Han Sen paced the desolate corridors of the inn, footsteps echoing in empty halls.
A vexing predicament.
The markets—once his quiet refuge—now lay dangerous.
Deng Tian Men’s eyes lingered there.
Blades waited.
Yet to wander Chang’an’s vast emptiness served no purpose.
He could not hide forever.
Lost in thought, a rhythmic clang pierced the stillness.
TRAANGGG… TRAANGGG… TRAANGGG…
Hammer upon steel.
He followed the sound to a shadowed alcove off a narrow lane.
A forge—small, open to the street.
A broad-chested blacksmith labored within—torso bare, muscles gleaming with sweat, hammer rising and falling in steady cadence.
The glowing crimson bar upon the anvil yielded slowly—lengthening, flattening, taking shape.
Han Sen watched, captivated.
He had never stood so close to a smith at work.
Never seen iron bend to will and fire.
Memory stirred.
His Lightning Sword—shattered into four fragments in a long-ago battle.
Still carried in his pouch, wrapped in cloth.
Useless now.
Yet once his companion.
He stepped closer.
“Forgive my intrusion, esteemed sir,” he said, bowing slightly. “Do you also mend broken blades?”
The blacksmith did not answer.
Hammer rose.
Fell.
TRAANGGG…
Sparks scattered like fireflies.
Han Sen waited.
Silent.
Patient.
He sensed the qi flowing from the man’s hands—thick, steady, channeled through the hammer into the metal.
Not mere strength.
Art.
Three sticks of incense might have burned.
At last, the smith quenched the blade.
CAAASSSHHHH…
Steam erupted, hissing fiercely as dragon’s breath.
The blacksmith straightened.
Wiped sweat from brow.
“We do not repair blades here,” he said curtly.
Han Sen stood before the forge, the four broken pieces of the Lightning Sword laid carefully upon the anvil.
“Master,” he said quietly, “perhaps there is a way to mend it? Surely this blade can be restored?”
Hong Teng Fai froze.
His hammer stilled mid-air.
Eyes fixed upon the fragments—jagged edges catching forge light like frozen lightning.
“The Lightning Sword…” he breathed, voice rough with memory. “My father’s work. You shattered it?”
“This sword saved my life,” Han Sen answered simply.
The blacksmith’s gaze lifted—searching the youth’s face.
“Have you wielded another since?”
“None. Never another.”
Hong Teng Fai’s brow deepened.
“Do you… possess the Sword Heart?”
Han Sen hesitated.
“The Sword Heart? What is that?”
The smith set his hammer down.
Slow.
Reverent.
“When a swordsman becomes one with his blade—truly one—the Sword Heart awakens.
The sword grows loyal to him.
He to the sword.
Unbreakable bond.
Irreplaceable.
No other blade will answer his hand the same.”
Han Sen stood silent.
Memory stirred—of battles fought, lightning called through that very steel.
Had he felt it?
That oneness?
He did not know.
Hong Teng Fai lifted the fragments one by one—turning them, tracing cracks with calloused fingers.
“Young one,” he said at last, “how much are you willing to pay to restore this blade?”
“Why?”
“Materials are rare. My father’s methods… secret. I must seek them from hidden sources. The cost is heavy.”
“But is it possible?”
“Difficult. But possible.”
“What price?”
“Sixty taels of gold.”
Han Sen’s breath caught.
Sixty taels.
More than half his remaining fortune.
The blacksmith watched—eyes fierce, unyielding.
“I am Hong Teng Fai, son of Hong Gak Fong. My ancestors forged blades for emperors and heroes. Honor binds my word.
If sixty taels seems theft, or my skill doubt—leave.
I have work.”
No anger.
Only the iron truth.
Han Sen met that gaze.
Saw harshness.
Saw pride.
Saw honesty forged harder than any steel.
He reached into his pouch.
Drew forth sixty gold taels—heavy bars gleaming in forge light.
Placed them upon the anvil beside the broken sword.
Hong Teng Fai’s eyes widened—brief surprise.
Then respect.
“I need six months.”
Han Sen bowed.
“I am Han Sen. I will return.”
The smith lifted one fragment—held it to the light.
“Hear this.
Six months from now—bring your blood to the Lightning Sword.
One week after—the blade will be whole.”
“My blood?”
“Yes.
Only then will the Sword Heart awaken fully.
Only then will it answer you again.”
Han Sen bowed deeper.
Acceptance.
Trust.
The dragon left the forge.
The sun blazed high overhead when Han Sen strode deeper into the desolate lanes—empty houses sagging under years of neglect since An Lushan’s rebellion.
A woman’s shriek shattered the stillness.
Then steel clashed.
“Damned Deng Tian Men!”
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
He turned the corner.
A maiden—sixteen, perhaps seventeen—fought desperately in the dust.
Hair cascaded like black silk down her back.
Face oval and perfect, framed by thick brows arched in fury.
Eyes blazed.
Simple white tunic belted with wide yellow cloth—form blossoming with youth, graceful yet fierce.
She wielded a slender sword against three hulking men—bare-chested, one in nothing but a loincloth, muscles corded, eyes gleaming with cruel sport.
On the ground lay another woman—garments torn and scattered, body near bare, unconscious.
The scene is clear.
Attempted violation.
The maiden had intervened.
Now she paid the price.
Her Qi Condensation peak against their Foundation Establishment.
They toyed with her—blades slow, hands brushing skin, groping, squeezing.
Laughter coarse.
Han Sen’s anger rose cold and sharp.
Deng Tian Men again.
Wicked sect.
He stepped forward.
Blackwood staff spun once.
Three men recoiled—surprised.
The maiden’s eyes—brimming with fear—flickered with sudden hope.
“Bring the woman to the edge!” Han Sen commanded.
She understood.
Dragged the unconscious victim clear—tattered cloth slipping further.
The men whistled, distracted.
Han Sen struck.
Staff blurred.
First man—loincloth brute—skull cracked like a melon.
Fell silent.
Second—chest caved, heart stilled.
Third roared—wild, reckless.
Han Sen met him precisely.
One blow to the temple.
Three corpses in dust.
Breathe heavy.
Hands trembled.
Three lives taken.
Yet justice is grim.
The maiden approached—cheeks flushed, eyes wide.
“Brother… are you alright?”
Han Sen straightened.
“I am… fine.”
His gaze lifted.
Fell upon her.
Most exquisite face he had ever seen.
Heart stirred—sudden, unbidden.
She filled his vision.
“Eh? Brother? Brother!” she exclaimed, hands on hips. “You’re such a lecher!”
Han Sen blinked.
“I? A lecher? How so?”
“Why stare like that? Enjoying the view of a naked woman?”
He flushed.
“I, Han Sen, swear my gaze upon no naked woman.”
“Then what are you staring at, statue-boy?”
Han Sen met her eyes—sincere, flustered.
“I… look at you.”
Crimson bloomed across her cheeks.
“You’re teasing me!”
“I did not intend tease,” he stammered. “But truly… your face is beautiful.”
She flicked her tongue—playful, defiant.
“Suit yourself!”
She turned and retrieved a long cloth from her bundle.
Wrapped the unconscious woman carefully.
Han Sen stood back—respectful distance, gaze averted.
Lest accusation return.
The rescued woman awoke slowly—trembling, eyes wide with lingering fear.
She had been taken from a village on Chang’an’s edge.
“I am Sin Sin, indebted to you, honored master and noble lady,” she whispered, voice fragile as a fallen leaf.
Han Sen waved his hand. He looked to the girl beside him.
“Show gratitude to this noble lady here. She is...”
Han Sen inclined his head.
“What is your name?” he asked the girl gently.
The maiden snorted.
“Hmph. You want my name too? What’ll you pay for it?”
Han Sen blinked.
“Is a name something to be bought and sold?”
“Of course!” she declared, chin high, eyes dancing. “Names are precious!”
Han Sen’s lips twitched.
“Precious indeed. Then I shall forgo it.”
“What?” She stamped her foot in mock outrage. “Why?”
“Because your name changes nothing. A crimson rose keeps its beauty and scent, whatever you call it.”
Her cheeks bloomed red.
“You’re teasing me!”
“I speak only truth,” Han Sen said earnestly.
She huffed.
“Hmph!”
Silence fell as they walked—the rescued woman supported between them.
Village soon appeared—humble homes, worried faces at gates.
Family rushed forward—tears, cries of relief.
Sin Sin untouched.
Virtue preserved.
Thanks poured endlessly.
Yet the home spoke of poverty—thin walls, empty pots.
Eighteen mouths to feed.
One daughter’s beauty is their only coin.
Han Sen understood. He had heard many stories.
He drew five silver taels from his pouch—more than any dowry.
Placed them in the patriarch’s trembling hands.
“Take this. Care for her well.”
The old man stared.
“Master… do you mean to take Sin Sin as wife?”
“No, Lao Ye,” Han Sen replied gently. “Only that you cease selling her.
Let her choose her own husband when the time comes.”
The patriarch wept—head bowed, shame and gratitude mingled.
The maiden beside Han Sen gasped softly.
When they turned to leave, she glanced at him—eyes bright, cheeks still pink.
“Brother…” she said, voice earnest yet playful. “My name is Fei Fei. Xiao Liong Fei.”
Han Sen bowed.
“A pleasure, Fei Fei. I am Han Sen.”
She studied his face in the setting sun’s gold.
Five heartbeats.
Then turned abruptly while a crimson bloom appeared on her cheek.
“Let’s return to Chang’an,” she urged, striding ahead.
They retraced their steps through Chang’an’s grand gates as dusk softened the sky.
The city pulsed with evening life—lanterns blooming red and gold, vendors calling last wares, laughter spilling from wine houses.
Fei Fei walked with a light, bouncing step—city girl through and through, pointing out every delight.
“This stall’s sesame cakes are heavenly!”
“That one hides the best candied hawthorn—sour-sweet, makes your mouth dance!”
Han Sen listened, half-smiling—simple country lad beside her whirlwind energy.
Yet his pouch held coin enough.
She lingered longest before mooncake stalls—round pastries gleaming with glaze, fillings of lotus, red bean, five-nut, salted egg.
Her eyes shone.
Voice wistful.
“These are the best in all Chang’an… crispy skin, filling melts like cloud…”
Forty coppers each.
Too dear for her purse.
She spoke only of taste.
Never asked.
Han Sen bought one—lotus paste, still warm.
Offered it.
“Here.”
Fei Fei froze.
Flustered.
“No… I mean, not buying, just… admiring,” she stammered, words tumbling. “Oh dear…”
Han Sen’s smile was gentle.
“It is but a mooncake.”
She took it—careful fingers.
Then hesitant.
“May… may I take it home? For Father?”
“Of course. Let us buy one for him too.”
“No, no! This one is enough!”
Han Sen glanced.
“You already took a bite.”
“I didn’t! It hasn’t touched my teeth!”
A tiny crumb clung to her lip.
He hid amusement.
“It appears it has. Do not fret. Let us buy more.”
Fei Fei pouted—adorable, indignant.
Yet joy sparkled clear in her eyes.
Han Sen bought a whole package—ten mooncakes, wrapped neat in oiled paper.
Fei Fei clutched them close, step lighter, almost skipping.
Toward home.
The compound gates appeared—plain wood, simple plaque.
Qing Xin Dao.
They had barely crossed the open threshold when a harsh voice erupted from within the courtyard.
“Xiao Tung Wen! Will you yield?”
“You vile dogs of Deng Tian Men! I shall never surrender!”
“Then perish!”
KRAKOOM!
Fei Fei and Han Sen exchanged a swift glance.
The bundle of mooncakes tumbled to the floor.
They both rushed into the courtyard.
Fei Fei drew her sword.
Han Sen unfurled his black staff.
The Sect Master of Qing Xin Dao, Xiao Tung Wen, lay prostrate upon the stone floor, spewing a torrent of blood. His internal injuries were grievous.
“Father! Father!” Fei Fei cried, rushing to his side.
“Fei Fei, why have you returned... flee quickly... they are powerful...”
“Who are they? Why?” she demanded, her eyes blazing with fury.
Her father, instead, glared at her and rebuked her.
“A dutiful child obeys her parents! They are the Sky Hand and Heart of Earth, elders of Deng Tian Men! I command you to leave now!”
“Hmph, an old man, even on the brink of death, still postures!” sneered one of the Deng Tian Men elders, standing nearby. His companion, masked and silent, merely observed.
“Beware, the Heart of Earth is formidable!” Xiao Tung Wen rasped, pushing Fei Fei away with a strained effort. He braced himself to receive a blow that could steal his life.
The blow never landed.
Han Sen leaped forward, deflecting the attack at the crucial moment. The Heart of Earth recoiled in surprise. This newcomer possessed a formidable cultivation, not inferior to his own—both were at the Core Formation stage.
Hong Cu, the masked elder, also registered Han Sen’s strength, his expression one of profound astonishment. He himself had only reached the pinnacle of Foundation Establishment, yet he knew not how to ascend further.
He had wrongly assumed that advancement lay in forcing all his internal energy into a single, unified mass. Now, he sensed two distinct types of qi within him: the chilling qi of the black stone, and his own, warmer qi.
Hong Cu, driven by a desperate ambition, attempted to force his way to the next level, misunderstanding the nature of Core Formation, believing it was merely a process of qi crystallization.
Meanwhile, Han Sen and the Heart of Earth clashed in a furious exchange, their Core Formation levels evenly matched. However, the Heart of Earth was slightly weaker than Huang He, allowing Han Sen to gain the upper hand, even begin to press his advantage.
Seeing his comrade falter, Hong Cu abandoned his own ascent and moved to assist.
What could a Foundation Establishment cultivator hope to achieve amidst a life-or-death battle between those far above him? Hong Cu was instantly struck by the shockwave of qi that erupted as Han Sen’s power collided with the Heart of Earth. The Sky Hand lay wounded and broken, his qi pool lacking the sturdy walls of a true foundation, weakened by the excessive absorption of qi from the black stone.
Hong Cu’s energy reservoir ruptured, black smoke billowing around his form. His organs were shattered, beyond any hope of repair.
The clash between Han Sen and the Heart of Earth reached its zenith.
Han Sen’s staff descended in a thunderous arc, infused with the full might of his golden core.
It struck true.
The Heart of Earth’s skull shattered like brittle jade.
His massive form crashed to the stone floor, the impact cracking the flagstones beneath.
Yet no crimson bloom stained the ground.
Instead, his body dissolved—flesh crumbling into ash, ash scattering into dust.
Vanished entirely.
Precisely as the monstrous entities had emerged from the crimson swirl.
Only a wooden bracelet remained upon the stones—dark, etched with ancient runes.
Identical to that once worn by Huang He.
Fei Fei and her father stood frozen, witnessing the impossible.
Hong Cu—masked elder, Sky Hand—struggled to maintain control of his qi pool.
The shock disrupted his flow.
Corruption accelerated its advance.
His breath came in ragged gasps.
All hope of survival extinguished.
“I… all this time… I served monsters?” the eunuch whispered, his voice a brittle rasp. “So… so low am I?”
Han Sen heard the dying man’s lament.
He drew closer.
Knelt before the helpless figure.
Hong Cu’s eyes—visible now through the cracked mask—filled with tears.
“Throughout my life… I received the kindness of Empress Zhang…
If I were to meet her in the afterlife… how shameful it would be.”
Tears traced paths down his withered, qi-corrupted face.
“Look… I told you… Empress Zhang is benevolent and virtuous.
Far more so than those wretched eunuchs… Li Fuguo, Cheng Yuanzhen.
I have borne a debt of gratitude to Empress Zhang my entire life…
Yet I was mad… I was blind!”
His voice weakened, each word a struggle.
“Listen… listen…
This is Empress Zhang’s final charge to me.
Will you carry it forth?
I beg you… I beg you…
So that I may have the face to meet Empress Zhang…”
Breaths shallower.
Prolonged speech drained remaining strength.
“Listen… listen…
Empress Zhang instructed me to bring… Siu Chen!”
Han Sen felt a tremor run through him. He could scarcely believe that the information he had sought for so long would be revealed here, in this moment.
“Bring Siu Chen! To the resting place south of Tuhe City… northern foot of Phoenix mountain, there is a path, between the hills of Ling and Wen… a carriage road. Ascend, three li.
The old inn, belonging to the Zhang family…
Empress Zhang… ensured Siu Chen’s safety. That was her final request.
Please… I have not… never… completed it. I… regret… regret…”
His breath ceased.
Hong Cu spoke no more.
His gaze lifted—as if perceiving Empress Zhang above, condemning his failings.
Regret flowed in a torrent of tears.
Han Sen closed the man’s eyes gently.
“Do not worry,” he whispered, voice thick, his own eyes glistening. “I will fulfill this charge… I swear it.”
At long last, he had found the answer sought so desperately.
The path to his mother.
Revealed in a dying eunuch’s regret.
“Brother!” Fei Fei called out from across the chamber, her voice trembling with urgency.
Han Sen hastened to her side, kneeling beside the gravely wounded Xiao Tung Wen.
The sect leader’s face was ashen, breath shallow, blood staining his robes.
“Brother! Father… please, help my father! Whatever I possess, I shall repay this kindness if you can but save him! Please… my father… the only one I have left in this world…” Fei Fei wept, her words choked with despair, tears falling like rain.
Han Sen reached into his satchel without hesitation.
He drew forth a small vial—the divine-grade internal injury balm, gift of Kang Sin Lam, refined through the miracle of Sky Bamboo.
He handed it to Fei Fei.
Her fingers fumbled with the stopper, but at last it opened.
A fragrant aroma filled the air—warm, vital, carrying the promise of life.
Xiao Tung Wen drank.
Color slowly returned to his pallid cheeks.
The grievous wounds within—shattered meridians, ruptured organs—began to mend, as though invisible hands wove them whole.
Han Sen offered silent gratitude in his heart to Kang Sin Lam, for this balm that snatched a good man from death’s grasp.
“Father!” Fei Fei cried, throwing her arms around him, tears of joy streaming down her face as he escaped the jaws of the underworld.
“Child… thank you, thank you,” Xiao Tung Wen murmured, voice weak yet steadying.
“I… I have nothing to offer in return. This is Xiao Liong Fei—I bestow her upon you. Take her as your wife.”
“Father! What do you mean?” Fei Fei stammered, cheeks burning crimson.
“A child must obey her parents! This is a command!” Xiao Tung Wen’s stern visage softened, a plea entering his eyes. “But… what is your name, young hero? You possess skill beyond measure. May this old man beseech you to watch over Fei Fei?”
“Honored sir, I am Han Sen. Do not worry—I will protect you, and I will protect Fei Fei.”
“No, no… listen. They will return. You cannot contend endlessly with that wicked sect. I… I must retreat to my master’s hidden cave. You go—the Deng Tian Men remain unaware of this matter. If you survive, I may yet return to cultivation. If you stay, we are powerless; progress impossible.”
Han Sen inclined his head.
“Very well. I will take Fei Fei and leave this place—but not as a wife. Such matters are not lightly undertaken. Survival comes first.”
“Young Han Sen, regardless… Fei Fei now rests in your care…”
“Father!” Fei Fei clung to him, sobs wracking her frame.
The maiden who moments before had teased and laughed now appeared utterly desolate.
“It is alright, it is alright,” Xiao Tung Wen soothed, hand upon her hair. “Your father is glad to see you well. Follow and obey Han Sen. This is your father’s wish. Live a life of happiness.”
The courtyard held only the sound of her weeping.
And the weight of parting.
Han Sen stood watch—staff in hand, heart steady.
The dragon prepared to leave the capital’s heart.
With new light at his side.
Playful.
Precious.
Irreplaceable.
While greater roads called.
And greater darkness waited beyond.
The path turned northward.
Toward Tuhe City.
Toward a mother long lost.
And a future yet unwritten.
