Volume One: The Turmoil of Yan and Yun Chapter Five: Yan and Yun

When they were less than ten miles from Yanyun, Feng Qi suddenly paused, then remarked to Feng Yang, “The cultists truly live up to their reputation as madmen.” After a moment’s thought, he amended, “Or perhaps idiots, who can say?”

Feng Yang looked at the scattered corpses ahead, his face turning a shade paler, a wave of nausea rising in his throat. Yet, he was after all a man of Yanbei, second son of the Prince’s household, and perhaps the future Prince himself—how could he allow himself to vomit at the sight of mere corpses?

He forced himself to turn away from the carnage, suppressing the sickness churning in his chest and abdomen. Perhaps the effort was too great; his face flushed crimson.

Feng Qi glanced at him, shook his head, and rode forward.

In the yellow sands lay several bodies, not one of them whole. Most were so mutilated it was impossible to imagine what torments they had suffered in life. Severed limbs and torn flesh were strewn across the ground, arranged into a massive character written in blood. Next to it was a row of freshly severed heads, blood still dripping.

Feng Qi did not recognize those in the row, but the foremost head was more than familiar. Just days before, he had crossed swords with its owner—a woman from the Weeping Blood Pavilion.

“Success or martyrdom”—such was the Weeping Blood code. He had expected the woman and her followers to die, but not in this way.

This place lay less than ten miles from Yanyun; within the city, both his father and mother were unmatched warriors at the peak of their cultivation. If they so much as suspected trouble, nothing could escape their notice, and the Weeping Blood Pavilion might lose a mighty fighter. Was this a declaration of war on the Prince of Yanbei’s household?

Well played, Weeping Blood Pavilion.

“Ah—is this the group of assassins we encountered a few days ago?” Feng Yang finally mastered his fear. Though he no longer fought the urge to vomit, his face remained ashen. He crept up behind Feng Qi, peered at the mound of corpses, and cried out in shock.

Feng Qi replied with a grunt, then drew the Tyrant’s Spear and casually sketched a few lines in the earth, forming a simple protective formation.

Sandstorms were commonplace in Yanbei; a stroke of bad luck and one could be buried alive. Even without a storm, these bodies would be swallowed by the sands within hours if left exposed. So, without delaying their journey, he did what he could to preserve the scene.

Until the true cause of death was known, their sacrifice should not be in vain. The resurgence of the cult demanded investigation, and clues were needed to respond. Who knew what Uncle Luo might discover from the remains?

When he finished, Feng Qi retrieved his spear, turned to look at Feng Yang, and caught the astonishment in his brother’s eyes.

To Feng Qi, such a basic formation was hardly worth mentioning; but for Feng Yang, it was his first time witnessing such a thing.

As he looked at Feng Qi, he could not help but marvel—his elder brother seemed capable of everything.

The swordplay against the Green Bandits, that formation just now—either skill alone would be enough to earn praise for someone his age, let alone both. And there was more: he had mastered the Daoist Canon as well.

The more Feng Yang thought, the more unfathomable his brother seemed. Before he could voice his questions, Feng Qi was already back on horseback, lazily calling out, “Enough, let’s go.”

—

Yanyun, as the capital of Yanbei, was the oldest city in the region. Its permanent population exceeded two million, stretching so wide that a carriage journey from the southern to the northern gate would take half a month. Yanbei had always been a land of war; Yanyun had been destroyed and rebuilt several times, and with expansions during peacetime, it now boasted six walls, each higher as one moved outward. Even the innermost wall stood ten meters tall.

At the inner city gate, someone was already waiting.

Feng Qi saw the anxious face of Xiao Liu and laughed, “I know you haven’t seen your young master in a while, but must you look so eager?”

Xiao Liu was his personal maid, his companion in study, and half his pupil—he entrusted most chores to her.

This time was no exception.

He said, “Inform the Yanbei commandery—ten miles north of the northern gate, a killing has occurred. Both victims and killers are from the Weeping Blood Pavilion. Have Uncle Luo go and see if he can discover anything.”

Xiao Liu replied, “Young Master, now isn’t the time for that—something serious has happened!”

Feng Qi raised an eyebrow. “The Murong family has arrived?”

“They entered the inner city half an hour ago.”

“That hardly seems a crisis.”

Xiao Liu’s face flushed red. “But Miss Xing intercepted the Murong carriage! And the most crucial thing—Miss Murong invited Miss Xing aboard!”

Feng Qi paused, wondering what mischief Luo Xing was up to.

Feng Yang whispered, “Are they going to fight?”

Feng Qi considered, then said, “Murong Xue is sixth on the List of Talents; Luo Xing has only just entered the top hundred. She’s probably no match.”

Feng Yang replied, “Star-sister isn’t foolish enough to pick a fight she can’t win.”

Feng Qi shot him a glance. “You already know the answer, and still you ask. You really are a fool.”

Luo Xing was not foolish, nor was Feng Yang. There was only one reason for such a question: he was worried for Luo Xing. Not for her safety, but for her feelings. She had grown up with them both—how could he not care for her?

“Young Master, you should hurry home—just in case…”

“There is no ‘just in case,’” Feng Qi interrupted with a sigh. “Where are they now?”

Xiao Liu answered, “The carriage went directly to the palace, not even stopping at the guesthouse prepared by the Princess.”

No embellishments; Luo Xing and Murong Xue were still together.

At the palace? Feng Qi found this more intriguing.

“I’ll go home first. Second Brother, report the Weeping Blood Pavilion incident to the commandery.”

Feng Yang acknowledged, then reminded him, “Don’t anger Father.”

Feng Qi waved him off and urged his horse towards the palace. With the city guards clearing the way, he made good time.

When the dust had settled, Feng Yang turned to Xiao Liu. “Only the Murong family came? I heard there were imperial envoys as well?”

Xiao Liu replied, “I heard a prince arrived, but I haven’t seen him.”

A prince? That must be the Fourth Prince.

“Where is he now?”

“He stopped briefly at the Wangsha Inn, then went to the commandery.”

So, as expected. Should he still go to the commandery? Feng Yang pondered for a while, then shook his head, dismounted, and walked towards the commandery.

—

The Yanbei Prince’s Palace was built during the Tang dynasty’s golden age, a time of national strength and prosperity. After two thousand years of wind and sand, it had grown even more ancient and imposing, resembling a crouching lion from afar, exuding an aura of solemnity.

The palace was divided into inner and outer courts. The inner court was for family and household affairs; the outer court housed the elders’ council, the Hall of Martial Affairs for military matters, and the training grounds for the younger generation.

The Murong guests should be in the Hall of Martial Affairs. Feng Qi planned to slip into the rear courtyard to freshen up before attending.

He had been on the frontier for two months, washing only his hair in the lake a few times—he had yet to bathe. Whatever the outcome, the rites must not be neglected. As the heir, all his actions were taught by his mother. He cared little for his own reputation, but dearly for hers.

Such is a son’s duty.

But before he could slip in by the side gate, Steward Fei intercepted him.

“Young Master, His Highness requests your presence.”

Feng Qi frowned and sighed. “Grandpa Fei, can’t you pretend you didn’t see me?”

Steward Fei squinted and smiled, saying nothing, merely gesturing politely.

Feng Qi sighed again. “Grandpa Fei, just look at the state I’m in—it’s hardly appropriate.”

—

“Men of Yanbei are not like those of the South,” Steward Fei finally said. “To defend home and country, one must be ready to ride to battle at a moment’s notice. Blood and dust are better than idle poetry. But that does not mean the battlefield is inferior to the poetry hall. Men of Yanbei are warriors, not southern fops. What use is a pale face?”

“But this goes against propriety,” Feng Qi protested.

“Letting honored guests wait is true impropriety,” replied Steward Fei.

“That is reasonable,” Feng Qi conceded.

—

The Hall of Martial Affairs was neither crowded nor empty. Besides the Prince of Yanbei, the three Feng family elders were present, along with Luo He and his daughter Luo Xing, and the iron-blooded general Mo Ming. On the right sat several magnificently dressed guests—presumably from the Murong family.

But Feng Qi did not see the legendary Murong Xue.

His curiosity deepened.

He stepped forward and greeted everyone in order. Facing the head of the hall, Feng Mu Yun, he said, “I have returned from my mission. I hope I have not disgraced myself.”

Feng Mu Yun stroked his beard. “You have done well this time.”

“Aura of blood and heroism—surely this must be the heir of Yanbei?” someone interjected.

The speaker was white-haired but youthful, his eyes gleaming with vitality—a protector from Murong House, no doubt.

Feng Qi ventured, “The Furious Lion of Hebei?”

The old man laughed. “Murong White-Hair.”

So it was the third son of Murong House, famed across Hebei two decades ago. Rumor had it he’d recently broken through to the next realm, but if he had, he would not be here.

Murong White-Hair said, “I am shamed; renowned across four provinces, yet unable to forge my spirit and condense my soul. I have made no progress in years.”

“If forging the soul were so easy, countless heroes would not have fallen short,” Feng Qi replied.

Murong White-Hair was silent for a moment, then sighed. “Just that one sentence surpasses most of the world’s talents.”

To draw in the radiance of sun, moon, and stars is not something the soul alone can achieve. Tempering the body to gather essence, building the foundation to store intent, condensing the soul to draw in the radiance, merging the three to seek the Way, illuminating myriad paths to rule the world.

Thus reads the commentary at the start of the Record of Return to Origin—inscribed by the Sage of Wisdom of the previous dynasty; it cannot be mistaken.

But the radiance of stars, moon, and sun are no common things. A single misstep can burn the foundation to ash—how could the soul alone suffice?

Feng Mu Yun had been silent, but now he smiled. “My son has merely read a few more books than most—it’s nothing.”

Murong White-Hair glanced at the Prince, then at Feng Qi. “If mastery of the Daoist Canon is nothing, what then remains worthy of the stage?”

Feng Qi said nothing.

Murong White-Hair seemed satisfied with his calm, neither arrogant nor servile. “A fine match, truly.”

Feng Qi noticed Luo Xing’s face had grown pale.

“Miss Murong is renowned for her brilliance, ranking sixth among the talented youth. I heard she has arrived, yet I do not see her here.”

Though not yet betrothed, Feng Qi’s first question was about the Murong family’s goddess—Murong White-Hair was all the more pleased.

He smiled. “She wished to witness the Feng family’s Tyrant’s Spear, so she has gone to the training grounds.”

—

—