Chapter Thirty-Three: The Grand Ceremony of the Five Nations Alliance (Part Thirteen)

The golden afterglow of the setting sun spread across every corner of the training grounds, heralding the end of daylight and the approach of evening. A guard calculated the time by the position of the sun, and once confirmed, struck the bronze gong with resolute force, signaling to everyone that it was time to return home. Reluctantly, the group filed out through the main gate.

Meanwhile, Zhao Xu, lying on the bed in the Liuyun Tower, opened his eyes. Lifting the thick, ornate quilt, he realized the bone-chilling cold had vanished without a trace. For a moment, he wondered if everything that had happened before was merely a dream.

Slapping his thigh, he shouted, “Who cares if it’s real or not—being alive is all that matters.”

The thought cleared his mind, and he rose from the bed. As he bent to put on his shoes, he glimpsed, through the screen, a man seated with his back to him.

Instinctively, Zhao Xu picked up the sword beside his bed, tiptoeing behind the man, his brows furrowed, cautiously drawing the blade.

Qi Guan seemed to sense his approach. He gently set down his teacup and, unconcerned, said, “Awake, are you? Why not come over for some tea?”

Before he finished speaking, Zhao Xu shook his head vigorously, sheathing the sword once more. He walked over and sat opposite Qi Guan, grinning sheepishly. “Ah, so it’s the Tower Master. I must’ve been groggy from sleep—I didn’t recognize your figure for a moment.”

Qi Guan let out a cold laugh. When Zhao Xu knew nothing of his identity, he ordered him about with arrogance; now, realizing Qi Guan was the master of Liuyun Tower, he fawned and groveled…

“To curry favor with the powerful is perhaps instinctual for men like him,” a thought suddenly echoed in Qi Guan’s mind, prompting him to shake his head and silently chuckle.

“Are you feeling better?” Qi Guan, no longer inclined to flatter him as before, asked thoughtfully.

The change in Qi Guan’s demeanor unsettled Zhao Xu. His tone was icy—so cold that Zhao Xu felt as if he were sitting in a cellar.

From the moment Zhao Xu sat down, Qi Guan had only toyed with his teacup, never once raising his eyes to look at him.

Zhao Xu was no fool; he could see the difference. But Qi Guan was a wealthy man—if he was a little cold, so be it. As long as he could reap some benefit from this fool, a bit of humiliation was nothing.

“Much better, much better. Thank you for your concern. That block of ice was truly biting—so cold that even my body, used to years of bloody battle, couldn’t withstand it… I must have made you laugh.” Zhao Xu’s left hand hung naturally, his right hand clenched into a fist and pounded the table as he spoke.

“Oh? Bloody battle? I’m curious—what war in this world could have you bathe in blood?” Qi Guan raised his brows and pressed him further.

Zhao Xu’s heart skipped a beat. He quickly changed tack, laughing, “Ah, listen to my foolish mouth—what nonsense I’m saying. I’m just a brainless brute, never studied much. If I say something wrong, Tower Master, don’t take it to heart.”

“Is there something special about this teacup? You’ve been staring at it for a while,” Zhao Xu couldn’t help but ask.

Qi Guan handed him the cup, his expression subtly changing. “Let you take a closer look.”

Zhao Xu wiped his hands on his clothes and carefully took the cup, scrutinizing it from all sides. He exclaimed, “My, the carvings are so lifelike—surely the work of a master! The cup is jade-green throughout… must be worth a fortune?”

“Good eye. Indeed, it’s quite valuable.”

“I used to follow Yu… a friend, saw many fine things.” The words “Duke” nearly slipped out, but Zhao Xu swallowed them.

“Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle—” Zhao Xu’s stomach suddenly betrayed him, and he scratched his head, embarrassed.

“Forgive me for making a fool of myself.”

“I’ll instruct someone to prepare some food for you,” Qi Guan said, rising upon hearing the rumble from Zhao Xu’s belly.

“Tower Master, let me come downstairs with you,” Zhao Xu hurried to follow.

Qi Guan turned and smiled, “No need.”

But Zhao Xu paid no heed, trailing to the door. Qi Guan’s lips curled into a wicked smile. As he reached the threshold, he signaled the attendants flanking the doorway to shut it.

With a loud “bang,” Zhao Xu found himself shut inside before he could step out. Realization dawned on him; he cursed inwardly and tried to rush out, but the door was locked.

“Damn it, trying to play me—when I get out, I’ll carve up your whole family!” Zhao Xu cursed furiously, kicking the door with force. But it was reinforced with copper and iron, far sturdier than elsewhere.

His effort was nothing but futile; soon, he clutched his foot in pain, grimacing, his features contorted, brows raised and eyes glaring.

He endured, hopping on one foot to the table and sitting down. After removing his shoe, he saw his toenails broken or turned out, blood seeping out, his whole foot swollen and red—any touch brought piercing pain.

His face was taut, eyes flickering with murderous intent. Gritting his teeth, he reached down and yanked out the remaining nails, flesh and blood smeared together, a blur of agony… The pain was overwhelming, more excruciating than any wound he’d suffered before.

Men rarely shed tears, but his eyes grew moist, red veins creeping across his pupils. As his hands moved faster, colorless drops slid down his scarred face.

At last, he pulled out the final nail. He breathed a long sigh of relief, though the pain did not abate in the slightest.

Blood poured from his toes. He tore a strip from his clothes and wrapped it tightly; as it soaked through one layer after another, he wound it three, four times, until no blood showed.

Clutching the sword, his nameless rage burned ever hotter. Suddenly, he raised his head and smashed the precious tea set piece by piece onto the floor.

Soon, night fell completely, but the dazzling candlelight outside streamed in, keeping the room bright as day. He suppressed his anger, rose, and opened the lattice window. Looking up, he saw a moon, sparse stars; straight ahead, endless rooftops; down below, small groups of passersby wandered the streets…

Only then did he realize he was on the third floor. If he jumped from the window, he might not die, but he’d surely be crippled.

He dared not think further. He needed to live, to outlast them all; no one could stop him from surviving.

After pondering for a moment, Zhao Xu hobbled to the bedside. He knew his life wasn’t in immediate danger—if Qi Guan had truly wanted to deal with him, he would have done so while Zhao Xu was unconscious from the cold. But he hadn’t. So, for now, he was safe.

Yet he’d killed too many people. Was there some deep-seated hatred between him and Qi Guan? In any case, this place was not safe to linger.

He had barely lain down when Qi Guan opened the door, carrying a basket with three or four dishes and a small flask of wine.

Seeing the shattered porcelain scattered around and a small pool of nearly congealed blood on the floor, Qi Guan glanced at the bed and immediately guessed what had happened.

Qi Guan set the basket on the table and mocked, “Only after a good meal and drink can one sleep soundly.”

A cold snort sounded from inside. Qi Guan left, satisfied.

Once the door closed again, Zhao Xu caught the aroma and his stomach reminded him of his hunger. If he starved to death, wouldn’t it be too unjust? So, he spat once and limped to the table.

Finding the food in the basket decent, he ate it without delay.