Aimai-di recoiled in fright, but the saber-qi still grazed him—the hem of his robe split open in a long tear.
Zhao Rou pressed her advantage without mercy. Blade shadows poured down like a squall, driving the two brothers back until they had no room to counter.
The Desert Twin Blades—Aimai-ti and Aimai-di—grew more alarmed the longer they fought. Never had they seen such a protean saber art. They had thought years of flawless coordination would guarantee victory, yet this woman's technique was unfathomably refined; every cut hid another change. Step by step, they were pinned down with no chance to strike back.
Zhao Rou's eyes turned cold. The Crouching Dragon Saber snapped forward; a flare of steel, a burst of air—and then the edge stopped short before their throats.
Rrrip! With a sharp crack, both men's belts parted. Their outer robes fell away on the wind, exposing their underclothes.
The brothers blanched, sweat trickling down. They knew: had she not held back, that stroke would have opened their lives instead of their sashes.
Zhao Rou smiled lightly, sheathing the blade and standing at ease. "So this is the vaunted knife work of the Western Regions? Little to boast of."
Their faces turned ashen. Knees buckling, they dropped with twin thuds, gasping for breath—no will left to fight.
Silence swallowed the road; the crowd stared, stunned.
Prince Danba watched his trusted men shamed and broken. Rage twisted his features. "Unforgivable! Beaten by a woman!"
Zhao Rou's gaze chilled. "Your Highness, who said a woman cannot defeat your Western champions?" She lifted her hand; the Crouching Dragon Saber hummed, its edge winking with cold light—as if issuing a challenge to the prince himself.
Still holding the blade, she stepped forward. "Do you know the origin of this saber?"
Aimai-ti and Aimai-di barked hoarsely, "What 'origin' is worth bragging about?"
Zhao Rou said, "Eight characters are etched along its face: 'When the Crouching Dragon emerges, no demon can withstand.' This saber shook the martial world and startled every sect. Lord Wu of the Loyalty Hall—virtuous and capable—was named heir to the Crouching Dragon Saber by Master Li Wenzhong, head of the Crouching Dragon School. There was once a notorious fiend called Xie Feng, the 'Blood-Drinking Mad Blade.' He slaughtered the innocent without distinction—old and young alike—a beast in human skin, his crimes beyond counting. At the mere mention of his name, rivers and lakes ran silent. He came to steal the saber manual—and was felled by a single cut from Lord Wu. From that day, those eight characters resounded through the jianghu: the Crouching Dragon emerges, and demons fall."
The brothers snarled, "Enough talk. The Desert Twin Blades aren't vegetarians. Let's taste this saber art of yours!"
Zhao Rou sighed. "I spoke to give you a chance to turn back. Once blades are bared, life and death are Heaven's to decide. Since you insist—strike first. The Crouching Dragon Saber has no equal beneath the sky. Come!"
They exchanged a glance and drew in unison. Two curved blades flashed out, splitting left and right like thunder and flame, slashing in from both flanks. In the blink of an eye, they were upon her.
Zhao Rou did not budge. A spark lit her eyes. The saber leapt from its sheath—lightning in a human hand. Her figure flickered past; steel flared twice. A double clang, a pair of slicing whispers—then two cries of pain.
Aimai-ti and Aimai-di clutched their middles; blood poured from fresh cuts across their abdomens. They howled in agony.
"Today I show mercy," Zhao Rou said coolly. "You'll bleed—but you won't die."
It was, indeed:
The twins bragged of edge and might,Thunder dashed in burning flight;But this maiden's strokes—swift, sure—Every cut drove fate toward night.
Seeing their champions bleeding and keening, Danba's men quailed, glancing at one another in panic. At last a few rushed forward to haul the brothers away.
Zhao Rou vaulted lightly to the ground and passed the Crouching Dragon Saber back to Wu Tong. He strode ahead with measured steps. Danba's party shrank back despite themselves. A shard of cold light flickered in Wu Tong's eyes as he spoke, slow and hard:
"If you wish to leave whole, do not test this edge again. Those eight characters—'When the Crouching Dragon emerges, no demon can withstand'—are no idle boast."
Danba's men stared at one another, tongues tied.
Wu Tong walked straight toward the carriages. "Any lady who wishes to accompany the prince may remain. All others—go to Chief Chen Hao of the Capital Escort Bureau."
In short order, all ten noblewomen moved to stand behind Chen Hao.
Prince Danba could bear no more. "Wu Tong, you go too far! If you've any courage, put down that dragon-slaying blade—we'll fight bare-handed!"
A voice rang out before Wu Tong could answer. "Don't badger Lord Wu. If you need someone to vent your spleen on—try me."
It was Chen Hao. Blinded by humiliation, Danba lunged, caring nothing for whom he faced. "Who are you to plague me? If not for you, would I have crossed paths with Wu Tong today? You dare provoke me?"
Chen Hao kept walking, unhurried. Danba's fury spiked; he vaulted forward, diving from midair with both palms flipping out in a crushing strike.
Chen Hao—famed for years along the roads—thrust his palms to meet him. Boom! The impact hurled Danba several zhang away. He hit the ground, staggered up, reeled back a few steps, and stood there, mortified.
The Westerners gaped, speechless. In the Western Regions, Prince Danba was a name; yet here he'd been blown back with a single exchange. The roadway fell silent as a tomb.
Shamed but stubborn, Danba forced his voice steady. "Old hero, your inner strength is impressive. But unless I teach you people a lesson today, you'll think the West has no warriors! Foreign Twin Fiends! Show this old man what your hands can do!"
The so-called Twin Fiends—Qin Wu, the Lust Fiend, a debauchee whose "Killing Blossom" hand ruined lives, and Qin Wen, the Greed Fiend, a drunkard who worshiped coin—were villains through and through. They had come to the Central Plains hoping for a fat harvest; little did they know they had run into Wu Tong and his company.
Tune: "Rain on the Bells" — Dawn Wind, Waning Moon
Shaolin's sorrow; to end strife, wield martial grace—treading snow, chasing the moon.Foreign monks profane the Central Plains;heroes rally; wind clears, clouds withdraw.
See how at dusk the western gale grows murky,the northern blast turns keen.At the watering place, beyond the passes, loyal souls—they gaze to the very edge of heaven, hearts broken by parting.
Sword-light, blade-gleam, rivers and lakes run red.The apricot blossoms open—but to whom can one still speak?
Alone, courage yet abides; where the sword is raised,the dawn wind is cold, the moon worn thin.The sun tilts west; and still—the heroes are youth, the youths are heroes.
In a world unhinged—what are heroes for?Only the crimson hearts of the innocent,their blood offered without regret.