The golden sunlight of late-autumn washed over sprawling city streets blanketed with fallen maple leaves, and the sounds of music and conversation were carried to every corner by the chilly breeze, bright and pleasant despite the threat of an imminent first snowfall. Anfeng City was both the oldest and grandest city in Dayuan, first established at the base of the Yantai Mountains thousands of years ago by the ancestor of the Song clan after an ancient war. Today, the city sprawled hundreds of li out from the foothills all the way to the opposite bank of the Heng River, spreading out on either side to support an ever-growing population with ever-increasing prosperity. The Song clan, one of the cultivation world’s five great families, watched over Anfeng City and the whole of Dayuan from Ruijian Pavilion— their stronghold atop the Yantai mountains— and the clan’s cultivators were hailed throughout the region for their unyielding defense of the people and stalwart protection of both towns and trade routes.
If one were to stroll through the streets of the city and ask the inhabitants who they considered to be the greatest hero of this generation, no matter who was asked, the answer would be the same— of course, it could be none other than Song Mingzhen.
Anfeng’s Song clan had produced generation after generation of peerless sword cultivators, with a surpassingly illustrious family history as the greatest and most influential of the five great families. One could hardly go back a generation or two without wondering whether history had already blended with legend, and the sword techniques pioneered by the Song clan were the same techniques used by any sword-master in Dayuan— and even throughout the world. After all of these generations of famed martial artists, each one was greater than the last, and this current generation was no exception— among Ruijian Pavilion’s great sword cultivators, the current clan heir, Song Mingzhen, stood out like a bright star in the night sky.
Song Mingzhen was without a doubt the perfect example of what a future pillar of the cultivation world should be. He was an unparalleled talent who had mastered his clan’s five sword styles by the age of thirteen, and had gained worldwide fame only a year later when he single-handedly quelled a demonic insurgence along the trade route to Yinshan. He was a filial son, and a friend to the common people— unlike many of the world’s lofty immortals, who remained cloistered within their mountaintop temples, far above the dust of the mundane world, Song Mingzhen often walked the streets of Anfeng City. His warm presence and easy-going demeanor allowed him to bridge the gap between mortals and cultivators— a gap which often seemed to near the distance between heaven and earth. The extent of this young man’s virtues was seemingly without end; he was a reasonable person with a good heart, someone who brought pride to his family and security to Dayuan. Every youth in Anfeng City would have heard countless times that he ought to strive to emulate this person, to mirror him in both accomplishments and nature— truly a standard that was almost impossible to live up to.
As Song Mingzhen grew, his list of accomplishments and achievements grew with him. The people of Dayuan were certain that their future was in safe hands— but sadly, the stars that shine the brightest are often the ones destined to burn out too soon.
After five centuries of peace, a bitter war engulfed the cultivation world. Song Mingzhen was seventeen years old at its beginning, and with his talent it was only natural that he was one of those leading the fight on the front lines. The war raged on for nearly three years as the brilliant golden light of Song Mingzhen’s Chengxiao sword tirelessly defended the people of Dayuan from the cruelty of their attackers. Then, a great calamity struck deep into the heart of Anfeng City.
To this day, no one knew precisely what had happened. They only knew that the sky had turned blood-red, the earth shook, and terrible lightning branched across the sky. People who had been going about their day as usual suddenly found themselves stumbling, their faces turning blue and grey as they felt themselves being strangled by an invisible rope. Those who fell victim to this mysterious attack panicked, and those who were unharmed also panicked. People began to flee in every direction in a futile attempt to escape, but more and more collapsed to their knees, gasping for breath.
Just when it seemed that all was lost, a shining pillar of golden light shot up into the sky. The radiance dispersed the clouds in a moment, revealing the clear blue sky and allowing daylight to flood the streets. As the light touched each person affected by the strange attack, they found themselves suddenly able to move and breathe freely again. The calamity that had threatened to wipe out over half of Anfeng City was resolved with only a handful of casualties— most of whom had merely had their strength drained away, and would go on to make a full recovery.
The war had come to an end, and peace and order had been restored to the cultivation world. No longer would rumors and tales of bloodshed from across the land frighten the people of Anfeng City into hiding in their homes with their doors shut fast. Safety and prosperity would once again return to Dayuan— what a great cause for rejoicing it was!
Only after a few days had passed would the people of Anfeng City learn that their hometown’s rising star, Song Mingzhen, had sacrificed himself to save the lives of his people.
He wasn’t officially dead, of course. It was said that he had been gravely injured while quelling the calamity and would need to remain in seclusion for a long time in order to recover. Nonetheless, he had not made a single public appearance since that day, and there was no more word from Ruijian Pavilion regarding him, so it didn’t take long for all manner of rumors about his current status to take root and flourish in the streets and marketplaces. There were some who thought that he had, in fact, died that day, giving up his life for his people— a tragic hero’s end, but a hero’s end nonetheless. Others thought that that bright beam of light which had chased away the calamity had been Song Mingzhen himself, ascending to the heavens. Ruijian Pavilion, of course, maintained that the clan heir was still in seclusion, but that didn’t stop him from going from hero to legend practically overnight.
Song Mingzhen was a hero who had walked among the people, and thus was greatly beloved by them. Many could fondly recall the times that radiant youth had played with their children, or visited their market stalls, or even helped out with some small task that most cultivators would consider far beneath him. Even after he had come of age, even during a time of war, he did not forsake the common people, nor did he treat them as beneath him— because of this, the people of Dayuan thought of him with great respect, but also with fondness, and keenly felt the lack of his warm, radiant presence in the city. In the minds of the people, he was both a mighty, legendary hero and a good friend, at once familiar and larger than life.
At some point after the calamity, a grand mural was painted on a wall in the market square of a young Song Mingzhen quelling the calamity and banishing the dark clouds from the sky, watching over the common people now just as he had protected them during the war. Children believed that when they were in trouble, this great hero would swoop down from the skies with his shining sword to save them. A small, informal shrine was set up near the mural, and merchants would stop by before their journeys and leave an offering or burn incense, regardless of which rumors they believed for themselves— if there was even a slight chance that they could be better protected on the road, then who in their right mind wouldn’t take that opportunity? Even the Song clan of Ruijian Pavilion themselves ceased in their attempts to dispel the rumors and exaggerated tales— after all, such a positive view of their own young hero was only good for their clan’s reputation.
On the one-year anniversary of the calamity, the clan leader Song Weicheng declared that a festival day would be held in Anfeng City to celebrate the end of the war and honor those who sacrificed themselves to end it, including his son. Five years later, this festival had become one of Anfeng City’s most prominent yearly events. The streets were lined with brightly-colored lanterns and streamers, and people came from all over the continent to see the sights and take in the festive atmosphere. Merchants from far and wide flowed into the city, setting up their market stalls along Anfeng City’s market streets, and locals and visitors alike browsed their wares, eagerly chattering amongst themselves as they were pulled along by the delicious aromas wafting up from the street food vendors’ stalls. It was a welcome liveliness in that time when autumn turned to winter, a distraction from the oncoming cold, and a chance to turn terrifying memories into a joyful occasion. In this bright and festive atmosphere, any troubles were far from the minds of the people.
This annual festival was also one of the rare times that Ruijian Pavilion’s cultivators would go out to mingle amongst the common people. Wide-eyed youths gathered around to watch some of the clan’s junior disciples performing swordsmanship demonstrations. Some did their best to mimic the demonstrators’ movements amongst themselves using wooden swords, or whatever branches they could find nearby. Each one of them hoped to become a famous sword-master someday— after all, how could anyone in Anfeng City not hope for such a thing? For many of these youths, their expectations had not yet become tarnished by experience and weariness, and with each movement they copied from the sword cultivators, they felt as though they were coming closer and closer to a bright and limitless future.
As the sun dipped beneath the horizon, the last rays of sunlight shone more bright and golden than those that came before. One of the martial arts demonstrations had just concluded, and a pair of children from the crowd had rushed off to go find a place to practice. Their clothes were worn practically to tatters, and their faces were dirty and sharp from hunger, but today their spirits were just as high as anyone else’s. The festivities put everyone in Anfeng City in a good mood, so the two had ended up with a proper meal and around half a string of copper coins to set aside for later.
“Alright A-Ying, do you remember the way they moved their feet?” the elder of the two asked, stopping beneath a maple tree and bending down to sift through the scattered leaves in hopes of finding a suitable branch to act as his sword. “I think that’s what we’ve been doing wrong, so we have to copy exactly what they did to get better!”
A-Ying, who had already selected her stick-sword and was in the process of picking it free of loose twigs, nodded her head vigorously. “Mn, I remember,” she said, then hopped up to her feet. “This— then this way— and then he jumped in the air and spun around like”—
She did her best to demonstrate the moves for her brother, but when she got to the final part of the sequence she stumbled over her own feet, falling over and crashing to the ground. The stick went flying out of her hands as she rushed to catch herself and avoid falling on her face in the dirt.
The boy started to laugh at his little sister’s clumsiness, but a sharp crack! cut him short. He looked up and his breath caught in his throat.
The two of them were no longer alone.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a stranger had appeared— a tall figure, wrapped in robes of midnight black, with a blank mask covering their face and a bamboo hat pulled low to cast it into shadow. Beneath the stranger’s left foot were the cracked remains of A-Ying’s makeshift sword.
A-Ying had started to get up, but upon seeing this ominous-looking stranger just a few paces away, she froze, her small face turning ghostly pale.
Since they didn’t want to get into any sort of trouble for causing a ruckus with their practice, the pair had wandered a good distance away from the main thoroughfare. With everyone in Anfeng City out for the festival, this out-of-the-way residential area was even quieter than usual. It was more than likely that no one else would pass by this way for several hours— and just as likely that no one would be able to hear the children if they were to call out for help.
The boy was around ten or eleven years old, and he had one single duty in his life that he held to unwaveringly— to keep A-Ying safe at all costs. He had spent the past few years diligently practicing his swordsmanship every day, and had successfully managed to keep the two of them fed and protected up until this point with these rudimentary skills. This person that they now faced was more than twice his size, but their very presence radiated an unsettling sense of danger that caused the hair on his neck to stand on end. If he didn’t do something now, there was no telling what kind of trouble A-Ying might be in.
Running away and hiding was not an option, so without even stopping to consider it, he did what he had to do.
He took hold of a stone a bit larger than his palm and rushed forward, leaping between A-Ying and the stranger and hurling the stone toward the stranger’s head.
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The boy had hoped it would be enough of a distraction for him to grab hold of A-Ying and run back toward the crowded square, but this person reacted faster than anyone he had seen before. His aim was good and the stone hurtled toward the center of the person’s forehead, but it never made contact. Instead, the stranger simply raised a hand and caught the stone, tossing it aside without a care. Before the boy could take hold of A-Ying’s arm and pull her away, he found his own wrist caught in a vise-like grip.
This wasn’t good.
He turned around, struggling against the stranger, clawing at the fingers holding onto him with his free hand to no avail. He could feel the sting of frightened tears in his eyes, and heard A-Ying gasp in terror before a pair of thin arms wrapped tightly around his waist.
“Please! Don’t hurt Gege!” the girl cried out, her voice high-pitched and frantic as she clung to him.
“Cease your struggling, child. There is no need to worry— I have not come here for you.”
The sound of the voice that came from behind the mask was so entirely unexpected that both children froze like statues. It was the voice of a young woman, soft and delicate as flower petals with an unusual lilt to it. There wasn’t a hint of malice in it— and yet the two couldn’t help but feel compelled to obey.
A-Ying continued to cling to her brother, who let his arm go limp in the strange woman’s grasp. His heart was beating faster than a rabbit’s, and he hardly dared to breathe.
“You’re quite far from the festivities,” the woman continued, “What are two young ones like you doing all the way over here on your own?”
The boy swallowed hard, but it was A-Ying who spoke up first. She was a few years younger than her brother, so she wasn’t nearly as suspicious and guarded as he was, and the woman’s voice had evidently succeeded in soothing her terror. “We went to the festival already— now we came here to play swords.”
A faint chuckle could be heard behind that faceless mask, and there was a slight bitterness beneath its warmth which made the boy shiver a bit. “Is that so?” she mused, “Well… it’s for the best. Today’s celebration isn’t really meant for people like you, after all.”
The boy tilted his head in confusion, unable to tell the meaning behind those words. A-Ying, however, didn’t notice anything strange, and simply continued with a shy smile slowly brightening her features. “Mn, and Gege says that if we practice hard, we’ll be able to go up to the big palace in the sky and become immortals someday!”
“Ah, that is what he has told you…” the woman mused, then turned toward the boy. “What is your name?”
The warmth that had been present in her voice earlier had all but entirely vanished now, and the boy couldn’t help but shiver. His mouth felt dry, but he answered nonetheless.
“They call me Xiao-Lang,” he murmured.
At last, the strange woman released her grip on his wrist. He pulled it close to his chest, massaging it— surprisingly, despite how strong her grip was, it didn’t feel nearly so bruised as when he was caught by an angry shopkeeper or one of the bigger children that he would occasionally get into a scuffle with over food.
“And what of your family?” the strange woman asked.
Xiao-Lang reached down to tightly hold onto A-Ying’s hand. When he was younger, he had lived on a farm a short distance outside the city. His parents had gone out to the city one day, leaving him behind with his elderly grandfather. They had never returned, and one day, he woke up to find that his grandfather had fallen sick and died. Xiao-Lang, without anyone to care for him, had made his way to the city to look for his missing parents, but they were nowhere to be found. In the end, it was easier to live in the city on his own than the country, so he just stayed here. That was already several years ago, and he could hardly remember anything from that time now— not even his family name or the name his parents had given him. Some time after he arrived in the city, he noticed that a smaller child was quietly following behind him day after day, copying almost everything he did. In the end, Xiao-Lang decided to take the girl under his wing, sharing the food he found and the coins he earned with her. At the time she couldn’t speak, so he named her A-Ying and called her his little sister. Ever since that day, the two had been inseparable.
“My family is A-Ying,” he said— because now, A-Ying was the only real family he had.
The strange woman seemed to take pity on the pair of orphans, that cold aura that had surrounded her dissipating once more. She sighed softly, shaking her head, and crouched down so that she was on the same level as the children.
“It seems that you two still have much to learn of the world, then,” she said. “Xiao-Lang, you are brave— but do not be so brave that you become foolish. Know your own strength, and never strike against an opponent you cannot hope to defeat. If you must strike, then always leave yourself a way to escape. If you don’t, you risk not only yourself, but all you hold dear.”
Xiao-Lang shuddered, gripping A-Ying’s hand more tightly as he gave a tiny nod of his head. The strange woman stood back upright. She turned and began to walk away, but paused before she rounded the corner.
“You children… you ought to give up on that ‘immortal palace in the sky.’ The best that children like you could hope for is to be turned away at the gate, and the worst…” her voice trailed off, and she seemed lost in thought for a moment, before simply shaking her head. “It would be best if you both forget the matter entirely.”
Then, before they could even see where she had gone, the strange woman disappeared like a cloud of smoke, leaving the two children alone in the quiet square once more. The sun had gone down even further now, and the shadows were dark with a lingering ominousness that brought chills to the two of them, and they decided that they didn’t want to be alone here when the last of the daylight disappeared. After shaking the feeling back into their legs and remembering how to breathe evenly, Xiao-Lang and A-Ying hurried back in the direction of the market square. All the way, they kept an eye out for the strange masked woman, but they didn’t see anyone until they reached the square, and by then it was too difficult to pick out a single person from the crowd.
Their sword-practice interrupted, the two contemplated what to do next— whether to try their hand at scoring another meal, or perhaps scavenging around for fun or useful things that had been left behind by festival-goers. As they were making their way toward one of the food stalls, though, a flicker of black fabric caught Xiao-Lang’s attention out of the corner of his eye. He turned just in time to see a masked, black-clad figure slipping away through the crowd. A shiver ran down his spine. Was that the same mysterious woman from earlier? He had half a mind to go investigate, but before he could pull A-Ying off course, the lights in all of the colorful paper lanterns went out.
The happy, bustling crowd suddenly faltered, an anxious murmur rising up from the sea of people. Then, a bright flash of pale light lit up the mural of Song Mingzhen on the wall. A moment of silence and darkness followed before a horrified scream split the air.
A great commotion rippled up through the crowd. The people closest to the mural suddenly began to run away in all directions, and as their panic surged outward, the rest of the crowd also took flight, pushing and shoving to get away. Xiao-Lang grabbed onto A-Ying’s hand and quickly pulled her out of the way, desperately trying not to get trampled as he pulled her behind a now-abandoned market stall. When he saw what had incited this panic, Xiao-Lang’s eyes went wide, and he put a hand on A-Ying’s head, pushing her down behind the stall so she wouldn’t see.
One of the Song clan’s junior disciples that had taken part in the swordsmanship demonstration that they had watched earlier was lying motionless on the ground in front of the mural. His face was drained of color, his bloodshot eyes still open and staring sightlessly ahead. Red-tinted tears rolled down his cheeks and blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. His fine golden robes were stained red, and a glistening pool of blood was slowly spreading out from around his still corpse, painting the white stone tiles beneath an ominous shade of vermilion. A pair of lanterns stationed near the mural were the only lights that had not gone out— the shadows they cast upon the fallen cultivator only made the scene look even more macabre.
“Gege, what’s happening?” A-Ying whispered, her voice trembling. Xiao-Lang kept his hand firmly on her head even though she tried to raise it up.
“Stay… stay down,” he whispered, and after a moment of being transfixed in horror, he too crouched down behind the crates.
He had seen that cultivator fighting earlier. Until now, Xiao-Lang had never seen anyone move so quickly or with such skill. That person who had seemed almost invincible to him was now lying dead on the ground— what hope could there be for two small children if they happened to be spotted by the killer?
It was a good thing they managed to duck behind the market stall when they did, because a moment later the rushing tide of people suddenly shifted once more. Black-clad individuals, all wearing masks and wielding weapons, had come out from the side streets that surrounded the market square. A cloud of rage and despair clung to them like frost, and the fleeing people found themselves trapped between the fallen corpse and the ring of terrifying attackers hemming them in from the outside.
There was no way to escape— once the crowd realized this, their panic only intensified.
Fortunately, some of the junior cultivators were still here in the crowd, and once the enemy showed themselves, they leapt into action, putting themselves between the common people and the black-clad attackers. The sound of metal clashing against metal filled the air as Ruijian Pavilion’s sword cultivators fought to protect the people of Anfeng City, and Xiao-Lang ducked further down behind the market stall, pulling A-Ying tightly against his chest and holding her close. He could feel her rapid, frantic breathing, and the sound of his own pounding heart echoed through his ears. Once in awhile, he raised his head ever so slightly, peering over the top of the market stall to watch the fighting.
Xiao-Lang was unable to see much from behind the stall, the panicked crowd of people blocking his view of the cultivators, but he knew that one of them had already been taken down— so that meant that the rest of them were in danger too.
Suddenly, the square was lit up with a red-orange glow. One of the market stalls along the edge of the square had been set alight. As though an evil wind had suddenly picked up, the fire was carried to consume one stall after the other. Xiao-Lang’s eyes widened, and he scrambled to his feet. “A-Ying, run!” he cried out as the flames leapt to the canopy over the top of their hiding place.
A-Ying screamed in terror, but stumbled along after him. They ran from one stall to the next, ducking behind the crates and trying to escape the flames that hungrily consumed anything in their paths.
Xiao-Lang wasn’t someone who often found himself praying. After so long on his own, he had learned to rely on his own skills rather than the benevolence of gods and immortals. But as the two were forced out of their last hiding place, and Xiao-Lang pulled A-Ying to shelter in a small space along the wall near the mural, desperately hoping that they wouldn’t end up trampled or cut up by one of the attackers’ terrifying-looking weapons. He covered her eyes with his hand so she wouldn’t see the murdered cultivator’s body on the ground, then he found himself squeezing his own eyes tightly shut and silently begging the heavens to protect them.
As though his prayers were being directly answered, there was a great sound like a thunderbolt that tore through the air, followed by a clear bell-like ringing. A bright, golden light flashed through the night, and the blood-red firelight was suppressed, the flames that had consumed the market stalls shrinking further and further until they vanished completely, only weak curls of smoke left in their wake. The air rippled with a clear breeze that felt like it had descended from the tops of the mountain peaks, chasing away the smell of smoke and blood. Xiao-Lang raised his head, wide-eyed, standing up on his toes to try to get a look at what was happening.
Then, a voice rang out, bright and clear, cutting effortlessly through the noise of the crowd—
“Everyone, to the west side of the square. A path has been cleared! Help anyone who has been wounded and gather in Ruijian Pavilion’s lower courtyard!”
In an instant, that voice quelled the frenzy of the crowd. What had once been a stumbling, terrified mass of people began an organized retreat, funneled away down one of the side streets as they were watched over by a small handful of golden-clad cultivators. Xiao-Lang and A-Ying were in the northeast corner of the square, and so Xiao-Lang waited until the greater part of the crowd had already left before he took hold of A-Ying’s hand once again. By now, the lanterns had flared to life once again, and that golden light continued to illuminate the square as bright as day.
A young man stood amidst the smoke, his long dark hair streaming out behind him and his finely-woven golden robes rippling and reflecting the light from the newly-revived lanterns. In his hand was a sword whose blade shone as brightly as the sun. The black-robed attackers had been taken by surprise by this sudden new arrival, and before they had the chance to react, he had already struck down two of them, their bodies slumping unconscious to the ground before he rounded to take on the rest.
Xiao-Lang found himself utterly transfixed by the sight before him, his retreat momentarily forgotten. This person’s movements were like nothing the boy had ever seen before, his entire body seeming to radiate pure, brilliant light. The attackers didn’t even attempt to confront him, instead turning to flee toward the alleyways. Before the thought of escape could even fully coalesce in their minds, though, the young man had already made his move. One by one, the attackers were knocked flat on the ground, a seemingly insurmountable threat neutralized with little more than a thought.
Once the attackers had all been taken care of, the young man approached each one of the fallen junior cultivators, reaching out to feel their pulse and assess their condition. Then, he turned toward the place where the corpse of the attackers’ first victim lay. The smoke had cleared, and almost all of the people had left the square, so Xiao-Lang was able to get a good look at their savior’s features. He gasped, his eyes widening.
Even amidst the chaos, a small thread of hope had remained in the back of his mind, woven from the stories he had heard countless times passed between the merchants and the market-goers, the travelers and the street children. In a moment of dire need, there was one who would always appear to protect the people of Anfeng City— the person whose likeness adorned the wall of the market square in vibrant, painted hues, who watched over this very place day and night.
This person, who shone like the sun, with power and talent beyond anything Xiao-Lang could imagine, who had descended out of nowhere to single-handedly defeat every one of the attackers before they could even blink and routed the people to safety, was none other than that very person.
At long last, Song Mingzhen had returned to the mortal world.
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On a rooftop above the square, a lone black-clad figure stood with sleeves fluttering in the breeze, silent as a butterfly’s wing-beat while surveying the scene below. From beneath a faceless mask came a soft sigh, and a delicate hand reached up to pull down the brim of a wide bamboo hat. In a single, swift motion, the figure spun around, leaping from one rooftop to the next and vanishing into the darkness without a trace.