Beauty as Blade, Blood as Oath

The carrier pigeon of Swordsmith Manor finally arrived—two full days later. Poor creature. For seven whole days it had been lost amidst the endless mountains. To think that a bird of the skies should prove slower than men trudging along the ground—how utterly shameful.

As for the letter it bore, we had no need to read it to guess its contents. What else could it be but a polite request for Yuluo Pavilion to return Poison’s Edge? Yet Swordsmith Manor dressed their demand in finery. Their reason? Warranty service.

Since time immemorial, whether it be a blade for slaughtering men or for butchering pigs, it must be sharpened upon the whetstone, maintained lest it grow dull. So said their missive: Poison’s Edge had lain within Yuluo Pavilion for fifteen years. It was now due for its “return to factory” service. Swordsmith Manor, they claimed, sought only to take the blade back for maintenance. Free of charge, naturally. Once repaired, they promised, it would be returned without delay.

A cautious letter, written with the utmost precision. Yet for all its words, it failed to specify one thing—the time. How long would this “warranty” take? One month? Two? Or perhaps ten years, twenty years? All men knew the Manor’s pace was slower than a mountain snail. Five years was the least time required for a single blade. To hone one such as Poison’s Edge—would even twenty years suffice?

Thus the entire Pavilion sank into gloom. Even I, an outsider, could feel the weight pressing upon the air, as though no one dared breathe too deeply.

“I told you,” a black stone fell upon the board before us with a click. “The prelude has arrived. We need not move a finger.”

So it was. Yuluo Pavilion refused Swordsmith Manor’s request. The refusal stoked the Manor’s ire, and they began to seek trouble in the open. Rivalries had long simmered—though one forged blades and the other dealt in assassins. Yet think of it: autumn trousers and winter coats. One sells the inner garment, the other the outer. But if the trousers were warm enough, who would still buy the coat? So it was with us and them.

When Swordsmith Manor stooped to selling common swords, Yuluo Pavilion’s business of blood suffered. The greatest commission in recent years had been the assassination of Prince Jin of Nanchuan. Beyond that, great contracts dwindled. The two sides grew like fire and water, unable to coexist.

But Yuluo Pavilion had one weapon Swordsmith Manor lacked—wealth. Wealth enough to scour the lands for iron mines, seizing the rarest refined ore needed for weapons. With the veins clutched in our hands, we choked the Manor at its root. Their decline was inevitable. Poison’s Edge was merely the spark that set flame to an already withered bridge.

In the lakeside pavilion, Gongsun Bai and I were at the board once more.

“If you place that stone, you dig your own grave,” he murmured.

“Then I’ll try another spot.”

“Once set, a stone cannot be withdrawn,” he replied darkly.

“War cares not for honor.” With a grin, I dropped my piece at the corner, seizing one of his.

His chuckle was like cold steel. “And yet that move was worse. As Swordsmith Manor provoked before weighing its strength—nothing but an egg dashed upon rock.”

June. The rains came. Yichuan was lashed by a storm unseen in a hundred years. For three days and nights it poured, unceasing. The western cold kingdom was a basin—low at the center, ringed by high mountains. The plains drowned beneath a shallow sea, while the slopes, scoured of earth and trees, gave way to torrents of mud and stone.

Wushan, carved hollow by endless mining, collapsed beneath the deluge. Mudslides swept away homes, burying workers and servants of the Manor. They had given their lives to the forge, only to be smothered beneath the stones they once hewed.

Cries of anguish filled the night. Death was everywhere.

Zhao Jin ordered rescue without hesitation, pledging full compensation. Yet heaven showed no mercy.

Half a month later, the earth itself trembled. Only lightly—barely more than a shiver. Gongsun Bai and I felt it beneath our board, the koi leaping in the pond, scattering silver spray.

But the walls of Swordsmith Manor, five zhang high, had stood too long against the wind and rain. The tremor toppled them like rotted wood. Houses crumbled. Fields drowned. Ten more souls were crushed to death.

“Tell me,” I asked with a crooked smile, “is heaven itself against Zhao Jin? One misfortune after another. He must sleep less than ever. Ah—wait, I placed this stone wrong. Let me take it back!” I reached for the piece.

“Not heaven’s curse,” Gongsun Bai said, resting his chin upon his palm. “The Manor’s rot runs deep. Any master would find the same fate.”

“But how pitiful! They say the Manor is drowning in debt, unable to repair even a roof. Their only treasure left is Slayer of Suns. They may pawn it yet, just to patch their halls.”

He shook his head, exasperated. “You foul cheat—since when does a single stone move three times?”

“I only learned the game! Let me have my fun—”

Before we could quarrel further, a pigeon alighted above us. A letter. From Qin Yan.

She had changed her mind.

Zhao Jin would live. Yu Hanjun too. Her children—returned to Swordsmith Manor.

Her story spilled across the page.

Since our departure, calamity had struck. Zier bitten by a viper, venom coursing through her veins. You’er severing his own tendon in careless play with blades.

A poor widow, a peasant woman—how could she summon doctors? How could she buy costly medicines? In her desperation, she turned to Zhao Jin. He summoned a famed physician, paid every cost, restored both children to health, even lavished them with tonic and care.

So she understood at last: environment shapes destiny.

With her, her children would remain peasants forever. Zier, no matter her beauty, could marry only a farmer. You’er, no matter his skill, would wed only a farmer’s daughter. Their lives would sink and fade with the soil.

But in Swordsmith Manor? They would become heirs. Children of power.

Every mother dreams of her children’s better life. Qin Yan was no different. She yielded her children, in exchange for freedom.

Zhao Jin agreed.

Beneath the sun, I read her tear-stained script. I could not fathom her heart. But I knew: she had let go. She forgave Zhao Jin. She forgave herself.

“She has abandoned revenge?” I whispered.

Gongsun Bai placed the letter to the flame. It curled to ash. “Whether abandoned or not, it is beyond us. The net is already cast. The game, complete.”

Two days later, we took our leave of Yu Hanjun. He pleaded, but we refused. He gave us a farewell banquet. Yu Long’er performed his “flying needles,” though they skewed clumsily and shattered fine pottery. Yu Hanjun only laughed, seizing the boy in proud embrace.

We left the next day.

I thought to spend our gold upon travel, but days later a falcon bore Gongsun Bai a letter. He read beneath the sun, then tore it to shreds.

“What news?” I asked warily.

“Nothing,” he replied flatly. “A distant cousin’s wedding. The fourth such invitation.”

“Beast,” I muttered.

We thought to ignore it. A month later, we could not. Qin Yan was dead.

Suicide.

Her husband Liu De had vanished, tumbled into an abyss while mining, his body never found. Qin Yan, calm as stone, received the news, dismissed the messengers, then disappeared herself. Days later—gone.

At the same time, Swordsmith Manor, crushed beneath debts, accepted Yuluo Pavilion’s aid. A fortune of silver, in exchange for borrowing Slayer of Suns—ten years.

Not sold, but loaned. They had no choice.

With the money, the Manor breathed once more. Zhao Zier and Zhao Youlong were received formally, renamed Zhao Zige and Zhao Youlong. The boy declared heir.

To seal the bond, a marriage pact: Zige to Yu Long’er.

So the feud of one generation became the tie of the next.

The night Slayer of Suns reached Yuluo Pavilion, feasts filled the halls. Drums thundered. Lanterns blazed.

A cloaked figure came bearing a half scroll. Welcomed carelessly, placed in a side hall. When they returned, he was gone.

In the great hall, Yu Hanjun drank deep, laughter booming. The blade burned upon the wall.

Then—she appeared.

A woman, slender, clad in red bridal robes. Embroidered dragons, phoenixes. The very gown Qin Yan had worn fifteen years ago.

The cup slipped from Yu Hanjun’s hand, shattering. His lips quivered, his voice breaking:

“Qin Yan!”

Behind her, metal scraped stone—Poison’s Edge, dragged across the floor.

She lifted the veil. Time had seasoned her beauty with sorrow, with fire. She was no longer the world’s famed beauty, but something greater—an untamed storm.

“Yu Hanjun,” her voice cut like steel, “I have come to claim what is mine.”

Tears streamed down his face.

But she raised her hand—

—and drew her throat across the blade.

Blood burst forth, scarlet rain. It drenched the walls, the floor, Yu Hanjun himself. The blade drank deepest, clothed in crimson.

She fell.

Poison’s Edge snapped.

The hall, the feast, collapsed into silence.

Yu Hanjun fell ill, his sword-hand crippled, his marriage shattered. Wu Madam left him, casting away all wealth for freedom.

Qin Yan’s wish was fulfilled. Beauty became blade. Blade broke with beauty.

Her body—taken by Zhao Jin, buried beneath the old locust tree of her childhood hill.

I did not light her incense. Yet in my heart, I carry the flame.

Gongsun Bai repaid his debt. We stood as equals once more.

“Nanchuan?” he smiled, as always. “Just so. Let us walk the road together, Brother Su.”