Chapter 31

That night, An Ping lay down to sleep in the City God Temple, tossing and turning, unable to find rest.

Too many recent events weighed heavily on his mind, tangled and overwhelming. He found himself almost afraid of sleep, for the clangor of swords and the thunder of horses invaded his dreams, bringing with them mountains of corpses and seas of blood. During the day, he had intended to ask Mu Gesheng what had happened afterward, but the words caught in his throat and were swallowed back. Regardless of whether the other remembered, some memories were like wounds that had festered for years—seemingly healed on the surface, but rotting and raw beneath.

Inside and outside the City God Temple, large red lanterns hung, some lit by electricity, others by candles. Outside the room where Anping lived, a lantern swayed gently in the wind. Anping stared at the lantern as the wick sparked small bursts of flame.

The wick burned thin through another night, the wind and rain bleak and desolate.

Suddenly, someone picked up scissors and snipped off a piece of the candle flame, making the light glow a little brighter.

Anping blinked and found the lantern had suddenly become exquisitely ornate, its hexagonal lacquer frame inlaid with silk gauze, a faint fragrance drifting through the air.

The furnishings in the room had also changed: red candles burned brightly, a mandarin duck embroidered quilt lay on the bed, silk curtains hung from the brocade canopy, and on the redwood table sat a pair of wine cups—cloisonné enamel with gold filigree.

Anping saw the double happiness character on the window and suddenly realized—this was the bridal chamber he had seen in his dream!

Not far away, the vase he had knocked over last time still lay shattered, fragments of celadon scattered across the floor. Anping suddenly understood something and turned his head; besides the bride, there was another person in the room.

That person stood with their back to him, the lamp shade casting a glow over the bridal candles. Clad in a bright red wedding robe, their posture was upright and graceful, like a jade tree swaying in the wind.

The other leaned forward, holding the bride's hand, speaking softly through the tassels of the veil.

"...Having met a gentleman."

The voice was very soft, like a fragile hope on the verge of breaking, yet also like a deep affection nurtured over many years.

"I will not abandon you."

Anping couldn't help but hold his breath. The two of them faced each other in the room, the carved lampshade casting colorful shadows, the walls covered in golden ginkgo leaves.

In that instant, the lights were silent and the room still, filled with the fullness of moonlight.

Suddenly, the front door was blown open by the wind, rattling wildly. Anping snapped his eyes open.

He had actually fallen asleep leaning against the bed just now.

Anping was momentarily dazed; the scene in his dream resembled the first time he had barged into the bridal chamber, yet it was entirely different. The room was brightly lit by red candles, as if steeped in deep affection.

But upon closer reflection, there seemed to be a hint of something eerie.

Outside, the lanterns had gone out at some unknown moment. The door stood wide open, letting in a cold, bone-chilling wind. Anping shivered and rose to close the door, only to see the entire City God Temple plunged into darkness. The ancient building was swallowed by the night, with faint outlines of red beams barely visible.

The scene was indescribably unsettling. Anping shuddered and hurried to shut the door, but then heard a crashing sound nearby, as if something had fallen. He had intended to close his eyes and ignore it, but driven by either curiosity or a vague premonition, he mustered his courage and stepped forward, discovering a room with its door left ajar.

Anping pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight. Shining it around, he found the space was not large—white walls and blue bricks, with no decorations, even quite simple. Only one wall had a table in front of it, with an incense burner and some fruit offerings, and a memorial tablet placed there.

It seemed the wind had blown the door open, causing the tablet to fall to the ground. The noise just now must have come from here. Anping breathed a sigh of relief; it wasn’t unusual for a City God temple to have offerings, nothing to make a fuss about. He stepped forward, put the tablet back in place, and, using the flashlight, glanced at the characters on it.

In the next moment, a chill rose unbidden, icy cold flooding his head. Anping froze completely, stunned and shocked, standing rooted to the spot.

Suddenly, a thunderclap split the sky, a flash of white light appeared, and then a torrential downpour began. Outside the door, the wind howled wildly, and the shadows of the trees swayed in chaos.

Thunder and rain are rare in winter, but Muge Sheng said it would rain at night, and sure enough, a heavy downpour came at midnight.

The sound of a lighter flicking broke through the rain, followed by a lamp lighting up. Anping suddenly snapped back to reality, hurriedly placing the tablet back where it belonged, and stepped outside. At the end of the corridor, the gate of the City God Temple was open, and amidst the endless rain, Wubi You was sitting on the threshold, smoking.

A lamp burned under the door, and by its light, Anping clearly saw what he was holding—it was a Guwang smoking pipe.

The young man smoked slowly, with a certain calmness. Rarely so quiet, through the haze of smoke and mist, Anping seemed to see once again that gentle, tall figure from years ago.

That person had also finished a pack of cigarettes like this, then faced life and death head-on.

"All charm is eventually washed away by wind and rain."

Wu Zixu stood at the end of the long street. In the distance, dark clouds pressed down on the city, cannon fire raged, deafening and relentless.

"I'm about to die, and you’re still here composing poetry," Song Wentong said, sitting on the eaves and drinking. "You reek of sour rot."

"That doesn’t sound like something you, the second brother, would say," Wu Zixu said, holding a smoking pipe, standing leisurely in the rain. Now he was once again the noble young master with skin like white jade, no longer the hysterical figure from his fight with Song Wentong, nor the helpless debater he was with Mu Gesheng. It was as if, just days ago, he had briefly become a boy, and now, facing an army of thousands, he had regained the refined grace of Wuchangzi.

Not far off was the sealed entrance to the Yin-Yang Staircase. With the continuous cannon fire outside the city, the ground trembled in waves. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning tore across the night sky, followed by a thunderous explosion that cracked the earth, and from deep underground came the neighing of thousands of horses.

The rain poured down in torrents.

Wu Zixu struck a match, lit his pipe, and stared into the black void at the street corner. "It's starting."

Song Wentong leapt down from the eaves, drew his sword, and took position at the forefront, his voice low and steady: "Do your part."

Wu Zixu patted his shoulder and turned to walk toward the far end of the long street. Behind him, the thunder of galloping hooves grew louder. Song Wentong let out a fierce shout, and a massive blade of light rose from the ground like a second moon in the sky. A wine jar shattered on the ground, the clash of weapons tangled into a chaotic roar, and the air instantly thickened with the heavy scent of blood.

Wu Zixu did not look back. He walked steadily across the long street and exhaled the first smoke of the rainy night.

Meanwhile, the city walls were already a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood.

Mu Gesheng’s voice was hoarse from shouting, “Hold steady! Carry the wounded down! Move the dead bodies aside! The vanguard, suppress with fire! Under no circumstances let them storm the battlements!” His throat was nearly destroyed, he tilted his head back to gulp down two mouthfuls of rainwater, then raised his hand and blew the head off an enemy soldier climbing the wall. Blood splattered all over his face; there was no time to wipe it off. He bit open a grenade and threw it down.

The enemy had come suddenly. The city defense battle had been raging for a day and a night. Out of three thousand men, fewer than a thousand remained. The disparity in strength was vast, ammunition was running low, and everyone was at their breaking point. But he had to hold on. The Yin-Yang Ladder would only open tonight; he had to last until dawn to give Lao Er and the others a sliver of hope.

If it were just about victory or defeat, the uprising of the Yin Soldiers was actually a great help—luring the enemy into the city, preferring to shatter like jade rather than survive like broken tiles, going down in a blaze of glory together. But he also knew very well that neither the defenders nor the tens of thousands of enemy troops outside the city were a match for the Yin Soldiers.

Once the enemy forces are allowed into the city, the final outcome will only be total annihilation, with even greater resentment absorbed by the shadow soldiers. At that moment, there will be no one left to stop them—the shadow soldiers will pour out across the city, and what awaits the lands in all directions will be true catastrophe.

Perhaps the Seven Families of the Scholars are precisely waiting for such an outcome, using the power of the shadow soldiers to cleanse the chaotic mountains and rivers, fighting poison with poison, completely overturning heaven and earth. In the end, when both sides are grievously wounded, the Seven Families will strike, restoring order to the mortal world.

It is indeed a cunning plan, and for the Seven Families, it is undoubtedly the optimal solution. Perhaps for those in power, it is also the best choice. But he cannot accept it. Mu Gesheng wiped the rainwater from his face and smiled wryly. He was truly unsuited to be a strategist; he was nothing more than an ordinary soldier. He could not stand by and watch a city fall, leaving the inland heartland without any strongholds to defend. Nor could he bear to see the shadow soldiers rise, bringing devastation, with thousands of bones exposed across the plains and countless souls wronged by the banks of the River of Forgetfulness.

He valued the fate of his homeland, every city and every piece of land, and cared deeply for the lives of his fellow countrymen, from the old to the young. He did not possess a heart that looked down on everything, nor could he purify his senses to gaze coldly upon this world.

Amidst a hail of bullets on the city wall, the defending soldiers below were almost using their bodies to block the city gate. "Report—!" A soldier came galloping, out of breath, shouting at Mu Gesheng, "The chief of staff sent me to tell you! The south gate can't hold!"

Mu Gesheng shouted, "Send over the last batch of gunpowder! Tell them to hold it no matter what, even if they have to tighten their pants!"

The ancient city originally had four gates. Last year, Commander Mu, with some foresight, sealed one of them. That left three gates. A few days ago, Mu Gesheng forced Song Wentong to rush and seal another gate, leaving only two gates: one on the east side and one on the south. Before the battle, Mu Gesheng gave a death order—heads could roll, but not a single gate was to be lost.

Before he finished speaking, a stray bullet flew straight at Mu Gesheng’s head. He couldn’t dodge in time, but suddenly someone lunged at him, pinning him down firmly. When Mu Gesheng pushed the person aside, he felt blood all over his hands. Sand and stones flew overhead; everyone was covered in dust and grime. He was stunned for a moment, then suddenly recognized the person before him. "Xiao Fengzi?! Who the hell let you enlist? You’re only fourteen this year, right?!"

“Mu, Young Master Mu.” Xiao Fengzi, covered in blood and gasping for breath, said, “N-no, it’s not right. I should be calling you Officer now.”

“Don’t you care about your parents?!” Mu Gesheng shouted uncontrollably, “You rush in to die—who will take care of your sister?”

“Our family has always been indebted to you. It was you who drove away the corrupt official who forcibly took over our home. When my father was seriously ill, it was the Chai family who helped care for and shelter him... You and Young Master Chai both refused to leave. My father said that one must keep gratitude in their heart...”

“I’ve followed you since I was a child. When thugs and ruffians came to take over our neighborhood, you led us to drive them out. Now, even bigger bullies are coming to seize our city. Of course, I want to follow you, follow you to drive them away...”

Xiaofengzi spat out a mouthful of blood, grasped Mu Gesheng’s hand, and smiled faintly through his gasps, “The clothes you ordered from my shop that day, I delivered them to Yeshu Zhu Hua. It’s a pity everyone enjoyed the feast that night, but you didn’t come to your own welcome banquet... N-no matter, once you win, we’ll drink the victory wine together... Wearing the long gown I tailored for you, you’ll look truly magnificent...”

Mu Gesheng wiped the blood from his face. “Enough, I’ll send someone to take you for treatment.”

He handed Xiaofengzi over to the messenger who had ridden up on horseback. The medical camp was not far within the city. “You hang in there,” he said, clutching Xiaofengzi’s wound tightly, his voice fierce, “When I return, I’ll treat you to victory wine and feast on Yeshu Zhu Hua until it’s empty.”

Smoke and gunpowder filled the air; no one had a moment to rest. Mu Gesheng turned and left. The stairs were already littered with the dead. Stepping over the bodies of his comrades, he climbed once more to the city walls, a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood beneath him.

The communications soldier sprinted alongside Xiaofengzi, rushing him to the medical camp. Covered in blood, Chai Shuxin came forward to meet them. "Leave him to me." He lifted Xiaofengzi down from the horse, and the communications soldier immediately galloped away. Chai carried the boy into the tent, where the stench of blood was overwhelming, and cries of agony echoed all around.

"Brother!" The girl assisting with the aid caught sight of the person in Chai Shuxin’s arms and instantly her eyes reddened. She helped settle Xiaofengzi in an empty spot. "Young Master Chai, is my brother’s injury still treatable?"

In these past few days, the girl had witnessed so much life and death that it equaled several lifetimes for an ordinary person. She didn’t skirt around the severity of the wound but chose to ask directly if there was hope. If he could be saved, then save him; if not, a swift end was far better than lingering in pain. She kept dragging away one corpse after another, still strong enough to carefully carry her brother out.

Chai Shuxin glanced at her, grabbed the medical kit, and said softly, "He’ll be fine."

The girl immediately burst into tears but, afraid of disturbing Chai Suxin’s acupuncture, she could only run to the side to tend to the wounded, quietly sobbing.

The wind howled, the rain pounded, and gunfire cracked sharply; huge raindrops pattered loudly against the tent, while stray bullets exploded not far away.

The entire tent shook, yet Chai Suxin’s hand remained steady as he inserted the needles. Calmly, he cleaned the wound, removed the bullet fragments, stopped the bleeding, and stitched it up. Finally, he said to the girl, “I remember there’s some medicine left. Following the old recipe, add dried tangerine peel and rhubarb, boil a bowl, and have him drink it.”

The girl quickly agreed and ran out of the tent. Mu Gesheng looked at Xiaofengzi and said, “Your sister has gone. If you feel pain, you can call out.”

Xiaofengzi groaned and said, "It's raining outside, please have her put on an extra layer..."

"Alright." Chai Suxin took his pulse, and after a moment asked, "How is the battle in the city going?"

"I don't really understand... but many people died before they could even reach the medical camp. Everyone is fighting desperately..."

"...What about Muge Sheng?"

“Officer Mu is okay, he’s a bit injured, but he can still hold on…”

“I understand.” Chai Suxin said softly, “You did very well.”

“...Are you cold?”

“I’m fine.” Chai Suxin took off his own coat and covered Xiao Fengzi with it. “You rest well, I’m here.”

During the brief moment of conversation, his hand kept trembling, even faster than the other person's pulse.

On both sides of the long street, jars of wine were lined up. The Yin soldiers surged wildly on the Yin-Yang stairs but could never advance beyond the wine jars. The street was packed with troops; Song Wentong's eyes were bloodshot as he slaughtered heads like slicing melons and cutting vegetables. The Yin soldiers beheaded by the blood-licked blades instantly turned into a wisp of blue smoke, their ashes scattering. Song Wentong’s clothes were almost dyed white, only to be immediately washed away by the torrential rain.

The surging Yin soldiers grew more numerous. Although the mountain ghost had spent money in advance to place formations inside the wine jars, one street simply couldn’t hold back an army for long. The street entrance was too narrow; the Yin soldiers couldn’t scatter, so they stepped on their comrades’ heads to climb into the air, layer upon layer, their armor stacked together like a colossal bronze wall.

Someone blew a horn, and the Yin soldiers let out hoarse howls.

Song Wen Tong coldly watched the wailing and howling before him. He bit a strand of wet hair, his muscles tensed tightly, bones cracking with sharp, grating sounds. Finally, he twisted his neck, as if growing an inch taller out of thin air. He shrugged off his outer garment, sweat and heat continuously pouring out from his pores. The rain couldn’t even reach him; it evaporated midair.

This was the secret technique of Penglai, "Snow Burning." He had spent a full three years at the Sword Pavilion to master it. By circulating energy through his meridians and adjusting his bones and limbs, it pushed a person’s potential to the extreme. On the day he completed the training, heavy snow blanketed the mountains. He planted a seed, completed his breathing exercises, and a lotus flower bloomed in the snow.

He breathed slowly, his entire body tuned to its peak. But the secret technique alone was not enough; the ultimate cultivation method required the ultimate external force—the Mo family’s ancestral Red-Licking Blade Technique. This blade, forged since the dawn of creation by Pangu himself, could sever even yin and yang at the moment it struck.

A familiar voice whispered in his ear: “When you hold a blade in your hand, nothing can stop a Mo.”

“As expected, such a lively scene wouldn’t be complete without you, Mom.” Song Wentong smiled at the woman in his memory, tilted his head back, and let out a long sigh. Then, with a fierce shout, he charged forward like an arrow released from a bow. The wine jars lining the street exploded one by one, the strong liquor mixing with the torrential rain, creating a tidal wave that lifted Song Wentong into the air. He summoned every ounce of his strength, drew his sword, and slashed down with unparalleled ferocity.

It was a beautiful yet violent strike, tracing a perfect circle in the air. The blade’s light collided with the bronze wall like a sunset sinking into the river, stirring up towering waves. The amassed shadow soldiers crumbled instantly, howling as they turned to dust. Exhausted from the strike, Song Wentong collapsed to the ground, struggling to prop himself up on his sword, and shouted hoarsely, “Wu Nie!”

“Impertinent youngster, you should address me as Lord Taisui!” A red light burst forth from the Yin-Yang staircase, cutting through the layers of people and overturning the shadow soldiers from behind. Wu Nie fought his way forward, quickly breaking through the encirclement, and hurled a flower ball into the distance. “Catch this, kid!”

The flower ball soared into the air, and Song Wentong kicked it midair, propelling himself all the way to the end of the long street.

The bouquet hit the ground and exploded, transforming into a large vermilion drum. The torrential rain pounded the drumhead, noisy like the hooves of ten thousand horses.

Wu Zixu stood before the drum, looked up, and slowly exhaled his last puff of smoke.

He tossed aside the cigarette holder and leapt onto the drum surface.

An Ping watched as Wu Bi threw away the cigarette holder and rose to walk into the pouring rain. The deep drumbeats faintly echoed. He hurried out the door and found that a large drum had been placed on the street corner at some unknown time.

Wubi leapt onto the drum surface; the youth bowed in the rain, hands turning over—a dance’s opening gesture.

Muge Sheng stood not far off, holding a pipa across his chest, locking eyes with the youth from afar, and slowly spoke—

In an instant, the sound of rain ceased, and the world fell silent.

Wunie stepped forward to block the shadow soldiers, Song Wentong burst through the crowd, sprinting toward the Guanshan Yue beside the long street—the music hall’s doors and windows were wide open tonight, the rooftop terrace filled with instrument stands, pipa and qin displayed in array. Song Wentong grabbed a pipa and hurriedly plucked its strings in the pouring rain.

The silver vase suddenly shatters, water and pulp splashing forth; iron cavalry bursts out, blades and spears clashing loudly.

Mu Gesheng looked at Wubi You.

Song Wentong looked at Wu Zixu.

The pipa’s strumming is sharp and piercing, its sound like torn silk, with a song rising abruptly from the ground—

"Who says there are no clothes? Red makeup and white silk!

Who says there is no speech? Burning a thousand poems!

Who says there is no song? Singing long songs as if weeping!

Who says there is no war? Reckless warfare to the end!"

The dancer moved like a startled phoenix, fierce and graceful, like a sword breaking through enemy lines, like softness curling around a finger. The unstoppable killing intent and breathtaking beauty merged into one, as heavy as uprooting mountains, as light as a white crane spreading its wings. As the dancer leapt like drawing a sword, the air around seemed to solidify, obeying both heaven and earth without exception.

This was no ordinary dance, but the unparalleled art of the Yin-Yang masters—the General’s Nuo Dance.

The Yin-Yang masters could command gods and ghosts, wielding their mystical rods, even making the King of Hell obey orders. Yet, faced with tens of thousands of ghost soldiers that even the Ten Kings of Hell could not control, the only force able to confront them was the long-lost ancient dance of the Yin-Yang masters—the General’s Nuo Dance. “The General’s Nuo Dance has been lost for centuries.” That day, Wu Zixu stood at the west gate of the city, staring in disbelief at Wu Nie. “The last time the General’s Nuo Dance appeared was when the Prince of Lanling played the battle music in the army. Uncle, you actually still possess this secret art?”

“We’ve lived in Fengdu for nearly a thousand years; there’s more to me than just age.” Wu Nie tossed the flower ball. “Have you seen the Ghost Assembly’s Hundred Performances? The Twelve Heavy Cases Dance I perform is actually a segment of the General’s Nuo Dance.”

The Nuo dance, also known as the dance of worshipping gods, was performed by ancient people wearing Nuo masks, symbolizing the invocation of divine spirits. They danced in accordance with the gods’ will, thereby revealing the divine intent to the world. Later, the Yin-Yang masters emerged, practicing the art of summoning gods and commanding ghosts, integrating the Nuo dance into their family teachings, passing it down through generations. Among these, the most dazzling and fierce was the General’s Nuo dance.

The battlefield is a gathering place for myriad ghosts, rivaling even the Western City Gate. When the ancestors of the Yin-Yang masters invented the General’s Nuo dance, it was to harness the power of the war god to dispel the resentment of the battlefield. With a single dance, countless ghosts would be subdued. But the war god is inherently ruthless and bloodthirsty; once the dance is performed to summon the god, a great killing aura descends upon the dancer. Over the generations, many who performed the General’s Nuo dance met untimely deaths. Eventually, this supreme art faded into obscurity, not seen for hundreds of years.

“To learn this dance, you must be willing to die,” Wu Nie once told Wu Zixu. “The spirit of killing, the will to dominate, the heart of disdain, the resolve to face death. Only with these can you perform this world-shaking dance.”

“Of course, our family would never watch our descendants march to their deaths,” Wu Nie suddenly smiled. “During the Warring States period, a musician once witnessed this dance. In that heart-stirring moment, he composed a piece called ‘No Clothes.’ When played alongside the dance, it can reduce the killing aura within the performance.”

“But this piece was lost even earlier than the dance; my family has never heard the complete version. It was reconstructed based on fragments left from a thousand years ago. Later, when drinking with friends, I sang it out loud, and one of them helped me fill in the lyrics.”

“The Mohist school still preserves this piece. When the ghost soldiers rise in rebellion, the outcome will be decided between you two.”

Songwen’s ten fingers danced over the strings, as if commanding an army charging into battle; the five strings sounded like clashing weapons.

There was a murderous aura beneath his fingers, the music cutting through the rain like blades, but it couldn’t last long—the strings soon snapped. Yet the terrace of Guanshan Moon was already filled with instruments, arranged in layers on stands. Whenever one was ruined, he immediately switched to a new one. He wasn’t particularly skilled in music theory; some instruments he had never even touched before, but the moment he played, melodies burst forth—Aunt Zhao’s words were true: this piece is a legacy, long since woven into his very bones.

This is a song that ends killing with killing—a melody that anyone with a battlefield in their heart can remember!

Anping stood in the rain, watching Mu Gesheng sing out loud—

"How many times have I seen the sword in drunkenness? Countless are the gallant deeds!

How many times have the clashing spears and iron horses charged? The green hills bury the bones!"

The sound of the zither rang out sharply as Song Wentong threw down the last zither, drew his sword, and rose, striking the pillar as he sang.

"Fame and fortune are but dust, right and wrong, success and failure, all written in a single stroke.

The old river folk talk of the seasoned world; in a moment of prosperity, countless bones wither!"

"Rise, and the people suffer; fall, and the people suffer;

Rise and fall, who in the world holds the reins?

For countless generations, what fault lies with the innocent child?

Author's note:

The wind sighs softly, the rain falls gently, the lamp’s flame flickers thin through another night—Nalan Xingde