when traveling the land, had once spared the starving Yue Qianfeng.

He had secretly watched, discovered Yue Qianfeng became a bandit yet refused to rob, and every time he descended to raid, he tilled farmers’ fields. He had broken protocol to teach him the world’s supreme technique, planting the seed of this generation’s heroic legend.

He had once believed, kindly, that all people were the same—that every act had its suffering, and could be understood.

But now he finally realized:

People act according to their class and position.

They cannot be understood.

Those he struck flying had their chests caved in, spat out three dou of blood, and died miserably, with a dragon-horse-drawn carriage following closely behind him.

Those he struck flew backward, chests caved in, vomiting three dou of blood before dying—ghastly deaths, the dragon steeds pulling the carriage right behind him.

“Impressive technique. Ruthless indeed!”

“Ji Yanzhong, I shall be your opponent. The rest of you—protect the Crimson Emperor’s princess.”

“Bring her back safely!”

Another master, outnumbered—Ji Yanzhong was forced to slow.

A spectral crane manifestation appeared, engaging Ji Yanzhong in combat. He fought recklessly, suppressing his old rival, once his equal in strength—but the enemy was too numerous.

His eyes bulged as they closed in on the carriage. As he risked his life, one warrior surged forward, flung back the curtain—and for a moment, a smile touched his face.

Then his body froze.

Then he was thrown violently backward, like a torn sack, his body split cleanly in two, leaving only a mist of blood. Others paused—then the same scene repeated, again and again, until a hundred elite warriors lay dead.

Only then came the piercing, razor-sharp sound of air tearing.

Wen Hanfeng’s face stiffened. His pupils shrank.

The void rippled—as if a white tiger lunged forth.

The tiger’s eyes glowed pale gold, arrogant and self-assured.

In an instant, Wen Hanfeng’s protective aura shattered.

The Wen clan’s most gifted heir in a century, a Seventh Heaven master, his aura collapsed like torn cloth. His vision blurred, his throat sweetened—he spat blood. Before he could react, a heavy spear had pierced his abdomen, pinning him to the cliffside.

Blood dripped steadily down.

Ji Yanzhong stared, dazed. He looked up instinctively.

The sound of hooves was clear.

They struck the earth with a steady *drip-drip*, the great cloak billowing like ink-laced clouds. Upon the steed, a man stood tall—eight feet high, broad-shouldered, clad in dark silver armor, pale face, dark eyes, refined and haughty.

The Fifth Divine General of the Realm: Divine Might Grand General, Yuwen Lie.

A flicker of despair rose in Ji Yanzhong’s heart.

This was a true apex figure.

Yuwen Lie raised his hand; the heavy spear sang, merging with its manifestation, unleashing terrifying power that crushed Wen Hanfeng to death. Then a flash of light returned it to his grasp. The supreme general, weapon in hand, advanced with majestic aura.

Ji Yanzhong stood before Yuwen Lie.

Yuwen Lie spoke briefly and plainly:

“The Emperor ordered me to eliminate you and Princess Changle.”

Ji Yanzhong, wounded and weakened, knew a Seventh Heaven master stood no chance against this mighty Divine Might Grand General.

He was not afraid of dying.

Only ashamed—ashamed he could not protect Ji Ning’er in this chaotic world. Yuwen Lie flicked his wrist; the spear’s shadow struck with lethal precision—but it only grazed the old man’s neck, embedding itself in the mountain rock.

Ji Yanzhong froze.

Yuwen Lie said: “The Crimson Emperor has already burned himself alive, extinguishing eight hundred years of heavenly lineage. Thus, Ji Ning’er is no longer a princess.”

Ji Yanzhong opened his mouth. Even though he had foreseen it, he still felt a crushing sorrow—whether for the eight hundred years of the Crimson Emperor, or for Ji Zichang’s tragedy, he could not say.

Many things cannot be clearly divided.

Yuwen Lie spoke slowly: “You are fortunate. The Daoist sect of Ziyang and the Buddhist elder both intervened, holding back most of your pursuers. But the Crimson Emperor chose differently than they expected—and never told them his decision.”

“They have not yet arrived.”

“And due to the Su Wang’s influence, He Ruo and I could only send one.”

“It was me.”

Ji Yanzhong watched as the Divine Might Grand General, riding the dragon steed, rode to the carriage, dismounted, leaned inside, and gazed at the sleeping girl.

The great cloak stirred.

The Divine Might Grand General knelt before the child.

He reached out, lifted the two-year-old Ji Ning’er into his arms.

He tucked her into his battle robe, fastened it tightly—and his voice, for once, grew unexpectedly gentle: “Your father and mother sacrificed themselves for the realm, with heroic spirit. Though the world is now in chaos, it must not sink into petty scheming.”

"Let Yuwen Lie escort the Princess."

"The last route..."

He held the child, turned, and the cold divine general mounted his divine steed, left arm cradling the child, right hand gripping his battle spear, gazing at Ji Yanzhong—the old man’s robe chest stained with blood, yet staring blankly—asking, "Why?"

He did not understand—was Yuwen Lie tricking Ji Ning’er into returning?

Yuwen Lie’s voice was cold and flat: "Even amid chaos."

"It is not merely about victory and gain."

"A true man does what he must, and refrains from what he must not."

"You lead the way."

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