The mountain wind carried the first distant thunder of hooves and sword-song across the shattered gates of Wudang.One hundred and fifty Qingcheng disciples swept into the courtyard like a storm front, white robes snapping, blades gleaming under the midday sun.Their formation was flawless—arrogance wrapped in martial precision.They had heard the whispers for three long centuries: Wudang was dying—ravaged by the second-rate Yin Yang Sect’s merciless onslaught. Its walls fractured and fell, its legendary name reduced to ridicule among the righteous sects.A first-rate power like Qingcheng could swallow them whole and still have room for dessert.They reined in hard. Dust billowed around them.Every eye took in the half-collapsed outer wall, the great gate hanging drunkenly from a single hinge, the weeds pushing through cracked flagstones. A low murmur rippled through their ranks.“Wudang was so pathetic. Already on its knees.”High on the cracked steps of the main hall, Alex waited al

One month had passed since the first waves of bandits poured into Qingshui like flies to rotting meat, and the city had changed into something no one in the Jianghu could have imagined.Every street gleamed like an open vault. Tables sagged under bolts of finest silk, chests of gold coins left carelessly unlocked, jade carvings tossed out like yesterday’s trash.Housewives polished their best silver until it blinded the sun and set it out on the main avenue as if it were nothing.Merchants paraded their rarest treasures and simply walked away whistling, leaving their stalls unguarded. Even the old widow, once known only for her pickled vegetables, now laid out delicate heirloom teapots and glittering family jewelry beside her jars. She sat on a low stool with a serene, grandmotherly smile.No one bothered hiding their wealth anymore. They flaunted it openly, each trying to outdo the other with the most irresistible bait. Every so often, a passerby would casually drop a heavy pouch of

The night deepened over Qingshui. Lanterns swayed on their hooks, throwing restless shadows across the streets. Rebels roared as they plunged deeper, smashing open chests. Gold spilled between greedy fingers. Silk tore under eager hands.Citizens crowded the doorways, clapping and cheering the looters on. “More!” they shouted. “Take more!”Yet hundreds of drones had already slipped from the black sky—silent as breath.Tasers lanced downward. Ordinary men dropped where they stood.Bodies folded. Faces struck the flagstones with soft, final thuds.The demonic sect disciples’ heads snapped up the instant the drones drew near. They felt the faint stir of wind across their scalps, the whisper of displaced air brushing their skin.One disciple twisted sharply. His palm flashed open and a small knife flew.It struck the nearest drone mid-descent. Metal screamed. Sparks sprayed in a bright arc. The machine spun wildly out of control and crashed into a stall, collapsing in a tangle of broken w

Zhao Liang’s mouth went dry. A cold fist closed around his stomach.If he rode back to Liu Dai without those five thousand soldiers, the governor would have his head on a pike before noon. No excuses. No mercy. Liu Dai didn’t forgive failure.One choice remained.Qingshui was only an hour or two to the south. Perhaps his men had pressed on without him. Perhaps they were already fighting in the streets, buying him precious time. He could still salvage something—anything.Better than walking back to die.So General Zhao Liang, commander of five thousand, did the unthinkable.He walked.Alone.On foot.Full battle armor clanking with every miserable step, sword slapping his thigh, helmet tucked under one arm like some disgraced foot soldier.Sweat carved tracks down his dust-caked face. Shame burned hotter than the rising sun. A general without an army. A general without a horse.He kept his jaw locked and his eyes fixed on the southern hills, telling himself the same lie with every stri

Ling Xue spun in the white void, sword already drawn, the blade humming faintly in her grip.She had survived a dozen ambushes across the provinces: night raids, bandit poison attacks, and deadly traps in the mountain passes.She knew the scent of traps and ambushes the way other women knew silk. But this was different.This mist wasn’t natural. It pressed against her face like wet wool, thick enough to swallow the glow of the nearest lantern.She couldn’t see her own hand when she raised it. Couldn’t see the soldier whose shoulder brushed hers a heartbeat ago.Around her, the camp had become a slaughterhouse of sound. Steel clashed. Men screamed. Boots churned the damp grass. Every shout sounded two paces away, yet no one appeared.“Form on me!” she roared. Her voice died inside the fog, muffled and small. She lunged toward the nearest cry, blade slicing empty air. A body slammed into her from the side—armor against armor. She smelled sweat and fear and the sour tang of spilled wine.