“Creak.”
Closing the door behind him, Song Zhenguo walked toward the window ledge. There, perched upon the frame, was a black pigeon with powdery white eyes, calmly preening its feathers as if oblivious to the world.
The sight made his heart jolt. He rushed forward, carefully cupping the bird in his hands. From its leg, he untied a small rolled note bound with a thin red thread.
He unrolled it gently. The neat, elegant handwriting within revealed itself:
‘Brother Song, regarding the matter of Young Master Wang, Jun’er will ask around for you.141Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhtOkhi8WT3
Another matter—the Scented Satin Festival is drawing near. Brother Song, can you promise Jun’er that no matter what happens, you won’t visit the pleasure boat during that time? No matter what!’
Song Zhenguo’s brows rose in surprise, and he read on.
‘That day, the boat mistress will use the ladies to set up tricks and schemes. There are even plans against you, Brother Song. Promise me! Jun’er will make sure everything is handled. Once this Scented Satin Festival passes, Jun’er promises to return home with Brother Song…’
When he finished reading, a wide grin spread across Song Zhenguo’s face.
“Brother Song promises you! I definitely won’t give them a chance!” he said aloud, a chuckle in his voice. Though the warning sounded strange, his trust in Jun’er was absolute, and he felt no trace of doubt.
He quickly found a piece of paper and penned a reply. Rolling it into a small cylinder, he fastened it securely to the pigeon’s leg. With both hands, he lifted the bird toward the open air and let go.
The pigeon burst into flight, wings cutting through the quiet courtyard. It soared above the Song Family’s main yard, gliding over crimson rooftops that shimmered faintly in the dusk light. It skimmed over winding alleyways and rows of dark, slanted roofs before veering toward the distant Cypress Pine Lake.
Moments later, it descended gracefully upon a red pleasure boat floating on the lake’s surface.
At a window of one of the chambers, the pigeon landed softly. From within, a fair and delicate hand extended outward, gently cradling the bird in its palm.
Jun’er swiftly untied the rolled note from the black pigeon’s leg. After a quick, cautious glance around, she released it back into the night.
“Go on, return to your nest,” she whispered.
The pigeon flicked its wings and took off, disappearing past the window in a blur of dark feathers.
Jun’er closed the window and unrolled the note. As her eyes skimmed over the handwriting, a softness bloomed across her face. Then, without hesitation, she held the paper over the candle flame. The fire licked at the edge, curling the parchment, turning ink to ash.
She calmly waited, the flame flickering in her eyes, until only a small burning corner remained. Then she opened the window just a crack and let it fall, the charred scrap drifting down toward the still surface of Cypress Pine Lake.
“Creak…”
The door behind her eased open on its own, as though pushed by an unseen hand. Jun’er froze. Her heart leapt to her throat as she whirled around, one hand pressed over her rapidly beating chest, her gaze fixed sharply on the door.
When she steadied herself, she walked over and peered outside. No one. She leaned out into the corridor, looking left, then right.
This was the make-up room below the ship’s deck—originally meant to be shared, but because of Song Zhenguo, she had it to herself. All the other girls had already gone upstairs to attend to the guests.
The corridor was empty, silent, and cold.
Letting out a long, quiet breath, Jun’er stepped back inside. She locked the door, then secured it further with a horizontal beam.
She went to sit before the dressing table and slowly picked up her comb. Whenever her thoughts were in turmoil, combing her hair always helped her regain her calm.
But the moment she lifted the comb, her expression stiffened.
On the wooden surface of the dressing table, written in thick strokes of black eyebrow pencil, was a single line:
You have to act during Scented Satin Festival. Don’t forget who you are.
Jun’er bit her lower lip, her eyes clouded with conflict. After a brief pause, she picked up the same eyebrow pencil and, beneath the line, wrote:
Yes.
Then she rubbed at the writing until the words were smudged into an indistinct black patch, leaving no trace of what had been there.
Lifting her head, Jun’er gazed into the copper mirror. Her reflection shimmered faintly in the wavering candlelight—blurred, ghostlike, and distant. For a long moment, she sat there, dazed, staring at the woman within the glass who looked so much like her, yet felt like a stranger.
She knew well what the message meant—it was a warning. A reminder not to stray from her purpose, not to let her heart dictate what her duty forbade. Even so, she felt a faint relief that the contents of Song Zhenguo’s letter had remained undiscovered.
Pity… I can’t be with Brother Song anymore… The thought flickered through her mind, and a glimmer of regret crossed her eyes, soon swallowed by quiet resolve.
Her master’s plan had long been set in motion: to gather those born at a Yin hour—those with Yin year, Yin month, and Yin hour in their fates. Song Zhenguo was precisely such a man. The snare was ready; all that remained was for her to lure him to the Scented Satin Festival.
Yet somehow, without realizing when it began, she had fallen for him. The upright, warmhearted Song Zhenguo had stirred something she hadn’t felt in years. She admired him. She longed for him. She wanted to rest in the peace his presence promised.
“Brother Song… Jun’er is really tired… really tired…”
Her trembling fingers brushed against her cheeks as she whispered those words. A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye, tracing a silent path down her face before falling onto the mirror’s surface—distorting her reflection into ripples of sorrow.
…………
In a quiet valley beyond the city, the sound of impact split the air.
“BAM!”
Lu Sheng spun sharply, his palm slicing through the air with explosive force. The boulder behind him shuddered, cracked, and burst apart—stone fragments scattering across the ground. A rock nearly an arm’s width thick splintered into several jagged pieces.
“Bang! Bang! Bang!”
He pivoted again, striking at the nearby stones in a blur of motion. One after another, the heavy rocks shattered under his blows, sending gray-white dust spiraling into the air. The fine powder lingered, stinging his lungs with every breath.
At last, Lu Sheng exhaled deeply and lowered his hands. Bringing his palms together before his chest, he sank his breath into his dantian and stilled his movements.
I’ve already mastered saber and palm techniques, he reflected quietly. What I lack are qinggong movement skills—and long-range attacks. If I meet an opponent skilled at distance combat, I’ll be at a disadvantage.
His breathing steadied as his inner force flowed through his meridians.
Since I absorbed the Black Tiger Saber’s power technique, the Jade Crane Skill has transformed—but that kind of evolution depends entirely on the residue left by ghosts. To integrate them perfectly… that requires immense experience and experimentation. It’s no different from creating an entirely new martial art.
For weeks, he had been testing his own limits, trying to force a breakthrough in both inner and outer force techniques. Each attempt ended the same way—with failure and torn meridians. Every time, the results defied his expectations.
Without enough combat experience, it’s impossible to surpass my limits alone, he acknowledged grimly. On the surface, it seems easy for the Jade Crane Skill to absorb the Black Tiger Saber’s force technique and evolve, but in truth, that fusion was likely the product of countless unseen trials.
He opened his eyes slowly, the dust around him beginning to settle.
If I want to keep improving… I’ll need to find more of that ghostly residue.
After finishing his training, Lu Sheng walked toward a large tree nearby. His outer coat and towel hung neatly from one of its branches. He took the towel and wiped the sweat from his face and neck, his breath steady but heavy.
I should test the strength of the third level of Black Fury Skill, he thought. Until now, he had never unleashed it at full power. His body was finally recovered—this was the perfect time to see its true extent.
Turning to face the tree, Lu Sheng’s expression hardened. He focused his will, stirring the depths of his inner Qi. It surged through his meridians like a roaring tide, gathering in his right palm until the veins beneath his skin darkened.
“BAM!”
The strike landed with a dull, echoing thud. The sound was similar to before—dense and heavy—but the power behind it wasn’t vastly greater. Black Fury Skill was not meant for sheer explosive force.
Lu Sheng lowered his arm and examined his work. In the center of the trunk was a deep, blackened handprint, clear and sharp against the bark.
The palm mark sank nearly a full centimeter deep, and a thick, acrid odor wafted out from it, burning the nose.
He reached out and brushed his fingers along the charred edges. A piece of bark broke away and fell to the ground, revealing the dark, vein-like patterns that spidered beneath the surface—like burnt wood left smoldering after a fire.
It’s as if the tree’s been scorched by flame… he mused. This Black Fury Skill must rank among the higher tiers of Yang-based inner force techniques. A pity it’s incomplete. If it could be further developed, the results would be astonishing.
By now, his cultivation was equivalent to that of an expert with forty or fifty years of internal training—without even counting his mastery of the Black Tiger Saber Technique and other arts.
Next, I need to cultivate a specialized movement technique, he thought, narrowing his eyes. The Black Tiger Saber and the others only include movement forms tied to offense. What I lack is a true system dedicated to pursuit, evasion, and speed over distance.
He folded his hands behind his back, gazing at the tree as wisps of black Qi faded into the air, the scent of scorched bark still hanging faintly around him.
Lu Sheng sat cross-legged beneath the tree, quietly sorting through the martial manuals in his collection. Among them, there was only one true movement skill—Precious Eight Steps, which he had obtained back in Nine Links City. It was a technique built mainly for evasion, its purpose more to dodge than to advance.
Deep Blue, he called silently within his mind.
At once, a faint, glowing square frame materialized before his eyes—the Modifier, hovering weightlessly in the air.
Lu Sheng closed his eyes, recalling every motion and stance from Precious Eight Steps. It was a humble skill, far inferior even to Pursuing the Wind Blade, and lacked any diagram or breathing method for guidance. He had memorized it purely by rote.
Reconstructing the steps in his mind, he rose slowly. His left foot extended outward as his body turned slightly. The muscles in his calf coiled, then twisted to the left. Using a low-hanging branch as leverage, he kicked off sharply with his right leg, propelling himself forward in a blur. That single step—the first of eight—was light yet forceful, as if the wind itself lent him momentum.
The sequence was said to imitate the legendary Cricket-Catching Eight Steps of the Central Plains, though its refinement had long been lost. Still, with his strong foundation in martial movement, Lu Sheng grasped the flow and mechanics almost instantly.
He opened his eyes and focused on the Modifier. The option for Precious Eight Steps glimmered faintly within the frame.
With a single thought, he halted his movements and mentally pressed the ‘Modify’ button.
The Modifier flared—lines of light rippling across its surface.
Upgrade Precious Eight Steps by one level, he willed.
Before his eyes, the status changed in an instant: Uninitiated → Initiated.
Lu Sheng took a moment to sense his body. A tingling numbness spread through his legs, followed by a faint drain of inner Qi from his Black Tiger Jade Crane Skill. Beyond that, there was no strain at all.
“So even without realizing it, my Qi reserves have already reached this stage…” he murmured, watching the Modifier shimmer before him. “Low-tier martial arts like this no longer weigh upon my body.”
The Modifier’s interface glowed softly.
Precious Eight Steps: Initiated.
Lu Sheng straightened, eyes gleaming with quiet determination.
“Upgrade Precious Eight Steps to the highest—third—level.”
The words resounded clearly in his mind, and the Modifier responded with a sharp pulse of light.
“Swoosh!”
The Modifier pulsed once—Precious Eight Steps flickered from Initiated to Level One. Lu Sheng felt nothing at first, not even the faintest tremor in his body.
“Swoosh!”
The second pulse followed, stronger than before. This time, a sharp itch rippled through his legs, the sensation running deep along his meridians.
With the final flash, Precious Eight Steps surged straight to the third level. The brilliance of the Modifier dimmed as nearly four-fifths of his Black Tiger Jade Crane Skill inner Qi was drained away. He knew it would take at least two full days to recover that amount.
Still, when the glow faded, his mind was clear—filled with precise knowledge of every step, every shift, every method of the movement skill. His legs felt lighter, firmer, and bursting with strength.
Let’s test it out.
A small sparrow darted into view, fluttering up from the ground and preparing to take flight.
Lu Sheng’s eyes narrowed.
Planting his feet, he launched himself forward.
“Putt-putt-putt…”
Eight consecutive strides cut across the valley floor like rolling thunder. Before the sparrow could even change direction, his hand shot out and closed around it in a blur.
He stopped and opened his palm. The tiny bird was crushed, its fragile body reduced to a smear of red between his fingers.
My explosive power is tremendous, he thought calmly. Both the Black Fury Skill and the Black Tiger Jade Crane Skill have strengthened my body and inner force. Combining them with Precious Eight Steps has produced astonishing results. This speed… it should be on par with the legendary Cricket-Catching in Eight Steps.
Satisfied, he released what was left of the sparrow and wiped his hand on the grass.
But the satisfaction was fleeting. A faint sigh escaped him.
Now that movement is settled, it’s time to find some hard skills to temper next.
These past few months in Mountain-Edge City, he had discreetly gathered information about the martial world there. The city, tightly governed by official authority, was no haven for wandering fighters. Strict regulations kept pugilists restrained.
Most of the true experts were no longer free men—they served as government officers or military commanders.
Among all the experts in Mountain-Edge City, none shone brighter than Lu Chengzhong, known across the land as the One-Qi Green Peak Sword. His name alone carried weight enough to silence an entire hall. Compared to him, the other so-called masters were little more than shadows.
But age had long caught up with the old swordsman. At eighty-seven, Lu Chengzhong rarely appeared in public. His three sons—all esteemed officials in the city—kept him well-guarded and insulated from visitors. Approaching him for guidance was nearly impossible.
“Too far out of reach,” Lu Sheng murmured to himself, eyes narrowing slightly. “Best to cross him off first.”
And so, Lu Chengzhong was the first name Lu Sheng struck from his list.
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