Chapter Thirty: The Chilling Spring Cold, Most Lethal of All

The spring nights in Lin’an Prefecture were not the most pleasant; compared to summer evenings, the spring breeze carried a lingering chill, enough to bring on a cold to anyone with a frail constitution.

Along Qingbo Street, as the last traces of sunset faded into darkness, the entire street sank into silence. Although the Zhao Dynasty did not impose a curfew and the night markets thrived in a riot of lights and colors, that liveliness was reserved for the Imperial Street and the main thoroughfares—those were the places where vendors braved the cold night winds in hopes of profit. Qingbo Street, on the other hand, was too remote; anyone setting up a night stall here would only swallow the chill for meager earnings. Thus, as night fell, the street became utterly still.

A carriage stood parked, the fine steed snorted softly, breath steaming in the cool air; the driver, a burly man, sat upright on the shaft, a bamboo hat shading his face. His old hat had been sliced in two by Lady Hua’s umbrella in a spring rain, forcing him to procure a new one. Seated on the driver’s perch, his blood roiled within him like a hidden furnace, yet he remained outwardly calm. He extended his not-so-skilled senses toward the alleys of the Grand Temple, probing the impending slaughter about to unfold there.

He needed to “see” the boy die with his own eyes; only then could he report to his master without error. Still, he was certain this matter was all but assured. The boy had only just completed his initiation into cultivation a few days prior, barely opening his energy pathways and entering meditation. Such a novice would stand no chance against Hu Jingang, whose hands were stained with blood. Hu Jingang’s energy was already at its peak, close to forging spirit bones within, and facing a mere beginner, there was little room for mishap.

The driver raised his head, staring into the pitch-black alley, his mind recalling that rain-soaked day when the boy, undaunted by his master’s overwhelming presence, stood tall and unbowed—like a solitary pine, or a plum blossom defying the frost. The boy’s resilience was admirable. For a newcomer to cultivation, it was common to flinch before Master Luo, but to withstand that pressure with pride in one’s chest was rare indeed. Yet, no matter how tenacious, lacking strength meant death was inevitable.

Suddenly, the driver’s eyes narrowed beneath his hat. A sudden gust whirled from the alley, carrying with it a surge of burning energy.

“It’s begun.”

—

Within the courtyard.

Anle had already finished his practice of the “Five Beasts Body Tempering Art” and was now meditating on the “Swordfall Illustration.” Fifteen strands of the Qi of Years bolstered the Five Beasts, while the remaining four he devoted to the Swordfall Illustration.

With the Qi of Years enhancing him, his meditation on the Swordfall Illustration deepened. Where once he could only envision the first page, now—with his spirit refined—he could contemplate the second. The second page depicted two interwoven swords; at first glance, they seemed ordinary, but under focused meditation, they radiated boundless sharpness.

Having just entered the fetal breath stage, Anle needed to solidify his foundation; to hastily meditate could risk injury from the sword intent within the illustration. Yet, with the Qi of Years, this was no longer a concern—the second page posed no threat.

The silver moon hung like a plate in the sky, starlight cascading in countless streams. Bathing the youth in white within the courtyard, it rendered his handsome features all the more ethereal.

Abruptly, as Anle meditated on the Swordfall Illustration, his spirit surging within, he opened his eyes, gaze calm as he looked toward the gate. It was as if some beast, hungry and hidden, lurked in the darkness beyond.

The sound of straw sandals scraping on flagstones grew near. A wave of searing energy, perceptible to Anle’s spirit, surged ever closer. Moonlight spilled across the figure of a man—thin, not especially muscular—wearing a bamboo hat and carrying a broad-bladed saber, giving him a peculiar appearance.

Anle glanced at the newcomer, unruffled, remaining seated on his small chair and pouring himself a cup of old yellow wine, chilled by the spring night’s breeze. He drank, savoring the warmth and fragrance.

“A killing chill lingers in the spring night. Instead of warming your wine at home, you bring a blade to my door. I suppose you must be here for my life,” Anle said coolly, picking up a piece of pork head and chewing it slowly.

The figure with the saber removed his hat, tossing it aside, revealing a face not particularly sinister, but filled with mockery as he looked upon the youth eating and drinking in the moonlight.

“Do you recognize me?” Hu Jingang asked with a grin.

Anle took another sip of wine, glancing at Hu Jingang with a flicker of surprise. Having drawn a wanted portrait of Hu Jingang, how could he not recognize him? What surprised him was that Hu Jingang had actually come to kill him—was it because of the portrait?

“That portrait you drew for the Black Office nearly cost me my neck. I hate you for it, so I’ve come to kill you. Do you understand?” Hu Jingang set his saber down; his energy surged and swelled, the fullness of his power making even the chilly night stir with heat.

“You’ve come to kill me over a portrait?” Anle savored his wine. “Or perhaps someone sent you, hoping to use your blade to end me. Otherwise, how could a fugitive like you, hounded by the Black Office, find my new home so easily and come here so openly?”

Hu Jingang squinted, unperturbed at being called out; to him, Anle was already a dead man. A mere novice, newly initiated and meditating, hardly a threat.

Planting the tip of his saber into the ground, Hu Jingang asked, “Since you know, why don’t you run?”

Anle set his wine cup down and, with two fingers, picked up a chopstick. He regarded Hu Jingang calmly. “This is my home. Why should I run?”

“Bold words. Pity—I prefer to see fear and despair on my victims’ faces before I kill them. It’s more satisfying,” Hu Jingang laughed, then his eyes flared with fury, his energy crashing forth like waves.

He yanked his saber from the ground. The stones shattered by the heavy blade shot out like arrows, as Hu Jingang, enveloped in his surging power, swung the blade at Anle—its force howling through the night like a demon’s wail.

Anle, still seated, grew solemn. This was his first real battle against a cultivator. The two thugs at the Quiet Street before had been mere mortals, offering no real threat.

Yet he felt no fear, only excitement and exhilaration—the tiger in his chest ready to leap out. The only true danger was that Hu Jingang wielded a weapon, while Anle was empty-handed. But in terms of spiritual cultivation, Anle surpassed his foe—and that was enough.

As Hu Jingang’s saber cleaved down, Anle, holding the chopstick between two fingers in a sword gesture, thrust it forward. The chopstick shot from the table, slick with pork fat, streaking through the spring night’s darkness toward Hu Jingang’s throat.

With his fetal breath spirit infused, the chopstick moved like a sword. Hu Jingang’s hair stood on end; he hastily raised his blade to guard his neck. The flying chopstick, carrying the force of Anle’s spirit, made his heart shudder.

“Second stage of Spirit Refinement… Fetal Breath?! No, the first two stages—meditation and fetal breath—lack killing power. Only after transcending the mundane does external spirit become truly fearsome. Why, then, does this youth’s pressure feel so overwhelming?”

Sweat broke out on Hu Jingang’s brow. Had he not blocked it just now, that chopstick would have pierced his throat. He cursed the mysterious benefactor’s intelligence—this was no mere novice!

But Hu Jingang was ruthless and experienced. With his energy at its peak, he still had a chance if he could get close. Without hesitation, he hurled his saber like a hidden dart and dove after it, closing the distance.

Anle’s eyes flashed with fighting spirit as the saber came flying and Hu Jingang lunged. “Come!” he shouted, leaping from his chair and dodging the blade. Then, with the ferocity of a tiger—one of the Five Beasts—he charged forward.

Mighty as a wildcat, magnificent and fierce, his surging energy erupted like a flood, matching Hu Jingang’s own. In that instant, Hu Jingang felt as if the youth had become a raging tiger, the force of his presence crashing over him, and his heart sank.

A moment later, a terrifying force crashed into Hu Jingang. All he felt was pain, before he was sent flying through the spring night—blood trailing, dazed—tracing an elegant arc beneath the stars above the small courtyard.

P.S. It’s Monday—please support with your recommendations!