Chapter 22
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Translator: True Detective
Chapter: 21
Chapter Title: Scheme - 1
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"The martial arts duel on the Yangtze River."
Tak.
A white stone placed on the Go board.
The count building up the great dragon was subtle. Yet solid.
By the time Black regained his senses, he was already trapped in the net. Tuk. He reaches out with a leg, but it's suffocating. No easy path to escape.
Again.
"The Sword Debate on Mount Song."
White's shadow falls. It tightens around his throat.
At the Sword Debate on Mount Song, the Nangong Clan finally produced the world's greatest swordsman. The Huashan Divine Sword ultimately could not withstand Sword King Nangong Jincheon's Emperor's Sword Form.
The Nine Sects had weakened, and the Five Great Clans filled the void. Seizing the ripe moment—that was the way of an emperor.
"Tell me, what rules the Nangong?"
The Sword King speaks. He sits in the pavilion, playing Go. The stones he holds are white, matching the jade Go board.
The crisp sound of stones echoes in the elegant pavilion. The plaque reading "King of the Martial World" hangs boldly. It was a personal inscription from the emperor a hundred years ago. The only family permitted to include "King" in their title—the Nangong Clan was such a house.
The young man gazes at the board for a moment before answering. The stone in his hand is black, a color that stands out above all. The hue of youth that hides nothing.
"Righteousness."
"And what is that righteousness made of?"
White's thickness blocks Black's moves. No path to survival in sight. The young man falls into deep thought.
Where there are a thousand righteous heroes, there are a thousand paths of righteousness.
The Shaolin monks called it emptiness. The Nine Sects' Taoists called it martial virtue. To the unorthodox guests, it was connections; to the bands of ronin, it was gold.
What would be the Nangong answer? Where do the eyes of the emperor look?
The young man looks at his own formation. He gazes at the great dragon he barely salvaged after countless battles. After profound deliberation, his hand settles the black stone.
The light clack of jade on jade. The move he chose.
Abandoning the great dragon in one stroke.
Yet that single move puts five of White's points in peril. The young man answered.
"Decisiveness."
"The Jiangming Bloodbath!"
It was truly a bold move. The Nangong had just been gathering the power of the Five Great Clans into one. With this one stroke, one pillar—the Huangfu of Guangdong—fell into danger.
Several mid-sized clans and one of the Five Houses lost their heirs. If orchestrated, it was a brilliant stroke worthy of a slap on the knee.
That single move maintained a precarious balance of power between the Nine Sects and the clans.
Guangdong is a strategic hub. A perfect position to check both sides: Ami, Jiemei, Qingcheng, and Wudang in Sichuan and Hubei. The bloodbath there carried great significance.
Whether the Nine Sects had finally shed their immortal skins to walk the path of slaughter, or a killer star capable of uniting the martial world had been born.
Either way, it would be a card the Nangong could play.
The Sword King's aged, profound voice resonates as he holds the white stone.
"Righteousness that does not rise is cowardice. Righteousness that misses its moment is submission. And a path of the sword that is not righteous is evil. Dan, are you prepared to draw your blade without hesitation for what you believe is right?"
The Sword King's deep eyes look upon his third grandson. The White-Clothed New Hero Nangong Dan answers with his gaze instead of words.
Yes, I am, it says.
Then the Sword King places the white stone. A ferocious stone that slams down, blocking Black's vital point. This time, Black's position is completely cornered against the wall.
With decisiveness, meet even greater decisiveness. Not a single inch of mistake, not a moment of carelessness. That is the Nangong Clan tradition.
"Go to Mount Buddha and convey my regards to my old friend."
"Yes, Patriarch."
That afternoon, Nangong Dan departed south. His destination: Mount Buddha. The city of the Huangfu Clan.
Mount Buddha. A crossroads where the South's goods and wealth flow upward.
A forest of towers that never go dark at night, where tycoons who amassed fortunes from the bay drink Jinzun Qing in crystal goblets—a capital of pleasure where the fragrance of fine wine and the laughter of courtesans never cease.
The flow of money never stops. To those who grasp the law of gold, wealth is like inner energy, swelling regardless of good or bad harvests.
But what lies beneath it all?
"Grab him! Thief!"
In the teeming alleys, boys who would steal pouches with their mouths if their wrists were cut lurked.
"Hey, brother. This is the latest and greatest. Buy now, half price."
Deeper in, hawkers shoved pyrite at passing travelers.
"Spare a coin. Just one coin... Heavens bless you and this great hero."
Beggars in ragged clothes endlessly pleaded for food before every inn.
Famine. Refugees had flocked to Mount Buddha, believing the crowds meant food and water. The city bore no responsibility for the swallowed masses. People died for a single grain of rice, and blood flowed.
And atop it all looms a massive estate. The Huangfu Clan. The city's rightful rulers.
"Over there. That huge tower is the Huangfu Clan manor. If you're looking for work, give it up."
"Why's that?"
"You won't make the cut."
Zhang Ping scanned the pair before him. One man, one girl. They'd straight-up asked where the Huangfu Clan manor was, dressed in a way that didn't fit the famine.
A blindingly pretty girl and a suspiciously hooded man. They screamed the type he despised most in the world.
Martial artists.
Idlers swinging swords aimlessly, contributing nothing to society. Yet with egos taller than mountains. He already felt his temper twisting.
"Haven't you heard every ronin in Guangdong is banging on the Huangfu Clan's door? Too much competition. Go find a waiter spot at an inn."
"..."
The man doesn't reply, probably stung. The girl just smiles silently. That smile twists Zhang Ping's guts further, so he adds one more jab.
"If you know how to wait tables, that is."
Zhang Ping bolts, vanishing into the crowd. He limps on one leg, but fast.
A twisted heart always breeds trouble. Zhang Ping knew that all too well. Mount Buddha was Huangfu territory, not a place for foul-tempered martial artists to act up—but who knows. Blending into the crowd, Zhang Ping glances back at the martial artists who'd asked him for directions.
"Tch. I'm way more useful than those types."
Bai Hui stands there dumbly. Fascinated by the man he'd just seen.
What massive guts. Or did he miss my sword? The limping man weaved through the crowd like a pro, without a shred of fear toward martial artists.
"Don't mind him."
The inn's tout tosses it out casually.
"Name's Zhang Ping. Kinda famous around here. Picks fights with words whenever he sees a martial artist."
"And he lives?"
"Closer to pity. He wanted to be a martial artist more than anyone."
The self-proclaimed top talent of Mount Buddha, sharp-minded from youth, idolized the martial world. "I'll be a hero, a martial artist fighting evil," he'd say constantly. He probably would have been.
If not for his leg.
"Born with one bad leg."
"..."
Bai Hui pulls his hood lower. Broken and shattered souls aren't rare. Seen that way, Zhang Ping's just another ordinary guy.
A man born deformed—for some reason, Bai Hui feels a strange kinship.
"Good luck then. Haven't picked a place to stay? Our inn's got great facilities."
The tout vanishes into the crowd after that. Bai Hui now eyes the distant tower.
The Huangfu Clan manor, a place they'd wanted to see at least once.
Even from afar, it was majestic. Immense. The gate, over ten paces wide, admitted lines of warriors. Word was, they selected promising ronin as retainers.
It gave the impression of a towering mountain proudly displaying its might.
Does the girl think the same? Bai Hui turns.
"What now?"
In Mount Buddha, the oversaturated city, people flowed like rivers. Thousands hurried by, paying no heed to each other.
They just walked, sold goods, chatted, or minded their own business.
Unaware that the culprit of the infamous Jiangming Bloodbath lurked among them.
"Burn it."
The girl says. Backlit by the winter sunset.
In a voice that whispers to the heart, she declares toward the Huangfu Clan. The widest gate in Mount Buddha. The tallest tower. A plaque in bold, heroic script.
Leave nothing behind. Everything.
"Burn it all."
The girl meets Bai Hui's eyes. Her black pupils ask, you'll help, right? Bai Hui strokes his sword.
The weight of the blade that drank the World Dragon's blood felt pleasing.