The Listening Moon Sand River lay to the northwest of Cloud City, nestled deep within the vicinity of the Amber Jade Pass. A mere five miles further, and one would find themselves beyond the borders of the empire.
In such a barren wasteland, where crops failed year after year, no household could survive if not for the bustling trade with the frontier. Without that commerce, the Yao Yao Inn would have had no foundation to stand upon.
Yet, it was precisely because this land was so desolate that martial artists flocked here in a never-ending stream. Only in such a harsh, unforgiving environment could certain extreme cultivation methods reach their peak.
However, moving from comprehension to consolidation of these techniques required at least a month—and at most, half a year. Lacking even a single day of practice would leave one’s progress stunted and disjointed. In such a state, the meridians would become blocked, leaving the body riddled with weaknesses; haste, as they say, made waste.
With the Hero Recruitment Meet only a month away, time was already running out. It was impossible to train here now, unless the newcomer didn’t care for the tournament at all—or if they were a peerless martial prodigy.
A prodigy?
Sang Chencao mused inwardly. She would have to test that theory to be sure.
The moment the thought sprouted, she raised her palm in an aggressive strike. She used only fifty percent of her internal power.
Fifty percent was more than enough!
A blast of true qi, fiercer than the howling yellow sands outside, surged forward with the speed of a thunderclap. The qi glowed with a faint, dark purple hue, suggesting a hidden, lethal poison.
Unexpectedly, the figure atop the stairs dissipated Sang Chencao’s palm wind with effortless ease. Her martial arts were formidable indeed.
Feng Yun’ai drew her hand back to her side and lightly brushed the short blade at her waist. The movement produced a sound like a tolling camel bell. “I am here to lend a blade,” she said tonelessly.
“Lend a blade?” Sang Chencao’s interest was piqued. She hadn’t initially suspected the woman had any ties to the Knife-Lending Sect, but looking at the array of blades she carried now, the resemblance was uncanny.
However, the Knife-Lending Sect had lived in seclusion for years and rarely showed their faces. Most certainly, they wouldn’t go about brazenly announcing their origins like this woman.
Rumor had it that the Knife-Lending Sect excelled in divination and possessed the power to peer into the heavens. Countless ambitious souls had coveted them, resorting to any means necessary to seize their secrets. Even emperors and generals had once tried to press the sect into their service.
After years of wandering and displacement, the Knife-Lending Sect had chosen to retreat from the world entirely. They only appeared to reveal the secrets of fate when the world was on the brink of a great calamity.
Sang Chencao didn’t believe a word of it.
The martial arts world was currently at peace, and the empire was stable. This was hardly the time for a Knife-Lender to appear.
Still, Sang Chencao feigned belief, saying leisurely, “So, Your Excellency is a descendant of the Knife-Lending Sect?”
The woman in white continued her ascent, giving a lukewarm grunt of affirmation that made it impossible to tell truth from lie.
Sang Chencao lifted the hem of her indigo skirt and followed. Their similar yet differently colored veils made them look almost like traveling companions. “Could it be that some natural disaster or man-made calamity is about to strike the Listening Moon Sand River?”
“It is a man-made calamity, but not here,” Feng Yun’ai replied succinctly.
Sang Chencao let out a long, drawn-out “Oh” as she kept pace. “Could it be the Central Plains’ martial arts world then? Well, the secrets of heaven must not be leaked, so I won’t press further. However…”
The figure above paused and looked back at her.
Sang Chencao narrowed her eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of the face beneath the white silk veil.
Unfortunately, she could see nothing.
“Everyone who comes to the Listening Moon Sand River wears coarse cloth robes. Your white dress is quite unique, miss. Aren’t you afraid that one gust of yellow sand will ruin the color?” Sang Chencao’s tone leveled out, losing some of its aggressive mockery.
“My internal power protects me,” Feng Yun’ai said.
Sang Chencao pondered for a moment, her eyebrows arching. “Your internal power is profound. You must be a master of the martial arts.”
“You flatter me.” A hint of faint annoyance seeped into Feng Yun’ai’s voice. “It is simply that water is hard to find here. Washing clothes is an inconvenience.”
She’s not as unapproachable as she seems, Sang Chencao thought, letting out a small chuckle. “There is a well behind the Yao Yao Inn for the guests. As for the clothes, I happen to know the owner of a local fabric shop.”
The woman in white seemed to regain her guard. “I only lend blades,” she said coldly. “I do not pay in coin.”
Having been in seclusion for so many years, unless they lived among commoners, they likely had no way to earn money. Her words rang true.
Sang Chencao scanned the multitude of blades on the woman’s person and sighed. “What a waste. They all look like precious weapons.”
“You want one?” Feng Yun’ai asked.
Sang Chencao laughed softly. “If I take your blade, I have to listen to the prophecy you leave behind. I don’t want to hear it.”
It likely wouldn’t be anything good, and she had a habit of avoiding words that displeased her.
Feng Yun’ai stopped paying attention to the woman behind her. Upon reaching the upper floor, she walked down the corridor and entered her room as soon as the door opened.
Sang Chencao glanced toward the door, then leaned her elbow on the railing, looking down at the people below. “Innkeeper, where am I staying?”
The crowd below was still drinking. Lin Yaoyao closed her ledger and tilted her chin up. “Heavenly Room Number Three. Please.”
In the room right next to Heavenly Room Number Three, Feng Yun’ai removed her veil, revealing a pale, porcelain face.
At first glance, she looked no different from a person of the Central Plains; her features weren’t as deep-set as those from the outer frontiers. The strange thing, however, was her eyes—they were grey.
Even in the frontier, grey eyes were rare; green or blue eyes were far more common.
Fortunately, though she was tall, her frame was not overly large, and her accent and diction were identical to those of the Central Plains. As long as she hid the color of her eyes, no one could tell her true origin.
The Central Plains’ martial arts world had always been exclusionary toward frontier warriors—even here in the borderlands. If she didn’t hide her face, she would likely find it impossible to move a single step.
Feng Yun’ai removed the blades from her body, placing them down carefully. She paid special attention to the slender sword in the black scabbard on her back. Not only did she set it down, but she also began to wipe it clean with meticulous care.
This level of devotion was typical of a sword-obsessed fanatic, yet her expression remained cold. There was no heat or obsession in her eyes; she looked as if she were merely performing a routine chore.
Rumor had it that the Knife-Lending Sect were not master smiths. The blades they “lent” were usually common tools used by ordinary people, because the disasters they predicted often concerned the common folk.
As such, a Knife-Lender rarely carried precious blades or legendary swords. Such items would only invite a swift death.
Yet, the sword in Feng Yun’ai’s hand was undoubtedly a masterpiece. The blade glowed with a faint purple light, as if decorated by a rainbow. Its edge was sharp enough to part a falling hair and would surely cut through iron as if it were mud.
One wondered into whose hands such a delicate and lethal weapon would have to fall to reach its full potential.
Such a treasure was certainly not something a common Knife-Lender would carry.
Once she finished wiping the blade, Feng Yun’ai sheathed it and began to clean the scabbard with the same earnestness.
Half an hour passed before a waiter knocked on the door. “Guest, the Innkeeper invites everyone to gather downstairs at the Hour of the Boar for a game of Shefu.”
Inside the room, a look of confusion crossed Feng Yun’ai’s face. She didn’t seem to know what “Shefu” was.
The waiter continued from outside, “At the feast, everyone can share a jar of fifty-year-old Daughter’s Red. The Innkeeper will accompany the evening with her pipa. Naturally, the winner will receive other rewards.”
Feng Yun’ai remained perplexed, but she answered calmly, “Understood.”
The waiter’s footsteps receded as he went to knock on the next door.
Feng Yun’ai still didn’t understand the game, but after a short nap, she heard the bell toll. Knowing it was the Hour of the Boar, she stepped out of her room.
The moon was high now, and the night was deep. Outside the inn, there was only the lonely sound of wind over the shifting sands, but inside, the air was filled with the melodious strains of a stringed instrument.
As her left foot stepped over the threshold, a figure entered her peripheral vision.
Feng Yun’ai had already donned her veil and was not afraid to face the other woman.
“I thought you would be uninterested in Shefu,” Sang Chencao said, leaning halfway over the railing. “A person from the outside world like you might not know the rules of the version that’s become popular lately.”
Feng Yun’ai walked forward silently. Looking down, she saw people placing objects on the tables below, covering them with various colored cloths.
“This game of Shefu… its origins lie in divination and guessing hidden objects. Even if you’ve never played, I imagine it should be second nature to you.” Sang Chencao’s voice was heavy with hidden meaning.
