Northern Garrison City's Xuanyao

White vapor surged, carrying flecks of snow as it shot skyward. Lin Zhao stamped hard into the snow, shattered ice crunching crisply beneath his boots, and shot forward like an arrow loosed from the bow!

The Cold Moon Sword of cold steel split the frigid wind. Sword light streamed like silk, while inner breath faintly emerged along the patterns of the blade, actually condensing a thin layer of frost upon its edge.

Three Talents Slash!

Shocking Force!

Crack!

The burly man gripping the saber felt his tiger's mouth go numb as explosive pain erupted through it, as though struck by a massive hammer. Even his inner breath stalled for an instant, and his long saber nearly flew from his hand.

"This is... the inner-breath shocking force of the Martial Master Realm!"

"You're a Martial Master too?"

"Impossible! How could this impoverished northern backwater produce such a young newly entered Martial Master?"

The burly man's eyes widened. Though the youth before him was sturdily built, his face still carried youthful immaturity. He could not have been more than fifteen or sixteen.

To reach the Martial Master Realm at such an age, one either had to be a child of the Imperial Nobility, raised on Centennial Spirit Medicine, or a once-in-a-century Martial Dao Talent—after all, for ordinary northern martial artists, reaching the threshold of Martial Master by forty was already a stroke of tremendous luck.

"Didn't you also scrape together some Body Tempering Medicine through robbery and touch the threshold of Half Martial Master? Afraid now?" Lin Zhao grinned, his white teeth gleaming coldly as inner breath circulated through his body, driving away the chill of the snow.

With a twist of his wrist, the Cold Moon Sword swung out again. This time, it did not slash at the man himself, but slammed the flat of its blade against the long saber in the burly man's hand—an explosive clang sent snow grains flying all around. The iron saber snapped in response, half its blade burying itself in the snow, its fracture still coated with iron filings shattered apart by inner breath.

The burly man stared at the half-hilt remaining in his hand, frozen where he stood, his eyes filled with disbelief.

His saber might not have been fine quality, but it had still been forged from Mystic Iron mixed with Fine Steel. Even an ordinary martial artist hacking with all his strength would struggle to leave a mark on it, yet it had been broken by a single strike from this youth's sword!

Seizing that moment of stunned hesitation, Lin Zhao's sword tip had already pierced through the patched Coarse Cloth Tunic. Such armor could only guard against ordinary blades—how could it withstand a sword edge brimming with inner breath?

The sword tip drove straight into his chest, stirring up warm sprays of blood. The burly man did not even have time to groan before crumpling to the ground.

Drawing his sword and withdrawing his stance took no more than a few breaths.

When had the Remaining Bandits ever witnessed such a sight?

Their leader, Mountain Breaker Tiger, had previously preyed upon refugees. Relying on his half-baked hard-body skill, he had earned a reputation among the thugs for being "impervious to blade and spear." Otherwise, who would have joined him to form this Mountain Breaker Gang?

Now, their leader's corpse lay crooked in the slushy snow. The blood that had just seeped out froze into dark-red ice chips, and as his inner breath dissipated, even the surrounding cold seemed to grow heavier.

The bandits immediately lost their heads, shouting as they tried to scatter.

How could Lin Zhao allow them to escape?

Since they had dared rob him, the hereditary Hundred Household of Lin Family Fortress, they should have possessed the resolve to leave their corpses in the wilderness.

He drew his Zhe Wood Bow with a backhand motion and fired three arrows in succession—he had forged this bow himself. Its body had been soaked in Mystic Dragon Gallbladder Fluid, allowing it to withstand the infusion of inner breath, and its arrows flew thirty percent faster than those from ordinary bows!

The three black figures running at the front fell at once. Arrowheads punched through their backs and nailed them to the snow before they could even struggle.

Seeing this, the rest went weak in the knees and dropped to the ground, begging for mercy as they cried for their fathers and mothers.

"Martial Master, spare our lives! We are all refugees who fled here after the northern drought. We were starving beyond endurance, so we took this desperate risk!"

"I only wanted to steal some of your provisions to fill my belly! I had not the slightest intention of offending a Martial Master! Heaven above, I would never dare deceive you!"

"Please show mercy! My blind old mother is still waiting at home for me to return and see her through her final days. Please leave me a path to live!"

They all spoke at once, their voices trembling like chaff in a sieve. Their eyes were filled with a desperate craving for life, as though this youthful martial artist were not a boy at all, but a magistrate holding life and death in his hand.

"Get lost." Lin Zhao's voice was as calm as still water, but his eyes held not the slightest warmth. Inner breath still flowed at his fingertips, ready to release more arrows at any moment.

"Thank you, sir! You are a living Bodhisattva!"

"We'll never dare engage in highway robbery again!"

Half-believing and half-doubting, they scrambled up and tried to flee, their steps unsteady and weak.

They had only run two paces when the bowstring sounded softly behind them—three feathered arrows tore through the air again, precisely piercing their hearts from behind. The arrow shafts still hummed faintly with the tremor of inner breath.

On the snow, Lin Zhao gathered dry firewood and piled the thirteen corpses together, then used a firestarter to kindle a roaring blaze.

Flames licked across the bodies with a crackling roar, melting away the surrounding snow. Even the smell of blood in the air was burned into the stench of scorched flesh.

"By northern martial customs, if a martial artist's corpse is left in the wilderness, mountain beasts may drag it away and disrupt order around the garrison. This fire can count as seeing you off on your final journey."

He spoke to himself, his tone as calm as if he were discussing the snowfall.

The youngest of the thirteen had been about his age, his face still carrying childishness. Calluses from gripping a hoe remained on his fingers, showing that he had clearly been a farmer's son.

He believed their final words had been true—in desperate straits, lies were harder to sustain, and that longing for life could not have been faked.

But so what?

If he had not reached the Martial Master Realm today, if he had not cultivated the Mystic Dragon Breathing Technique until inner breath ran through his arms, then the one being burned to erase all traces would have been him, the sole heir of Lin Family Fortress.

These men had fallen into banditry perhaps because the northern drought had left them without a single grain to harvest, or because the garrison soldiers had exploited and extorted them. In the end, they had been driven there by these chaotic times.

But there was only one reason they had to die: they had wanted to kill him.

In the end, he found more than a dozen pieces of broken silver and a small bottle of inferior Body Tempering Medicine, Iron Bone Powder, in the burly man's robes. Lin Zhao brushed the snow from himself and casually tossed the medicine bottle into the snow—this medicine contained too many impurities. Taking it would only make inner breath sluggish, so it was useless to him.

Before he had gone far, the outline of a mighty city appeared in the distance—Northern Garrison City, one of the most prosperous garrison settlements in the north and the core city of Earl of Jing'an's Fief.

From afar, its walls could be seen to have been built from Dark Green Mystic Iron Stone, rising three zhang high. The great banner of "Northern Garrison Guard · Black Armored Battalion" flew atop the walls. Every armored soldier beneath it wore a Horse-Slaying Saber at his waist, their inner breath condensed but unexpressed. They were clearly martial soldiers hardened by countless battles.

The most conspicuous building in the city was not the government offices, but a True Martial Temple with soaring eaves and interlocking brackets. Its vermilion gates stood wide open, and within, one could faintly see the statue of the True Martial Emperor. Two statues of Martial Saints stood before the temple, Mystic Iron long sabers in hand, their presence awe-inspiring enough that even birds dared not perch atop their heads.

"Not bad. It does not pale beside the Lin family's Sunset Mountain Fortress of old. Sunset Mountain Fortress had the refinement of Jiangnan, relying on its waters for defense. Northern Garrison City, however, possesses the grandeur of the north. It stands purely on the strength of its martial armaments, exuding the air of blades and war."

He presented his hereditary Hundred Household waist token—the face bore the crest of Lin Family Fortress, along with the words "Made by the Ministry of War of the Jiajing Dynasty." The guards did not question him much before letting him pass.

Though this waist token was nothing worth mentioning in the capital, it was still an identity credential for martial artists recognized by northern garrisons.

Compared with Lin Family Fortress, which had only a little over two thousand people, Northern Garrison City was like another world—

The streets bustled with traffic. Peddlers shook rattle drums rimmed with iron, while porters hurried by with burlap sacks on their shoulders, their steps firm as inner breath circulated through them. There were even martial merchants dressed in silks and satins, pinching jade thumb rings tempered with inner breath as they pointed at ancient weapons on antique stalls. From time to time, they would reach out to weigh them in hand, checking whether they had truly been forged from Mystic Iron.

According to the garrison registry, this place had a permanent population of one hundred thousand. Add refugees, traveling merchants, and the troops stationed in the city, and the number was likely even greater.

There were more martial academies and Blacksmith Shops in the city than rice shops. After all, in the north, understanding martial arts and knowing how to wield weapons were the foundations of survival.

Lin Zhao had no interest in sightseeing. Carrying his pack, he headed straight for the largest mercantile house in the city—Ruibao Pavilion.

A shop bearing such a name was naturally no ordinary establishment. Behind it stood imperial relatives and noble clans such as the Xu Clan of Duke Wei and The Zhang Clan of Duke Ying, who had nearly monopolized the northern salt, iron, and spirit medicine trade.

To buy shares in Ruibao Pavilion, one needed at least the rank of earl. Put plainly, it was an Imperial Merchant enterprise jointly run by noble families, dealing exclusively with martial artists and the powerful.

This location in Northern Garrison City was merely a branch. Its main house stood on Chessboard Street in the capital, and it was said that even weapons used by Legendary Master Warriors could be bought there.

"Shopkeeper, do you have any Pangolin Dragon Essence?" Lin Zhao asked as he approached the counter, keeping his voice low. Pangolin Dragon Essence was a spirit medicine requiring Western Regions Fire Scale Grass and Northern Lands Ice Spring in its refinement. Few below the Martial Master Realm bought it, and he did not wish to attract too much attention.

He was not worried about being recognized. He was merely an inconspicuous hereditary Hundred Household in the north, and at his age, there would be no portrait of him in the official gazettes. He had yet to make a name for himself in northern martial circles. Who would know him?

The shopkeeper was a middle-aged man with a goatee. His fingers had spent years flicking an abacus, leaving his knuckles thick and sturdy—he had clearly practiced some rudimentary hard-body skill. At Lin Zhao's words, his eyes immediately brightened. "Sir, you truly know your goods! Spirit medicine like Pangolin Dragon Essence is not something people ask for unless they need it to temper a Martial Master's body or refine medicine. Anyone who comes asking is an expert and a distinguished customer."

Then his expression became troubled. "But I'm terribly sorry. The Pangolin Dragon Essence in our store was bought out last month by the Northern Garrison Guard's lieutenant general—the lieutenant general intends to break into Grandmaster Warrior, and needs a large quantity of spirit medicine to assist him. If you are not in a hurry, perhaps you could look at something else? For instance, this Western Regions Fire Scale Ointment. It may not be as pure as Pangolin Dragon Essence, but it can still nourish inner breath; or... ah, sir, don't leave!"

Lin Zhao had already vanished around the street corner.

As expected. If Ruibao Pavilion does not have it, then only one place remains in all of Northern Garrison City that might. If that place does not have it either, I can always return to the fortress and cultivate slowly. At worst, I will lose two or three years. The Mystic Dragon Breathing Technique requires steady, solid progress in the first place.

He casually bought a Rakshasa Mask from a street-side general store. It covered only his mouth and nose, leaving his eyes exposed. It would prevent recognition without hindering his vision or his use of a bow, making it more suitable for a martial artist than an ordinary mask.

As he threaded through winding alleys, he finally heard pipa songs and singing from ahead, mixed with men's laughter, curses, and the clatter of bowls and plates. There were also faint sounds of inner breath colliding—someone was clearly sparring inside the tavern.

At a corner at the end of the alley, a tavern hung a dim yellow copper lantern. The characters "Xuanyao" were carved on its surface. A brazier burned brightly outside the entrance, warmth spilling through the cracks in the door along with the rich fragrance of wine.

Four inked characters were written on a wooden sign:

"Xuanyao Tavern."

A line of smaller writing stood beside them: "To enter today, one must drink Huben Brew."

"Coming right up! Honored guest, drink this bowl of Huben Brew, and may you one day be like Xu Da, King of Zhongshan—your inner breath like a dragon, your name renowned across the battlefield!"

A broad-waisted, burly man stood before the tavern. Bare-chested, his muscles bulged like blocks of iron. Whenever a guest arrived, they first had to hand over a Tael of Silver in exchange for a bowl of strong liquor, which they had to drink. It proved both their wealth and their courage.

Huben Brew was made from century-old sorghum mixed with Blazing Sun Flower from the north. Its potency could blast through stagnant inner breath in a martial artist. An ordinary person would collapse drunk after one sip, while even martial artists had to circulate their cultivation to suppress its force.

Who did not know that Xuanyao Tavern sold wine on the surface, but was secretly the largest Black Market in the north?

No one could say when Xuanyao Tavern had first appeared across the prefectures of the Ming Dynasty. Nor was it limited to the Ming Dynasty; merchants had reportedly seen taverns bearing the Xuanyao sign in the northern deserts and within the Six Kingdoms of the Western Regions.

It was a secret organization spread throughout the Central Plains, combining Black Market trade and bounty commissions.

To the common people barred outside by the sky-high price of a Tael of Silver for wine, this was a gilded pleasure den where nobles and Martial Masters sought amusement—inside were gorgeous singing girls, some with waists supple as willow threads of Jiangnan, skilled in "soft-force massages" that could help martial artists ease their inner breath. Others were Western Regions beauties skilled at playing the Soul-Soothing Pipa, which could stabilize inner breath and leave martial artists utterly entranced.

Inside and outside the tavern were simply two different worlds.

Lin Zhao's father had been a hereditary Thousand Household. In his younger days, he had traveled far and wide, once purchasing secret forging materials from Xuanyao Tavern, and knew its workings well: it recognized only silver and strength, never status. But anyone who dared make trouble here would vanish without a sound, even if they were a child of the nobility.

Had Ruibao Pavilion not run out of stock, he truly would not have wished to set foot in such a den of dragons and snakes—the martial artists in the Black Market were mostly desperadoes, and a moment of carelessness could drag one into conflict.

"One bowl of Huben Brew."

Lin Zhao gritted his teeth and drew out a heavy Tael of Silver, handing it to the hulking man outside. The man was covered in knots of muscle and wore a thick-backed saber at his waist. His aura was deep and still as a mountain—he was actually a Peak Martial Master! An ordinary Martial Master would likely fail to last three moves before him.

The fact that Xuanyao Tavern could have a Peak Martial Master guard its door showed the depth of its backing. The tavern was as enigmatic and elusive as an illusion, seeming to stand apart from government, nobles, and even the imperial family—the lieutenant general of Northern Garrison Guard knew it existed, yet had never dared send men to investigate it.

For an ordinary household, one Tael of Silver could buy an ox for plowing, a fine iron blade, or half a year of rudimentary instruction from a Martial Master at True Martial Temple. Yet here, it bought only a bowl of wine—a bowl of wine called an "admission ticket."

The burly man accepted the silver and squeezed it with his knuckles to check its quality. Then he ladled a bowl of amber-colored strong liquor from a wine jar beside the brazier. As the liquid swayed, tiny sparks actually flickered across its surface. "Drink it, and you may enter. If you collapse drunk at the door, no one will care for you."

This was Huben Brew, brewed in remembrance of Xu Da, King of Zhongshan, a founding general—Xu Da had been a Legendary Master Warrior whose inner breath had once "coiled around his body like a dragon." With a single spear, he swept across the northern deserts. Thus, this wine also bore the "aura of blazing sun," able to help martial artists nourish their inner breath.

Xuanyao Tavern sold only seven kinds of wine, rotating them daily as admission tickets. Each cost a Tael of Silver and corresponded to one deceased Legendary Master Warrior:

- Huben Brew (Xu Da): aura of blazing sun, nourishes inner breath

- Iron Blood Brew (Chang Yuchun): fierce, forceful aura, aids hard-body training

- Hundred Flower Spring (Qin Liangyu): soft-force aura, eases the meridians

- Cold River Snow (Qi Jiguang): steady aura, calms the heart and settles the will

- Mystic Iron Brew (Yu Dayou): heavy aura, strengthens the foundation

- Crimson Gold Brew (Li Rusong): sharp aura, improves techniques

- Thousand Illusions Brew (Qianhuan Ji Huanying): illusory aura, conceals one's presence

Thus, many people guessed that the tavern's owner had to be a reclusive martial grandmaster. Otherwise, how could they dare operate Black Markets beneath the eyes of government offices throughout the prefectures of the Six Kingdoms, yet have no one dare investigate them?

Lin Zhao was not concerned about poison in the wine—Xuanyao Tavern's reputation in the Black Market was rock-solid, and it never did anything that would smash its own signboard. If it truly poisoned customers, word would spread and no one would dare come again.

He tipped his head back and drained the Huben Brew. The strong liquor rolled down his throat like burning charcoal, scorching it painfully, yet warming his frozen body. Its potency seemed to stir his inner breath, making it circulate a little more smoothly.

He pushed open the door and entered. Clamor and the scent of cosmetics rushed over him, mingled with intense wine fumes and faint fluctuations of inner breath—many guests were circulating their cultivation to suppress the liquor's potency or quietly exchanging insights into martial arts.

Behind the bar, the Proprietress in a crimson gauze dress leaned against a pillar, holding a bowl of Hundred Flower Spring. As her fingertips lightly tapped the tabletop, inner breath stirred faintly, making the cups and bowls quiver. With each turn of her alluring eyes, she left several martial artists peeking about nearby utterly entranced.

The Proprietress looked delicate, but her aura was unfathomably deep. Lin Zhao could not see through her realm at all—she was likely at least an Entering Martial Master.

Quite a few people in the tavern wore masks like Lin Zhao, though some bold and highly skilled individuals showed their true faces. There were Brocade Robe Martial Merchants with soft swords tempered by inner breath at their waists, their fingers constantly resting on their sword hilts; Wandering Swordsmen carrying sabers and swords, mud and snow clinging to their shoes, clearly having just arrived from elsewhere; and several Black Armored Officials with short beards, the crest of "Northern Garrison Guard" carved into their shoulder armor, gathered together to discuss border warfare in low voices while occasionally demonstrating several moves of military saber formations.

The men drank and played finger-guessing games. Occasionally, someone emboldened by drink would tease a passing maid, only for the Proprietress to arch her willow brows and say in a voice carrying inner breath, one that made the offender's eardrums ache, "Are people from Xuanyao Tavern yours to touch? If you do not want to lose your hands, behave yourself!"

The man sobered at once, shrinking his neck and daring not speak again—everyone knew that anyone who dared lay hands on someone from Xuanyao Tavern would be sunk into the frozen river outside the city the next day, leaving not even a corpse to find.

Lin Zhao squeezed through the noisy crowd and circled around to the tavern's rear courtyard—this was the true marketplace.

The vaulted ceiling was built upon Mystic Iron frames, with several oil lamps hanging from it and illuminating dozens of simple stalls below. The stall owners sat or stood; some wore armor, while others had their hair bound up. They sold all manner of goods: weapons tempered with inner breath, porcelain bottles containing spirit medicines, handwritten notes recording martial insights, and even pelts stripped from exotic beasts of the northern deserts.

A man-high wooden board stood in a corner, covered in commissions written in ink. Some sought missing persons, some hired escort protection for spirit medicine caravans, and others offered rewards for enemies' heads, with the targets' realms and the bounty amounts clearly marked.

Such commissions were all privately posted. The tavern merely acted as intermediary and charged a ten-percent commission, giving rise to the profession of Bounty Hunter—many wandering Martial Masters and retired soldiers made their living taking these commissions. The risks were high, but the money came quickly.

Lin Zhao made two rounds among the stalls, his gaze sweeping across various weapons and spirit medicines. Then his eyes suddenly lit up, and he stopped before someone entirely clad in Bincheng Iron Armor.

A Black Ceramic Bottle sat on that stall, the four characters "Pangolin Dragon Essence" carved onto its body. Even with a stopper sealing it, a strange fragrance faintly leaked out—he had smelled that scent countless times as a child when his father prepared Mystic Dragon Secret Medicine. There was no way he could be mistaken.