8. The Fate of Xiu Zhangjian

Brother Li Min laid an old, worn scroll upon the table, directly before Xiu Zhangjian. In a hushed voice, he said,

“Read it. This is your father’s message.”

Xiu Zhangjian snatched the scroll with trembling hands. He unfurled it, his breath catching in his throat.

The room fell silent as everyone watched his deep brown eyes dart left and right, up and down, devouring every character. Yet amidst the silence, their faces stiffened, because the parchment trembled violently, not by the wind, but by Zhangjian’s own quivering hands.

“What is it?” Feng Yin asked, unease in his voice.

“I—I… am the Heir of the Sword?” Zhangjian’s words cracked as he set the scroll down, his hands still shaking. He collapsed back against his chair, as if all strength had been stripped from his body.

Feng Yin, who had been burning with curiosity since the start, could no longer restrain himself. He seized the scroll and read it. His eyes widened, as though struck by a revelation too great to bear. Naturally, the other elders could no longer contain themselves and leaned forward, desperate to know what Xiu Jian had written for his son.

Silence drowned the chamber. Each elder sank deep into their own thoughts. Their disbelief was justified, what they had just read shattered the very truth they had held sacred for decades.

“So Zhangjian is the true Heir of the Sacred Dragon Sword, not his father? But… how could this be?” Feng Yin muttered.

Brother Li Min gave a firm nod. He explained how Xiu Jian had deliberately allowed the world to believe that he was the heir. He wished to shield his son from becoming the target of countless enemies. To bear the title of the Heir was both a blessing and a curse.

“Master Xiu always said that the title demanded nothing less than one’s life in payment. In the end, his life… was indeed claimed by it.” Li Min’s gaze grew distant, lost in memory.

“Father…” Zhangjian whispered. His heart ached. Not even his own father had spoken a word of this. No, Xiu Jian had concealed the truth not only from his son, but from everyone. Only to Brother Li Min had he entrusted this secret.

“As written in the letter, Zhangjian should have learned of his fate upon turning twenty. But… with things as they are, I have no choice but to reveal it sooner,” Li Min confessed weakly. “An Heir must possess both formidable strength and profound inner force to wield the Sacred Dragon Sword. Otherwise, the Heir’s body will collapse beneath its power. Once the blade is unsheathed, its seal shatters. With Zhangjian’s current ability, his body is strong enough to endure the sword. But…”

“The sword is in the hands of Emperor Huang!” Elder Ho interjected, finishing Li Min’s thought.

Silence thickened once more. The image of Huang Fu loomed in every mind, the man who had seized the Sacred Dragon Sword. With it, his power and authority had surged beyond measure. And yet, there was something amiss. His rise was fueled more by political backing and loyal officials than by the legendary blade itself.

“Huang Fu has never once been seen wielding the sword,” Li Min spoke aloud the suspicion gnawing at them all.

“It is true. He once carried it at his side, but he never drew it. And in recent years, he has not even been seen with it.”

“That is because only—”

Li Min’s words were cut short as the chamber doors burst open. A young woman stood upon the threshold, her brows furrowed.

“Xinyue! What are you doing? Could you not knock before entering?” Feng Yin snapped, rising to his feet.

For a heartbeat, Xinyue froze. Never before had her father raised his voice to her. But quickly she gathered herself and bowed low.

“Respect to Chief Li and the honored Elders. Forgive my rudeness.”

Brother Li Min’s lips curved in a gentle smile.

“It is no matter, Lady Feng. Clearly you have something important to say. Speak.”

Xinyue’s eyes lingered on her father’s face. Her own furrow deepened.

“A messenger from the Gongliao Alliance awaits Elder Feng in the guest hall.”

***

Feng Yin poured tea into two white porcelain cups adorned with painted blossoms.

“This is the finest green tea, brought directly from the farmers. Please, honored guest.”

“Ah, Elder Feng, you trouble yourself. I could have poured it myself,” replied the man across from him.

“It is no trouble. To serve you, Lord Tong, is an honor.” Feng Yin lifted his cup and sipped calmly before continuing, his smile unbroken. “Tell me, then… what brings Lord Tong to the humble grounds of my small sect?”

Tong Mu drained his cup in one long pull. A sly smile played upon his lips.

“Hahaha… so the rumors are true. Elder Feng is indeed a man of great humility. With your martial prowess, and a sect this vast, the White Tiger Sect could raise countless masters. Perhaps even grow strong enough to rival the Gongliao Alliance itself.”

Feng Yin’s chest tightened at the implication hidden within those words, yet his face remained composed. He refilled Tong Mu’s cup with steady hands.

“And I too have heard the rumors, that Lord Tong is fond of jesting. If your words were truth, it would indeed be a great honor. But in reality, my sect is nothing compared to the Gongliao Alliance. Even the Blood Skull Sect far surpasses us.”

Tong Mu’s laughter rang out again. He drained the tea once more. His eyes then sharpened, cutting through the air like a blade. In a low whisper, he said:

“In that case, join the Gongliao Alliance.”