Blood Oath: Wanling’s Blade, Kunhong’s Heart, and the Belated Golden Feathers

One day, Wanling took on a job—killing a woman who couldn’t even bind a chicken, and who happened to be pregnant.
She was the mistress of a certain nobleman, but because she was carrying a child, she wanted to force her way into power.
So the nobleman hired Wanling to get rid of this troublesome matter.

By the time Wanling completed the task that night, it was already deep into the night.
She returned to the home she shared with Kunhong and was standing outside the door, washing her hands.

She had drawn a bucket of water, wiped her blade first, and then washed her hands.
Kunhong appeared behind her, his expression complicated:
“Why did you take this job?”

Wanling did not answer. Her slender fingers ran along the blade, wiping away the bloodstains.

“Why did you kill that pitiful woman!” Kunhong’s body trembled as he forced down his anger.
“You knew she was so miserable, and yet you still killed her! Sister, even as assassins, there are people we cannot kill!”

Wanling replied coolly:
“I am an assassin. You are not. And I need money.”

“You don’t need that much money! You already have enough. Every time you bring money home, I’ve kept it for you—it’s enough for you to live in comfort for the rest of your life! Sister, please, I beg you, listen to me—stop taking these jobs, alright?”

Wanling suddenly let out a cold laugh, then shook her head with weary helplessness.
“You don’t understand anything.”

The moment her words fell, she suddenly turned her head, the sharp tip of her blade aimed at Kunhong.
“You don’t understand anything! What right do you have to lecture me!”

Wanling struck without warning, and Kunhong countered immediately. The two of them clashed beneath the moonlight.

Back when they had apprenticed together under Ghost Qi, they often sparred like this.
But Kunhong was never her match.
One reason was that his skills were never as sharp as hers;
the other reason was that Kunhong always treated sparring as just sparring,
whereas Wanling always treated it as a battle of life and death.
She often struck at fatal points, merciless and precise.
Kunhong, knowing his sister’s pride and stubborn competitiveness, often yielded to her.
So in all their bouts, Kunhong had never once won.

But this time—Kunhong was truly angry.

At nineteen, both man and woman stood at the prime of youth.
Wanling had walked the razor’s edge for a year already. Her plain white robes, once washed countless times in snow, had long become a robe soaked in human blood.
Even so, she had never realized: the boy before her was no longer the twelve-year-old child.
Though she had stubbornly shielded him, his growth had already surpassed her imagination.

They had the same master, but Kunhong had the advantage of strength.

No one knew how many rounds they fought.
Wanling struck every blow to kill, and Kunhong refused to give in.
The hidden weapons within the “Twenty-Eight Bright Moons” belt were nearly exhausted, yet still no victor emerged.
Kunhong’s weapons pierced Wanling’s curved blades with countless tiny holes.

The cold wind blew through Kunhong’s hair, revealing features that had already matured.
“Sister, stop being an assassin.” His voice was the command of someone standing above.

Wanling roared lowly, bending to rush forward.
Kunhong flicked two silver needles, striking her acupoints. This time she was truly immobilized, unable to move.

She could only watch as she was knocked to the ground, Kunhong sitting beside her.

His pure heart, his clear brows and eyes—Kunhong was this kind of good and beautiful soul.
“Sister, I really don’t want you to keep being a killer. Since childhood, I’ve always listened to you, yielded to you, followed you. But today, I want you to listen to me. Don’t kill anymore. Please?”

Wanling said nothing, only clenched her teeth in fury.

“I order you as the family heir!” Kunhong suddenly raised his voice.
For once, he invoked the status of master and servant, and his shout was harsh:
“Don’t forget—you are only a servant of the Kun clan. As a servant, you must obey the family head. Wanling, I order you as your master: never again be an assassin, never again kill. Do you understand?”

Wanling’s eyes turned red in an instant. A thin layer of tears shimmered there, and the red mole beneath her eye burned with sorrowful light.

Kunhong may have won this battle, but he did not win what he wanted.
The next morning, Wanling still left. She had accepted a new job—protecting Prince Gongsun Yanshu of Western Jin, for a term of three months.

Although Kunhong disapproved, the thought that it was to protect, not to kill, gave him some comfort.

And so, she left—for three months.

I had already witnessed Wanling and Gongsun Yanshu’s time together once, within his illusions.
Nothing more than Yanshu clinging to her endlessly, and Wanling constantly annoyed, avoiding him.
But now, inside Kunhong’s illusion, I saw it open in another way, as a different picture.
Here, I saw Wanling’s radiant smile.

The two met amidst drizzling wind and rain.
Here, Wanling had become Lady Li, a woman adored by all.
Her head crowned with jewels, her face glowing like clouds at sunset.
She wore the finest clothes, with three or four maids at her back.
She stood in a sea of flowers, a richly dressed man behind her.

The man exhausted his wits just to win her smile.

“My lady! My lady, save me—this mad horse is out of control, I’m about to fall!”
The man sat upon a red horse, deliberately putting on a comical act.

Wanling kept a straight face, pretending to see nothing.
But just as he was about to fall, she sprang to the horse, seized the reins.

The man seized the chance to grip her hand, exclaiming:
“My lady, your skills are incredible. Without you, I would have been trampled to death today.”

Her face flushed. She tried to pull her hand away, but the man refused to release it.

By Kunhong’s understanding of Wanling, had she been unwilling, she would have drawn her blades and chopped off his hand.
But she didn’t. She neither drew nor resisted—she only blushed, swallowed by the sea of flowers.

Kunhong thought: She was willing. Because she believed he was her beloved.

In that moment, Kunhong felt his heart clench painfully.
Since the age of twelve, he had been with her.
Though she was his servant, he had never looked down on her.
He had treated her as family, as sister, as the last tether in this chaotic world.

But now—she was slipping away.

The scene shifted. A cold moon hung above.
The street was empty, only a few dim lanterns hanging on both sides.

“When will you come back?” His face was hidden in the dark.

“When this mission ends, I’ll return.” Her voice was as cold as ever, unlike the clear, tender tones of daytime.

After a long pause, he asked:
“You’ve fallen for him, haven’t you?”

Her spine stiffened. She gave no reply.

“That man, Gongsun Yanshu—the one you’re guarding. You’ve fallen for him, haven’t you?”

“None of your business.” The words were squeezed out through clenched teeth.

“If you love him, then I will return your freedom.” Kunhong’s voice carried endless sorrow.
“I’ll write a letter to release you from servitude. Wanling, from this day forth, you’ll be free. You can go wherever you wish, love whomever you wish.”

“You don’t understand anything.”

Wanling’s hand curled slowly into a fist.
She turned her back, striding forward, ignoring his shouts.
But the red mole beneath her eye flickered, and at last turned into blood tears streaming down.

Seeing this, I truly felt Kunhong was a good man.
Kind, never abusing power, even willing to set Wanling free upon learning she had someone she loved.
I don’t know how someone like Kun Buyu could have such a son—so unlike him.
But Kun Buyu had spoken one truth: without Wanling, Kunhong’s pure heart would have been devoured, leaving nothing behind.

In the 29th year of Taixi, the 8th month—an Eastern Oriole flew across mountains and rivers, landing in Kunhong’s village where he taught.

At dusk, Kunhong wore a cyan robe, a book tucked under his arm, strolling slowly home.
Suddenly, dust filled the air, pebbles shook, and two golden birds swooped overhead.

Eastern Orioles!

They were unique to Northern Ji—hunting birds, able to track a person across a thousand li.
Wherever the orioles appeared, the armies of Northern Ji were near!

Kunhong’s body trembled. His muscles tensed.
He shed his robe, laid his book and garment on a stone.
At the same time, his hand grasped his belt—the “Twenty-Eight Bright Moons.”

In a heartbeat, he was ready to fight to the death.
From the dust ahead, the whinnies of horses rang.

The golden sunlight spilled down, shimmering over a sea of golden armor and golden men.

Ahead, twelve figures clad in gold armor knelt before Kunhong.

It was the same gold he remembered years ago.

He remembered these armored men, always at his father’s side, protecting the Kun clan’s century-old honor.
He remembered their golden scabbards—drawing like the moon, sheathing like a hook—silently severing countless heads of those who tried to topple the Kun clan.
He remembered their numbers: twelve, passed down generation by generation.
But the last squad of the Golden Feathers had died, wiped out to the last in the army’s purge.

Now, blood-red sunset draped the sky, like blood spurting when heads were severed years ago.

The horses stopped fifty meters away.
The twelve golden soldiers dismounted in unison.

Their leader knelt, fingers touching the soil at Kunhong’s feet.
“Young Master, we are late.”

Late;
We’ve searched for you for five long years;
My name is Dong Ge, of the Golden Feather Squad. My father, Dong Shao, died seven years ago protecting the last high priest…

The explanations were many, tangled like threads weaving into a heavy past.

It turned out, the one who had once ordered the extermination of the high priest—the king Xue Liangbi—was long dead. His son, Xue Ning, now ruled.
Xue Ning was no tyrant like his father. He was a merciful king.
His first act on the throne was to clear the name of the Kun clan, washing away their false charges.

But even cleared, it was too late. Severed heads would not return. Burned homes would not rise again.

Still, Xue Ning seemed determined to atone.
He rebuilt the High Priest’s mansion at great expense.
He reformed the Golden Feather Squad, sending them across the land to find Kunhong.

They searched five years, their footprints covering the world.
To hide a tree, one must hide it in the forest; to hide water, pour it into the sea.
To find one man—that was harder than heaven.

Xue Ning prayed at the Heaven-Questioning Cauldron, kneeling three days until the heavens gave a sign: South.

South—the Southern Chuan Kingdom.

At last, after endless hardship, they found Kunhong.

Hearing this, Kunhong’s heart surged. But he was no longer a child in ignorance.
He remained wary, not wholly trusting.

Dong Ge produced the Golden Feather waist token, and a handwritten letter from King Xue Ning himself.

Finally, he said:
“I know the pain of the past has scarred you deeply. But Northern Ji is not just Xue Ning’s—it is all of ours. Young Master, we are forever loyal to you.

We give you seven days.
Seven days from now, we will return here.
If you are willing, we will take you home.
If not…”

He bit his lip fiercely.
“…then I will pretend we never found you.”

Kunhong said nothing.

Dong Ge continued:
“Young Master, seven days from now, we’ll meet here.
If you are willing, wear the Kun family heirloom token.
If not, we will cut apart our Golden Feather tokens here.
From that day, the Golden Feather Squad will cease to exist.”