Chapter 4: The Fallen Blade Part 1

The Listening Moon Sand River served as a bridge to foreign lands, a route frequented by merchant caravans and common folk traveling between the two regions.

The desert was rife with bandits. For anyone carrying valuables, hiring an escort caravan was a necessity.

As for corpses…

The vast desert was an abyss of countless dangers. To cross these yellow sands and succumb to heatstroke, thirst, or exhaustion was hardly a rare occurrence.

Feng Yun’ai cast a cursory glance over the newcomers, her gaze sweeping through the ranks of the escort caravan.

They appeared to be an ordinary lot. Several men in the group carried heavy burdens, and while their attire wasn’t tattered, it bore the distinct, weathered marks of a long trek through the wilderness. They were true men of the road.

The man at the very rear had a face burnt dark by the sun. He cradled a furled banner in his arms, the corner of which revealed the embroidered character for “Escort.”

Lin Yaoyao’s Shefu game and her Hero Recruitment Meet had been thrown into total disarray. A flicker of irritation crossed her face, but with a dead body inside her inn, she had no choice but to step forward. Using the long pole she had used to lift the red cloth earlier, she hooked the edge of the white shroud covering the body and flipped it back.

It was indeed a corpse.

The man was caked in yellow sand. His face was a sickly, ashen grey, his eyes tightly shut, and his breath long gone.

Having lived by the Listening Moon Sand River for years, Lin Yaoyao had seen many such tragedies. She clicked her tongue softly and leaned in for a closer look.

“We checked him,” the leader of the caravan said. “His nasal passages are full of sand and his mouth is parched. Likely fainted from dehydration and was smothered when the dunes shifted over him.”

“Keep him outside. Don’t bring a dead body through my doors,” Lin Yaoyao said, straightening up and snapping her fan open to shield her nose and mouth.

Feng Yun’ai tilted her head slightly. On the side hidden from her companion, she parted her white veil just enough to focus her gaze on the body.

Fortunately, no one saw her pale, clouded eyes.

Just as the escort men were about to carry the corpse back out, they were interrupted.

“Wait.” Feng Yun’ai’s voice rang out suddenly.

Sang Chencao turned her head with interest, though she was a moment too slow; by then, Feng Yun’ai’s veil had already fallen back into its neat, impenetrable folds.

The two men carrying the body froze.

Feng Yun’ai raised a finger to point. Her voice was cool, devoid of the typical tone of a busybody, yet she insisted, “What if he didn’t die of thirst or suffocation?”

The surrounding guests found the remark absurd, though no one gasped in shock. The absurdity lay in the fact that this woman seemed to be a newcomer to the Listening Moon Sand River, seemingly ignorant of the local environment.

The endless yellow sands were a perfect place for murder and robbery. Even if the man hadn’t died of suffocation, it wouldn’t have been surprising.

Lin Yaoyao let out a sharp scoff. “In that case, Yao Yao Inn has even less room for him. If taking in his body brings a death sentence upon the rest of us, who is going to pay for our lives?”

Ignoring the remark, Feng Yun’ai continued, “Are there not needle wounds on his neck? They are obscured by the dust, making them difficult to see clearly.”

The puncture marks were incredibly small and lightly dusted with sand. Without exceptional powers of perception, they were impossible to detect.

Sang Chencao let out a dry chuckle and leaned in, whispering, “How can you see so clearly through that veil? You’re a descendant of the Knife-Lending Sect—did you divine this? Why didn’t you use those powers during the Shefu game just now?”

Feng Yun’ai remained silent.

Lin Yaoyao squinted, leaning down to look. To her shock, she actually found several minute needle wounds on the dead man’s neck. “Three fingers away from the side of the neck… there really are a few marks.”

In the crowd, someone spoke up tentatively. “Wait, this man looks strangely familiar. Someone wipe his face so I can get a better look.”

The corpse had likely been completely buried; before death, he might have been weeping or gasping, as sand was caked thick across his features, blurring his face. Only his neck had been covered by a thin layer.

One of the escort men grabbed a waterskin from his side and tore a strip of fabric from his hem. Moistening the cloth, he began to scrub the face of the deceased.

The dead man’s features gradually emerged. He had a rugged, resolute appearance, and most strikingly, there was a very specific birthmark on his forehead.

“It’s the Ghost-Faced Saber, Hu Cheng!” the man who had found him familiar cried out in terror.

The moment the name Hu Cheng was uttered, many in the room recoiled as if struck. Even the proprietress, Lin Yaoyao, showed a look of profound astonishment.

Sang Chencao stood up and walked forward. She reached out, gripping the corpse’s chin to tilt his head from side to side, her tone rising with amusement. “It really is Hu Cheng. That birthmark is exactly like the legends say.”

Indeed, across the entire martial world, there was only one man with a palm-sized, tiger-shaped birthmark on his brow.