Volume One: The Monarch's Command Chapter Ten: Night Visit to the Hall of White Robes

Liu Xiaoyi never imagined that even monks had nightwalking clothes.

Once the kasaya was removed, he took out a set of black garments from his bundle and put them on, then covered his head with a scarf. Judging from his brows and eyes alone, no one could have guessed he was a monk.

“Monks kill too?” Liu Xiaoyi asked.

“That’s called sending souls to the next life, not killing. My master always taught me to distinguish between the two,” the monk replied.

Inside the Hall of White Robes, more than a hundred disciples of the Sacred Lord’s Palace, all dressed in white, had gathered. The puppeteer was there too, seated in the first position on the left.

There were eight halls under the Sacred Lord’s Palace, each denoted by a different color. The Hall of White Robes was mostly made up of swordsmen, who were usually hidden in the towns outside Sanshan City, carrying out covert missions.

A wooden frame stood in the courtyard, tied to which was a young lady in a blue dress. Blood stained her lips, and she had clearly endured much suffering since being brought here.

“Are you certain they’ll come tonight? I’ve taken it upon myself to mobilize quite a few men. If we fail, you’ll have to bear the consequences.” The hall master sat in the middle, gazing at the bright moon, a trace of doubt in his voice.

Suddenly, a few crows took flight in the sky outside the courtyard. Chaos erupted on the slope below, and the clamor of clashing weapons rang out from the darkness.

At the sound, the courtyard gates burst open. Disciples in white streamed out, clashing with intruders at the threshold.

No one knew when Gao Yingkui had crouched atop the main hall’s roof, tapping the tiles with his halberd. “Been waiting for me? Come up and fight.”

The puppeteer let out a cold laugh. “All of you from Banner Mountain, come out! However many come tonight, I, Fan, will face them all!” As he spoke, eight black-robed puppets sprang from his back, crashing through the roof and soaring into the night.

On the roofs connected above the rooms, it was impossible to say how many were locked in combat. Two figures in nightclothes sprinted close to the walls, avoiding the main battlefields, and slipped into the courtyard amidst the chaos.

The moment they entered, they saw Xue Yiran bound to the wooden frame. The coarse hemp rope had cut so deep that blood seeped from her skin; she was barely clinging to life.

Three guards remained in the courtyard—one by the left wall, two squatting behind the frame.

Jingkong hadn’t brought his staff, fearing it would reveal his identity. He pointed at the guard by the left wall and crept over.

Clearly, this wasn’t the monk’s first time at such work. He tiptoed to the wall, which was washed pale by the moonlight.

A shadow leaped from the corner, stretching in midair. Two slender hands twisted gently behind the guard’s back. Two muffled thuds, and the guard collapsed without a sound.

“Who’s there! Hall master! We have—” The two guards by the frame heard the commotion and raised their swords. A flash of cold steel swept across their throats, sealing the wounds with frost so no blood spilled.

The noises startled Xue Yiran awake. Her body suddenly loosened, and she fell weakly to the ground, only to be caught in someone’s arms.

“Sorry I’m late,” Liu Xiaoyi whispered, struggling to catch his breath.

“Well, well! After chasing you for so long, you walk right into my trap!” The puppeteer, having slipped away from the rooftop battle with two puppets in tow, now approached. His left arm hung uselessly, blood dripping from it.

Liu Xiaoyi planted his iron sword before him, its tip at his nose, breathing deeply to steady himself.

The two identical puppets, each brandishing twin blades, floated to either side, blocking all escape routes. “So you’re not running this time, little mouse. With your skills, you’re hard to catch.”

The iron sword trembled slightly. Tonight’s moonlight was much like that in the weaponsmith’s courtyard.

Jingkong knew nothing of these past events. He only sensed a powerful foe, so he raised his palms in defense and fell back beside Liu Xiaoyi.

“Take her and keep away. Leave this to me,” Liu Xiaoyi signaled for him to move aside. At that moment, he felt a sudden chill in the air and instinctively turned his face, barely dodging a blade.

The puppets’ joints creaked, yet their movements were swift. Four blades pressed in from all sides, forcing Liu Xiaoyi to retreat again and again.

Feeling the vibration in his palms, Liu Xiaoyi grew even calmer. Tonight, he was determined to end this. Blocking a downward slash with his sword, he flicked it up with skillful force, then slid between the puppets’ encirclement, his sword flashing cold as he lunged straight for the puppeteer himself.

The puppeteer remained composed, not even trying to dodge. Just as the blade was about to cleave his neck, three iron darts shot from the black robe at his waist!

Thud, thud, thud! Liu Xiaoyi was struck, his body thrown backward. The two puppets behind spun in place, turning 180 degrees, all four blades descending upon him.

No way to escape! Liu Xiaoyi gasped, curling up as much as possible to protect his vital organs.

Even so, three wounds opened on his body. The searing pain only sharpened his senses. As the puppets closed in, he twisted with his sword, forcing them to retreat.

Yet more wounds appeared, one slicing from his back to his chest.

Like a startled cat, Liu Xiaoyi leapt down beside the wall, gasping for breath. Three iron darts were embedded in his left arm, and blood poured from his many wounds.

The puppeteer’s black robes parted, revealing a metallic sheen; he had used his art to transform his own body beyond recognition.

Seeing that the darts hadn’t finished the job, the puppeteer’s face darkened. He drew a serrated dagger in his good hand and slowly approached Liu Xiaoyi. “To have both master and disciple die by my hand—now that’s a fine story.”

His words were cut short by a burst of white mist. Liu Xiaoyi, with two fingers behind his back, crushed a water bead, filling the air with a blinding fog.

“Your blood stench is too strong—this trick won’t work!” the puppeteer screeched, suddenly swinging the serrated blade to his left. The blade struck something soft, and as he yanked it down, the fog turned red with blood.

Suddenly, the puppeteer stiffened, looking down in disbelief. A broken sword had pierced his chest.

As the mist dispersed, the serrated dagger was lodged in Liu Xiaoyi’s right shoulder. At the crucial moment, he had snapped his iron sword and forced the blade away with both hands.

“Heh… heh heh…” Liu Xiaoyi fell back, his face toward the sky, dizziness from blood loss washing over him. With his heart pierced, survival was impossible.

“Liu, watch out! He’s not dead!” Jingkong’s warning jolted him. Summoning his last strength, Liu Xiaoyi rolled aside. The serrated blade slammed into the ground, sending sparks flying.

The puppeteer approached, face twisted with gloom, lowering his weapon. He grabbed Liu Xiaoyi’s face with one hand. “If not for my altered body, I’d have died today.”

Looking down, the broken sword was embedded in twisted muscle, but no blood flowed.

“Top-tier puppetry is truly miraculous!” He opened his mouth, and a crossbow bolt emerged, aimed at Liu Xiaoyi’s brow.

It’s over. I’m dead, Liu Xiaoyi thought. His left eye, barely open, grew dim. Since he’d seen the light of his father’s sword at the age of five, that brilliance seemed to appear before him once more.

That sword-light flashed from behind, slicing through the puppeteer’s neck. The head tumbled from his shoulders, rolling across the cold ground until it was pinned beneath a cloth shoe stepping through the courtyard gate.