Bloodkiller - Chapter 27
Night, Qingzhou — Prince Huai’s Estate
A cool night breeze rustled the grass outside Prince Huai’s grand residence. Though eerily quiet, the estate exuded a solemn, almost oppressive dignity. Guards stood in layers even outside the side gate, reflecting the intimidating presence of royal power.
A carriage rolled up to the side entrance, and a man dressed like a humble coachman climbed down. He looked unremarkable—stooped posture, drab clothing, a sour expression—but the guards recognized him and immediately parted, opening the gate without question.
In a rough voice, the man signaled, “Another one’s inside—don’t close the gate just yet.”
He went to the carriage and dragged out an unconscious old man, bruised and battered. Hoisting him over his shoulder like a sack, he carried the man into the estate. Despite the scene, no one interfered; maids and guards alike treated him with a strange respect. He passed through multiple gates, presented a golden token at the main hall, and was soon escorted to meet the prince.
The hall was opulent beyond words: massive jasper columns carved with mythical creatures, steps of gleaming white jade, and a curtained dais shielding the figure beyond a desk of rare silkwood.
The coachman knelt and bowed low, announcing his task: he had captured the forger of the fake saber—an old man named Sun, who ran Qiushui Pavilion in Luoyang—and delivered him as ordered. Now, he awaited instruction.
Behind the beaded curtain reclined Prince Huai—Liu Lin. With sharp features and an inscrutable expression, Liu Lin’s name had long echoed through the empire. Some said he was a charming libertine surrounded by beauties. Others claimed he was a hidden martial genius who once wandered the realm to judge the people’s hearts for the emperor.
Whatever the truth, one story was fact: at sixteen, Liu Lin had received the emperor’s command to eliminate a corrupt prefect named Liu of Hangzhou. Though the prefect was beloved by the people, Liu Lin executed him and later wiped out all his supporters in one sweeping purge. His cold-blooded efficiency became legendary.
For years since, Liu Lin kept to himself, far from court politics—yet clearly still dangerous.
Now, in the grand hall, he said coldly, “You caught a scapegoat and think that’s worth a reward? Do you expect praise for bringing me trash?”
The coachman paled and bowed lower. “This lowly one knows his failure and is willing to make amends by hunting down Yao Chuan in Bianjing and bringing you his head.”
Liu Lin sneered. “You think you can deal with Yao Chuan? No. He’s not to be touched—for now, he’s still useful. If you want redemption, stay in Qingzhou and do one thing for me.”
Then he added, “Prime Minister Mei’s precious grandson is coming soon. Escort him to my estate when he arrives.”
The man agreed quickly and scurried away, grateful to be spared.
From behind the curtain, a young figure emerged—it was Wenqin, once a courtesan known as “Andi” at Nuanxiang Pavilion. With a delicate voice, she asked, “Prince, Lin Yi deceived you with a fake saber and helped Yao Chuan. Why not kill him?”
Liu Lin’s reply was cryptic: “Still trying to be clever, aren’t you?”
Wenqin understood the message: Liu Lin had deeper plans. Her eyes flickered coldly before she leaned into his arms. As she glanced over his desk, a letter caught her eye—its signature read: Jingshang, Linyi, Qingfengzhai.
Meanwhile, 800 miles away in Bianjing…
The city was quiet under the night sky. Most doors were locked, and patrols passed by in twos and threes. Yet a lone figure darted across the rooftops like a shadow.
It was Yao Chuan.
He had rushed back to the capital, riding by day and using lightfoot techniques by night. He was exhausted but driven by concern for his master. Now, outside the main compound of the Double Dragon Gate, he noticed something wrong—too many unfamiliar guards, and many familiar faces were missing. Something had changed.
Without hesitation, he slipped into the rear courtyard and headed straight for his master’s quarters. Fang Zhentian—his stern but beloved teacher—lay unconscious and pale. The sight filled Yao Chuan with sorrow and guilt.
Suddenly, footsteps. Yao Chuan hid above the rafters, tensed for a fight.
But the intruder was not a threat—it was his junior sister, Fang Ruyun.
She approached their master’s bedside, bottle in hand, clearly intending to administer medicine. Yao Chuan leapt down and grabbed her wrist, startling her. “Junior sister, it’s me!”
She stared at him in disbelief before embracing him, overcome with emotion. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
Her tears soaked his robe. Though he felt the closeness was unusual, he allowed it—after all, she had suffered much too.
He asked about the chaos in the sect. With great sorrow, Ruyun told him: their fifth senior brother, Zhou Xing, had betrayed them, murdered their father, and seized control of the sect. Many brothers were dead or missing. The sect was now his.
Yao Chuan burned with fury. He wanted to act, but Ruyun begged caution. Zhou Xing was powerful, and acting recklessly could doom them all.
She revealed that the medicine she was using had been secretly made by their uncle—it wasn’t a cure, but it did relieve some of the poison afflicting their master. Yao Chuan was moved and ashamed for ever suspecting her.
They fed their master another dose, and Ruyun reluctantly left to avoid raising suspicions.
Yao Chuan stayed by Fang Zhentian’s side. Soon, the old man stirred.
“Chuan’er… you’ve returned?” he whispered weakly.
“Yes, Master. I’m here,” Yao Chuan answered, eyes moist.
Fang Zhentian’s hand gripped his tightly. With immense effort, he gasped out: “Go… King Huai is after you and Xiang Ming.”
Yao Chuan was stunned.
Then came the shock: Fang Zhentian uttered a single name—“Fengtian”—and Yao Chuan finally understood. The strange pills Uncle Yun had given him—meant for emergencies, capable of rapidly boosting internal strength at the cost of one’s life—were known to his master. The meaning was clear: Fang Zhentian wanted to take the risk for one final moment of clarity.
Yao Chuan fed him the pill. Soon after, Fang Zhentian’s breathing steadied, and his eyes cleared.
“Chuan’er,” he said solemnly, “I swore never to tell you this, but time is short. I must warn you and Ruyun before it’s too late.”
He continued, his voice weak but steady.
“You were not an orphan by chance. Your mother, surnamed Yao, left you in my care before she died. Your father… was Mou Yunhai, a master swordsman. You are his only heir.”
Yao Chuan froze. The truth of his bloodline—long hidden—had finally come to light.