Chapter One A Deadly Journey Hidden Peril

It was the height of early spring, when the earth shimmered in emerald, all life awakening, and a hundred flowers blossomed in radiant unison.

Along a narrow mountain trail, cluttered with wild trees and just wide enough for three horses abreast, a sapphire-blue carriage rolled slowly onward, drawing ever closer.

Before long, the carriage with its sapphire-blue canvas canopy swept past, leaving behind twin ruts in the earth and a trail of carefree laughter. Even the fabric drapes of the canopy seemed dyed by the purity of that laughter, rippling in waves of vivid blue across the air.

On the coachman's seat lounged a young man, eyes closed in leisure, his left hand loosely holding the reins as he let the horses find their path. His face was calm, betraying no emotion—a picture of tranquil detachment, as if nothing in the world could stir his heart. Only when the sound of laughter—a peal or two of girlish delight—floated from within the carriage would the corner of his lips quirk into a gentle, graceful arc. Who could then still claim he cared for nothing?

"Long live the Holy Lord! May the world endure forever! Long live the Holy Lord, may our land remain secure!" The sudden cry shattered the tranquility, startling flocks of birds from the forest. Wings beat in thunderous waves, shrill chirps filled the air, a dense tide of life surging upward like a swarm of bees—what a sight it was!

And yet, for all this commotion, there were some who took no notice at all. Were they fools, or deaf? No, they were merely two drunkards, weaving unsteadily along the barely visible path beside the mountain stream, every step flirting with disaster and the threat of tumbling into the ravine below.

At last, the pair halted before the mouth of a natural cave.

"Li'l Four... urgh..." the taller of the two slurred, hiccuping after he called to his companion. He blinked drunkenly and mumbled, "Shall... we go... in?"

"Of... of course... urgh..." the shorter fellow replied, his speech slurred and punctuated with hiccups. "Our... our... treasure... urgh... it's still... inside! If we don't go in... urgh... how... how could we not?"

With that, emboldened by wine, he stumbled forward, leading the way.

They passed through a long stone corridor and soon spied a natural stone hall, not large—at most enough for seventy or eighty people.

Ordinarily, in such wild and remote mountains, none would come save perhaps bandits. Yet today, curiously, the cave was not only occupied, but crowded.

On closer look, there were thirty figures, all clad in black, their identities hidden. They stood in orderly ranks across more than half the hall, all dressed alike: black fitted garb with capes, black gauze hats veiling their features and ages.

They seemed not so much a group of people as a collection of identical statues, or shadows cast by a single man—one person, multiplied into three or four dozen indistinguishable phantoms.

Li'l Four, eyes glazed with drink, staggered to the entrance and pointed dazedly at the nearest figure. "Ugh... Big Brother... urgh!" he hiccupped again. "You're so quick! When... ugh... did you get ahead of me!?"

"Haha, I told you, you're drunk... urgh... and you won't admit it... urgh..." The taller man finally caught up, giving his companion a playful smack on the back. "Wasn't I... urgh... behind you... urgh...?"

Li'l Four was baffled, spun round and round by the confusion of before and after. He glanced at his companion, then at the black-clad figures within the hall, frowning in puzzlement. "But... but... urgh... weren't you...? Hic... ah!?"

"You really are drunk... and still won't admit it... urgh... In a place like this—hic—who else could possibly be here? Urgh..." The taller man suddenly stared wide-eyed at the inexplicably numerous black-clad strangers. In an instant, the wine in his belly seemed to turn to cold sweat that trickled down his spine—a murderous aura so strong it chilled the blood.

The two exchanged a suspicious glance, then turned and fled as fast as their legs would carry them, abandoning all thought of treasure. Survival was all that mattered.

Perhaps they should never have come. For as soon as they reached the cave mouth, they collapsed in unison, too quickly for the last vestige of drunkenness to leave their eyes.

A thin line of blood blossomed at their throats, growing ever darker, the fresh crimson pooling on the ground before the dry earth drank it up.

Their deaths were eerie, inexplicable—so swift, they could never have known what struck them down.

None of those within the stone hall seemed perturbed by the demise of these uninvited guests. It was as if such events were so routine as to be unremarkable.

At the rear, two of the black-clad figures methodically dragged the corpses away, leaving a trail of blood and bitter grievance.

The others remained as they were, motionless as statues.

From the back to the front: twelve stood in two ranks at the rear, then ten in two lines, then seven more. On the dais at the very front stood two figures in attire slightly distinct from the rest. The one to the left wore a short black jacket with a white sash, radiating a sense of agility and severity; to the right, one in white martial garb beneath a like-colored robe, cinched with a black belt, both faces obscured by masks with black-and-white patterns.

Seated at the center of the stone dais, on a throne carved with the image of an eagle, was a figure in a pale yellow robe. Embroidered with a fierce dragon, a matching gauze hat veiling the features, it was impossible to judge whether this was man or woman, young or old. The imperial yellow, reserved for emperors, added a layer of mystery.

At that moment, this figure toyed with a dagger, turning it lightly in hand, the gauze stirring with each movement. Through the veil, the eyes swept the crowd below. "How goes the task?" the voice asked, cool and indifferent.

From the foremost row, the leftmost black-clad man knelt and replied with a trembling voice, "Your Excellency, I deserve death! That Li fellow's martial skill was too great—I was no match for him!" Having spoken, he knelt motionless, awaiting the yellow-robed figure's judgment.

"And the result?"

"I failed!"

"You do deserve death!" With a cold tone, a flash of blinding light flared.

Red Dragon instinctively clutched his wounded right arm, pressing tightly to the gaping wound. Blood seeped through his fingers, dotting the ground like plum blossoms.

Though his face twisted in pain beneath the gauze, his eyes remained cold, betraying no suffering. He glanced woodenly at the severed limb on the floor, then fixed his gaze upon the yellow-robed master, who was lovingly wiping the dagger with a square of white silk.

It almost seemed an illusion: was it truly the Holy Lord who had wounded him? Was that bloodstained limb really his own?

"Red Dragon, I will give you one more chance. If you fail to kill him this time, bring me your head," the yellow-robed figure said, sheathing the dagger with a heavy snap.

"Yes, my lord!" Clutching his bleeding arm, Red Dragon turned to leave.

"Wait!" The Holy Lord's voice thundered, halting him at the cave's threshold.

"What else do you command, my lord?" Red Dragon paused and turned respectfully.

"Take this." With the words, a small white porcelain bottle flew straight toward his face.

Red Dragon caught it deftly, casting a questioning glance at the Holy Lord. "This?..." Of course, he knew whatever was inside was no simple salve.

What was in the bottle? Clearly, the Holy Lord had no intention of telling him. Perhaps Red Dragon had guessed. Without another word, he strode out of the cave and down the mountain.

"Nightshade," the Holy Lord said to the black-masked figure at his side, watching Red Dragon's retreating form, "where is Di's head?"

"My lord, when I arrived, the house was already empty. I left a few torches at the Di estate, but found no one else." Nightshade shrugged indifferently. "Nor did I find the items you wanted."

"So it failed again, did it?" The Holy Lord gripped the arms of the stone throne, barely containing his rage. His fingers sank into the solid rock as though it were mere clay.

His piercing gaze swept to Nightshade, then back to the assembly. His fury burst forth in a thunderous roar: "Useless fools!"

Even the dagger in his hand seemed to give a dragon's cry, as if it were a weapon attuned to its master's will.

"Red Dragon is doomed to fail," spoke the white-masked figure, who until now had remained silent—his voice utterly devoid of emotion.

"Why do you say so?" The Holy Lord's tone held a note of encouragement. "White Phantom, speak freely!"

"Red Dragon will fail without a doubt," White Phantom said as he looked toward the cave entrance. "To deal with a martial master like General Li, unless—"

"No unless!" The Holy Lord rose abruptly, cutting off the unfinished words. "I have no use for the incompetent! White Phantom, you go! I want results!"

"Yes, my lord!" And with that, White Phantom vanished from the hall—sometimes, the less one knows, the better. Though he knew he had little chance of success against Li, he could not refuse a direct order from the Holy Lord.

"Di, for all your cunning, once Li is eliminated, you will be a toothless tiger, a wingless eagle. The world will still be mine!" With that, the Holy Lord burst into peals of laughter.

Meanwhile, the carriage continued its steady way—not too fast, not too slow. The passengers knew nothing of the danger drawing near, save perhaps the young driver.

His eyes, closed in apparent repose, sprang open in sudden alertness. Strange! Just now, had he not felt a pair of malevolent eyes fixed upon him—a gaze laden with murderous intent?

He closed his eyes again, searching for that prickling sense of danger, but this time, no matter how he tried, he sensed nothing. Had it been a mere illusion?

After a moment, he opened his eyes and carefully scanned the thickets on either side of the path. Aside from a few more butterflies, there was nothing out of place.

"Hmph! If the enemy comes, we’ll meet them head-on. If the flood rises, we’ll block it. So much for smoke and mirrors—let them come!" With a surge of heroic spirit, he sat up straight, snapped the reins with a flick of his wrists, and with a sharp crack, the whip struck the horses. The animals, stung, neighed and broke into a swifter trot.

As the carriage sped up, the laughter within the cabin faded into silence. The air grew heavy with tension, stifling and hard to breathe.

Opposite the window sat a middle-aged man in scholar’s robes, a cloth wrapped about his head and a folding fan in hand. In a low, weary voice tinged with anxiety and preoccupation, he asked, "Butterfly, how much longer until we arrive?"

The sapphire curtain rustled, and a slender, fair hand brushed it aside, revealing a delicate and lovely face with features arranged just so. The woman in purple, called Butterfly, glanced at the receding mountains and let the curtain fall. "Sir, we’ll arrive before nightfall tomorrow."

"Old friend, we will soon meet again," the scholar murmured, stroking the eagle-shaped ring on his finger, lost in reminiscence.

A playful breeze teased the curtain, letting it dance in the air, and roused the scholar from his reverie. He gathered the little girl who had been leaning out the window and held her close, gazing out at the shifting mountain shadows, wishing the carriage would go faster—faster still.

He longed to reach Ganliang Road swiftly, to deliver the nine- or ten-year-old girl in her pink dress into the waiting arms of the Khan of Jili. Only when she was safe, with no burdens left behind, could he risk everything. He must return—if he could not prevent the coming deception, chaos would soon engulf the world.