Prologue
The September night breeze was intoxicatingly cool, chasing away the last traces of summer's heat. It brushed against his face, bringing comfort to body and soul. The bright moon hung high among the branches. On such a splendid night, perfect for enjoying the moon, the flowers, and perhaps a beauty, he had no leisure to appreciate any of it. All he could do was lie on the grass, gasping desperately for breath.
He’d been shot in the thigh. Blood drenched the wound, leaving flesh and muscle indistinguishable. The shotgun had been loaded with iron pellets—enough to slow a man, not to kill him outright, but to leave him bleeding until he could move no further. The old hunters back home favored these guns for wild boar, whose hides were too tough for a single rifle shot. The scattergun would leave the boar torn and bleeding, its frantic dash only hastening its demise from blood loss—just as he was now.
In ordinary times, such a wound wouldn’t be fatal. Stop the bleeding in time, and there would be little cause for alarm. But here and now, it was enough to claim his life.
He’d never imagined that an old hunter could become the prey, that the fortune-teller beneath the bridge had spoken true: “Stop sinning, or one day you’ll become someone else’s prey.”
Am I the fish to their knife?
He didn’t believe in fate, nor gods or spirits—only in man’s power to master his own destiny. He refused to accept this end. Bracing on his elbows, he tried to rise and flee once more. But even lifting his upper body drained what little strength remained. He fell back, panting harder than before.
Even if he could somehow stand and run, where could he possibly escape to? He was three hundred miles deep in the heart of the Hoh Xil wilderness, with nothing but his own legs to rely on—and one of them now useless.
Despair settled over him as he lay in the grass, his mind drifting to the limping old man who sold meat pies at the alley’s mouth, the lotus-eyed girl singing tunes at the teahouse, and the blind old fortune-teller who always spouted nonsense under the bridge.
That wretched fortune-teller had cursed him daily: “Man has his fate, dog has his. You, with your ragged clothes, chasing after a rich man’s life—you’ll throw your life away one day, mark my words.”
Funny how the fortune-teller’s good predictions never came true, yet every ill omen did. He’d once said he bore the fate of a blood-soaked butcher, destined to bring disaster for a hundred years unless he changed his ways.
A butcher of ten thousand? Disaster for a century? In twenty-seven years, he hadn’t even killed a chicken. What sort of mass murderer was that?
His thoughts wandered again. In a few days, it would be the Mid-Autumn Festival. He’d planned, as always, to visit his late, cheap old man’s grave with a bottle of good wine, to pour out his heart. It seemed this year, and every year after, that would be impossible.
If he truly was bound for the eighteenth level of hell, he hoped he wouldn’t meet his old man there.
Faces from the past flickered before his eyes, memories tumbling through his mind—complaints, regrets, helplessness—all fading into one long, weary sigh.
“To kill me just for the sake of that broken dagger? Even if I die, you’ll never get it!” he snarled, groping through the deep pockets of his work trousers until his fingers closed around a short knife with a redwood handle.
He stared at the object that had brought him to this fate, a wild, almost deranged smile curling his lips. With a metallic click, he drew the blade and flung the scabbard far into the grass, not stopping until he heard its heavy fall. His grin widened.
His gaze lingered on the strange, hollowed patterns along the blade—not with longing, but with resolve. Then, mustering all his remaining strength, he hurled the dagger into the distance.
Blood pooled around his wounded thigh, the exertion hastening his blood loss. His breaths grew weaker. Was this death? Was he truly headed for the underworld?
His blurred eyes followed the dagger as it spun through the air. Everything seemed to slow—the wind, the distant call of deer, shouts and footsteps echoing from afar. None of it mattered now. All he saw was the receding dagger.
Though battered by years, the blade remained sharp, gleaming coldly in the moonlight. At some point, a drop of blood had landed on its edge, rolling through the hollowed patterns and staining them crimson.
Suddenly, the blade flared with eerie brilliance—blood-red light bursting in the black of night, both sinister and beautiful.
He must be dying; only hallucinations could look like this. In despair, he closed his eyes.
At that moment, as the panicked shouts in the distance echoed, the red glow vanished. The moon shone high, stars dazzling. Over Hoh Xil, a meteor flashed across the sky. For an instant, its radiance outshone the moon, rivaling the midday sun.
During the reign of Emperor Xiao’an of the former Chen dynasty, Emperor Wu of Chen, Ji Yan, was notorious for his cruelty, extravagance, and debauchery. He expanded the palace and built grand pleasure residences, conscripting millions to dig canals so he could sail south from the capital in a dragon boat, just to eat a freshly picked lychee.
In the final years, the people’s cries of misery rose as war erupted across the land. Over a dozen rebel armies rallied to overthrow Emperor Wu.
The allied forces broke through the imperial capital. Emperor Ji Yan took the field himself, defending the royal city, but was ultimately defeated—slain atop the inner walls. His body was torn apart and fed to the masses to quell their rage.
The empress, to escape dishonor, ordered the palace set ablaze and hanged herself. The fire raged for a full day and night, leaving all three thousand of the imperial household in ruins.
After the fall of the former Chen, the rebel factions carved up the land and declared themselves kings, each eager to found a new dynasty. Thus arose: the New Tang, Southern Wu, Former Shu, Later Shu, Southern Han, Southern Ping, Ma Chu, Southern Tang, Northern Han, and many others.
Alas, the people suffer in times of both triumph and ruin.
According to the histories, a celestial rupture appeared—immortals descended, and the endless wars finally ceased.
In the twenty-third year of Xiao’an’s reign, the skies split open with thunder and lightning; for three days, meteors streaked unceasingly across the heavens.
After the rift in the sky lingered for over a month, immortals descended from the Ninth Heaven, bestowing blessings upon the people.
A palace from heaven landed in the snowy mountains of the northwest—a floating mountain where wondrous beasts roamed. The world called it Kunlun, the Immortal Mountain.
Above the wild northern coast, a splendid city hung in the sky, its jade towers soaring—the Celestial Capital of White Jade.
Far to the east, the sea parted for days, revealing a divine palace shrouded eternally in celestial music—Penglai, the Palace of Immortals.
The Dragonspine Mountains, spanning the continent, broke at the dragon’s head; immortals made their home upon the sheer cliffs, building a palace within the mountain itself, closed to mortals—Sword Cliff, it was named.
Eighteen such marvels descended upon the world, as chronicled in secret annals.
For more than half a year, though the celestial realms were visible, no mortal saw their true faces. The curious ventured forth, never to return.
A year later, an immortal finally emerged.
Riding a sword from Celestial White Jade, his robes billowing with strange light, the immortal swept from the North Sea to the capital of New Tang in a single stroke, his pronouncement echoing across the land: “Heaven’s Mandate is set—I shall aid you to become Emperor!”
Thus did New Tang rise. Li Yuan claimed the throne, waging war for less than three years before uniting five kingdoms, dominating the Central Plains, and consolidating the vassal states into an empire.
In time, King Ji Cheng of Lin’an, scion of the former Chen, received the Immortal Kunlun’s blessing and the imperial title “Dragon Emperor Ji.” With his armies at the foot of the snowy mountains, he conquered the minor states of the northwest, founding Later Chen.
King Liu Che of Southern Han was gifted the Emperor’s Sword by a Penglai immortal—one slash could shatter ten thousand armors. He united Southern Ping, Southern Tang, and the small southern states, proclaiming himself emperor.
Under the immortals’ guidance, New Tang, Later Chen, and Southern Han signed a peace accord, dividing the lands and setting the era name Kaiyuan. Thus, the three kingdoms’ balance was established.
From that moment, the imperial court was no longer the imperial court, the martial world no longer the martial world. Immortals governed, holding sway over the realm of mortals.