Chapter 87
Beyond the desolation of the Wuli Slope—a barren burial ground veiled by eerie silence—an unexpected confrontation had unfolded.
The setting was one of stark contrast. The noonday sun shone brightly overhead, yet its light struggled to penetrate the overgrown trees, their twisted branches casting elongated shadows over the moss-covered graves. The ominous cawing of crows echoed throughout, accentuating the unsettling atmosphere. Even the air felt heavy, laden with an inexplicable tension.
As Murong Qiufeng gently patted the sleek neck of his steed, the horse pawed at the ground nervously, snorting with unease. This was no ordinary mount but one of the legendary spirit steeds bred by Bai Feng, the enigmatic elder of the Snow Mountain. Only seven of these intelligent creatures existed, each uniquely gifted. This particular horse, clever and cunning, excelled in identifying traps and detecting danger. It had already proven its worth.
From his sleeve, Murong Qiufeng produced a jade-like stone, no larger than a grain of rice. With an effortless flick, he sent it hurtling towards an unseen spot. A sharp crack followed, and the trap was revealed—a hidden mechanism lying dormant, ready to ensnare the unwary.
Steadying himself, he called out in a clear voice, “Murong Qiufeng has arrived. Why not show yourself?”
His voice echoed through the eerie silence, but instead of a response, shadows materialized from all sides. Several masked figures clad in black surged forth, their blades gleaming in the filtered light as they lunged towards him.
Murong Qiufeng leaped lightly, using his horse’s back as a springboard to engage his attackers midair. His movements were swift and fluid, his blade a blur of silver as he met their strikes with precision. Within moments, the black-clad assailants fell back, clutching wounds that, though shallow, were a clear warning.
He settled back onto his horse with practiced ease, his expression calm but his voice carrying a sharp edge. “Where is the Seventh Princess?”
The masked men exchanged nervous glances, then made a sudden move to scatter. Yet, mere moments later, their paths inexplicably converged, and they found themselves back where they started. Murong Qiufeng’s horse snorted triumphantly, its clever intervention trapping them once again.
A faint smile played on Murong Qiufeng’s lips as he stroked the horse’s mane. “Well done, Xiaofan.”
The black-clad men froze, their earlier confidence replaced with confusion and growing dread. Murong Qiufeng’s next words, laced with a chilling authority, cut through the tension. “Surrender now, or should I call the Ye King to interrogate you personally?”
At the mention of Ye King—Shangguan Ye—their faces paled. They shared a collective look of terror and guilt. Murong Qiufeng observed them intently, sensing their internal struggle. He pressed further, his tone quieter but no less forceful. “The Ye King has treated you all as kin, yet this is how you repay him? Betrayal?”
The words struck a nerve. One by one, their postures slumped, and their swords faltered. Their fear was now mingled with shame. Murong Qiufeng’s eyes darkened. These were no ordinary assassins but likely defectors—men who had once stood beside Shangguan Ye in battle.
He lowered his sword but kept his stance firm. “Tell me where the princess is. Turn back now, and there may still be hope.”
But his appeal was met with despair. The men exchanged resolute glances, and before Murong Qiufeng could intervene, they plunged their blades into themselves. The horrific synchronicity left him momentarily stunned.
Murong Qiufeng rushed forward, catching one of the men as he collapsed. With trembling lips, the dying man whispered brokenly, “Young master… we… had no choice. Please… save our families… The princess… is at the relay station… Tell… the Ye King… forgive us…”
The light in his eyes faded before the last word could escape.
Murong Qiufeng closed the man’s lifeless eyes with a solemn hand, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. “Rest assured, your words will reach him.”
He stood, his gaze lingering on the fallen bodies. For a moment, grief clouded his features, but he quickly suppressed it, his resolve hardening. “Ah Si,” he called, and a shadowy figure materialized at his side.
“Take them back. Ensure they are treated with dignity.”
“Yes, Young Master.” The gray-clad figure bowed before beginning the task.
Murong Qiufeng mounted his horse, his grip on the reins firm. His mood was somber, his thoughts turbulent. The betrayal cut deeply—not for what it meant to him, but for the blow it would deal to Shangguan Ye.
As his horse galloped towards the relay station, the chilling words of the dying man echoed in his mind. If the Seventh Princess was truly involved, the situation was far more perilous than he had anticipated.
