Chapter Forty-One: The Fallen Prince

“Who are you?” The man in black exchanged three or five blows with Lin Feng, his shock growing with each clash. Every time their weapons met, it felt as if he were striking a solid mountainside. Judging by cultivation, both were in the mid-stage of Qi Refining, yet the difference in strength was vast!

In a contest between experts, more than power was at stake—it was a battle of momentum and courage. The masked man’s spirit faltered before Lin Feng’s, fear gnawing at his heart, and the outcome was clear at once.

“Hmph! Ask again in the afterlife!” Lin Feng swept his silver spear in a wide arc, surreptitiously channeling a fraction of his Overlord’s Strength. With a deafening crash, the massive force sent the man’s saber flying dozens of yards away.

“The Overlord’s Strength truly lives up to its name!” Lin Feng thought. With just a third of his energy, he forced the man to drop his weapon, nearly crippling his wrist.

A flash of cold silver hovered at the man’s throat, brilliant and chilling. “Let’s see what face you hide behind that mask!” Lin Feng shifted the spear tip, about to reveal the man’s identity, when a sudden chill swept his heart. With a hiss, two dark projectiles streaked through the rain toward his face!

The spear spun with lightning speed, silver light arcing back faster than the hidden darts themselves. With a crisp clang, the two sleeve arrows bounced off the shaft, ricocheting into the darkness.

This last-second maneuver blocked the dying counterattack of the masked man, who took the opportunity to flee several yards away, while the three fugitives behind Lin Feng gasped in relief.

“Scoundrel!” Lin Feng shouted in fury. Spinning his spear, he pierced through the curtain of rain with a strike as swift as a startled swan.

With a dull boom, the powerful thrust tore through the fleeing man’s body, blood bursting in a crimson spray. The assassin died without so much as a cry, transformed into a bloody corpse.

The pear blossom spear landed solidly ten yards away, embedded in the mud, the rain washing the blood from its shaft.

Mercy has no place in a battle for one’s life. This dangerous skirmish was another harsh lesson for Lin Feng.

“Gentlemen, there’s an abandoned temple ahead. Why don’t we take shelter there?” Lin Feng approached the three, though inwardly he remained wary, fists ready to strike should they show any treachery.

The one-armed warrior lifted his rain-soaked face, sizing up Lin Feng. “Thank you for saving our lives. Please accept my humble bow!” he said.

The two younger warriors behind him followed suit, dropping to their knees in the mud without a care for the filth splattering their faces and clothes.

“Please, get up and speak! There’s no need for this, brothers. Let’s wait out the rain in the temple and find some dry clothes,” Lin Feng said, relaxing slightly as he helped the wounded man to his feet.

The group made no fuss, rising and wiping the rain from their faces.

“Young master, where did you go? Hurry, you two, go look—” the one-armed man suddenly remembered, barking orders at the younger men.

“Uncle Zuo, I’m here…” came a shaky voice from the darkness, as a figure stumbled toward them.

“So long as you’re safe, that’s all that matters,” the one-armed man muttered.

Lin Feng retrieved his spear, confiscated the fallen saber, and at last lifted the mask from the assassin’s face—finding only an utterly unremarkable visage.

The rain poured in sheets as they hurried to the ruined temple, helping one another. They shed their bloodied garments and warmed themselves by a crackling fire.

“Benefactor, if not for you, we’d be corpses by now,” the one-armed man said, wrapping his stump in cloth and donning a robe handed to him by the young master.

Of the four, the one-armed man was the eldest, just past forty, his face rugged with bristling stubble. Despite his maimed body, his eyes remained sharp and weathered.

The two younger men were about seventeen or eighteen, their wounds not life-threatening. Judging by their build and bearing, they seemed less like household servants and more like seasoned guards, each wielding identical sabers.

As for the young master, his pale, delicate features marked him as a nobleman. The peculiar composition of this group piqued Lin Feng’s curiosity.

“Brother Zuo, who was after you? You don’t look like commoners—how did you end up in such straits?” Lin Feng asked, for he could not help but seek the root of their troubles.

The one-armed man’s gaze hardened. “You saved us, and we owe you the truth. But to tell you our story may bring doom upon you as well. I beg your forgiveness for our silence.”

“Oh, I was merely curious. Don’t let it trouble you,” Lin Feng replied, glancing at the dim sky. “This rain looks set to fall all night. Come morning, the roads may be impassable.”

“Indeed, and who knows how far it still is to Mount Qiyun…” the young master murmured, his clear gaze like the surface of a lake.

At this, the other three changed countenance. “Young master!” the one-armed man blurted.

The blue-robed youth, unperturbed, recited, “Trusting others with honesty breeds trust in return; handling matters with sincerity brings success in all things.”

Lin Feng studied him anew. Though his face appeared frail, a stubborn spirit burned in his eyes as he met Lin Feng’s gaze.

“So you’re headed to Mount Qiyun? It’s a journey of seven or eight days from here,” Lin Feng remarked.

“Thank you,” the young master replied with a nod. “Uncle Zuo, there is nothing that cannot be spoken. We act with honor and uprightness, and our benefactor is no ordinary man. Speak freely.”

“Very well,” the one-armed man said after a pause. “My name is Zuo Qingcheng, from Jizhou. These two are Liu Yun and Liao Kai, vanguard guards from my unit. We were entrusted by the Commander of Zhenyuan to escort the young master out of Qiuchi, seeking refuge at Mount Qiyun, but were ambushed along the way. Nearly a hundred men in the vanguard fell. The four of us have been traveling by night and hiding by day. Just as we thought we’d escaped into the territory of Great Qian, disaster struck again and we were pursued here by that masked assassin.”

“Qiuchi Kingdom? So you’re from Qiuchi?” Lin Feng perked up, eager for news. “I’ve heard that Qiuchi and Mengliang are at war. Is that true?”

“Yes. The foolish king Ye Zhankun listens to the slanders of Crown Prince Ye Qiuping and the Grand Preceptor’s faction, heedless of our soldiers’ lives. All for the sake of a woman, he has declared war on Mengliang. Now the lands of Huiyang and Cangming are in chaos, and we only barely escaped with our lives.”

Liu Yun and Liao Kai nodded, their faces bearing the marks of hardship and lingering fear. In the chaos of war, who could say if they would live to see another day?

“And this young master—does he oppose the war?” Lin Feng looked at the blue-robed noble seated upright by the fire.

The young man drew a deep breath.

Lin Feng continued, “Mount Qiyun is teeming with monsters. Why seek refuge there?”

Zuo Qingcheng smiled bitterly, taking a swig of wine. “Years ago, I met an immortal who claimed that Mount Qiyun was a land blessed by the gods, an ideal place for reclusion. With nowhere else to go, we chose this remote mountain—far off the beaten path, and no one would suspect our destination. Who would have thought things would come to this…”

“With your identities, even Mount Qiyun may not be safe. There is no hiding from evil in this world. Running is not enough,” Lin Feng said.

From Zuo Qingcheng’s words, Lin Feng had a fair guess at the young master’s identity. Only a handful with great power would dare slaughter royal soldiers. Political differences alone were not enough to warrant such bloodshed. What threat did they pose? The assassin had the means to kill them—why try to take them alive?

As these thoughts flickered through his mind, the young master spoke: “You are right, benefactor. But Qiuchi is no longer a place where I can live. Even my father would rather see me dead. Were it not for my uncle and General Zuo’s protection, I would have perished long ago. Now, survival is all I can hope for.”

So, he truly was a prince of Qiuchi. The emperor himself, Ye Zhankun, cared nothing for this son’s life—there was more to this story than met the eye. Lin Feng remembered his promise to Elder Ye Kun; the Zilong Golden Seal still weighed in his breast. Finding its rightful owner would not be easy. Was this Ye Ziyin the one?

Suddenly, a new idea occurred to Lin Feng. He asked, “Have you never thought of turning the tables, avenging your loyal men, and deposing the foolish king? Qiuchi could be yours.”

Ye Ziyin froze, mouth ajar, before a look of resolve shone in his eyes. He nodded silently.

“Very well. I am bound for Wanzhou City on business. If you wish, we can travel together. As a prince, you are sure to gather righteous allies. I will see you safely there,” Lin Feng said, scanning the group. “The most dangerous places are often the safest. I trust you understand. If your minds are made up, let’s depart at dawn.”

So saying, Lin Feng walked to the temple gate, gazing up at the sky as the rain eased, his heart churning with a tempest of thoughts.

Cultivators seldom meddled in worldly affairs; whether this would harm his spiritual path, Lin Feng could not say. Yet he resolved to take this risk. These four, hunted fugitives though they were, were men of true character. To support them was a duty of honor. And if he could entrust the Imperial Seal to Ye Ziyin, his journey down the mountain would not be in vain. To restore Ye Ziyin to the throne would be an act of justice, in line with the Dao and the heart of a cultivator—perhaps a deed of lasting virtue.

The four conferred quietly in the temple. After a while, Ye Ziyin approached Lin Feng and said softly, “Benefactor, we have decided to seek out General Zeng Yi in Changhao City. My uncle once served under him, and they are close friends. With his support, vengeance and the restoration of our nation are within reach.”

“Excellent. I will accompany you. There’s no need to call me benefactor—I am Lin Feng, disciple of the Hundred Flowers Sect,” Lin Feng replied, smiling at the prince by the firelight.

“By the way, do you know who sent your pursuers?” Lin Feng asked. It was clear that Ye Ziyin and Zuo Qingcheng were familiar with the reputation of the Hundred Flowers Sect—their surprise was genuine.

“We do not know the man in black. But as for the ambush in Qiuchi, I recognized those men—they were deathsworn from the Leopard Vanguard under that traitor Yuwen. They specialize in eliminating the loyal and upright through the vilest means!” Zuo Qingcheng spat with hatred.

“Oh? And how did you escape? Brother Zuo, your skills are not insignificant. May I ask where you trained?” Lin Feng inquired further.

“I am nothing compared to you, Brother Lin. My skills are barely adequate. As a child, I studied at the Stone Tablet Institute, but with poor aptitude I never made it to the inner hall, so I became a border officer. I’ve guarded the frontier for twenty years…” Zuo Qingcheng shook his head ruefully, taking another swig of fiery liquor.

Lin Feng had already guessed as much. Zuo Qingcheng’s cultivation was modest, but in combat he was seasoned and lethal—a Qi Refining novice at best. As for the young master, he was a typical scholar, unused to arms.

Traveling together would require careful planning. Zuo Qingcheng’s missing arm would make him easy to recognize.

As dawn broke, Liu Yun and Liao Kai doused the fire. The five set out in single file, first to inspect the corpse of the slain assassin.