CHAPTER 29

DUEL AT THE FEAST

Liao Cheng strode toward Chancellor Han Fen’s grand manor, with Mark and a dozen guards and servants trailing behind him. They passed under a towering arched gate into a sprawling garden brimming with vibrant flowers and towering trees. The air was rich with the scent of blossoms, and servants dressed in fine robes stepped forward to greet them.

“Welcome, great General!” they said in unison, bowing deeply.

Ahead, a grand wooden hall loomed. Guests were already gathering in a long line to enter, their silks and jewels glinting in the moonlight. But as soon as they spotted Liao Cheng, they stepped aside, clearing a path for him and his entourage.

Inside, the hall was enormous, its walls lined with intricate carvings. Rows of lengthy wooden tables stretched across the room, laden with an incredible spread of dishes—roast meats, steamed buns, exotic fruits, and jars of aromatic wine. The air buzzed with chatter and laughter.

At the far end of the hall, Chancellor Han Fen rose from his seat as soon as he spotted Liao Cheng. He walked briskly to the entrance, his robes flowing behind him.

“Welcome, General,” he said with a wide smile. “This feast is held in your honor, a celebration of your glorious victories over Archon Innokentios, which have brought great pride to Archon Hanying and his realm.”

Liao Cheng gave a small bow. “Chancellor, you are too kind.”

“Please, honorable General, take your seat,” Han Fen said, motioning with a wave of his hand.

Two servants stepped forward and led Liao Cheng to the seat of honor at the head of the main table. The rest of his entourage was shown to a smaller table off to the side, near the lower-ranking officials and courtiers.

As the men settled into their seats, Mark looked around, puzzled. No one had offered him a place to sit.

“Where am I supposed to sit?” he finally asked.

A servant sneered at him. “A foreign slave like you has no place at a table—not even with the guards or servants,” he spat. “The Chancellor ordered that you remain standing. Food and drink are not for the likes of you.”

Mark’s fists clenched at his sides. If he’d been alone, he would’ve flattened the man with one punch. But Liao Cheng’s words echoed in his mind. Before they’d arrived, the General had warned him: The Chancellor will try to humiliate you. Don’t give him the satisfaction. If you react, he’ll use it as an excuse to disqualify you from the swordfight.

So Mark swallowed his pride, took a deep breath, and stayed put, his face impassive. He’d play their game—for now.

Han Fen rose from his seat, and the hall instantly fell silent. All eyes turned to him as he lifted a cup of wine high in the air.

“General Liao Cheng,” he began, his voice ringing out, “is a truly remarkable man. He has led our armies to triumph after triumph, turning the tide of war in our favor. Thanks to his wisdom and unmatched courage, we now stand on the brink of ultimate victory. I salute him and offer this toast in his honor!”

The crowd erupted into cheers, raising their cups in unison before taking a drink.

Mark, standing stiffly to the side, kept his face blank. He wasn’t fooled. He knew this was all bullshit for the public. Han Fen despised Liao Cheng. The General’s victories had made him too influential, and the Chancellor was clearly uneasy about it. That’s why he had summoned Liao Cheng back to the capital. This so-called feast in his honor? Just an excuse to undermine him later.

Liao Cheng, however, maintained his composure. Rising from his seat, he lifted his own cup. “To Chancellor Han Fen,” he said, “a wise leader whose guidance strengthens our realm and aids our Emperor in governing with wisdom.”

He took a long drink, and the crowd followed. Han Fen clapped his hands, summoning the next round of entertainment.

From the far side of the hall, two elderly men with flowing white beards stepped forward. One carried a zither, the other a bamboo flute. They began to play a gentle, enchanting melody that filled the room. Moments later, five stunning women in flowing silk robes appeared, moving gracefully onto the floor. Their dance was mesmerizing—a blend of elegance and allure that drew cheers and applause from the guests.

Mark leaned casually against a pillar, watching the dancers swirl and glide. If he was still a wandering swordsman, he’d already be planning how to get them to his bed as soon as the performance ended. But tonight, he had other priorities. Still, the music and movement were a welcome distraction.

As the minutes dragged on, though, his patience started to wear thin. Bored, he reached over to a nearby table and grabbed a jar of wine.

“That’s not for you!” snapped a servant, his tone sharp. “It’s for the guests, not for a foreign slave.”

By the time the servant finished his scolding, Mark had already downed most of the jar. He wiped his mouth, placed the jar back on the table, and gave the servant a mocking grin.

“Apologies,” he said, his voice dripping with insincerity. “I’m just a foreigner—didn’t realize I was breaking your rules.”

The servant muttered something under his breath, clearly furious, but didn’t push the issue. Mark smirked, amused, and leaned back against the pillar.

A few moments later, the Chancellor rose from his seat, his voice cutting through the hum of conversation. “To entertain our esteemed guests tonight, we will have sword fights!” The announcement was met with loud cheers from the crowd. “My champion will be Mao Tao, a disciple of the Yijun Sword Sect and a dear friend who once saved my life from assassins.” He turned to General Liao Cheng with a sly smile. “General, as the guest of honor, it’s only fitting that you name a champion to participate. Surely, a great military leader like you has someone worthy to fight in your honor.”

Liao Cheng stood, calm and composed. “My champion is Mark.”

The room stirred with whispers as Mark straightened up from his spot against the pillar. Without hesitation, he walked to the main table, standing beside Liao Cheng.

Han Fen’s smile grew sharper. “Are you certain you want a foreigner and a slave to fight for you?” His tone dripped with mock concern. Mark could see through the ploy—Han Fen wanted Liao Cheng to pick someone else, someone who would inevitably lose to Mao Tao, tarnishing the General’s reputation at this so-called celebration.

But Liao Cheng was unshaken. “Mark may be a foreigner, but he is a skilled warrior and a brave man. I have full confidence in him.”

Han Fen nodded, his expression unreadable, but the tension in the room was palpable. It was then that Mao Tao entered the hall, all eyes turning to him. He was a striking figure, a man in his thirties with sharp features, dressed in an elegant blue silk robe. In one hand, he held a gleaming sword. Without a word, he strode out into the garden, where the moonlight bathed the open space.

Mark followed him, stepping into the night. The garden, with its peach blossom trees and gently swaying pink petals, offered an ethereal backdrop for their duel. The two men faced each other.

Mark unsheathed his spirit sword, the blade glowing with a faint green light. Mao Tao channeled his Qi into his weapon, the energy crackling with invisible power.

Without warning, Mao Tao lunged, his movements blindingly fast, like a predator closing in on its prey. His sword sliced through the air with a sharp whoosh, aimed directly at Mark’s chest. Mark raised his spirit sword just in time, the enchanted blade managing to withstand the force of Mao Tao’s Qi-powered strike.

But Mao Tao didn’t relent. He launched a flurry of strikes, each one faster and more unpredictable than the last. One horizontal slash tore through Mark’s silk robe, grazing his chest and drawing a thin line of blood. Another vertical strike narrowly missed, shredding the fabric further.

Mark stepped back, catching his breath. His gown, already in tatters, hung uselessly from his shoulders. With a quick motion, he ripped off what was left, tossing it aside. Now shirtless, his muscular frame gleamed under the moonlight, the faint scratch on his chest standing out against his skin.

He remembered a spell from the old spellbook witch Vivian had given him. The words echoed in his mind: “Tempus moratus, motus tardus, vis iners!” Mark pointed a steady finger at Mao Tao and chanted them aloud. For a moment, it seemed like nothing happened. Mao Tao charged forward, but this time, his movements were no longer a blur of superhuman speed. His Qi was somehow restrained, forcing him to move like an ordinary man.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Even so, Mao Tao was quick—dangerously quick. Mark barely blocked the first attack, and a second slash came at him almost immediately. He parried and stepped back, taking a defensive stance. Mao Tao mirrored him. The two men locked eyes, their breaths heavy, while the distant cheers of the guests filled the silence between them.

Suddenly, Mark darted forward, slashing downward at Mao Tao with speed and precision. Mao Tao raised his blade to block, but mid-strike, Mark shifted his weight, stepping back and redirecting his sword in a horizontal arc. The blade cut across Mao Tao’s chest, drawing blood. Bright red drops dripped from Mark’s glowing spirit sword.

With a growl of pain, Mao Tao launched into a furious counterattack. His slashes were strong and relentless, and Mark had to use all his skill to block them. The air filled with the sharp clang of colliding blades. As their swords clashed again, Mark suddenly drove his knee into Mao Tao’s groin. Mao Tao gasped in pain, and Mark took the opportunity to slash at him. Mao Tao barely dodged, but not before Mark’s sword sliced deep into his right shoulder, drawing more blood.

Mark pressed his advantage and charged. Mao Tao, desperate, scooped up a handful of dirt from the ground and flung it into Mark’s face. Mark instinctively shut his eyes, and in that moment, Mao Tao lunged forward, driving his blade deep into Mark’s left shoulder.

Mark let out a pained scream but didn’t falter. With a powerful kick to Mao Tao’s chest, he sent the man stumbling backward, though the blade remained lodged in his shoulder, piercing clean through to the other side. Gritting his teeth, Mark yanked the sword out of his flesh, blood pouring from the wound as he fought through the pain.

To keep the fight fair, Mark hurled Mao Tao’s blade back to him, the weapon clattering at his feet. Then, still bleeding and breathing hard, Mark raised his sword again and settled into a defensive stance, ready for whatever came next.

Mao Tao snatched up his blade and lunged at Mark, swinging a horizontal slash at his face. Mark ducked just in time, the blade slicing through the air and taking a few strands of his hair with it. Before Mao Tao could follow up with a downward strike, Mark, still crouched, slammed his body into him with the force of a charging bull. Mao Tao hit the ground hard, and before he could react, Mark had his blade pressed firmly against the swordsman’s neck.

“Do you surrender?” Mark demanded.

The garden fell silent. The guests, many of whom had bet on Mao Tao's victory, were stunned. They had expected the celebrated swordsman to easily defeat Liao Cheng’s foreign champion. A win for Mao Tao would have embarrassed the General, casting doubt on his judgment. But instead, it was Chancellor Han Fen who stood humiliated. A servant—an outsider—had defeated his trusted warrior. The Chancellor’s face turned beet red, his fury barely contained as he glared daggers at Mao Tao.

“I... surrender,” Mao Tao said through gritted teeth, his pride crushed.

Mark stood and turned his back, starting to walk toward the main hall. But before he could take more than a few steps, Mao Tao sprang to his feet and charged, his blade thrusting straight for Mark’s back in a treacherous sneak attack.

Mark’s instincts, sharpened by countless battles, saved him. He spun around in the blink of an eye, his sword already in motion. His blade reached Mao Tao’s neck before the assassin’s sword could even graze his skin. In a single, fluid motion, Mark severed Mao Tao’s head cleanly from his shoulders. The head flew through the air, trailing a spray of blood, before landing with a sickening thud on the grass. Mao Tao’s lifeless body collapsed moments later, crumpling into a growing pool of crimson.

The hall erupted in gasps and murmurs, but none were louder than the crash of Han Fen’s wine cup shattering against the floor. He stood, his face twisted in outrage.

“Preposterous!” the Chancellor roared. “This was swordplay, not a duel to the death! Guards! Take this foreign dog down!”

A dozen guards stormed out of the hall, blades drawn, surrounding Mark in a tightening circle.

General Liao Cheng rose from his seat, his expression cold but his anger unmistakable. “Chancellor,” he said, his voice sharp, “it was your man who broke his word and attempted a dishonorable sneak attack after surrendering. My servant acted in self-defense. This was a disgraceful act, and it offends me deeply. I ask you to release my man immediately. You claim this is a feast in my honor—then honor this reasonable request.”

Han Fen’s lips curled into a brief, sly smile before his face twisted into mock outrage. “Yes, Mao Tao should not have struck again. But your servant could have blocked him instead of taking his life. I honor you, General, and your contributions to the Imperial Court, which is why I’m not holding you accountable for your servant’s actions. But do not question my authority over the likes of a foreign slave. You and I both serve His Imperial Majesty Archon Hanying. It is beneath you to press this matter further.”

Mark’s jaw tightened as he watched the exchange. He understood the Chancellor’s game. This was another trap. If Liao Cheng defended him too strongly, he would appear unreasonable to the courtiers, many of whom admired the General but despised Mark as an upstart foreigner. If the General abandoned him, it would make him look weak and cowardly. Either way, Han Fen stood to gain.

Mark cursed silently. He wished he hadn’t taken Mao Tao’s head—he had acted on instinct, but it had played right into the Chancellor’s hands.

Liao Cheng stood silent for a few moments, his gaze steady. Then he spoke, his voice firm but measured. “You’re being unreasonable, and anyone here can see that. I understand that many among you do not look kindly on my servant because he is a foreigner captured during my campaign, not a native son of our land. But he acted in self-defense against a cowardly attack that would have killed him. If we set aside our prejudices, surely it is clear who is truly at fault. Not the man who defended his life, but the one who tried to take it through dishonorable means.”

He turned to Han Fen, his tone softening but still resolute. “Your Excellency, you are a man of great wisdom and judgment. I know you grieve for your friend Mao Tao, and his loss is tragic. But surely you can see that grief and anger have clouded your reason. A wise man knows when passion misguides him. Killing my servant will not bring justice. He was the victim, not the aggressor. Still, for the sake of peace and your satisfaction, I am willing to punish him myself.”

Liao Cheng rose from the table and strode toward Mark. The guards surrounding him exchanged uneasy glances but stepped aside when the Chancellor waved them off. Liao Cheng motioned for a servant. “Bring me a whip,” he commanded. Moments later, the servant returned with one.

“Kneel!” Liao Cheng barked.

Mark clenched his jaw, fury simmering beneath his calm exterior. He hated this. But defying Liao Cheng now would shame the man who had just defended him, and he would still face dozens of guards while injured. Reluctantly, Mark dropped to his knees.

The first lash struck his bare back with a sharp crack. Mark gritted his teeth, refusing to cry out. Blood still seeped from his shoulder wound, and the sting of the whip only added to his pain. But he endured. Lash after lash, harder and harder, bruising his back with every strike.

Liao Cheng paused, his eyes meeting Han Fen’s, silently asking if this was enough. Han Fen offered a sly, mocking smile, as if daring him to do more.

The whip came down again. And again. And again. Each strike harder than the last, until the lashes tore Mark’s skin and blood ran down his back. But Mark remained stoic. His teeth clenched so tightly they ached, but his face showed nothing. No tears. No cries of pain. Only defiance.

Han Fen’s smirk faltered slightly. Mark’s silent endurance robbed him of the satisfaction he sought. Liao Cheng, his hand tightening on the whip, glanced back at the Chancellor. This was a game of power, and both men knew it. But Mark wouldn’t break. Even as the whip left his back raw and bleeding, his unyielding resolve was the only response he gave.

The Chancellor gave Liao Cheng a small nod, signaling him to continue. Without hesitation, the General struck again, the whip cracking against Mark’s back. Blood ran freely now, and the torn skin revealed the ferocity of the punishment. Liao Cheng swung harder, his strikes becoming even more brutal. Gasps rippled through the crowd.

Even those who despised Mark for being a foreign slave flinched at the relentless cruelty. If the guards had killed him swiftly as Han Fen had originally intended, no one would have thought twice. A quick death would have seemed fair enough. If Mark had fought back and been subdued, that too would have made sense. But this? This slow, calculated brutality against a man who simply knelt and endured—it made many grimace.

The whip cracked again. More blood splattered. Liao Cheng struck once more, and again. Mark’s back was a mess of raw flesh and blood, his shoulder wound from the fight with Mao Tao still bleeding. Yet, he remained silent, his teeth clenched tightly, his expression unyielding.

Liao Cheng delivered another strike, each lash intended to show he was impartial and without mercy. But as the punishment dragged on, the mood shifted. Guests exchanged uneasy glances, some swallowing hard, others looking away altogether. Even Chancellor Han Fen’s smug grin began to fade.

Mark noticed. Through the haze of pain, he realized that Han Fen had trapped himself. The plan to humiliate Liao Cheng had backfired spectacularly. Instead of the General losing face, it was Han Fen who now appeared cruel and petty before the gathered guests. A flicker of satisfaction stirred within Mark despite the agony.

Another strike. Blood splattered anew. Liao Cheng raised the whip for yet another blow, but before it landed, Han Fen lifted a hand to stop him. “Enough,” the Chancellor said, his voice lacking its earlier confidence. “I am satisfied. This misunderstanding is resolved. Let us not ruin this feast meant to honor you, General. Return, and let us celebrate.”

Liao Cheng signaled to one of his personal servants. “Take him back to my manor,” he ordered, gesturing toward Mark’s battered form. “See to it that he’s cared for. I’ll remain here.”

As the servant helped Mark away, Liao Cheng returned to his seat at the table. He raised his cup of wine high. “To Chancellor Han Fen,” he declared, “for being a gracious host and forgiving my servant Mark.”

Han Fen hesitated, clearly embarrassed, but raised his cup in return. “To the great General, who remains my friend despite this unfortunate incident.”

The guests lifted their cups and drank, but the mood was somber.

Mark was escorted by the servant back to the General’s manor. As they entered the garden and headed toward the small structure that served as Mark’s temporary home, Guanyu spotted him. Her eyes widened in shock, and she gasped, nearly breaking into tears at the sight of him. Without hesitation, she ran to his side.

“What happened?” she demanded, her voice trembling.

The servant quickly explained what had occurred, as Mark was too drained and in too much pain to speak.

“That bastard!” Guanyu spat, anger flaring in her eyes. “Why did my father go through with the punishment? Mao Tao was the one at fault!”

Mark, wincing through the pain, managed to speak in a faint, stuttering voice. “Th-the General… outplayed… the Chancellor. H-he… l-lost face.”

Guanyu clenched her fists in frustration, but her concern for Mark took precedence. “Bring the doctor now!” she barked at the servant, who immediately sprinted off. She turned back to Mark and slipped an arm under his to help him stay upright.

“You’ll forgive me for not giving you a lesson tonight, won’t you?” Mark said with a weak grin, trying to mask his agony with his usual charm.

“Don’t joke around at a time like this,” Guanyu scolded, though her worry softened her tone.

Moments later, the doctor arrived with more servants in tow. Together, they helped Mark into his room. The doctor carefully cleaned and dressed his wounds while the servants removed his bloodied silk gown and dressed him in fresh clothes. Once he was taken care of, they left him to rest.

Mark lay down on the bed with a groan, every movement sending sharp pain through his back. Turning onto his stomach to avoid the agony of lying on his injured back, he tried his best to find some relief. Exhausted and aching, he closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep despite the lingering pain. And he managed to fall asleep.