[font=宋体]终于才发现她曾走失了一千年[/font]
Chapter 1:
In a time of tumult and trouble, those with the knowledge and skills to protect the weak are called on to do so. From the noble blades of the wulin to the medical knowledge of the alchemists; each has a part to play.
On the slopes of the Holy Mountain, that precarious balance was to be harshly interrupted.
The morning bells of the temple rang out over the hills. In the valley below, the villagers toiled and worked. They rose to the sound of the bell and they slept to its comforting tolling. Two bells to signal the break of day. Two bells to signal the day’s end. And, all the while above, the initiates of the temple labored in search of wisdom.
Speak of the Mountain, as it is known to the locals and you will hear many things. From its beautiful lakes and rivers to the variety of wildlife, the Holy Mountain stood out among the beautiful scenery of the kingdom of San. In the chaos and carnage of war, it was a place that turned no one away, whether San or Tang.
The temple was renowned throughout the land as a place of refuge and healing. The monks took no side, and brooked no conflict. It was a place of great knowledge where those who were weary came to rest; those who sought immortality came to learn; and those who came to pray came to bend their knee in front of the goddess.
A thousand steps! The abbot who founded the temple was said to have meditated for one thousand days. On each day, one step. And on each step, carved another sutra. And on each step, the path to enlightenment. People claimed that one could spend a year meditating on one of the steps alone and still not understand the meaning.
The man climbed the steps. The founder’s precepts he understood. He had no need of enlightenment. These questions had been pondered, answered, and rejected many years before.
Having climbed up those thousand steps, the assassin glanced at the final step and wept.
Dusk had fallen and the bells began to toll signaling the end of the day. In the valley below, the oxen bellowed and the villagers slowly began the journey back home as the blood-red sun set in the distance.
His hands were not about to be stained with not one man’s blood, nor ten, nor twenty. Every last man in the temple had to die. All for a simple manual. But what the king of San desired, he would not be denied.
Though he felt pity for his enemies, there was no regret. Hesitation on the battlefield led to death.
The monks who rang the bell went to greet him. In response, they were met with a flash of his blade. A clean stroke, and a clean kill. Falling silently, their sightless eyes stared at the bells that they had rung in life and would never again ring in death.
He flew in like a shadow dancing in the flickering flames of the lanterns.
An acolyte in the corner of the temple went to check on why the bells had mysteriously stopped. A body hit the floor with a thump, followed by the shuffling of it being dragged away.
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An initiate, stepping outside to gaze at the night stars, suddenly found his body separated from his head.
An abbot, meditating in prayer, would never wake from the recitation of the sutras. And so his bloody work continued.
The gong of alarm began to ring. The remaining acolytes began to panic. They were under attack? By whom? From where? It was futile. He strode through the halls purposefully. Not a single stroke wasted; each cut was painted by an artist wielding a brush of steel. Like a vengeful god of death, he swept down and devoured the monks of the temple.
The temple had stood for many years. From the armies of the San and Tang to the foreign warlords attempting to steal its treasures, the monks had held firm for many years. But, this was no army, and he was no mere man.
How does one fight against a shadow? How does one catch the Swallow of Night, the Assassin of the Prince of Tien?
To the acolytes, the man appeared from the shadow; coalescing into solid form. Like a ghost, his robes were nondescript. The only thing of note was the wicked blade that he carried; it had an evil reputation, and a name: Heartless. He sneered “The hound eats his master’s leftovers, Tang dog. Not even the afterlife will grant you reprieve.”
The entire temple lay silent. The manual had been acquired. But, as he turned to leave, a cry broke through the night. The harsh wail of a child. He strode back into the temple, taking care to step over the body of the abbot. Even the dead deserved some measure of respect.
Hidden beneath an altar in front of a statue of the goddess of mercy, the newborn’s cries rang strong and true.
His orders had been to kill everyone in the temple. He lifted his blade. The notion was considered. He didn’t even have to kill the child. If he left him here, he would surely die from the exposure and cold. He hesitated.
From the corner, he heard a groan.
“Please…” the abbot said, “If you have any measure of honor. Save the child.” The abbot coughed blood and sat up.
The man eyed him coldly. “The sins of the father are the sins of the son. The blood of the San shed must be repaid.”
“That is no son…that is the last princess of the Tang Empire.” The abbot gripped the hem of his robe. “Your blade…it may be named Heartless, but surely there is still something left of the man that once was left in you?”
“You’d have me betray my king?” The man glanced coldly at the abbot as his eyes grew cloudy. His hand slipped from the assassin’s robe.
The assassin glanced at the sleeping child in his arms. “Perhaps it’d be better to let you die here.”
The sun rose and cast its morning light over the temple steps. The men rubbed the sleep from their eyes and walked their oxen to their fields. But there was no familiar salute to the day. The men looked towards the temple in confusion.
That morning, the gongs remained silent.