Chapter 3: Before Me, You Are Nothing Special

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On the seventh day, it was the most stifling day the Fang Estate had known since its founding. Though most scoffed at the looming threat of annihilation, tension gripped the household as night fell.

The night was like flowing water, and a chill wind whistled through the air. The once bustling Nanchu City was now shrouded in silence, interrupted only by the occasional barking of a dog.

Fang Wang sat atop the eaves, caressing a treasured sword in his hand. It was a blade Li Jiu had spent three days acquiring, sharp enough to slice through iron as if it were mud—a weapon worthy of legend.

His gaze lingered on a distant rooftop silhouette—his cousin, Fang Hanyu.

Fang Hanyu stood tall, cradling his sword in both arms, his head slightly bowed as if dozing. The cold wind played with his long hair and robes, imbuing him with the air of a chivalrous wanderer who could scale the highest peaks.

“Impressive skill. He has truly attained the upper echelons of martial mastery, not just at its threshold. A prodigy in the martial world,” Fang Wang mused in silent admiration.

In the martial world, practitioners ranked from uninitiated, third-rate, second-rate, first-rate, to the pinnacle, and finally the legendary Mythic Realm—though none in this age had reached that final height. Peak masters served as the spiritual pillars of great sects, rarely venturing into the world. First-rate experts, however, dominated all four corners.

At sixteen, Fang Wang had attained the Mythic Realm—he should have been a living legend, had he not run into the overwhelming power of the immortal cultivators.

Yet, with the cultivators’ impending approach, Fang Wang felt no fear or panic—only a surging, hot-blooded excitement.

In his four years of training, he had yet to kill a foe. Even sparring was always masked and ended before real harm. His arsenal of supreme martial skills and the perfected art of swordsmanship gave him the confidence to challenge even the lowest tier of immortal cultivators. Besides, the Fang Estate had Zhou Xue, the reincarnated immortal. In his mind, Zhou Xue, reborn as an immortal lord, must possess extraordinary means—after all, she understood the gulf between mortals and cultivators.

Night deepened, frog calls resounded from every courtyard, and squads of retainers patrolled ceaselessly. Even soldiers had been dispatched to guard the streets surrounding the estate.

Zhou Xue sat at a stone table in the courtyard, polishing silver throwing darts. Her face was cold, her eyes colder still—colder even than the moonlight, with a hint of black malice flickering in the reflection of her weapons.

Meanwhile—

On the eastern city wall of Nanchu, shadows leaped over the ramparts like eagles, gliding into the city like wild geese across a jade lake.

The last figure landed atop the wall, overlooking the vast city. His blue robe billowed, his waist narrow yet his shoulders broad. His long hair was tied carelessly with a strip of cloth, his face appearing to be in his early forties. A horsetail whisk in hand lent him the look of a Daoist priest, but his eyes glinted with the coldness of a viper.

"No wonder this is one of the most prosperous cities in southern Great Qi. It will surely revive the Soul-Burning Banner."

He muttered, lips curled in a cruel smile, before vanishing into the boundless night.

...

The main hall of the Fang Estate blazed with light. The lords and ladies of the house had all gathered. Seated at the head was the master of the estate, Fang Meng.

Fang Meng, nearly seventy, his hair white as snow, resembled an aged lion. Supported by his cane, he gazed steadily at the night sky beyond the doors.

“Midnight has come, yet no bandits have attacked. Clearly, the rumors were false.”

“As I said, why trust the words of two children?”

“Isn't that Fang Wang usually so clever? Why would he believe such nonsense? The Fang Estate is a noble house—who would dare trespass? That’s a death sentence.”

“Quiet! You women understand nothing. The night is not yet over; we must not let down our guard!”

“Father, I feel an ever-growing sense of unease.”

The lords—all Fang Wang’s uncles—wore grave expressions. The ladies, however, feigned lightheartedness, hoping to ease the tension.

The words of the fourth lord, Fang Zhen, moved his brothers. He was a veteran of war, having crawled from mountains of corpses and seas of blood; his instinct for danger far surpassed the rest.

Fang Meng snorted, “I’ve spent my life in arms, now retired and stripped of command, but I am not so easily provoked. Whoever dares come tonight will die, and this matter will not end here!”

His anger burned. Across Great Qi, who would dare so recklessly target a noble house?

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And who had such power?

Fang Meng had his suspicions, though he voiced none.

Suddenly—

“Aah—!”

A scream pierced the night from the east—a maid’s voice, shrill with terror.

Fang Wang’s eldest uncle, Fang Shi, rushed out at once, vanishing from sight in a few steps.

The remaining four lords—Fang Zhe, Fang Jin, Fang Zhen, and Fang Yin—hurried to the gate, scanning their surroundings. Their wives, though frightened, did not panic, but huddled together, trembling.

Fang Meng coughed, and with his wife’s support, slowly rose to his feet.

Soon, shrieks, shouts, and the clash of steel echoed from all corners of the estate.

From his perch on the eaves, Fang Wang saw mysterious black-robed figures storming into the estate from every direction, their numbers greater than he’d imagined. He dashed toward the swiftest among them.

At the same time, Fang Hanyu sprang into action, while Zhou Xue remained seated, patiently awaiting her moment.

Tap!

A black-clad man vaulted over the courtyard wall, landing silently. Sword in hand, his face masked save for his eyes, which fixed on three maids in the courtyard. The girls shrieked and fled toward the house.

Without a word, the intruder charged after them.

Whoosh—

A piercing sound split the night. The man froze. Behind him, a pebble crashed into the wall, leaving a thumb-sized dent before falling to the ground, streaked with black blood in the moonlight.

The black-clad man fell backward, his head slamming onto the earth, eyes wide in death, a bloody hole in his forehead—a chilling sight.

In his dying gaze, Fang Wang’s form flickered past.

Moving swiftly along the walls, Fang Wang hurled prepared pebbles with deadly precision, each one felling an intruder with ease.

He changed direction with every throw, hunting down black-robed foes wherever they appeared—none could withstand a single blow.

The Fang Estate sprawled vast as a city within a city. The raiders scattered far and wide; Fang Wang could not exterminate them all at once. As he darted through the shadows, he kept watch on the distances.

Zhou Xue had warned him: besides the immortal cultivator, six peak martial experts from the capital would attack. The Fang Estate had no peak masters; even with thousands of retainers and soldiers, it was nearly impossible to slay six such foes.

Fang Wang planned to eliminate the six first, then take on the cultivator, hoping to minimize casualties.

Suddenly, he noticed a surge of force from one direction, toppling even a pavilion. He turned at once and sped toward the disturbance.

Clang!

Steel struck steel. Fang Hanyu was sent flying, his toes gouging two long furrows in the ground. He doubled over, bracing himself with his sword’s sheath, then fell to one knee, blood streaming from his lips.

In a single exchange, he had been defeated!

His hair disheveled, Fang Hanyu struggled to look up, horror etched in his eyes. He gritted his teeth and spat out, “Pinnacle!”

Beneath the night, wind howling, the black-clad man before him gripped a fine steel saber. Unlike the others, he wore a bronze mask, exposing only his eyes and mouth.

The masked man gazed down coldly. “To reach first-rate at such a young age—Fang Estate has indeed produced a genius. Pity you’ll die tonight.”

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He raised his saber, frost forming along the blade.

Fang Hanyu’s face was bitter with unwillingness. Before tonight, he’d only seen one peak expert—the sect master of his school, a famed grandmaster of Great Qi. The master had once instructed him, and he knew well the gulf between first-rate and pinnacle fighters.

Despair settled in his heart. Though the Fang Estate was a noble house founded by generals, it boasted no peak masters. His eldest uncle, Fang Shi, was formidable, but only at the very top of the first-rate level.

“Who are you? Who sent you?” Fang Hanyu demanded, voice low and strained. He forced himself to his feet, sword trembling in his hand.

With just one exchange, his organs had been wounded by the enemy’s inner force. Yet he refused to retreat—this was his home.

The masked man strode forward, saber gleaming coldly in the ruins.

“The dying need not know the truth. All worldly matters will soon cease to concern you,” he said, his voice icy. He lifted his saber, and the cold mist around the blade thickened, blurring his form.

Fang Hanyu tossed aside his sheath, wiped the blood from his lips, and took up his stance, prepared to fight to the death.

Even if he could not kill his foe, he must at least wound him, to buy the Fang Estate more time.

Just then—

The masked man suddenly halted. As Fang Hanyu hesitated in confusion, a familiar yet estranged voice sounded behind him:

“True enough. But have you considered that you might be the one to die?”

Fang Hanyu instinctively turned his head, glimpsing a figure flash past like a startled swan.

It was Fang Wang!

Arriving in a blur, Fang Wang interposed himself between Fang Hanyu and the masked man.

Clad in fitted white attire, Fang Wang had grown tall and handsome, though his face still bore a hint of youthfulness. Yet the spirit in his eyes was uncommon in any young man.

The masked man’s gaze fell on Fang Wang’s sword sheath. He narrowed his eyes. “Fine footwork. For one so young, you are truly a rare genius. Beside you, the man behind seems unremarkable.”

Fang Hanyu did not dwell on the words, but stared in a daze at his cousin’s back.

He certainly remembered this younger cousin, though years had passed, and with the threat of their house’s destruction looming, he’d had no chance to catch up since returning.

“That movement technique... Has he been practicing martial arts too?”

Fang Hanyu marveled. After returning, he’d asked his father about Fang Wang—this brother had always stayed at home. Where had he learned such skill?

Fang Wang fixed his gaze on the masked man, then suddenly drew his sword. As the blade flashed from its sheath, the masked man’s pupils dilated in shock.

In his eyes, the sword seemed to grow larger and larger. He instinctively raised his saber.

Thud—

Blood sprayed. Fang Wang appeared behind the masked man, sword raised toward the moon. He tilted his chin, not looking back, and spoke quietly:

“In front of me, you are nothing.”