Blood in the Sand: The Assassin’s Baptism under the Demon King of Blades

West of Shuigeng Town lies a small desert. As long as one crosses this desert, one will arrive at Shaodu.

Endless yellow sand swept across the sky, raising storms of dust. The two children trudged through the desert for a full day and night, their eyes blinded by the sandstorms. Sand grains turned into sharp knives in the air, cutting at them relentlessly. One grain after another struck Wanling’s face, leaving behind tiny wounds. Kunhong fared even worse. Though he was already fourteen, half a step into youth, taller and sturdier than Wanling, his expression still held the same clear innocence as in childhood.

In the wild wind, every step was torment. Kunhong, now taller than Wanling, bent down, wanting to carry her on his back. But she refused.

“I don’t need it.” Wanling’s tone was as cold and stiff as ever. “Just protect yourself.”

Kunhong looked a little disappointed. “I just wanted to be good to you…”

“I don’t need it.”

The rootless wind blew from every direction, forcing their eyes shut. Wanling’s long skirt whipped in the storm. Amidst the endless yellow sands, the red mole beneath her left eye looked even more bewitching. “Kunhong, I don’t need your protection. I don’t need your kindness. I am your stepping stone, your ladder into the clouds. I am the tool that will take you back to Northern Ji. Just remember this: I will help you return to Northern Ji. Once we go back, there will be nothing between us.”

Kunhong looked dazed, his eyes carrying a faint sting. “All these years together, I’ve already treated you as my real sister. Wanling, I don’t want you to keep speaking to me as a servant. We’re family, depending on each other. In this world, we only have each other.”

Wanling gave a bitter, desolate smile. Tears spilled into the desert wind.

Kunhong never understood what truly lay beneath. He always assumed things were just as he wished them to be. But Wanling’s words weren’t empty courtesies—they were cruel reality. She was the final weapon Kun Buyu had left behind for him, an indestructible steel blade. At the same time, she was his blood sister of the same mother. But that identity she could never reveal.

Because of the curse, she could not take any action that might hinder Kunhong’s return or revival. If she revealed her true identity, with Kunhong’s soft, tender heart, he would surely feel guilty, insist on compensating her, perhaps even cry and refuse to let her sacrifice herself. That would delay everything.

Kun Buyu had planned it all far too well.

Two more days passed. On the map of Southern Chuan, this desert was no more than a tiny yellow speck. But only those who truly crossed it knew how vast it stretched—east, west, south, north, with no end in sight. Their food and water dwindled with every step, nearly gone, when Wanling encountered the person who would change her life.

The bladesman, Ghost Qi.

Perhaps the name sounds ordinary, hardly known. But his epithet made everyone’s blood run cold: the Blue-Faced King of Hell.

They met in the desert. Ghost Qi lay collapsed in the sand, more than half his body buried beneath the dunes. Scorpions and snakes circled around him, occasionally crawling past, yet uninterested in a body not quite dead. A hundred paces away lay his blades. Three days ago, when he fell, they had been right at his side. But three days of storms had pushed the iron far away.

Ghost Qi lay in the desert, watching his wounds fester, grains of sand impatient to mix with his rotting flesh, eager to fill him whole.

That was when Wanling and Kunhong passed by.

A scorpion crawled across Ghost Qi’s face. His eyes suddenly snapped open. Still fierce, but dim—anyone could see he wouldn’t live long.

Kunhong was startled, but quickly his kindness surged. He tugged Wanling’s hand. “Sister, he looks so pitiful. Let’s save him.”

Wanling raised her head. The skin on her nose had already peeled, her lips cracked. She glanced at Kunhong, then said after a pause: “Go.”

“But…”

“We don’t have the strength to carry another burden.”

Kunhong knew she was right. Even they weren’t sure they could walk out alive, let alone carry another half-dead man. But his conscience wouldn’t allow it. He unfastened his waterskin, walked over, propped Ghost Qi up, and held the mouth of the flask to his lips.

Wanling said flatly, “If you finish our water, don’t expect me to share mine.”

“I don’t need it!” Kunhong shouted back.

Wanling ignored his anger, striding over to the half-buried bundle beside Ghost Qi. She yanked it up, rifling through it without hesitation. Just some iron weapons—fine steel, good blades—but in this barren desert, nothing was more precious than water and food.

With Kunhong’s help, Ghost Qi gulped down several mouthfuls of water, regaining a shred of vitality.

“Search his clothes. See if he has anything useful,” Wanling ordered.

“Sister!” Kunhong was furious. “How can you take advantage of him like this?”

“This is just fair exchange.” Wanling snatched the waterskin from his hands. “How much did you give him? What about you?”

Kunhong grabbed it back. “It’s my water. I’m willing!”

“Yes, your choice.” She sneered. “But when it runs out, you’ll come begging me.”

“I won’t touch your things!”

Wanling didn’t argue. She simply thrust her hand into Ghost Qi’s clothes. Ghost Qi opened his eyes, staring at her without shame.

Wanling was unflinching. “He gave you the most precious thing in the desert—water. I’ll take something of equal value from you. Since you’re dying, better not to waste it.”

Ghost Qi’s lips curled upward. “What a ruthless girl. You’re born to be a killer.” From him, that was the highest praise.

Wanling said nothing, continuing her search. She found no valuables—only a deep festering wound. Three days without bleeding, now oozing stench.

She began to withdraw her hand—when Ghost Qi suddenly clamped her wrist like lightning. He pressed right at her life gate.

“If you move, I’ll kill you,” he rasped.

Kunhong panicked, rushing forward, but Ghost Qi barked: “One step closer, and your precious sister dies!”

Kunhong froze.

The three stood locked in stalemate. In the storm’s center, Wanling showed no fear. She sneered coldly: “If you kill me, you’ll never leave the desert alive, will you?”

“True. But dying alone is lonely. Two kids to keep me company—that’s not so bad.”

A cold gleam flashed in Wanling’s eyes. She turned slightly, weighing which illusion spell could kill him.

But she knew the risk. If she summoned her illusions, the phantom butterflies hundreds of miles away would sense it, and endless pursuers would come. Kill or not kill—it was a cruel dilemma.

At last, she sighed softly, voice turning gentle. “I wronged you, rifling through your clothes. How about this—let me go, and I’ll leave you a waterskin and a bag of food.”

“If you had spare food and water, you wouldn’t risk searching a dying man.”

“You’re wrong,” Wanling murmured. “I’ve never feared the dead.”

Ghost Qi’s eyes widened. He studied her again, finding not a trace of fear. Only Kunhong, shivering like a leaf. Ghost Qi sighed. “Truly a fine seedling. Girl, let’s make a deal. I like you. Save me, and I’ll teach you everything I know. My whole life’s skill.”

A tempting bargain.

Wanling asked calmly: “What can you teach me?”

“Robbery, assassination, scaling walls, slitting throats in the night. With my arts, you can destroy anyone who ever wronged you.”

Wanling’s heart stirred, though she gave no sign.

“What, not interested?”

“I am.” She turned to Kunhong. “But if you teach me, you must also teach my brother. The two of us—both, or neither.”

Kunhong trembled.

Ghost Qi looked between them, then laughed. “Such a clever girl. Never seen one who bargains like you. Fine, I accept.”

In truth, Wanling had never given him a choice. Had he refused, she would have walked away, leaving him to die. In the end, it was only a game of leverage.

Only later did she realize just who she had saved: the infamous assassin of Yichuan, the Blue-Faced King of Hell. Ghost Qi. A master of lightness skill, hidden weapons, and blades. Normally, martial training took seven or eight years of brutal basics. But Wanling was different—sharp, enduring, gifted. Within three years she had mastered most of his craft. Kunhong, though gentler, was also a rare prodigy.

Wanling was fourteen when she met Ghost Qi. Seventeen when she graduated.

At her departure, Ghost Qi gifted her a pair of crescent moon blades—thin as ornaments at her waist, sharp enough to kill at a breath. He also gave Kunhong a treasure, unwilling to favor only one: the “Twenty-Eight Bright Moons” belt, bristling with hidden weapons and silver needles.

After that, Wanling became an assassin. For her, killing meant money. Having once been a beggar, she never hid her hunger for wealth. Her fees were high, and she despised bargaining.

Kunhong, however, walked a different path. He never had Wanling’s cold-blooded gut. Even after apprenticing under Ghost Qi, he kept his childlike heart. Wanling didn’t force him to kill for pay. Instead, he chose for himself: teaching village children in a nearby hamlet, living simply and at peace.

That too, Wanling permitted. She had heard troubling news again: the last Northern Ji ruler, Xue Liangbi, had suddenly died of illness. His son Xue Ning now ruled, and still sought remnants of the Kun clan. Spies roamed the land once more. Storms were brewing.

Through all this, Wanling earned and saved relentlessly. She never managed her money—just stuffed it into a pouch and threw it to Kunhong at home. A woman who only earned, never spent, giving everything to the family—such people were rare. If their genders were swapped, she’d be the dream spouse of countless men.

But Kunhong never noticed. He clung to his quiet life—four lessons a day, one gold coin a month. Content.

He was content with peace. Naturally, he grew uneasy with Wanling’s bloody trade. For her, only one rule mattered: money. Enough silver, and even the Son of Heaven could be marked for death. Of course, no one ever hired her for emperors. Mostly it was love, grudges, private vengeance.