Chapter One: The Embroidered Guards Take Action

Jiajing, twenty-third year. Shuntian Prefecture, night.

A torrential downpour lashed the city. The streets were long deserted, save for a few flickers of moonlight etching dim shadows upon the ground.

At the mouth of a shadowy alley, two men hefted a blood-soaked figure and flung him onto a heap of refuse. Occasionally, lightning illuminated his dilated pupils and battered, unrecognizable face. It was clear he had been beaten to death—his limbs twisted unnaturally, his chest no longer rising or falling. Life had left him completely.

The two men dusted off their hands, spat in his direction, and cursed, “If you want to die, at least check the weather. Had us out here soaking wet for nothing!” After venting their irritation, the younger of the pair turned to leave, only to be stopped by the older one.

“What?” he snapped impatiently.

“You’re leaving already?” the elder asked.

“What else? I’m drenched!” the younger thug shook out his hair.

“Are you stupid? Big Bro said to dump him far away. We already cut corners by leaving him in this dump of an alley, and now you want to go back so soon?” The older man frowned. “Aren’t you worried Big Bro will realize we slacked off?”

The younger man recalled the scene—Big Bro raining fists on the victim, bones shattering, blood flying—and an involuntary shiver ran down his spine.

“So what now?”

“What else? We wait a bit before heading back.” The older man scanned the surroundings, found a sheltered corner, and crouched down out of the wind and rain.

The younger man muttered a few curses, but resignedly used his coat to shield his head and squatted beside his companion.

Truth be told, Big Bro likely wouldn’t care much about the corpse; a dozen beggars died in the capital every day, and even if one was left in the open, it would cause little fuss. They simply didn’t want to walk farther in the storm; in these times, a chill could claim half your life. But neither dared defy Big Bro outright, so they lingered, confident he wouldn’t inquire too closely.

After a dozen minutes, they stood, shook the rain from their clothes, and prepared to report back.

At that moment, a faint noise drifted from the end of the silent street. Soon, the sound of hooves approached—not one or two, but an entire mounted party.

The younger man was slow to react, but the elder’s pupils contracted. At this late hour, under curfew, a single rider might be a careless noble. But a full troop could only mean one thing—officials.

Discovery of the corpse would be disastrous. In these times, countless died in the shadows, but never in plain sight of the powerful.

The elder man retreated, thrust the corpse deeper into the refuse, piled debris over it, and checked to ensure nothing protruded. Then he pulled his companion deeper into the alley, away from the main road.

Though the rain and darkness made them nearly invisible to passersby, the elder was an old hand at surviving in the capital. He knew better than to take risks.

Before the corpse, they were kings. In front of real kings, they were insects.

Caution was their only safeguard—never appear before those they could not afford to provoke.

Sadly, while the elder understood this, the younger did not. Most in their line were brash and reckless, only learning the value of life after their own blood had been spilled a few times.

The younger man, chafing at the elder’s timidity, shook off his grip in silent protest, making a faint scuffling sound as he did—enough to expose half an arm from beneath the debris.

Inside the carriage at the center of the troop, a man in his early thirties, his face etched with fatigue, glanced outside and rapped on the carriage frame.

Instantly, the entire party halted. Several young men in black outfits dismounted and approached the alley, following the man’s gesture.

“It’s over,” the elder man whispered, his face ashen.

The approaching men moved in formation, their spacing unwavering—a clear sign of trained officers or martial experts. Their purpose was obvious: they were coming straight for the two.

Realizing escape was futile, the elder stepped forward and bowed deeply, rain streaming down his face.

“Gentlemen officers, we’re just—”

A crushing elbow strike drove into his skull, knocking him flat. A boot pressed into his back, forcing the air from his lungs and smothering his plea.

Dazed, he opened his eyes to see the younger man’s attempted shout choked off, his body slammed down beside him.

One of the officers scanned the alley, his gaze settling on the heap of refuse. Striding over, he uncovered the corpse, examined it, and laid it in the open.

Stepping over the prostrate thugs, he approached the carriage window. “Commander, a corpse—beaten to death. These two are under Yan Xiaosheng, both with records.”

“Bring them along,” came the weary reply from within.

“Yes, sir.”

He signaled with a wave. There was a sickening crack as the officers broke the arms of the two thugs. Their screams were stifled by swift kicks to the mouth, and they lost consciousness.

The officers hefted the limp bodies, following the mounted party as they left the alley behind.

———

Not far from the alley, a tavern blazed with light.

Strictly speaking, it was already past midnight and under curfew—gatherings and revelry were forbidden.

Yet anyone entering and seeing the company within would know that curfew meant nothing here.

By the door stood the burly, scar-faced “Big Bro,” a new name in the capital’s underworld, known for his fighting prowess. The still-wet bloodstains on the floor testified that he had just beaten a man to death with his bare fists—a killer without remorse.

The seated guests included the Canal Gang’s Hall Master, “One-Arm Sword” Hu Shuang; Huashan’s steward, “Gentle Breeze Sword” Gu Jiao; the notorious bandit “Frost on Snow”; the lone eccentric “Iron Autumn Garment”—all famed figures of the martial world.

At the head of the room sat the capital’s underworld overlord of more than a decade, “Iron Palm Maitreya” Yan Xiaosheng. Tonight was his fortieth birthday. After a family banquet, he had gathered his less reputable friends here.

The martial world was not all violence and bloodshed; even the most upright sects had mouths to feed and horses to keep. In the capital, no one could avoid dealing with the overlord.

Of course, the righteous sects valued their reputations and would not openly associate with him. Wanted criminals like “Frost on Snow” and “Iron Autumn Garment” could hardly walk in through the front door. So the gathering took place here, at a businesslike tavern. Even if the authorities came, a little silver and a claim of ignorance would suffice.

The wine had flowed freely, and aside from a brash youth seeking vengeance, host and guests were all in high spirits.

Yan Xiaosheng, a genial, rotund man with the air of a kindly merchant, smiled as he raised his cup, ready to offer a toast.

At that moment, a resounding bang shattered the peace.

The doors crashed open as two men were hurled inside, rolling to a stop in the center of the room. One, his face covered in blood, managed to lift his head and gasp to the now stone-faced Yan Xiaosheng, “Boss… it’s the Eagle Claw Sun…” (criminal slang for officers).

Yan Xiaosheng’s expression darkened further as he recognized them as the men sent to dispose of the corpse.

At once, over a dozen men in black uniforms surged in, their precise steps quickly blocking all exits. The sound of more boots outside made it clear—the tavern was completely surrounded.

Wanted men like “Frost on Snow” and “Iron Autumn Garment” tensed, ready to fight. The Canal Gang and Huashan men rose to speak.

At that moment, a man entered.

He appeared in his early thirties, handsome and imposing in a black cloak, his arms long and waist narrow—a figure of strength, but marred by exhaustion and a slouch that suggested sleepless nights.

He stepped in, someone closing the door and removing his rain-soaked cloak. Oblivious to all, he brushed the water from his sleeves, then looked up, surveying the tense assembly. He offered a casual salute.

“Gentlemen, good evening.”

He unfastened the badge at his waist, raising it with a languid sweep. The room had barely glimpsed its design before every face blanched.

Several outlaws’ knees began to tremble. A Huashan disciple opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced by a glare from “Gentle Breeze Sword” Gu Jiao.

“I am Li Miao, Commander of the Embroidered Uniform Guard.”

“The Embroidered Uniform Guard is conducting official business. Anyone who doesn’t want to die should kneel—now.”