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That evening, an odd atmosphere lingered in Lord Bai’s residence. The gnawing sting of a double defeat mingled with the relief brought by knowing that things could have turned out far worse. Wushuang was sitting in Xiao Chong’s favorite chair, doing his best to pretend nothing was wrong. From time to time, he cast furtive glances at the man looming in the corner, who had not spoken a single word so far, yet stubbornly kept him company.
There were, however, questions that demanded answers, so at last Wushuang broke the silence, turning to the only person who could give him one at this moment.
“Sir, do you know when they’ll be serving dinner? I’m a bit hungry.” He grinned, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment.
“I am Yan Zhantian,” came the grim reply from the shadowed corner. “You fought today on behalf of my disciple, so spare me the formalities.”
“I know who you are,” Wushuang shot back at once, ignoring the fact that his question had gone unanswered. “I may not have the best memory, but some things are obvious even to me.” He peered into the shadows with barely concealed excitement. “I didn’t think that on my very first day in Tianqi, I’d be lucky enough to meet two such eminent figures of the martial world.”
Yan Zhantian’s brows drew together in a frown. “Had I known Qingyang harbored such malicious intentions, I would not have taken a single step from Qianjin Gambling House. Even he wouldn’t have dared lay a hand on you in my presence.”
“Good thing Xiao Se and Lei Wujie were there,” Wushuang replied brightly. “Otherwise I’d have met a bad end.”
“Xiao Se appears wherever there’s the most to be gained,” Yan Zhantian muttered. “Xiao Chong has incurred yet another great debt to him. With his sentimentality, he won’t be able to turn against him in the struggle for the throne—not with everything his brother has done for him still fresh in his mind.”
“I don’t understand politics,” Wushuang admitted, smiling with a hint of sheepishness, “but I guess that means I wasn’t much help. I only made things more complicated.”
“Through your actions you confirmed your support for my disciple. You stood against the top of the Golden Ranking and did not die. That is not without significance,” Yan Zhantian replied, his expression growing even more severe, as if to counterbalance the mildness of his words.
“Ah. So it’s a good thing I came here,” Wushuang said happily.
“I never said that,” he heard in reply. “You came from so far away, yet you weren’t able to tip the scales. At this moment, we have no more moves to make. That proves our weakness.”
Wushuang gave the older man a look of disarming helplessness. “I can’t tell if you’re praising me or condemning me.”
Yan Zhantian rose slowly, emerging from the shadows. In the candlelight, his robe gleamed a rusty hue, like maple leaves in autumn. A strong hand rested on the pommel of the great sword sheathed at his side. His eyes were pools of darkness beneath the black lines of his brows.
“Chong’er should never have brought you here.” His dark voice deepened as he stood tall in the full authority of his bearing. “It was obvious from the start that this was a losing battle.”
“Huh?” Wushuang bristled. “Obvious to whom? It wasn’t obvious to me.”
Yan Zhantian gave him a grim look. “Which is exactly why you shouldn’t be here. The imperial court is no place for those who cannot gauge their own strength.”
“But you lost too,” Wushuang pointed out.
“I didn’t lose,” Yan Zhantian growled . “I merely confirmed that this time, I would not be able to win.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“No.”
Wushuang gave him a long look. “We should have a match as well.”
“I’m not going to fight you when you’ve only just been injured,” Yan Zhantian retorted.
Wushuang rolled his eyes. “I’m not saying we have to do it now. I’ll be staying for a while. There’ll be a chance.”
Yan Zhantian gave a grunt that could have meant anything.
“I think you’re one of the few people in Beili who could teach me something useful,” Wushuang went on. “It would be a shame to waste the opportunity.”
“Spare me the flattery. Sweet words won’t get you anywhere with me.”
“I’m saying what I think,” the young man replied without missing a beat. “I suspect you’re at least as interesting a figure as Sikong Changfeng or Luo Qingyang. And you dress well.”
“…What did you just say?” Yan Zhantian growled, a touch uncertain.
“You heard me. Everyone else wears only white or black, blue or red, silver or gold. It’s awfully dull. You’re the only one here besides me who wears livelier colors. You look like an old tiger. Especially when you make that face.”
“Old?” Yan Zhantian glowered at him from under his brows. “Where do you see anything old about me?”
Wushuang folded his arms and shot him a glance from above the lifted corner of his mouth.
“Only old people make a fuss about being called old.”
“You little—”
“Master.” Xiao Chong chose this moment to walk into the room. “Forgive me, but Xie Xuan has come to check on Wushuang. Let’s leave them alone. In the meantime, allow me to invite you to dinner.”
“Hmph.” Yan Zhantian turned on his heel and left without sparing the boy so much as another glance.
† ♡ †
Yan Zhantian stood in the garden. It was cold, and the light of the lamps could not entirely drive away the darkness that wrapped itself around his disciple’s otherwise magnificent residence. His breath froze in the air in silver plumes. The carp in the pond were sluggish and drowsy, oblivious to the turmoil beyond their little world. And the turmoil in Tianqi was undeniable.
The residence had become a different place of late. The return of Lord Yong’an, Xiao Chong’s regained sight, the incident with General Ye and the young Lord Langya, and now Luo Qingyang’s arrival—all of it had stirred his disciple’s household to life, drawing in veritable hordes of friends, enemies, and unexpected allies alike. Yan Zhantian disliked crowds and being surrounded by strangers—but Chong’er needed this. He needed to take back his rightful place in the world, to remind Tianqi and all of Beili that he was a contender for the throne. If that required him to endure the presence of insolent youths for a time, Yan Zhantian was prepared to bear it.
“Old tiger…” he muttered to himself, looking down at his reflection in the pond. A passing carp sent ripples across the surface. “I’ve been called a rabid dog and a raging dragon—but never an old tiger…”
It would be utter foolishness to take pleasure in such a nickname, just as it would be foolish to seek out the young half-wit solely to ask after his health. Obviously the boy was fine if he’d been able to backtalk him like that not a moment ago. So Yan Zhantian did not go to the prince’s pavilion, but anchored himself by the pond, which Xie Xuan would have to pass on his way out. He sat there because he liked watching the carp, and he was most certainly not waiting for the Scholarly Sword Deity. He had no reason whatsoever to wait for him.
† ♡ †
“I’m glad to see you weren’t seriously injured.” Xiao Chong poured tea for his guest. “Someone of your talent, standing, and integrity at such a young age ought to be valued throughout the martial world. I cannot fathom why the Lone Sword Deity would go to such extremes.”
“Luo Qingyang is first on the Golden List. He owes no one an explanation for his decisions or motives.” Wushuang inclined his head in thanks. “I’m sure you’re better placed to understand them than I am. Yuzhai tried to explain the intricacies of court politics to me, but it’s wasted on me. ” He smiled apologetically.
“The Lone Sword Deity came here at Lord Chi’s invitation,” Zang Ming offered quickly. “ His Highness’s brother is willing to go to great lengths to remove any competition for the throne. That’s reason enough for Luo Qingyang to try to rid His Highness of a strong ally like the Lord of Wushuang City—who also happens to be a Sword Deity.”
“Of course, that’s the simplest explanation,” Xiao Chong admitted. “But the common belief about deities is that it’s hard to entangle them in mundane intrigue—especially on the scale of a struggle for the throne.”
“And yet the Wrathful Sword Deity openly stands at Your Highness’s side, and no one finds that strange,” Wushuang pointed out.
Xiao Chong considered this, warming his hand against the tea bowl. “My master does have a somewhat different reputation. People are more willing to suspect him of ill intent, and of misdeeds they wouldn’t attribute to other deities.”
“Deservedly?” Wushuang asked with interest.
Xiao Chong sighed, a touch of melancholy in it. “He did things to deserve it, no doubt. But toward me, he is not the man the rest of the world takes him for.”
Wushuang responded with a thoughtful hum, nodding slowly. “On my way here, I met Mu Yumo,” he said. “Your master, Yan Zhantian, is a little like her.”
“Like Mu Yumo, head of the Mu family from Dark River?” Xiao Chong had to check he’d heard correctly.
“Mhm.” Wushuang nodded. “She was kind, beautiful, and tried to scare me off. Yan Zhantian isn’t kind—at least, not in an obvious way. But aside from that, they’re alike.”
From the look on Zang Ming’s face, Xiao Chong knew he wasn’t the only one confused.
“I can agree my master tries to frighten everyone away,” he said. “But… did you just imply he’s beautiful?” he asked with mild amusement.
“Of course!” Wushuang sounded almost offended. “As his disciple, Your Highness should know that better than anyone!”
“I’m not sure I’d use that particular word…” The young warrior’s conviction was so strong and so sincere that Xiao Chong felt embarrassed despite himself. “But I will agree my master is peerless with a sword, honorable, and radiates an air of majesty,” he conceded diplomatically.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying !” The boy pointed at him with his chopsticks for emphasis. “When I stood before him for the first time, my knees went weak. Even Sikong Changfeng never made me feel like that.”
Xiao Chong glanced again at Zang Ming, whose expression had taken on something verging on the comical. For all Wushuang’s insistence, he had the distinct impression they were not talking about the same thing.
Meanwhile, Yan Zhantian stood plastered to the other side of the wall, and was most definitely not eavesdropping. Nor was he making any effort to calm himself after what he had, entirely by accident, just happened to overhear. That would have been beneath his dignity.
† ♡ †
Yan Zhantian was not like the other Blade Deities. Wushuang had known that even before his talk with Xiao Chong, and before standing face-to-face with the man himself. He knew it because everyone in the martial world knew it. But now he had the Wrathful Sword Deity within arm’s reach—living under the same roof, sharing meals, crossing paths in the garden, and once even stumbling by mistake into his quarters at bath time, which had nearly driven the man to draw the Army Crusher.
All this came down to the fact that Wushuang no longer merely knew Yan Zhantian was unlike other Blade Deities—he had seen it with his own eyes. He was reminded of it with every encounter, felt it in the shiver racing over his skin and in the lurch of his stomach, whether before a meal, during, or after. Yan Zhantian seemed inexplicably bound to the reactions of his body; his voice, his expression, the shadowed glares and furrowed brows, the dramatic, decisive motions and impatient gestures—all of it went to Wushuang’s head with the same dizzying force as the wine he’d drunk with the prince and Zang Ming that night when he couldn’t find the way back to his room.
Yan Zhantian was not like the other Blade Deities—nor like any other deity, nor like anyone else in the whole martial world.
Wushuang accepted this as easily as he accepted most things, and quickly moved on to the next step: drawing conclusions, and then—acting on them.
† ♡ †
Life in Xiao Chong’s residence had grown difficult of late. Largely because of a certain young deity who somehow appeared at every turn. In recent days, Yan Zhantian had tried every possible time for breakfast, yet each morning found the boy from Wushuang City already at the table, wearing the same radiant smile and the same unshakable cheek. Today was no exception.
“Wushuang,” he grunted instead of a greeting.
“Master!” The boy broke off eating.
“Who are you calling master?” Yan Zhantian barked.
“Ah. Right. I should ask first.” The boy grinned shamelessly and set down his bowl and chopsticks. “Wushuang, First Lord of Wushuang City , begs the Wrathful Sword Deity Yan Zhantian to take him as a disciple!”
That was the last thing he needed.
“I refuse,” he snapped at once, on pure defensive reflex.
Wushuang showed not the slightest discouragement. “Then I’ll ask again tomorrow. Please give it some thought. If I became your second disciple, the prince would become my elder martial brother. That would certainly strengthen our bond.”
“Are you trying to be clever?” Yan Zhantian’s perpetually furrowed brows drew down even further.
“Yes. How am I doing?” Wushuang asked with an innocent smile.
Yan Zhantian gave a snort in place of an answer and stalked off toward the garden, still hungry.
† ♡ †
Wushuang knew many things—mostly thanks to Yuzhai, who, unlike his master, didn’t believe that the Wushuang Sword Box was the only thing in the world his younger martial brother should concern himself with. Apart from knowing that Yan Zhantian was one of a kind, he also knew that life didn’t always go the way people wished. But once again, knowing something and experiencing it firsthand proved to be two very different matters.
“No. How many times do I have to repeat myself?” Yan Zhantian growled.
“If you’re tired of repeating yourself, you could always agree for a change.”
It wasn’t their first exchange of this kind, but it was the first time Yan Zhantian truly looked angry. Wushuang couldn’t tell what he had done to earn it. He had only stepped out into the guest pavilion’s open-air hall after his bath, and there the man stood like a statue—without his sword, gaze dark and fixed on the moon. It had been impossible not to seize such an opportunity. Yet the moment he caught the Wrathful Sword Deity’s attention, what little peace the man had found vanished. Yan Zhantian listened to him with mounting impatience, eyes blazing ever hotter, until Wushuang stumbled over his own words.
Now they stood facing each other—Wushuang with arms folded across his chest, Yan Zhantian with his hands hanging awkwardly at his sides, as if without a sword he no longer knew what to do with them—locked in a stubborn, unyielding stare. The only good thing about the situation was that this time, Yan Zhantian did not look as if he were about to walk away. He seemed ready to stand there indefinitely, waiting for Wushuang to make the right move. The problem was, Wushuang had no idea what the man wanted him to do.
He thought of Yuzhai, of his moods, and all those moments when it was Wushuang who had to act like the elder brother. He lowered his arms with a quiet sigh.
“Go back inside, Master,” he spoke. “It’s late, and it’s cold. I won’t trouble you any further.” He bowed, ready to leave.
“You’re the one who came out here right after your bath.” Yan Zhantian stopped him with an angry retort. “You’re not even dressed properly. Do you miss that stupid scholar so much?”
Wushuang had no idea where that came from. The Scholarly Sword Deity had visited him only three times, two of which were merely in the course of discussing affairs with Yan Zhantian and His Highness. Xie Xuan was immensely knowledgeable and fascinating to talk to, so it was hard not to enjoy his company—but suggesting that Wushuang missed him was a bit much.
“I’ll go back to my room as well,” he replied nevertheless, trying to smooth things over. “I only came out to get some fresh air and cool down—the water was too hot.” He touched his forehead, pushing back damp strands of hair. Yan Zhantian’s gaze followed the movement.
“If all you wanted was fresh air, then why can’t you keep your mouth shut?” he growled, turning back to the moon in irritation.
“You know how I like talking with you.” Wushuang rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Besides, I’m naturally rather talkative. You’re not the first person to find it annoying.”
“When did I ever say I found it annoying?” came the retort.
Wushuang looked helplessly at the proud profile outlined against the night sky. From this angle the man’s face seemed almost gentle; the furrows of anger between his brows and around his mouth smoothed into the rounded planes of even features, and his faraway gaze lacked the devastating force it carried in direct confrontation.
“Have a good night, Master.” Wushuang bowed once more and cast a final glance at the silent man before turning back into the pavilion. A cold gust urged him not to linger.
“Good night,” came the angry growl after him as he slipped inside. Wushuang smiled and made his way toward his room.
† ♡ †
“Does Your Highness know why Yan Zhantian refuses to take me as his disciple?”
The melancholy look in the young City Lord’s eyes was something new. Xiao Chong paused beside him, resting his hands on the polished wooden railing of the gazebo.
“Master doesn’t take disciples,” he said gently. “Our bond is the work of fate. It could never have been forged under ordinary circumstances.”
Wushuang sighed.
“In that case, all I can do is wait for fate to smile on me as well. Until then, I’ll watch him closely and learn what I can from what I see and hear.”
“I think that’s a reasonable approach,” Xiao Chong agreed carefully. “Master seems to approve of your company—which is a rare thing in itself. That alone is an honor.”
“Really?” Dark eyes lit up at the words. “Then I’ll go find him.”
Xiao Chong could only watch helplessly as the boy marched off, brimming with determination. He hadn’t seen that coming. Truly, not even Xiao Chuhe would have seen this coming. Xiao Chong had invited into his home two fearless warriors, sword masters named deities, whose skill and accomplishments had carried them to the heights of the Golden Ranking. As it was, he found himself living under one roof with two people undeniably captivated by each other and entirely clueless what to make of it. At least Wushuang had found a constructive outlet for his fascination with his elder. As for his master…
“That young half-wit finally gone?” The harsh voice behind him could belong to no one else.
“Wushuang is not a half-wit,” Xiao Chong replied, eyes on the frost-laced garden. “He has a sincere heart and a very clear sense of what is right. I respect him for that.”
Yan Zhantian made a noncommittal sound that probably wasn’t agreement, but not outright denial either.
“Why is it that Master does not wish to take Wushuang on as a disciple?”
“You too?” Yan Zhantian huffed in frustration. “Where’s the sense in that? On the Golden Ranking he and I are judged equals. At this level, growth no longer comes from training under a teacher, but from one’s own exploration of technique and from encounters with other masters, other blades, other techniques. I can face him once he’s back to full strength, but I won’t take him as a disciple.”
Xiao Chong turned his back on the framed garden and looked squarely at his master’s furrowed brows. “That is a reasonable argument. Perhaps Master should tell him exactly that, instead of rejecting him without a word of explanation. It’s plain the matter troubles him.”
“Wushuang isn’t forty years old to be seeking peace of mind,” Yan Zhantian retorted firmly. “If it matters to him, let him fight for it—even if it’s a lost cause.”
With that, he turned, his robe sweeping the polished floor, and strode off in the same direction Wushuang had gone. Xiao Chong truly understood less and less of any of this.
† ♡ †
It wasn’t the first time Yan Zhantian ended up here. In truth, he’d come so many times already that he no longer had the strength to pretend to himself that it was mere coincidence.
Every day Wushuang trained in the same place—outside the city, far enough from dwellings and roads not to be disturbed by chance onlookers. And even Luo Qingyang would have to admit it was a sight worth seeing; if Yan Zhantian was the old tiger, then Wushuang was the young lion—a mysterious wanderer from the edge of the known world, fearless, brimming with strength and grace.
It was a fleeting thought, one he cast aside the instant it began to take shape. He was no poet, no sentimental fool, and he had no intention of becoming one. From between the trees his sharp eyes followed the fluid movements of the young man and his twelve swords, joined together in a dangerous dance. The blades shot toward a cluster of riverside trees, circled them with the ease of birds, and returned without so much as nicking a single leaf. If he wished, Wushuang could have felled the massive trunks with a single stroke—but instead of raw force he chose perfect control, proving his skill without demanding sacrifice.
Yan Zhantian’s fists clenched. His own sword quivered in its scabbard, steel against steel ringing faintly. Had Wushuang paused for an instant in his ecstatic dance, he might have heard it—but he did not. Instead, he sent another strike soaring into the sky, twelve blades rising toward the pale sun with the elegance of birds borne upward by the crystal wind. What Yan Zhantian felt was indeed very close to rage. It quickened his pulse, sent heated blood racing through his veins, and dragged to the surface the urge for sudden, reckless action. That was why his sword strained so hard to be drawn. Yet Yan Zhantian understood better what was happening within him, even if he would never admit it, and so he held his breath, waiting for the end of a spectacle he alone was witness to.
When the twelve swords finally returned to rest inside the Wushuang Box, the knuckles gripping his hilt were white from the strain.
“What do you think, Master?” A bright voice carried across the water, shattering the forest hush.
Yan Zhantian had not expected Wushuang to be aware of him. The boy swung the box onto his back and turned toward him with a smile, breath quickened, stray strands of hair clinging to his smooth brow. For the first time since that day he’d found himself at Xiao Chong’s mercy, Yan Zhantian had no idea what to do. He certainly could not do the one thing he most wanted. So he turned without a word and, with a few swift leaps, vanished into the trees.
He hadn’t even drawn his sword; and yet he felt he had lost.
† ♡ †
“Wushuang?” Xiao Chong paused, puzzled, in front of the guest pavilion where the young deity was sprawled across the railing, sipping wine freshly delivered to the residence. “Is everything all right?”
“No need to worry, Your Highness. Zang Ming recommended the latest batch of wine to me.” Behind Xiao Chong, the said advisor cleared his throat in embarrassment. “I’m trying to appreciate its depth of flavor, but I fear my palate isn’t trained enough.”
“Not everyone is born a connoisseur, nor does everyone need to be fond of alcohol.” Xiao Chong climbed the steps to lean on the railing beside him. “Is this one of those things you’re trying purely so you can tell your elder martial brother about it afterward?”
“Your Highness has guessed correctly.” Wushuang straightened up and sat properly, legs dangling beside his host. “Yuzhai told me to experience the world and remember everything, so I could later give him a full account. I couldn’t ignore wine so highly praised by Zang Ming.”
Xiao Chong smiled gently. “Your elder martial brother cares a great deal for you.”
“That’s true,” Wushuang agreed, gazing gloomily at his swinging feet. “I hope he’d be proud. In such short time I’ve had a taste of fine wine, a taste of blood, and a taste of defeat. I’ll have plenty to tell him about.”
Xiao Chong looked at him with warmth in his eyes. “Some, however, should avoid wine, for it sets them adrift in melancholy and stirs up thoughts that would otherwise remain concealed.”
“Your Highness is right again. But that mood found me before I even tried this fine wine.”
“It’s unusual to see you downcast,” Xiao Chong observed.
“It’s not so usual to come upon things that shift one’s vision of the world.”
Wushuang dropped lightly from the railing and turned toward the garden. Xiao Chong moved to stand beside him. He still had not grown used to being able to look at trees, paths, ponds, and stones that before had been nothing more than markers in the vast bounds of his comfortable prison. Yet in this moment he wasn’t admiring the spiral of rock where water murmured down, nor the flowers of winter bloom—he watched Wushuang’s face, transformed by the shadow of deep thought.
“Will you share them with me?” he tried. “In martial skill I’m far beneath you, but I know something of life’s hardships… and of how great hopes crumble into bitter nothingness.”
Wushuang dropped his gaze to his hands clenched on the railing. “I simply realized I can’t have everything,” he said quietly. The tone—uncertain, almost subdued—didn’t suit him at all.
“For some, life never allows even the chance to think they might have all they wish,” said Xiao Chong. “And then I know those older than you who still haven’t learned the lesson. I cannot say which is worse.”
Wushuang’s mouth curved in a wry, self-mocking smile. “Nor can I. For the first time, things aren’t going my way. I went to Xueyue to bring happiness to my master, and couldn’t fulfill his wish. I came to Tianqi and lost to Luo Qingyang; I’d be dead now if not for Xiao Se and his companions. And now, when I’ve finally found something I greatly desire, I can’t have it—and I begin to understand the disappointment, grief, and bitterness older masters so often carry in their hearts.”
Xiao Chong, who had never expected such a burdened confession from the spirited youth, stared at the boy’s profile in surprise. Before he could think of an answer, however, another voice rang out behind him.
“Not this again.” Yan Zhantian’s growl carried across the terrace. “Is one brooding deity in Tianqi not enough? Do you plan to steal Luo Qingyang’s technique?”
Wushuang whirled around. “Mas—” he began, but cut himself short, lowering his eyes.
“Ha? Finally stopped trying to trick me into being your master? Why the sudden eagerness to call me that? On the first day you were perfectly happy calling me an old tiger.”
Xiao Chong’s gaze flicked between the two men, uncertain if he should intervene. Zang Ming had appeared at his side, listening intently to what he could not see—while his master had stopped before Wushuang, watching him with what seemed more like vexation than real anger. When no witty reply came for some time, Yan Zhantian shook his head, letting out a sound halfway between a sigh and a growl.
“If you have nothing better to do than mope, then we might as well fight,” he declared with stately air, his gaze fixed somewhere above them.
Wushuang’s head snapped up at once. His dark eyes gleamed.
“You’ll face me, Old Tiger?” he asked, alight with excitement.
“Better ask yourself if you have the courage, Little Lion.”
Yan Zhantian cast him one last dangerous look before leaping from the pavilion into the twilight sky.
Wushuang didn’t hesitate long. Snatching up the Wushuang Box, he sprinted forward and moments later shot off after him in the direction of darkening rooftops.
“Your Highness…” Zang Ming was visibly perplexed. “Did they just…?”
“Let them sort it out between themselves.” Xiao Chong smiled at a world that had lately brought him so many surprises. “We’ve more pressing matters to attend to.”
† ♡ †
Wushuang never took his eyes off the silhouette of the man who first tried to vanish among the slanting rooftops, and now slipped again and again behind the crowns of towering trees. They sped through the twilight; the wind carried them on its wings, streaming from the direction of Tianqi. Above the city the light lingered, but beyond its walls shadows had already spread across the earth and were slowly devouring the silent forest.
They landed on the lake’s shore, in the silvery hush stretched across the still waters. With a deft motion Wushuang slipped the box from his back and set it down with a dull thud, planting his feet firmly on the sandy bank. His opponent stopped some dozens of chi away, one hand resting on his sword, his stance expressing full readiness for battle.
Wushuang brought his hands together and bowed his head. “I await your instruction.”
“Enough talking. Fight.” Yan Zhantian shot toward him without warning.
Wushuang sprang aside and with a single gesture flung open both wings of the Wushuang Box. Twelve swords intercepted Yan Zhantian’s next strike.
“I thought the Wrathful Sword Deity did not draw his blade lightly,” Wushuang said, sending all the weapons forward and knocking his opponent’s sword aside.
“Lightly?” Yan Zhantian twisted away with ease and struck again from the side. “I have been waiting for this since the last Golden Ranking was announced,” he growled, striking sparks from each sword that came his way. “I’ve had more than enough time to pour my fury into the Army Crusher.”
“It angered you so much, Old Tiger, that someone dared deem us equals?” Wushuang smirked, drawing back half his blades to attack from behind.
“You should know it takes little to anger me.” Yan Zhantian spun with such speed it seemed he deflected strikes from both sides at once. His third blow came straight at Wushuang.
“Then I can only hope you’ll find our fight worthy of your rage,” the youth threw back, springing to a safer distance.
“It will take more than your hope to impress me.”
“Then what will you say about this?”
In an instant Wushuang was back at the box, his hand pressing to its intricate lid. The mechanism stirred; the casing shifted, and in a blaze of auroral fire a thirteenth sword emerged—slender, its hilt glinting with rose gold, so unlike the Army Crusher yet in some strange way akin. Yan Zhantian found no words. It made his fury only flare hotter.
“My sword will do the talking,” he growled, feeling his emotions surge into the blade, readying it for the final strike. But he was not ready yet. He would strike only when not a shadow of doubt remained in his heart. Neither Vermilion, the Devil Sword, nor the Army Crusher yet burned as brightly as they could. He wanted to give everything of himself—and to get everything from the Little Lion staring back at him with a fiery gleam in his eye.
They moved at once, meeting halfway; the sound that rang out when their blades collided was as pure as the surface of a frozen lake beneath a pearly sky where the first stars were rising.
“At last I can show you the true power of the Wushuang Sword Box!” the boy’s voice rang with contagious fervor.
“I care nothing for the power of your box,” Yan Zhantian snarled. “What I care about is your power!”
“Then watch closely, Old Tiger!”
Yan Zhantian recognized at once the moment when only the Wrathful Sword Technique could shield him. As Vermilion fused into one with its master and, with a piercing scream, soared toward him on flaming wings, he let the Army Crusher swallow all his fury, stoked by that second, twin-born emotion, and forge it into sheer force of attack.
The blades sang, birds scattered from the trees, and the world resounded with something new, wondrous and innocent, like white flowers blooming across a bloodied battlefield. When the dust settled and the strange exhilaration began to fade, they stood facing one another, both leaning on their swords, both spent, yet unwilling to let it show.
Wushuang moved first; with a heavy hand he pressed against the box and summoned all thirteen swords back. Yan Zhantian echoed the gesture, sliding the Army Crusher into its sheath. In silence he measured the boy with a dark gaze in which many unspoken things were hidden. Wushuang’s gaze also carried unusual gravity, and when he spoke, his voice held none of its usual lightness.
“I won’t ask again, but after this fight, I must try once more. Will you take me as your disciple?”
Yan Zhantian moved toward him slowly; he stopped three paces away and looked down to meet his eyes.
“No.”
Wushuang inclined his head, as if he had already resigned himself to the answer before it was spoken. Yet the disappointment in his eyes was unmistakable.
“In that case, I’ll remain here until the matter of succession is settled. After that I’ll return to Wushuang and tell Yuzhai about the two greatest fights of my life. Thank you for the honor.”
He brought his hands together and bowed with respect. Yan Zhantian watched him with furrowed brows. When the boy raised his head, he stepped forward and set the Army Crusher aside, leaning it against the Wushuang Sword Box. No more than three chi separated them now. From that distance, they could see the last traces of daylight and the glow of the rising moon reflected in the other’s eyes.
“I said I would not become your master,” Yan Zhantian spoke. “I did not say I would let you go.”
With those words he closed the distance between them. Strong hands came down on tense shoulders; his dark gaze fell first upon wide, startled eyes, then on lips parted in voiceless wonder.
“At last you’ve stopped struggling, Little Lion,” he murmured into the sliver of space where the air was warming up with their closeness.
Before Wushuang could find an answer to that, Yan Zhantian silenced him with a firm kiss. His anger dissolved into nothingness, giving space to an all-encompassing emotion that sent him a flood of conflicting signals about what to do. He wanted to run his hands along those helpless arms, to soothe away the tension—yet he also wanted to seize them, hold tight, and leave not a breath of room for rejection. He wanted to speak many things, but at the same time he wanted to stay silent—because no word could take precedence over the way soft lips yielded beneath his own.
When Yan Zhantian drew back to let the boy breathe, Wushuang’s cheeks were flushed, and his lips curved into a tentative smile.
“Was I that obvious?” he asked sheepishly.
“Yes,” Yan Zhantian said, for explaining that it was him who failed to deceive his own heart seemed far more troublesome.
“I tried to be discreet.”
The disarmingly helpless expression on the young deity’s face could have fooled many about his true capability, but Yan Zhantian knew better.
“And so you decided to make me your master?” When Wushuang confirmed it with a shy nod, he huffed in irritation, though amusement colored the sound. “Utter nonsense.”
“In Xueyue I met the top name on the Jade Ranking, Luo Mingxuan, disciple of Fairy Luoxia, who confessed his feelings to her in front of me. If it weren’t for him, she might have agreed to meet with my master, but his single word was enough to stop her.” The boy’s tone carried a note of reluctant admiration.
Yan Zhantian cast him a critical look. “You think tricks that work on fairies will work on demons too?”
Wushuang shrugged. “I think in the right eyes a demon is not so different from a fairy.”
That remark earned him a long stare—and after a moment the lakeside clearing rang with a deep rumble of laughter.
“Little Lion. I’m inclined to believe your eyes truly do hold such power.”
Yan Zhantian’s hands rose to cradle Wushuang’s face; his thumbs brushed the smooth rise beneath two focused points of obsidian darkness speckled with dots of celestial light. It was hard to tell who closed the distance this time; it seemed they both had been caught by a pull too strong to resist. Once they had fallen within its reach, no force could stop their collision or prevent the mighty, otherworldly phenomena that were about to follow.
The moon was climbing higher and higher into the starry sky, frost was glazing the lake with a coat of opale whiteness, their blades rested silently side by side, and in the midst of it all the Old Tiger and the Little Lion found comfort in each other’s warmth, forgetting for a moment all past and future struggles, expectations and promises, ambitions and doubts.
However many masks they wore, however many names or metaphors they cloaked themselves in, the truth beneath was simple: two men had found each other within the turmoil of the martial world and chose not to fight what the wind of fate had carried.
Better to save their strength for battles yet to come.