Volume One: The Dragon Rises from the Wild Chapter Fifty-One: The Waning Moon Like a Blade

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A moonlit night.

On the hillside.

The campfire was nearly spent.

Two sheepskin lanterns in front of the tent swayed with the wind.

Those about to enter a deadly battle all paused at this moment. Whether it was Mao Guan and the middle-aged cultivator, a group of wandering swordsmen, or Pan Yuan, Yuan Jiu, Mo Can, and the rest, as well as Mr. Kuang and his family of three—they all turned their gaze toward a young man approaching with a sword in hand.

He was the one who lived off others.

He was also the retainer hired by Mr. Kuang, a retainer who demanded no payment, a bargain guest indeed.

When the Kuang family faced danger and humiliation, he had slipped away as if nothing concerned him. Even when Mo Can and Pan Yuan fought desperately, he remained at a distance, arms folded, watching impassively. Yet when Mao Guan appeared with a crowd of martial men and the cultivator unleashed a deadly flying sword that gravely wounded Pan Yuan and Yuan Jiu—when the Kuang family was trapped with no escape, and Mo Can was forced to fight to the death—he returned, unhurried, as if nothing had happened.

Under the gaze of all, Yu Ye walked to the open space between the campfire and the tent.

Seeing a youth so brazen, Mao Guan could not restrain his anger and snapped, “Boy, are you looking for death—?”

He had not finished his words when the middle-aged cultivator beside him slowly raised a hand.

Mao Guan hastily retreated a step.

The middle-aged cultivator had a lean face and plain clothes, nothing remarkable at first glance. But the flying sword circling above his head lent him an air of unfathomable depth.

He took two steps forward, eyeing Yu Ye and the sword in his hand, then asked suspiciously, “Young man, what are you here for?”

Yu Ye did not answer, instead turning to look behind him.

Standing before the tent behind were Mr. Kuang’s family, Pan Yuan, Yuan Jiu, Mo Can, and the others. They, if anyone, should know his purpose.

Yu Ye’s gaze fell on Cai’er among the crowd.

In the past, Cai’er would have been unable to stifle her laughter at such a moment. But now, the little girl covered her mouth, tears streaming silently down her cheeks. She no longer had the heart to tease—she felt only grief and reluctance to part.

The freeloader would not survive; he was about to sacrifice himself for them all.

“Hmph!”

The middle-aged cultivator snorted. “Fifteen or sixteen, carrying Daoist artifacts, facing certain death yet calm as ever—if you’re not an ignorant fool, then you must be that scourge of the Daoist world, the killer of cultivators and butcher of swordsmen—the Deathbringer, Yu Ye!”

Cai’er, still sobbing, was momentarily stunned.

Mr. and Mrs. Kuang, Ji Yan, Pan Yuan, and Yuan Jiu all stared wide-eyed in shock.

Deathbringer?

Such infamy, such ruthlessness! A youth who killed cultivators, butchered men of the martial world, and at only fifteen or sixteen—his name was also Yu Ye.

Only Mo Can closed his single eye, secretly letting out a breath.

Yu Ye saw the expressions of the crowd and felt a twinge of embarrassment. He had known his identity would be revealed eventually, but had not expected to be introduced with such a notorious title. Facing a true master of cultivation, one who knew his background, there would be no room for tricks. If they fought, what chance did he truly have?

“I am—”

Yu Ye slowly turned to face the middle-aged cultivator and looked up at the flying sword above his head. Suddenly, he leapt from the ground and shouted in a deep voice, “Yu Ye is here—!”

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The middle-aged cultivator had been on guard, a cold smile on his lips. He pointed through the air with his right hand, while his left flung a talisman forward.

Yu Ye sprang more than three zhang into the air, soaring like an eagle on the wind. The sword in his hand hummed with a brightening glow slicing through the night. But a sword light, fast as lightning, shot straight at him. Gripping his sword with both hands, he struck with all his might. A metallic clang exploded in the air—the sword was knocked from his grasp. In that same instant, a burst of fire erupted midair. Unable to dodge, he was immediately engulfed by roaring flames.

The cultivator drove his flying sword once more, determined to kill the youth trapped within the fire talisman.

Yet from the blaze burst forth a figure wreathed in blue light, trailing fire like a dragon breaking free, charging directly at him.

The cultivator raised a finger.

The circling flying sword shot forth, striking the figure in the back with a resounding blow. Yet the blue light flickered and held fast, blocking the lethal sword. The figure seized the opportunity, flicked his fingers toward the opponent—

“Kill—!”

In a flash, the tables turned. The sudden shift caught the cultivator completely unprepared. He scrambled to conjure a protective spell and retreated in panic, but a formless sword energy pierced his brow with a soft pop. Eyes wide in disbelief, he toppled backward, dead before he hit the ground.

At that moment, Pan Yuan shouted,

“Kill—!”

Pan Yuan, Yuan Jiu, and their four companions, along with Mo Can, seized the moment and charged Mao Guan’s group of swordsmen. Mao Guan, seeing the Daoist priest he’d hired slain before his eyes, turned pale with fear, but pride and desperation drove him to rally his men for a final stand.

Yu Ye landed lightly, brushed the ashes from his body, concealed the blue protective aura, and bent down to examine the slain cultivator. He found what he sought, picked up the unclaimed flying sword, tucked it into his robe, then retrieved his own sword and walked straight through the chaos. No one tried to stop him. In fact, they shrank from his path—who would dare block the Deathbringer?

Mr. Kuang and his wife, with Cai’er clinging to them, and Ji Yan standing guard with a broadsword, all watched with terror still in their eyes. When Yu Ye approached, they let out a collective sigh of relief.

“Young brother Yu—”

“Mr. Kuang!”

Yu Ye turned to Mr. Kuang and said softly, “I promised Brother Zhongjian I would see your family safely to Que Ling Mountain.”

He was as he had always been—even now, his words and demeanor unchanged. Yet his promise rang with unquestionable conviction.

Yu Ye had wished to avoid the blood feud between the two sides, yet the ferocity of the battle had surpassed even his expectations.

Perhaps because he, the master, had not intervened, Mao Guan had no more reason to hold back. He and his twenty-odd men surrounded Mo Can, Pan Yuan, Yuan Jiu, and the other seven, and chaos ensued.

Mo Can cut down one man with his blade, drawing two more in pursuit. But he dodged them, weaving in and out of the melee, ever watchful.

Pan Yuan fought Mao Guan and three strong men at once; even outnumbered, his roars echoed, savage and unyielding.

Yuan Jiu, grievously wounded and one-armed, was surrounded, barely able to fend off the onslaught—but he fought on, bloodied and relentless.

Of Pan Yuan’s four remaining companions, only three were left, each beset by two or three foes, faltering under mounting peril.

Two men, failing to catch Mo Can, turned their fury toward the tent and charged Mrs. Kuang and Cai’er.

Ji Yan rushed forward with his blade, but a sudden flash of sword light—two men fell, throats pierced, collapsing at his feet. The youth beside him still stood, sword in hand, the blade trembling ever so slightly, unstained by blood.

“Die, you—!”

Another shout rang out.

Pan Yuan drove his blade into Mao Guan’s chest. Even as knives struck his own back, he felt nothing—clutching his weapon, dragging Mao Guan forward, both tumbling down the hillside in a tangle of limbs and cries.

Yuan Jiu took a cut to the leg, stumbled to his knees, and with a backward thrust skewered an enemy’s side. As more blades found his legs, he could no longer stand. Falling, he stabbed another in the belly, but could not draw the blade out; instead, with his one arm, he seized an opponent’s thigh, only for a knife to plunge into his lower back. Ignoring the blade that ran him through, he summoned his last strength, reared up, and bit down savagely on his foe’s throat.

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Of Pan Yuan and Yuan Jiu’s three remaining comrades, though each slew their opponent, they were ultimately outnumbered and fell one after another in pools of blood.

Moments later, only five or six swordsmen remained standing. Whether from fear or despair, they soon fled in all directions.

Mo Can, who had been circling the outskirts, had long awaited his chance. Now, like a vengeful specter, he hunted down the fleeing men one by one.

Soon, silence fell over the hillside.

Corpses littered the slope; filthy blood flowed everywhere.

Before the tent, the two lanterns seemed to have lost their light.

Mrs. Kuang and Cai’er, unable to bear the stench of blood, clung to each other, vomiting uncontrollably.

Mr. Kuang snatched up a wine jug, took several gulps, then smashed it to the ground with a crash and clapped Yu Ye on the shoulder before staggering through the field of corpses. Having survived, he was perhaps overwhelmed, all his surging emotions dissolving into wine vapor in his chest.

Yu Ye brushed off his shoulder, turned, and walked away in silence.

On the grass a dozen yards away lay his oilcloth and travel pack. Sheathing his sword, he let out a long breath of relief, yet arched a brow, a playful look in his eyes as he glanced back.

Mo Can, having slain all the fleeing swordsmen, was now driving one man back up the slope at knifepoint.

Pan Yuan, covered in blood, clothes in tatters, hair matted and filthy. He and Mao Guan had tumbled down together; Mao Guan was dead, but Pan Yuan had survived by chance. He bent to examine the corpses, and saw Yuan Jiu, the one-armed man, sprawled across another’s body, the handle of a knife protruding from his back, still clamped to his enemy’s throat.

Staggering forward, Pan Yuan dropped to his knees, gathered Yuan Jiu’s corpse in his arms, and howled in grief: “Aaah… Brother, how can I go on alone—?”

A man as cunning as a fox, as savage as a wolf, a rough wanderer of the martial world—now wept with such heart-wrenching grief for his brother that the very heavens seemed to mourn with him.

As Pan Yuan wailed, he struck his head on the ground and cried out to Mr. Kuang, “I have failed today! I beg pardon of madam and miss; I don’t seek to live, only to follow my brother in death—aaah—!”

No matter how deep his grief or sudden his remorse, some remained unmoved.

Mo Can approached from behind, raised his long blade.

Mr. Kuang’s face showed pity as he hesitated, “Even beasts like them value loyalty…”

A flash of the blade, and half an arm fell to the ground.

Pan Yuan screamed in agony, his strength exhausted from battle and grief, and fainted dead away.

“Beasts remain beasts!” Mo Can’s rusted voice was low and cold. “If evil is not punished, how can justice exist in this world?”

Mr. Kuang seemed to understand at last and said, “I have learned my lesson.”

Yu Ye watched all this from a distance, listened to their words, then turned, lifted his robe, and slowly sat down.

All around, the night was bleak and desolate.

Above, the crescent moon was sharp as a blade…