Chapter 232: New Grudges, Old Vengeance (Revised)

Qinzhou, Wuling Mountain.

A sudden blizzard turned the mountains white, and many pilgrims trudged along the mountain path toward the main peak, Golden Summit.

Lu Yan, clad in a black-and-gold Daoist robe, sat cross-legged on the rear cliff of the main peak; his sword and knife wounds still ached faintly, but compared to the pain in his heart, these physical injuries meant nothing.

After the debacle at Fire Phoenix Valley, Lu Yan abandoned his useless disciple and rushed back to Northern Zhou; his encounter in the Southern Frontier had been too humiliating—now even pilgrims whispered behind his back, saying:

“I heard the sect master of Wuling Mountain got beaten up outside…”

“Bruised and swollen, bedridden…”

…

As a cultivator specializing in the Five Elements Fire Art, Lu Yan had a fiery temper; hearing these words ignited his rage, but the truth was undeniable—how could he, the second most powerful figure in Northern Zhou’s Daoist sect, possibly declare:

“I can’t handle Xie Jinhuan from the Southern Court, but I can’t deal with you lot?”

To do so would mean total ruin; for now, he could only seethe in silence, secretly plotting how to reclaim his honor.

Going to the Southern Court to settle accounts with Xie Jinhuan was out of the question—if he ran into Lu Wu, he wouldn’t recover his dignity, he’d lose the Imperial Fire Edict too.

But if he didn’t go, this bitterness would fester until his grave; if he kept brooding like this, he might even lose ten years of life…

Yet perhaps heaven had taken pity.

Just as Lu Yan seethed inwardly, a young Daoist acolyte suddenly ran over, holding a letter, and handed it to Lu Yan:

“Grandmaster, an urgent message has arrived from the Sect Master.”

Though Lu Yan had been beaten because he was protecting the Sect Master’s disciple, the Sect Master’s divination had been correct—his own carelessness was to blame, and he still held deep respect for him; he took the letter and opened it, then his gaze sharpened:

According to the report, Xie Jinhuan had traveled north beyond the pass toward Yanjing, possibly in the Lizhou region…

The letter didn’t say what he intended to do, but the humiliation was right before him; now that the cunning brat’s location was known, what else could he do?

Lu Yan immediately tucked away the paper, stopped caring about his wounds, retrieved his magic treasure, and flew off toward Lizhou…

—

“Giddy-up!”

Clip-clop, clip-clop…

Two swift horses galloped across the snowfield, arriving at Baihua County by afternoon.

Bu Yuehua, unusually, walked ahead, saying nothing along the way, her mind replaying scenes from childhood.

She had been seven then, still the young mistress of Queyue Manor, spending her days with venomous scorpions and snakes; protected by her parents, she felt no pressure, carefree and curious about the world.

But one afternoon, her senior brother Bu Hanying rushed over, face pale with grief and fury, saying something had gone wrong.

Bu Yuehua followed the disciples to the manor’s gate and saw several uncles and aunts holding a broken magic treasure.

The treasure had belonged to her father, now shattered into fragments; she asked why, and learned he had gone inside the pass to conduct business, everything normal—until returning, when someone had tracked him, ambushing him in the Southern Frontier mountains.

When nearby cultivators arrived to investigate, only traces of battle remained; after inspection by the Elders of the Witch Alliance, they concluded Bu Qingya had been slain by a Soul-Sealing Chain, his corpse taken away, though the killer’s identity remained unknown.

Bu Yuehua refused to believe her father, once the second-in-command of the Witch Alliance, was truly dead—but the truth was undeniable; from that day on, she became the young mistress of Queyue Manor, and figures like Sikong Tianyuan and the master of San Shi Cave came to visit her.

She was heartbroken, then rallied, buried herself in training, discovered witchcraft only allowed poison, so she also trained in martial arts, striving to grow quickly and find the blood enemy who killed her father.

But alas, day after day, year after year, her strength surged in pursuit of vengeance, yet the killer vanished as if into thin air; no matter how hard she searched, she found no trace, and the Soul-Sealing Chain disappeared entirely.

She scoured everywhere, even asked the noblewoman who taught her martial arts—but that goddess knew nothing, only telling her that every moment of hard cultivation now prepared her for future vengeance: one more step in her Dao meant one more chance of victory.

She heeded the advice, yet feared she’d live her whole life without knowing who killed her parents; at eighteen or nineteen, she even made a childish vow—anyone who helped her find the killer, she’d devote her life to them as servant and slave…

But heaven clearly didn’t care for her vow; her search continued fruitlessly until today.

Bu Yuehua had come only to accompany Xie Jinhuan in seeking breakthrough elixir ingredients, to repay the debt owed to Lingguang’s divine favor; she never expected such an unexpected discovery along the way…

Could Xie Jinhuan truly be a lucky star? Since meeting him, good fortune, opportunities, connections, and clues had poured in endlessly…

No wonder the flirtatious Daoist nun had fallen so far—anyone would be unable to let go…

Sensing her thoughts had wandered, Bu Yuehua snapped back to focus and glanced at Xie Jinhuan, riding beside her.

Xie Jinhuan had kept Meiqiu held out front all along to shield him from the wind, as punishment for freezing last night—but sadly, this little bird seemed native to the snowfield, utterly unfazed by cold, even spreading its wings and playing Titanic with him.

Noticing Bu Xianzi looking over, Xie Jinhuan retracted Meiqiu, and together they entered Baihua County…

—

Baihua County lay on the frontier, its size modest.

A sudden surge of over a dozen murders had thrown the entire county into panic; even during daylight, the streets were empty.

In the front courtyard of the county office, over a dozen constables gathered around a cart, inspecting three newly delivered corpses.

Leading them were three men in blue robes embroidered with cloud-and-thunder patterns, each carrying standard Yanling knives and gold-silver waist plaques—clearly distinct from the county constables, their bearing utterly different.

These three had come from the capital, from the Ministry of Justice’s Constable Division; in martial terms, they were the great lords of the Six Gates. The one with the gold plaque was Shen Cang, one of the Empress Dowager’s trusted officials, granted imperial authority to execute first and report later; he never came to such a small county, but had been dispatched personally to investigate the serial murders, as the young emperor’s birthday banquet approached and stability across court and realm was critical.

Shen Cang was in his early forties; besides his partner, he brought a new recruit—a female constable, rare in both north and south.

The female constable wore the same blue robe, but carried no plaque; her face was youthful, her figure voluptuous, appearing no older than eighteen or nineteen, her hair tied in wild little braids, a great halberd slung over her shoulder—she looked more like a raw, out-of-the-woods girl, and her behavior matched it; she stood with one hand on her hip, angrily declaring:

“I wasn’t here, and these demon bandits still killed people. Now that I’ve arrived, they dare kill again? If I don’t chop this trash into four pieces, how can I face the Empress Dowager when I return?”

Her voice was light and melodic, her appearance childlike; the surrounding county constables stared at her strangely.

But Shen Cang found nothing displeasing in her words—he admired her, even held great expectations.

After all, this girl, Jiang Xian, hailed from Jiang Family Fortress in the Eastern Sea; her great-grandfather Jiang Hehai had joined righteous cultivators in marching south to suppress the Witch Cult rebellion; though his merits didn’t match those of the Three Immortals of the North, he stood among the countless righteous heroes who rushed to save the people during that great calamity—his name still rests on the Merit Stele in the Martial Temple. Jiang Xian, too, was a daughter worthy of her lineage: though obscure in her youth along the Eastern Sea coast, her reputation soared after arriving in the capital.

She first entered the county office with a letter of recommendation, and within three days delivered over a dozen bandits; even the Director of Justice and Prisons, Guo Deng, was stunned; upon reviewing her record, he saw a righteous cultivator with impeccable lineage, deeply devoted to the Empress Dowager, and reported her to the Fengyi Bureau.

Jiang Xian’s accomplishments didn’t end there; in the capital, she made arrests nearly every day, so rapidly that the local offices couldn’t keep pace; she was swiftly promoted—from county constable to the Constable Division, then selected by the Fengyi Bureau; once this case was concluded, she would return as a female official under the Empress Dowager. The Empress ruled the entire empire—this position was akin to the emperor’s most trusted confidant; its status and power were unimaginable.

Yet Jiang Xian had flaws: fresh from the martial world, she craved glory and service to the state, desperate to become the Empress Guo’s right hand; she was either investigating cases or on her way to one, nearly exhausting veteran officers like Shen Cang; she’d storm into unknown bandit dens with a “Wakaka!” and a halberd, single-handedly wiping them out, terrifying her superiors so badly they’d nicknamed her “Jiang Xiao Biao.”

At this moment, Shen Cang briefly examined the corpses and found the clues obvious, but didn’t speak outright; instead, he turned and asked:

“Jiang Xian, what do you see?”

Jiang Xian, halberd on shoulder, was already eager to run off; hearing the question, she puffed out her chest and replied:

“These three were killed by a chain-type magic treasure that drained their souls; their bodies were found on the snowfield, footprints lead toward Jianchuan. If the bandits haven’t fled, they may be hiding in Jianchuan. Why don’t you, Master Shen, rest at the inn first? I’ll go check Jianchuan—I’ll return within three hours, and I’ll…”

“Hey!”

Shen Cang knew Jiang Xian’s abilities, but also knew how reckless she was; any chance to earn glory and serve the state turned her eyes green, as if she’d split her family tree to carve a new page.

In the capital, they’d faced only common minor demons and bandits; but on the frontier, peak-level demon bandits from both north and south could appear—how could he let this girl go alone into the mountains? He replied:

“Jianchuan lies within Lishan, surrounded by hundreds of miles of wilderness; how can you search alone? First, eat. Then we’ll go together as a team. These bandits left clear footprints—they’re probably not powerful.”

“It’s not even dark yet; the demon bandits could kill again any moment. Eating wastes time—I’ll buy some meat buns…”

“Don’t wander off!”

His deputy, Old Wang, quickly blocked the braided girl; she said she was buying buns, but would vanish—either return with bandits, or not return at all.

Jiang Xian, halberd on shoulder, saw her plan exposed and could only grin sheepishly, then urged the two leaders to hurry up and depart…

Meanwhile, on the rooftop far from the county courtyard.

Xie Jinhuan lay silently on the ridge, peering cautiously; the distance was too great to see clearly, and he couldn’t risk revealing his Southern Court identity to ask questions, so he turned to A Piao.

Ye Hongshang crouched beside him, eyes fixed on the lively, cheerful blue-robed female constable in the courtyard; his gaze held confusion, then shifted to the corpses at the sound:

“This female constable is capable. The corpses were indeed drained of soul by a chain-type magic treasure. Whether it’s the Soul-Sealing Chain, I don’t know. The Corpse Ancestor only used this in its early stages; by the time the True Person of Qixia appeared, they’d switched to demonic blades to absorb evil.”

Hearing this, Xie Jinhuan leaned close to Bu Yuehua’s ear and whispered:

“They were indeed wounded by a chain-type magic treasure. Whether it’s the Soul-Sealing Chain is uncertain—shall we go to Jianchuan?”

Bu Yuehua had never seen the Soul-Sealing Chain, but chain-type evil artifacts were typically used by the Corpse Witch Sect; high-grade ones were exceedingly rare. With even a hint of her father’s killer, she must investigate; she quietly descended the rooftop with Xie Jinhuan…

—

Lishan Sword Lodge.

A mountain manor with three hundred years of lineage, nestled among peaks; its halls numbered in the thousands, yet its disciples had dwindled to six hundred, radiating the air of a declining house.

Snowstorm. Bitter cold year.

Before the forge behind the manor, Li Huaichuan, the current master, stripped to the waist, hammering a red-hot sword bar; sparks burst forth, instantly swallowed by the snow and wind—those fleeting flames mirrored Li Huaichuan’s entire life.

As the dominant power of Lizhou, Lishan Sword Lodge rose with the founding of Northern Zhou, reached its peak a century ago, when its master led three hundred elite disciples south with True Person Huang Lin and the Female Warrior God to suppress the apocalypse.

After that battle, only a dozen returned; all others perished, even the ancestral elder fell on the blood-soaked battlefield.

Li Huaichuan inherited the mastership at seven, relying on his father’s merit, receiving favor from the court and righteous sects; his cultivation path had been smooth; sixty years ago, he was among Northern Zhou’s brightest martial talents.

But talent is talent; no matter how much the environment favored him, it couldn’t change his mediocrity.

Whether in sect tournaments or wilderness treasure hunts, he never won once; he watched peers who once stood beside him become peerless lords, while he remained stuck in the mortal martial world, forced to sit with second-rate masters at major gatherings, too ashamed to join the peerless table.

The master’s inability to rise led to Lishan Sword Lodge’s decline; promising disciples grew scarce, and the cycle worsened.

To prevent the sect from falling into irrecoverable ruin, Li Huaichuan offered the ancestral sword “Wen Chuan” as tribute to Emperor Jing, securing treasures like tiger bone vines and special privileges, buying temporary survival.

But after entering the peerless realm, he didn’t see the clouds part and the moon appear—he entered a bloody cauldron.

Those who reached peerless status through their own strength were “legends” to ordinary martial artists; even Yan Lang of the Black Yin Sect, who couldn’t survive ten strikes against Lu Yan, had once ruled the Eastern Sea as a pirate king; Jiang Qizi of Spirit Dew Valley, who died on sight, had once led hundreds of evil cultivators and caused chaos in Luojing.

Li Huaichuan had once wanted to make Lishan Sword Lodge famous; he challenged Wei Wuyi in the south and was humiliated; he tried Mu Yunling next and was humiliated again; helplessly returning north to challenge local martial artists, he searched for years before finally defeating an aged elder, barely earning a name.

But at this point, his martial path ended; without the Five Celestial Gifts, relying solely on tiger bone vines to build his bridge to heaven, his talent could never reach the fifth realm.

From his forties to his eighties, Li Huaichuan searched in vain; now, at this age, he felt like the sparks before him—straining to hammer, trying to blaze one last brilliant light.

But heaven was merciless; in an instant, the snow and wind swallowed him, turning him to dust scattered by the wind.

Ding… ding…

Yet heaven, perhaps, wasn’t entirely heartless.

As Li Huaichuan silently recalled the past, a messenger pigeon flapped its wings and landed on a wooden rack beside the furnace.

Li Huaichuan frowned slightly, removed the bamboo tube from the pigeon’s leg, unrolled the note, glanced at it, then his brow tightened as he turned to gaze at the blizzard outside the manor…

(End of Chapter)