Chapter Seven: Massacre (1)

Southern Border, Jizhou, Eight Mile Town. This is an ordinary small settlement, where generations of common folk have lived. Though their lives are humble, happiness fills the days as they go about their existence.

On this day, however, a group of immortal cultivators arrived outside the town, riding beasts that seemed neither quite tigers nor horses, breaking the tranquility that had long enveloped the ancient village. The people of the village, all farmers by birth and tradition, had never seen such magnificent and strange steeds. Their curiosity was piqued, and many wanted to draw near for a closer look, but the riders all carried an air of nobility and power that made them hesitate, unwilling to approach too closely.

Amid the crowd, a girl of five or six clung to her grandfather’s arm, tugging insistently. “Grandpa, what splendid horses! Far more handsome than ours. I want one just like them!” Her eyes sparkled with envy as she gazed at the strong men atop their mounts, pleading with her grandfather again and again.

The old man, stooped and grey, stroked his beard and chuckled, “Child, those are not ordinary horses. They look like the ‘Tiger Colts’ described in ancient books. Only immortals ride Tiger Colts. If you become an immortal cultivator one day, you’ll have a steed as majestic as theirs.”

The girl’s black eyes turned thoughtfully. “Grandpa, what’s an immortal cultivator? Are they wandering swordsmen, heroes of the martial world? Isn’t our neighbor, Ah Niu, a swordsman? He can beat three or five men with his blade!” She gestured animatedly as she spoke.

Her grandfather laughed and shook his head. “Immortal cultivators are like gods. They mourn the suffering of the world and hold all living things in their hearts. Their true essence and mastery of the Dao far surpass any swordsman roaming the land.”

“Grandpa, then I want to be an immortal cultivator too!” The girl’s eyes shone, dazzled by the thought. She imagined herself riding a Tiger Colt, sword in hand, roaming the world.

“My clever girl, you’re made for cultivation. One day, you’ll be a fairy who travels the world!” Her grandfather patted her head, his heart filled with longing. Had he not dreamed, in his youth, of becoming an immortal himself?

The group atop their Tiger Colts seemed unwilling to disturb the village’s peace. They slowed their pace, entering the town gently.

At their head rode a handsome young man of about twenty, refined and courteous. He smiled kindly at the townsfolk, nodded, and then laughed aloud, his voice ringing with spirit: “Today, friends, we hunt in Eight Mile Town—to capture Che Yeming alive!”

The riders joined in, shouting, “Hunt in Eight Mile Town, capture Che Yeming alive!” Their voices echoed far and wide.

“Just you?” A cold, youthful voice interrupted, sharp despite its modest volume, abruptly silencing the crowd. All turned to see a figure in a black robe, face icy, stepping out from behind the grandfather and granddaughter. The figure was not tall, perhaps eleven or twelve years old, but stood firmly before the riders, giving off an air of equal confrontation.

The handsome youth, gentle as jade upon his steed, could not help but secretly admire Che Yeming’s courage—facing a force of over a hundred, yet calm and unflinching. If only they were not enemies, he would have liked to sit and converse with Che Yeming.

He shook his head, dismissing the thought. Raising his voice, he called, “Che Yeming, you are a distinguished scion of an immortal family—why do you repeatedly commit evil? The Changzi Mountain massacre, the granary slaughter, the Iron Zhou Ridge extermination—over two hundred bloody lives taken by your hand! If you still possess a shred of immortal conscience, come with me to Ancient River City and face Lord Che. I demand that Lord Che give Jizhou’s immortal sects an explanation—will he control you or not?”

Che Yeming’s brows rose at the accusation, a murderous gleam flashing in his eyes. He replied coldly, “The Miao family dares meddle in the affairs of my clan? Miao Zongbao, I respect your cultivation, but you’d best leave quickly lest you bring disaster upon yourself.” Though Che Yeming acted without restraint, he was wary—Miao Manor held great power in southern Jizhou, and avoiding conflict would be best.

Miao Zongbao’s gentle face turned cold as he answered, “Che Yeming, your cultivation is impressive, but your arrogance knows no bounds. Even if I am not your match, do you think you can escape surrounded by a hundred of us? Ruthless and bloodthirsty as you are, Heaven cherishes life—I do not wish to be too harsh. Surrender, and I will personally escort you to Lord Che.”

Che Yeming saw that Miao Zongbao would not yield, and knew the matter could not be avoided. Without another word, he tapped the ground lightly with his toe and soared into the air. Gripping his blade, he descended from above, slashing fiercely toward Miao Zongbao’s head.

Startled, Miao Zongbao had not expected Che Yeming to attack so suddenly and decisively. He dodged back, drawing his sword and blocking the blow.

Che Yeming knew his initial strike would not prevail. As blade and sword met, he slid swiftly along the sword’s edge, then with a deft flick, redirected his attack toward a man beside Miao Zongbao. The man, caught off guard, could not react before the blade pierced his chest.

Che Yeming withdrew the blade, a jet of blood arcing through the air, splattering the surroundings like crimson rain. The victim fell from his horse, dead without a sound.

The villagers, witnessing such ferocity—where a single disagreement meant death—stood stunned, unable to speak. As the two factions clashed ever more violently, someone finally cried out and the crowd scattered in panic.

Che Yeming’s killing intent intensified. He pressed off a horse’s head, leaping again, this time targeting the group behind Miao Zongbao.

The cultivators, seeing Che Yeming so fierce—one against a hundred—were themselves roused to valor. As he charged, they shouted and unleashed their magical weapons at him.

The sky filled with flying artifacts, creating a spectacle. Though agile and skilled, Che Yeming was gradually overwhelmed by the sheer numbers. He knew that if they encircled him, aided by the watchful Miao Zongbao, even his prowess would not save him.

Che Yeming pushed forward, slashing wildly, as if determined to storm through the ranks. The riders thought he would continue his onslaught, and held their positions, alert and ready. But seizing a chance, Che Yeming tapped across the horses, escaping toward the nearby forest.

The cultivators gave chase, unwilling to let him go. Che Yeming retreated as he fought, realizing that prolonged resistance would only lead to capture. He shouted, “Miao Zongbao, do you dare face me in battle? We are both at the peak of the Purple Mansion realm—will you fight me, fair and square?”

Miao Zongbao frowned at the challenge—a twelve-year-old daring him to duel. Refusing would tarnish his reputation and that of Miao Manor. Besides, Che Yeming was famed as a genius; could Miao Zongbao be lesser? He smiled, “Why not? Let’s see what you’re made of.”

The riders, loyal to their master, ceased fighting. Some elders wanted to advise caution, but seeing their lord’s high spirits, held their tongues.

Che Yeming, seeing the fight halted, raised his brows and strode from the forest, blade in hand. The Miao family did not miss the chance—they surrounded Che Yeming, preventing any escape. He ignored their encirclement, eyes fixed provocatively on Miao Zongbao.

Miao Zongbao soon stepped forward. The two exchanged no further words and immediately engaged, both paragons of Jizhou’s younger generation. One wielded his sword like a rainbow, the other his blade like lightning. Their battle raged, evenly matched.

Those watching, though they had hated Che Yeming for his violence, now saw his youth and masterful bladework—equal to their own lord—and could not help but cheer silently.

Miao Zongbao, finding himself unable to win, marveled inwardly. He had been at the peak of the Purple Mansion realm for years, yet Che Yeming—newly advanced—matched him stride for stride, a testament to his extraordinary talent.

He was not anxious; his foundation was deep, his mastery of the realm thorough. If the duel lasted, Che Yeming would surely lose.

Yet as time passed, Che Yeming remained steady, his defense and offense unwavering. In contrast, Miao Zongbao’s breath grew uneven, his swordplay faltering. The Miao family, seeing their lord losing ground, edged closer, ready to intervene at the slightest sign of trouble.