SNOW HAD BEGUN TO FALL on the mountain. Bundled in a thick coat, Xiahou Lian sat in the walkway with his knees drawn up, gazing at the snowflakes that fluttered in the courtyard like pear blossoms. His mother would normally have returned by now—she loathed the cold and rarely ventured out in winter, preferring to stay beneath her blankets. Yet, even as the snowfall grew heavier, there was still no sign of her.
Had she brought any "sheaths"—backup assigned by the Garden to aid an assassin during a mission—with her?
Back when Xiahou Pei left, the mountain had blazed with red leaves. She'd sauntered into the crimson forest, a wine jug in one hand and a blade in the other, as though into an endless inferno. Xiahou Lian had called after her to remind her to bring a sheath or two. Such a sheath was there to ensure that an assassin escaped whether a mission succeeded or failed. After all, a skilled assassin was a precious commodity, especially a legendary sword master as renowned as Xiahou Pei. If anything befell her, it would be a huge blow to the Garden, an institution already suffering for money.
Xiahou Pei hadn't even glanced back. She'd simply waved and confidently promised that she'd bring a sheath this time.
Three years had passed since Xiahou Lian's first solo assassination. Only now had he learned that his mother took fifty-one of his lashes for letting Shen Jue escape, leaving her with chronic injuries. Seeing the always-indomitable Xiahou Pei collapse before him had finally shattered the illusion of her invincibility. She was a legend in his eyes, but ultimately, she was still human. At that point, Xiahou Lian started obediently carrying out his missions without another word of complaint, as though he'd grown up overnight.
Over the previous three years, he'd gone through as many blades. Aside from the Eight Legions, Garden assassins didn't hold official titles; in the jianghu, they were usually identified by the name etched on their blade. But Xiahou Lian switched his every year, leaving everyone in the dark as to who the nameless assassin was. Some quietly referred to him as the Wuminggui.1
Xiahou Lian stared blankly at the empty courtyard, feeling inexplicably restless. He got up and wandered into Xiahou Pei's room, where he began rummaging through her papers. A messy heap of books lay by the bed, mostly fiction books she'd collected from who-knew-where.
It took a while, but Xiahou Lian finally unearthed the mission brief for her current assignment: a page packed with tiny characters. He lit a lamp and sat at the desk.
Xiahou Pei's target was Liu Guicang, the master of Jingdao Villa in Liuzhou. Xiahou Lian had heard of him—he was a famous master of swordplay in the jianghu and an heir to katana saber2 techniques. Thirteen years earlier, Liu Guicang had challenged sixteen sects on three different mountains, and he'd won every duel, even forcing one sect to shut its doors and stop accepting disciples. From that point on, his name spread far and wide, and none dared cross blades with him.
When Xiahou Lian heard the man's name, though, it was never because of his achievements. After all, rumors rarely spread far without a bit of scandal to capture people's imaginations. Liu Guicang had spent most of his life building his reputation, only to see it ruined by his own inner courtyard.
The swordsman had a harem of wives and concubines rivaling even the emperor's. He treated them well, frequently inviting opera troupes to the villa to keep them entertained. But one day, after listening to Romance of the West Chamber,3 a less-favored concubine ran off with a disciple from the villa. Furious, Liu Guicang chased them from Liuzhou all the way to the northern border, catching up just as they were about to cross the frontier. He dragged the man to the summit of Mount Tai and ground his bones to dust, then sank the woman's body in the East Sea, ensuring the lovers would never reunite even in death.
The incident was a hot topic for a while. Some were horrified by Liu Guicang's cruelty, while others mourned the lovers' tragic fate. Public attention didn't shift until Consort Li gave birth to the second prince and the overjoyed emperor declared a general amnesty; only then did the scandal fade into memory.
In Xiahou Lian's opinion, Liu Guicang had just been trying to salvage his own dignity. Although the concubine wasn't one of the swordsman's favorites, he chased her relentlessly because she'd cuckolded and thus humiliated him.
But how would Liu Guicang's swordplay measure up against Xiahou Pei's? The abbot had once described her blade as devoid of hatred, impurity, or emotion—as truly embodying life and death. Xiahou Lian, never one for studying, hadn't fully grasped the abbot's meaning. He figured the abbot was merely saying that his mother was amazingly skilled with a blade.
The snow fell more heavily, the soft rustle of flakes blanketing the world outside. Xiahou Lian shuffled to the window and swung it open. The mountain peaks were already cloaked in white.
***
THAT EVENING, there was a downpour in Liuzhou. The dense forest lay shrouded in shadows, towering beech trees looming like ghostly shades. Gasping for air, an assassin weaved through the undergrowth, her every step stamping a bloody mark onto the damp, decaying leaves. Behind her, dozens of the villa's disciples gave relentless chase, their long blades gleaming like snow in the darkness.
Where was her sheath—her backup? She'd run for so long, and the person who should've been there was nowhere to be seen.
For the first time, panic flickered through the bleeding assassin's eyes. Her shoulders and back throbbed with fiery pain while the wounds on her waist, arms, and thighs felt like gaping holes out of which the last remnants of her blood and strength were draining. The villa's disciples seemed to know her every move; whichever path she took, they were lying in wait to ambush her. There was no way out—no chance of escape.
Finally, she came to a halt. Raindrops fell like arrows from the heavens, piercing her already-burdened shoulders. Pain. Excruciating pain.
The disciples closed in, their cold blades pointed at the cornered assassin. "You have nowhere to run, Garuda. Surrender!"
How many years had passed since she last heard such words? Fifteen years ago, thirty men had stood in her way. Wielding Hengbo, she'd decapitated fifteen, severed the limbs of eight more, and driven her blade through the hearts of seven others. She'd emerged drenched in blood like a demonic asura from the depths of hell. That battle made her a legend. Thereafter, the name "Garuda" was synonymous with Death itself. Anyone who caught sight of Hengbo knew death was close.
Now, the Garuda let out a wild, mocking laugh, arrogant and unbridled as ever. "Nowhere to run? There's always somewhere to go—whether it's heaven or hell! You think you frighten the likes of me?"
Raised over her chest, Hengbo shone like a crescent moon. The assassin prepared to strike. One head for every swing.
"Wait!" a deep voice suddenly bellowed.
The disciples parted to create a narrow passage. Saber in hand, a tall, burly man slowly approached through the pouring rain.
"I am your enemy, Garuda," Liu Guicang said, stopping just over three feet from Xiahou Pei.
Their sabers were each three feet long and couldn't strike from this range, so they stood at the safest distance that still allowed for a quick attack. The gap between them wasn't much greater than three feet: A single step forward, and the battle would commence.
"I've been awaiting you," he continued. "I knew you'd come eventually. It's only natural that the world's best assassin would come for me, the world's best swordsman." He was a burly, middle-aged man with graying hair and deep, ravine-like wrinkles carving his face. His eyes were sharp and cold, like a hawk's.
"Sorry," Xiahou Pei said with a provocative smile. "I'm the world's best assassin, yes—and the world's best swordsman as well."
"Arrogant, as expected." Liu Guicang chuckled softly, though his smile was stiff, as though he was forcing the corners of his mouth up. "All titles are meaningless labels assigned by others. Whether you're actually the world's best doesn't matter—what matters is how those fools perceive it. I'll admit I'm curious about your swordplay, but you won't defeat me. You're destined to die here, and the entire world will know that I, Liu Guicang, killed the Garuda."
Xiahou Pei chuckled, her eyes full of infuriating mockery. "Hey, you ugly freak. Know why you'll never become the number one swordsman?"
"Why?" Liu Guicang asked, ignoring her insult.
"To be the best swordsman, you must first become a sword yourself. But you've got so many crooked thoughts, you're better off staying human!" Xiahou Pei crouched slightly, then lunged like a leopard. Hengbo clashed with Liu Guicang's saber, scattering sparks through the air.
Liu Guicang sidestepped and parried her next strike. "Such a calm, composed assassin! Want to know why you're going to die here?"
Xiahou Pei sneered. "I don't have time to waste listening to you! There's an idiot waiting for me back home, so I'm in a fucking hurry!"
Her saber's glare instantly engulfed Liu Guicang. Even the heavy rain seemed to recoil from her unyielding, relentless blows, watery curtains parting before Hengbo's razor-sharp edge. Liu Guicang struggled to track her blade, and he was forced to rely on his instincts—honed for years—to avoid her thunderous onslaught.
This was impossible. Xiahou Pei was covered in wounds. How was she still so agile?!
The woman's eyes shone like a demon's in the dark, as if she could see through Liu Guicang's every move and predict his next steps. She wasn't a demon, however. Liu Guicang observed her calmly—the way she breathed, the way she slashed with her blade. She was human, and humans tired. Humans weakened.
Sure enough, Xiahou Pei finally faltered. Her rhythm broke, and openings began to appear in her once-seamless technique. Her relentless assault had just been a fleeting flash, a last-ditch rally. Liu Guicang seized his chance and thrust his saber toward her heart.
Xiahou Pei clenched her teeth, using her shoulder to absorb the potentially fatal strike. With her left hand, she fired an arrow hidden in her sleeve. It cut through the darkness and hit its mark, burying itself in Liu Guicang's right eye.
He'd forgotten. She wasn't just a sword master—she was an assassin too. Liu Guicang screamed in agony as his disciples scrambled to his side.
Xiahou Pei slumped against a tree, breathing hard but chuckling. "How nice! Now you're an ugly, one-eyed freak."
"Kill her!" Liu Guicang roared, his intact eye fixed on Xiahou Pei. "Cut off her head, dismember her body, and throw her remains into the marketplace. Let her be blasted by the sun and wind, so that all the world will know the Garuda's fate!"
His disciples swarmed like raptors closing in on their prey. Xiahou Pei howled. She was a demon drenched in blood, a lone wolf charging headlong into death. Her saber sliced through the darkness, ruthless and unyielding. Under the pitch-black night sky, not a single star was visible. There was only the relentless, savage rain, mercilessly battering her face.
She recalled standing on Heimianfo's summit many years ago. A black-robed monk had silently approached her from behind.
"You should hand Xiahou Lian over to me," the monk had said.
"Hey, you damn bald donkey,4 don't tell me you're going back on your word," she'd replied.
"You are invincible because you're free from attachments. Wielding Hengbo has come as naturally as moving your own arm. But now Hengbo bears a burden—a growing weight that you will one day be unable to lift."
From Heimianfo's peak, the entire mountain had stretched before her. Xiahou Pei gazed into the distance, where pine forests undulated like waves, rising and falling endlessly. She squinted as if catching a fleeting glimpse of a muddy little boy darting between the trees. Her typically cold gaze rippled as if a gentle breeze had skimmed across still water, each ripple holding unspoken warmth. She'd never worn that expression before.
"What's there to fear?" she remembered asking. "One day, he'll grow into a man capable of standing on his own two feet, and I'll never need to wield Hengbo again."
Blood and rain now mingled on her face; the sound of tearing flesh echoed nearby. She could see the disciples' faces—some fearful, some vicious, some crazed. Her foes fought fiercely back and forth in the torrential downpour until death claimed them.
With the last swing of her blade, she thought for a fleeting moment that she saw that child again—the one with stars shining his eyes.
"Xiao-Lian—" From now on, Xiao-Lian, you'll have to battle through the night on your own. Promise me you won't be scared. Even if the storm rages on and the darkness is as heavy as iron, you will crush your enemies and every thorn in your path to dust beneath your feet. May your blade remain unbroken, may you weather the storms ahead, and may you find the light of daybreak within the depths of the endless night.
Five sabers struck her left arm; three slashed into her legs. As countless blades pierced her back, she collapsed to her knees. Hengbo landed at the disciples' feet and was trampled into the mud.
With her last shred of strength, Xiahou Pei pulled a dagger from her waist and slashed at her own face. The blades on her back ceased their assault, but the disciples began kicking and stomping on her instead, so that more of them could join the assault on the Garuda. Her bones shattered; her left arm hung limp and useless.
By the time they rolled her over, she'd already been dead for some time.
Liu Guicang ordered his disciples to lift her up. Two grabbed her arms to yank her upright, but that pulled her left arm off, and her body slumped again. They grabbed her around the waist instead and hoisted her up once more.
Liu Guicang bent and retrieved Hengbo from the ground. With a single swing, he cleaved off the Garuda's head.