Shuang Feixue had already been gone for seven days.
When she left the inn, she took only two things: the iron sword at her waist, and the warm jade short sword in her arms.
The iron sword was the kind you could buy for a few coins at any ordinary weapon shop—its body dark and black, the edge reasonably sharp.
The warm jade sword was carefully wrapped in coarse cloth, hidden close to her body; through her clothes, she could feel its gentle coolness, like the temperature when Nanxi hugged her while sleeping as a child.
She didn’t ride a horse or hire a carriage—there was no need.
A carriage wasn’t faster than her, and riding a horse would be too conspicuous.
She didn’t have the money for a good horse anyway, and besides, she didn’t want to draw attention.
With her appearance and demeanor, she was eye-catching enough already.
So she used lightness skill.
The Daoist sect’s lightness skill emphasized “riding the wind”: infusing inner force into both legs, one step could cover three zhang, landing lightly on tiptoe, borrowing force to rise again.
Amid fluttering robes, it truly felt like being carried by the wind.
Back when she was sixteen and had just entered the innate realm, she once traversed five mountain peaks in a single night—hundreds of li, resting only for the time of an incense stick at dawn.
By the time the sun rose at the mountain gate, the guarding disciples rubbed their eyes, thinking they’d seen a ghost.
Now, it wasn’t possible.
Fourteen years without serious practice, coupled with years of heavy drinking, had hollowed out her body.
Though her inner force remained, her meridians were like rusted mechanisms—operation was sluggish.
The first day, she pushed herself to cover two hundred li.
At nightfall, she stopped at a ruined temple; as soon as she sat down, she spat out a mouthful of blood.
It wasn’t an internal injury—just her qi and blood churning too violently, her body unable to withstand it.
She leaned against a peeling clay Buddha statue and sat through the night, listening to the wind wailing outside the temple.
She held the warm jade sword tightly in her arms; the sword body occasionally grew faintly warm, as if responding to something, but that light never appeared again.
The second day, she wised up—no more pushing to the limit.
She switched to traveling for half a shichen, then resting for a quarter, using only seventy percent of her inner force, saving thirty percent to nourish her meridians.
When hungry, she picked wild fruits; when thirsty, she drank from mountain springs.
Only when passing villages or towns did she buy dry rations, wrapping them in oil paper and stuffing them into her bundle.
She ate little—a couple of flatbreads and a bowl of water could sustain her for a day.
It wasn’t that she wasn’t hungry; she just couldn’t eat.
With that stone weighing on her heart, even delicacies tasted like chewing wax.
At night, she tried to find places sheltered from wind and rain: ruined temples, caves, abandoned tea sheds.
If none were available, she climbed a tree, finding a sturdy branch to sit and regulate her breath.
She didn’t dare sleep too deeply, always keeping a thread of awareness vigilant.
At the slightest rustle, her eyes snapped open, hand on the sword hilt, gaze shining eerily in the dark.
In truth, there was nothing to fear.
With her current martial arts—even at only seventy percent capacity—ordinary jianghu folk couldn’t get close.
But she was afraid, afraid of wasting even a moment.
And this fear was more terrifying than any enemy—it gnawed at her heart ceaselessly.
In seven days, Shuang Feixue had left the northern border region.
It was called a border, but there was no clear demarcation—just a stretch of rolling hills.
The official road narrowed and grew rugged here, with a half-person-high boundary stele by the roadside, engraved with the words “Zhou-Liang Border.”
The characters and the stele were both new.
This stele had stood for at most a few decades—who could blame it, when North Zhou had only existed for a few decades.
Fourteen years ago, she had entered North Zhou from here with Nanxi.
Back then, the child was still in swaddling clothes, sleeping soundly.
She wrapped him in her cloak, exposing only his little face.
At the checkpoint, the guards glanced and waved her through, probably figuring a young woman with an infant couldn’t cause trouble.
Now, she returned alone.
The wind blew from the Liang direction, carrying the southern humid warmth, mixed with the fragrant scent of earth and plants.
Shuang Feixue took a deep breath and continued forward. She remembered that thirty li ahead was a small town called Qingshi Post—a resting spot for north-south merchant caravans.
Perhaps she could gather news there.
The sky gradually darkened, the western horizon igniting with evening glow—crimson gold mixed with deep purple, like an overturned rouge box.
Shuang Feixue quickened her pace, aiming to reach Qingshi Post before full dark.
She remembered this official road from fourteen years ago—better condition then.
Now, many sections had collapsed, the surface pitted and uneven, roadside weeds grown half a person high.
Clearly, it hadn’t been maintained by officials in ages.
Signs of chaotic times.
She was pondering this when suddenly, ahead came the sound of clashing weapons.
Very faint, still distant—ordinary people couldn’t hear it. Shuang Feixue’s hearing, though not at its peak, remained sharp.
She halted, tilting her ear to listen closely.
Not just weapons—horse hooves, shouts, screams.
The sounds came from the southeast, about two li off the road, behind a grove.
Shuang Feixue frowned.
She didn’t want to meddle—any delay now was unwelcome.
But amid those sounds was a familiar timbre: a woman’s voice, clear yet unable to suppress panic. Though heard only once, she remembered.
It was Feng Anlan.
Two years ago, outside Huaniang Town—the Liang imperial princess ambushed by Daoist and Buddhist sects.
Shuang Feixue had a new idea.
Shuang Feixue didn’t hesitate—her figure blurred and she darted out.
She avoided the main road, plunging straight into the roadside woods.
Her toes lightly tapped tree trunks, borrowing force to leap like a white night owl, silently approaching the source of the fighting.
In a few breaths, she reached the woods’ edge. Ahead was an open riverbank, strewn with pebbles, a shallow stream winding through, water babbling.
But now, the bank was a mess.
Over a dozen corpses lay haphazardly, dressed as guards—some with arrows in throats, others hacked by blades.
Blood spotted the pebbles.
The ones still standing numbered seven or eight, jianghu folk by their attire, wielding swords and blades, surrounding an overturned carriage.
The carriage was an ordinary green-canopied cart, now flipped on its side—one wheel broken, the shaft snapped in two.
Beside the carriage stood three people, back-to-back in a small defensive circle.
On the outside were two young women, both in training outfits: one wielding dual blades, the other a long spear.
Both bore multiple wounds, blood soaking most of their clothes, yet they stood gritted-teeth, eyes fierce like trapped she-wolves.
In the middle—Shuang Feixue clearly saw her face.
Indeed, the Liang imperial princess she’d met once, but utterly changed from the arrogant, naive diji of two years ago.
She wore a half-worn indigo cloth dress—common fabric, simple style.
Her hair was loosely coiled with a wooden hairpin, a few stray strands across her forehead.
Her face had lost its baby fat, lines sharp and defined; skin pale, heavy shadows under her eyes.
The only unchanged were those eyes—still bright, but no longer innocent.
They held exhaustion and resolve.
In her hand was a short sword, slender blade like a scholar’s ornament, now bloodstained.
Her grip was standard—likely taught by palace guards—but her stance floated, clearly untrained in martial arts.
The besieging jianghu folk weren’t rushing to kill. The leader was a one-armed woman, around forty, face full of scars, left sleeve dangling empty.
Her right hand held a nine-ring broadblade, the nine copper rings on the back jingling.
“Your Highness, stop struggling. Your guards are all dead—just these two girls left, they can’t protect you. Come quietly with us, and you’ll suffer less.”
Feng Anlan said nothing, merely gripping her sword hilt tighter, knuckles white.
The dual-blade woman spat a mouthful of bloody foam.
“Bullshit! To take Her Highness, step over our corpses first!”
“That’s easy enough… Go, kill them.”
The seven or eight jianghu folk pounced together.
The dual-blade woman let out a sharp cry, her blades whirling into a mass of silver light, forcefully blocking three attackers.
The spear woman was fiercer—one thrust pierced a thigh, but she took a slash to the shoulder, staggering back.
The gap opened, and two jianghu folk charged straight at Feng Anlan.
Feng Anlan raised her sword to block. Her swordsmanship wasn’t bad—royal heir, taught by masters from youth, moves exquisite—but her martial arts were weak, no inner force, speed lacking.
Dang—
With a dang, the short sword was nearly jarred from her hand by a thick-backed blade, her tiger’s mouth splitting, blood dripping down the hilt.
The other exploited the chance, slashing at her neck.
Feng Anlan’s pupils contracted—too late to dodge.
Just as the blade edge neared her skin, a white shadow cut into the battlefield like a specter.
No sound.
No warning.
Like a cold wind suddenly coalescing into human form.
The blade-wielding jianghu person felt a chill at her wrist, then searing pain.
She looked down—her right hand severed at the wrist, the stump still gripping the blade, falling onto the pebbles, fingers twitching.
Blood sprayed, splattering her face.
She opened her mouth, but before the scream, another chill sliced her throat.
This time, no sound came—she clutched her neck, gurgling as she fell, eyes bulging. To death, she never saw who struck.
The other charging at Feng Anlan reacted quicker, turning her blade to hack at the shadow.
Shuang Feixue neither dodged nor evaded, merely extending a finger to lightly flick the blade.
Ding—
Crisp as a bell.
The thick-backed blade snapped in half, the front spinning away, embedding into a tree trunk ten paces off, hilt quivering.
The jianghu person’s tiger’s mouth burst, entire arm numb.
Before reacting, her chest took a palm strike.
She flew backward, crashing into the stream three zhang away, splashing water high—never to rise.
All this in a flash.
By the time the one-armed woman and others reacted, an extra person stood on the field.
A woman in a gray coarse cloth long robe, hair casually bundled at the nape, a few stray strands at her cheeks.
Face pale, eyes sunken—looking haggard as if recovering from grave illness.
But she stood there, gripping a dark iron sword, tip slanted to the ground.
Blood beads slid down the blade, dripping one by one onto the pebbles.
She looked at no one, merely turning her head to Feng Anlan behind her.
“Step back.”
Her voice was faint, emotionless, yet brooked no doubt.
Feng Anlan froze, staring at this sudden woman—familiar, but she couldn’t place where.
Until she saw those eyes—even in haggardness, clear as cold stars.
“You…”
Her lips moved.
Shuang Feixue said no more, turning to face the one-armed woman and her group.
The remaining five jianghu folk had clustered, faces uncertain.
The one-armed woman stared hard at Shuang Feixue—especially her iron sword and that ghostly movement.
“Which path are you from? This is personal grudge—please step aside.”
Shuang Feixue didn’t answer, merely slowly raising her sword, tip pointing at the one-armed woman.
The answer was obvious.
The one-armed woman’s face darkened.
“Since you’re like this, don’t blame us for ganging up… Go!”
The five attacked together, strikes from varied angles sealing retreats—they were veteran jianghu, coordinated, clearly not their first surround.
Shuang Feixue moved.
She used no exquisite swordsmanship—just simplest thrusts, slices, chops.
But speed extreme, iron sword blurring into a dark shadow in her hand, each strike precise.
First thrust pierced one’s throat.
Second slice severed another’s wrist.
Third chop opened a third’s chest and abdomen.
Blood bloomed in the twilight.
The last two, souls fleeing in terror, turned to run.
Shuang Feixue’s wrist flicked—the iron sword flew out, a black line piercing one’s back, momentum carrying the body to pin into the ground.
The final one had run five zhang, nearly into the woods.
Shuang Feixue bent to pick a fallen single blade from the ground, without looking, hurled it backhand.
The blade spun through the air, precisely hacking into her back—tip protruding from chest.
She pitched forward, twitched twice, and stilled.
From Shuang Feixue’s first move to end—less than ten breaths.
The riverbank returned to quiet, only the stream babbling and faint groans from the not-yet-dead.
The bloody stench was thick, unresolvable, mixed with evening’s damp air—nauseating.
Feng Anlan and her two maids stood stunned like statues.
The dual-blade woman’s blades fell to the ground with a dang lang—she didn’t notice.
Shuang Feixue walked to the corpse pinned by her iron sword, bent to pull it free—drawing it out brought a gush of blood.
She shook the sword, blood beads flying, then wiped it on the corpse’s clothes and sheathed it.
Done, she turned to Feng Anlan.
“Are you alright.”