The capital of Liang, Bianliang.
In the late-night study of the State Preceptor’s mansion, candlelight burned brightly, illuminating the mountain of memorials piled high on the desk and the unmistakable weariness at the corners of the eyes and brows of the elegant woman seated behind it.
She was none other than the current State Preceptor, Feng Xuanyin.
Still clad in her elaborate and solemn deep-purple official robes, she wore a seven-beam crown that had tilted slightly askew.
A few strands of ink-black hair hung loosely from her temples, revealing a fatigue utterly unlike the poised composure she displayed in the daytime court.
“State Preceptor, that lord wishes to see you.”
A low voice broke the silence.
In the shadows of the study corner, a figure wrapped entirely in darkness had at some point knelt on one knee.
The person’s face was concealed by a featureless mask—they were one of the shadow attendants, a member of her private guard.
Feng Xuanyin’s hand did not pause in its review of the memorials, nor did her gaze lift from the document. She merely responded faintly.
“I understand. You may withdraw.”
“Yes.”
The shadow attendant’s form flickered, vanishing without a trace like a drop of water merging into the sea, as though they had never been there at all.
Only after the study door was gently closed did Feng Xuanyin set down the heavy purple-hafted brush.
She leaned back into the cushioned grand tutor chair, raising a hand to massage her throbbing temples with her fingertips.
Recently, the court and public opinion had been shaken by the matter of sending a hostage to Zhou.
His Majesty above had tossed countless hot-potato memorials onto her desk.
Nine out of ten in this towering pile were impassioned denunciations from the pro-northward-expedition faction.
Every word and sentence accused her, the State Preceptor, of fawning on Zhou, selling out the nation, and lacking all virtue and morality.
They could not wait to drag her down from her position of “one person below the emperor, above ten thousand,” replacing her with one of their own to push forward that northward expedition—which, in Feng Xuanyin’s view, was no different from throwing eggs against a rock.
But a northward expedition—how could it be so easily spoken of?
In the past, the Later Han had held the natural stronghold of Ba and Shu, with a strategist of heaven-spanning talent like Zhuge Liang.
Even his six campaigns from Mount Qi had ended in failure.
Now, Liang clung to its corner of the south.
Though it possessed the wealth of Jiangnan and no shortage of grain and funds in its treasuries, how could it compare to the mighty iron cavalry of Zhou in the north when it came to sharp weapons, fine warhorses, or vast territory?
Moreover, the thoughts and concerns in His Majesty’s heart—how could those warmongers who only knew how to shout for battle possibly glimpse them?
What chilled Feng Xuanyin most was that these memorials openly cursing and impeaching her ultimately had to be “handled” by her, the very target of the impeachment.
His Majesty’s attitude was already crystal clear.
It was both acknowledgment of her and a warning.
His Majesty might inwardly lean toward some form of hardline stance, but he was unwilling to bear even a fraction of the backlash and infamy that stance might bring.
All of it had to be shouldered entirely by her, the State Preceptor.
In His Majesty’s eyes, in the eyes of those self-proclaimed upright ministers, and even in the eyes of many hidden forces behind the scenes, she, Feng Xuanyin, was perhaps always just a puppet placed on the stage—one that could be discarded at any moment when necessary.
“I did not step into this official path and climb to this position just to become a puppet for others to manipulate.”
Feng Xuanyin gazed at the flickering candle flame and murmured to herself.
Her voice sounded especially clear, yet especially powerless, in the empty study.
Unfortunately, the world rarely went as one wished.
More often than not, one was caught in the game, unable to control one’s own fate.
She gathered her thoughts, rose, and walked behind the screen to change out of her heavy court robes.
Now dressed only in a deep-blue everyday outfit suited for movement, she left the mansion—which felt like a cage—alone through a side door, without a single attendant or guard.
An unremarkable small carriage, covered in blue cloth and pulled by an old horse, waited in the alley.
Feng Xuanyin bent low to board, gave quiet instructions to the driver, and the coachman nodded silently.
With a light flick of the whip, the carriage rolled over the desolate stone-paved roads of Bianliang in the dead of night, heading toward the outskirts.
The wheels rumbled as it passed through streets under curfew, where only the echoing footsteps of patrolling soldiers could be heard, and out through the towering city gates.
After traveling along the official road for about half an hour, it turned onto a secluded path hidden among trees.
The carriage jolted for a long while before finally stopping outside a vast yet extraordinarily quiet garden estate.
The outer wall was overgrown with withered vines, the gate ancient and somewhat dilapidated.
The plaque bore no characters, only a small flame motif carved into the lintel.
Far from the bustle of the world, the night held only the mournful wail of cold wind through bare branches.
Feng Xuanyin alighted and approached the heavy black-lacquered wooden gate. Before she could raise her hand to knock.
Creak—
The gate suddenly slid inward, opening just wide enough for one person to pass.
Inside was pitch black, no figure visible, only a chilling aura rushing toward her.
“There aren’t many living servants in this residence to greet you, State Preceptor. Don’t expect someone to open the door and welcome you in.”
A lazy, enchanting female voice sounded directly in her ear—not from within the gate, but as though someone were whispering right against it.
Accompanying the voice was a dense, almost tangible inner force, thick and viscous like fresh blood.
It gently coiled around her body, guiding her deeper inside.
Feng Xuanyin’s pupils contracted slightly, alarm rising in her heart.
She was well-versed in martial arts herself and recognized this as inner force voice transmission and qi condensation into form—a technique only those in the Transformation Sage realm could perform.
Suppressing her shock, she kept her expression calm and stepped over the threshold.
“What are you dawdling for?”
The seductive voice rang out again, now tinged with impatience yet still bone-meltingly soft.
“We have important matters to discuss. I’m waiting for you in the rear courtyard pavilion.”
Feng Xuanyin hesitated no longer.
Following the path, she passed through the deserted halls and corridors.
No lamps were lit beneath the eaves; only the cold moonlight faintly outlined the garden’s contours.
Jagged rockeries, a pond frozen solid, flowers and trees reduced to stark branches in the dead of winter—everything shrouded in eerie silence.
It seemed no different from her last visit, yet something indescribable stirred in her heart.
The rear courtyard held a small frozen pond, with an exquisite pavilion built at its center.
The bamboo curtains on all four sides were rolled up, only thin red gauze like cicada wings blocking some of the cold wind.
Inside the pavilion, a brazier burned vigorously.
A kettle on it bubbled softly, on the verge of boiling.
A breathtakingly graceful figure stood with her back to Feng Xuanyin, leaning against the railing as if admiring the frost flowers and moonlight on the ice.
She wore only a thin vermilion gauze gown, the red so vivid it was almost blinding.
Under the moonlight and brazier glow, the contours of her skin beneath the gauze were faintly visible, her curves breathtakingly alluring.
Her long hair hung unbound like a waterfall to her waist, an unusual dark purple that shimmered faintly in the light.
Even just her back view was enough to topple cities and nations, let alone the noble yet wicked aura she exuded.
Feng Xuanyin paused at the pavilion entrance, cupping her hands in respectful salute—polite yet neither servile nor overbearing.
“It has been years since we last met. Your grace surpasses even before. Xuanyin pays her respects.”
The figure slowly turned.
Even though Feng Xuanyin was seasoned and mentally prepared, her breath still caught for a moment.
The woman’s beauty was otherworldly, her brows and eyes like perfectly drawn strokes, every line flawless to the extreme—especially those eyes, whose flowing gaze seemed capable of sucking away one’s soul.
But what truly startled Feng Xuanyin was the aura around her, perfectly natural yet faintly resonating with some rhythm of heaven and earth.
Compared to their last meeting, the human quality about her seemed even fainter, while something transcendent yet subtly dangerous had grown stronger.
Red Snake Sword—or rather, the one who now preferred to be called Madam Xuanji—curved her lips in a half-smile.
Her gaze swept lightly over Feng Xuanyin, as though seeing straight through the State Preceptor inside and out.
“Sit.”
She casually pointed to another cushion by the brazier, settling herself lazily first.
Slender jade fingers lifted the bubbling silver kettle from the fire, beginning to warm the cups and brew tea with unhurried grace.
Her movements flowed like clouds and water, utterly at ease.
“It was merely a small breakthrough in cultivation. Hardly worthy of such praise from the State Preceptor.”
Madam Xuanji’s tone was indifferent as she pushed a cup of emerald tea toward Feng Xuanyin.
The fragrance was clear and refreshing, instantly filling the air.
Feng Xuanyin accepted the cup but did not drink immediately.
She inclined her head slightly.
“May I ask what important matter brings us together this time?”
Madam Xuanji gave a light laugh, lifting her own cup to savor its aroma beneath her nose.
Her gaze drifted to the cold moon reflected on the ice pond, her voice distant.
“Twelve years ago, that battle in the Qilian Mountains—do you still remember it?”
Feng Xuanyin’s expression grew solemn.
“Of course. Back then, Madam fought the Jade Sword Immortal over that immortal fetus. In the fierce clash, you seemed to suffer some backlash?”
“Backlash?”
Madam Xuanji sipped her tea, then narrowed her eyes slightly.
“That Shuang Feixue borrowed a wisp of aura unintentionally leaked from the immortal fetus, making her Hanyu sword qi even more piercing. Indeed, she gained the upper hand.”
She set down her cup, fingertips gently tracing the smooth rim, a note of pride entering her voice.
“Yet a blessing can hide within misfortune. Though I did not prevail and failed to seize the immortal fetus, that great battle left something behind that advanced my martial path even further.”
She raised her eyes to Feng Xuanyin, a bloody gleam flashing and vanishing in her pupils.
“A celestial corpse abandoned at the mountain’s foot.”
Feng Xuanyin’s heart jolted violently; her fingers tightened involuntarily around the teacup.
She had not expected that legendary immortals truly existed—and that there was even a celestial corpse.
Madam Xuanji seemed pleased by the shock in her eyes and continued in that unhurried yet weighty tone.
“Over these twelve years, I exhausted every secret method, refining it with my heart’s blood. Not long ago, I finally fully integrated the last strand of innate imprint from that shed husk into my body. Now…”
She paused.
The tangible pressure around her rippled gently like water.
Though not deliberately released, it made the surrounding light dim for an instant and the air grow heavy.
“I have stepped into the Transformation Sage realm.”
Transformation Sage.
Feng Xuanyin’s ears buzzed.
In the path of martial arts, returning from the acquired to the innate was already exceedingly difficult.
Above innate, the elusive Transformation Sage realm was a legend that countless brilliant geniuses over the past century had sought but never reached.
“Congratulations, Madam, for touching the threshold of the Heavenly Dao.”
Feng Xuanyin took a deep breath, suppressing the surging waves in her heart, and spoke sincerely.
The woman’s strength had leaped to a level she now had to reevaluate entirely.
The woman waved a hand, seemingly indifferent to the congratulations, but abruptly changed the subject.
“With a slight advance in cultivation, some old matters naturally resurface. For instance, that immortal fetus I lost twelve years ago.”
Feng Xuanyin’s expression tightened.
“Does the senior mean the immortal fetus has been located?”
She truly did not know its exact whereabouts.
After the chaos in the Qilian Mountains that year, all leads had vanished.
The infant and Shuang Feixue had seemingly evaporated from the world.
“I only learned of it recently.”
Madam Xuanji’s smile turned cold, laced with mockery.
“My subordinate, Steward Su, sent word by pigeon. Some days ago, she discovered that near an unremarkable small town on Zhou’s border, the hostage happened to encounter that immortal fetus by chance.”
Feng Xuanyin suddenly understood.
“Then does Madam intend to act?” she asked.
“How may I assist? Shuang Feixue was able to contend with you back then. After another twelve years, I’m afraid…”
“Act?”
The woman interrupted her, shaking her head lightly.
Her vermilion lips parted, but the words that emerged were ice-cold.
“Now is not the time.”
She lifted her teacup, gazing northward through the rising steam—toward Zhou.
“I just received secret reports from the north. The grassland barbarians suffered heavy snow disasters this winter. The tribes are restless, and large cavalry forces have been frequently probing Zhou’s northern border. The Zhou emperor must have already turned most of his attention to defending the north.”
She turned back to Feng Xuanyin, cold light flashing in her eyes.
“At this very moment, when Liang and Zhou are allying and sending a hostage into Zhou, countless eyes are watching. That girl Feng Anlan has only just entered Zhou territory. If we were to dispatch people now into Zhou to search for—or even forcibly seize—the immortal fetus, and our actions were not perfectly discreet, leaving even the slightest trace…”
She paused, her tone growing heavier.
“How would the Zhou emperor react? How would those remnant Xia loyalists in court, already dissatisfied with the alliance, seize the opportunity to stir trouble? If this matter caused the Liang-Zhou alliance to falter, or gave the Zhou emperor an excuse to redirect northern pressure onto Liang—the consequences are more than you or I could bear.”
Feng Xuanyin fell silent, a thin layer of cold sweat breaking out on her back.
Indeed, ensuring the hostage’s safe arrival in Zhou’s capital and maintaining the superficial Liang-Zhou alliance against the barbarians was currently the court’s—and her as State Preceptor’s—top priority.
Any action that risked disrupting this carried enormous danger.
“Moreover,” Madam Xuanji continued calmly, “twelve years ago, Shuang Feixue was able to snatch the immortal fetus from my hands. Even if it involved a coincidental protection from the fetus’s own aura, her own cultivation and swordsmanship were by no means negligible.”
“These twelve years, she has lived in seclusion, focused solely on guarding it—who knows what further progress she might have made? If we rashly move now and cannot seize it with overwhelming force in an instant, any prolonged fight would create a huge commotion, and the matter would inevitably be exposed.”
A hint of calculation passed through her eyes.
“For an immortal fetus not yet fully matured, at this timing, to take such enormous risks—and possibly disrupt our many arrangements in court and beyond—it is not worth it.”
“Then Madam means…”
Feng Xuanyin already understood her concerns.
“Wait.”
The woman in red parted her lips and uttered the single word.
“Let the barbarians’ blades and arrows first drain Zhou’s strength. Let the Liang-Zhou alliance appear even more unbreakable as we jointly resist foreign aggression. And let that immortal fetus grow safely a while longer under Shuang Feixue’s protection.”
A gleam passed through her eyes, like one appraising rare medicinal ingredients.
“The wonder of an immortal fetus lies in its creation. At twelve years old, its bones are not yet firm, its qi and blood not yet vigorous, its spirituality not yet sufficient. To harvest it now would be wasteful. Wait another two years, until its foundation is more solid and its spiritual charm fuller—that will be the perfect time for plucking and refining.”
She drained the remaining tea in her cup, rose, and walked to the railing.
Her vermilion gauze gown fluttered lightly in the night breeze as her voice drifted back, brooking no argument.
“The time has not yet come. State Preceptor, have patience. A duck already cooked won’t fly away. Why rush and end up covered in needless mess?”
Feng Xuanyin gazed at that enchanting yet inscrutable back, slowly drinking the tea that had long gone cold.
The icy liquid slid down her throat, yet it gradually calmed her turbulent thoughts.
Cooperating with such a being—whose strength grew ever more terrifying and whose schemes ran ever deeper—was truly impossible to say whether it was fortune or calamity.
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