Yulan Calendar, year 10000, the first day of Green Moon.
Fenlai City had been bustling since dawn. Colorful banners and magical lanterns hung along both sides of the streets, shops opened early, and vendors pushed carts, hawking festival pastries and toys. In the central square, clergy of the Radiant Church were setting up an altar. It was said that Pope Heidens would personally preside over this year's ceremony, praying for another ten thousand years of prosperity for the entire Holy Union.
Linley stood at a third-floor window of the residence, watching the crowds bustling like ants in the distant square. He wore ordinary dark clothes, with Slaughter hanging at his waist. Its sheath was wrapped in cloth, concealing the family crest. Bebe crouched on his shoulder, his little eyes fixed on the royal palace at the end of the street.
"Big brother."
Wharton came up the stairs, dressed just as inconspicuously. The twelve-year-old boy had already grown as tall as Linley's shoulder. He carried a longsword wrapped in coarse cloth on his back-a replica of Slaughter. Linley had the real blade. The brothers exchanged a glance, and neither spoke.
They had settled on the plan a month ago.
On the day of the Yulan Festival, the palace guards would change shifts, and some of the elite troops would be sent to the square to maintain order. As was customary, Clayde would return to the palace after the midday ceremony, passing through Maple Leaf Street on the way. The buildings on both sides of the street stood close together, making it suitable for an ambush. Three days earlier, Linley and Wharton had rented the top room of a two-story building there, with a window facing the street.
Simple and direct: strike amid the clamor of the festival.
"Is everything ready?" Linley asked.
"Mm." Wharton nodded. "Grandpa Hiri went to the estate outside the city yesterday. He said he was buying festival supplies, but he was really getting out of the way. There were only a few servants left at the residence, and I gave them the day off too."
"Nicely done."
Linley turned and picked up two leather pouches from the table, tossing one to Wharton. They contained dry rations, water, first-aid potions, and a few magic scrolls for emergencies-the lowest-grade kind, which contained no powerful magical fluctuations and would not alert the Church's detection formations.
"Brother," Wharton said as he fastened his pouch, "how many guards do you think Clayde will bring today?"
"Not too many." Linley fastened his own pouch. "He can't bring a large force to a ceremony without looking cowardly. Going by previous years, probably twelve to sixteen elite members of the Wild Thunder Squadron, plus two court magicians. Caesar will definitely be there-he's Clayde's chief bodyguard, a ninth-level warrior who never leaves his side."
"Leave Caesar to me," Wharton said. "You focus on Clayde."
Linley glanced at his younger brother. A fourteen-year-old claiming he would take on a ninth-level warrior would have been taken for a madman anywhere else. But Wharton had spoken calmly, as if discussing what to eat for lunch. Over the past two years, Linley had watched his brother break through from the eighth level to the ninth, and, after Dragonform, gain saint-level power. He had never heard of a fourteen-year-old saint in ten thousand years.
"Be careful," Linley said at last. "Caesar isn't an ordinary ninth-level warrior. He fought on the frontier for more than ten years and has plenty of combat experience."
"Haha, got it."
The two checked their equipment once more.
At three quarters past the hour of the dragon, the brothers left.
The streets teemed with people. Parents led children dressed in new clothes by the hand, couples strolled arm in arm, and vendors' cries rose one after another. The air carried the charred aroma of roast meat, the cloying sweetness of pastries, and the lingering sulfurous smell of magical fireworks. It was a joyful, noisy scene of prosperity.
Linley and Wharton walked against the flow of people toward Maple Leaf Street. Both kept their heads lowered and their pace unhurried, like two ordinary brothers going to a relative's home for the festival.
"Big brother," Wharton suddenly said in a low voice, "the weather's lovely today."
Linley looked up. The sky was a brilliant blue, the sun shone brightly, and wisps of thin cloud resembled torn cotton.
"Mm."
"Perfect for killing," Wharton added.
Linley did not reply, but his lips curved into a cold smile.
Maple Leaf Street was named for the two rows of maple trees along it. At this time of year, their leaves were turning from green to red, their mottled colors shifting in the sunlight. The small building they had rented stood halfway down the street. A tailor's shop occupied the ground floor, closed for the festival. The brothers circled around through the back alley, unlocked the side door, and climbed a narrow wooden staircase to the top room.
The room was small, with only one window, facing the street. Beneath it stood a square table and two chairs. Linley moved a chair beside the window and sat down. He could just see the street from there, but people outside would not see him unless they deliberately looked up.
Wharton shut the door, took a piece of black cloth from inside his robes, and began wiping the blade of Mountain Suppressor. His movements were slow and meticulous, as if he were performing some kind of ritual.
Time passed, minute by minute, second by second.
Faint hymns drifted from the distant square-the ceremony had begun. Pope Heidens's solemn, resonant voice carried throughout the city through a magical amplification formation, praising the Lord of Light's divine grace and the ten thousand years of peace on the Yulan Continent.
Linley closed his eyes, tapping his fingers lightly against Slaughter's hilt. He went over the plan in his mind: Clayde's procession would leave through the square's eastern gate, travel five hundred meters down the main street, then turn right onto Maple Leaf Street. That stretch was about three hundred meters long, with closely packed buildings on both sides, making it the best place to strike. He and Wharton would leap from the window while Bebe attacked from the rooftop to the side, creating chaos. They would deal with the outer guards within ten seconds, seize Clayde within twenty, and withdraw immediately-they could not linger in battle or give the palace reinforcements time to react.
The plan was simple, but the simpler the plan, the fewer surprises there would be.
Wharton finished wiping his sword, folded the black cloth, and tucked it back inside his robes. He went to the window and sat beside Linley, closing his eyes as well.
The two waited in silence.
Waiting for their enemy to pass by.
Waiting to repay a blood debt in blood.
Shortly after noon, the ceremony reached its climax. Cheers erupted from the direction of the square like a roaring sea, and magical fireworks burst in the sky, their brilliant colors visible even from several streets away.
Linley opened his eyes.
"Soon."
Wharton nodded, his hand resting on his sword hilt.
Another quarter of an hour passed. Pedestrians gradually disappeared from the street-most had gathered in the square or along the main street, waiting to admire the king's procession as it returned to the palace.
The sound of hooves came from the distance.
They were here.
Linley rose, walked to the window, and turned slightly to look outside. At the end of the street, a cavalry escort was approaching at a slow pace. Twelve knights in golden armor rode in neat formation, two abreast. Their warhorses wore dark blue caparisons trimmed with gold, and their horseshoes struck a crisp rhythm against the flagstones.
A four-wheeled carriage followed the knights. Its body was painted entirely black, the walls engraved with the Fenlai Kingdom's griffin emblem, and heavy velvet curtains hung over its windows. The four white horses pulling it were tall and magnificent, their strides perfectly matched.
Two men rode beside the carriage. On the left was a burly middle-aged man with a fleshy face and a broad-bladed saber at his waist-Caesar. On the right was an elderly man in dark blue robes, holding a staff. He was probably a court magician.
Four more knights brought up the rear.
Eighteen people in all, close to their estimate.
Linley took a deep breath and gestured to Wharton: follow the plan and kill the magician first.
Wharton nodded and gripped Mountain Suppressor with both hands.
The procession entered the middle stretch of Maple Leaf Street.
Linley counted the hoofbeats. Thirty paces, twenty, ten...
Now!
He flung the window open and leaped out. While he was still in midair, Slaughter came free of its sheath, its blade tracing a dark red arc in the sunlight as it chopped straight at the magician beside the carriage.
Almost simultaneously, Wharton leaped from the window in a different direction, crashing down on Caesar like a boulder. Bebe pounced from the opposite rooftop, a black shadow as swift as lightning, heading straight for the coachman.
The surprise attack came too suddenly.
Caesar was a ninth-level warrior, however, and his instincts took over at the moment of life and death. With an angry roar, he raised his saber to block Wharton's heavy sword.
Clang!
The thunderous clash of metal set the windows along the street humming. Caesar's warhorse let out a pitiful cry and fell to its front knees-the force of Wharton's blow had crushed both horse and rider down.
But Caesar had indeed blocked it. Using the momentum of the fall, he rolled from his horse and swept his saber sideways at Wharton's lower legs. Experienced and ruthless, he paid no attention to his own awkward fall, caring only about killing his enemy.
Wharton shifted his feet and pressed down with his heavy sword. There was another clang, and Caesar's saber was nearly forced from his grip, the skin between his thumb and forefinger splitting and bleeding.
On the other side, Linley's surprise attack had succeeded.
The magician had no time to cast a spell. The blade flashed, cutting his staff in two and severing his right hand at the wrist along with it. The magician screamed and hastily raised his left hand, firing an instantaneous fireball at Linley's face.
Linley neither dodged nor evaded, punching out with his left fist. His Dragonform was completed in an instant-black scales covered his arm, and his fist tore through the air, smashing the fireball apart. As flames scattered, Slaughter in his right hand stabbed into the magician's chest, twisted, and withdrew.
Blood sprayed.
"Enemy attack!" Only then did Caesar finish his roar.
The twelve knights of the Wild Thunder Squadron reacted, drawing their blades and urging their horses forward, trying to close in. But Bebe had already dealt with the coachman-the Shadowmouse's claws had slashed across his throat, and the man clutched his spurting neck as he toppled from the driver's seat. Without stopping, Bebe pounced on the nearest knight and bit through the horse's leg. The warhorse neighed and fell, sending its rider tumbling awkwardly.
Chaos.
Linley kicked the carriage door open. Clayde sat inside with a personal guard, who drew his sword and thrust at him, the devious stroke aimed straight at his throat. A seventh-level warrior, and one who specialized in assassination.
Linley turned his head aside and caught the blade in his left hand. His palm, transformed by Dragonform, was as hard as refined steel, and the edge could not cut through its scales. He snapped the longsword with a twist and swept his blade across with his right hand.
The guard's head flew off, struck the carriage wall, and rolled down.
Only then did Clayde get a clear look at his attacker's face.
"A monster from another plane..." The king's voice trembled slightly, but his hand had already moved to his waist, where an ornately decorated shortsword hung in a gem-studded sheath.
Linley gave him no chance to draw it. He stepped into the carriage and laid Slaughter against Clayde's neck, its edge pressing into his skin and drawing a line of blood.
"Don't move." Linley's voice was as cold as ice. "Move an inch, and your head comes off."
Outside the carriage, the battle continued.
Caesar and Wharton had already exchanged three moves. In the first, Caesar had come off worse in a direct clash. In the second, Caesar had tried to use his experience to gain the upper hand in a mobile fight, but Wharton's heavy sword, though seemingly clumsy, moved with exquisite variation and always sealed off his attacks. By the third, Caesar had begun fighting for his life, his saber whirling wildly as his battle-qi erupted. The full power of a ninth-level warrior sent flagstones flying along the entire street.
But Wharton was stronger.
When the heavy sword crashed down for the third time, Caesar could no longer block it. His saber flew from his hand and buried itself in the wooden wall of a shop beside the street. Caesar staggered back, a sword wound across his chest deep enough to expose bone, blood staining his golden armor red.
"You..." Caesar's eyes widened. "Saint-level?!"
Wharton did not answer. He raised his heavy sword again. The stroke was simple, a straight downward chop, but its force sealed off every avenue of escape. Caesar roared and channeled all his battle-qi into both fists, punching upward in an attempt to meet it head-on.
The sword fell.
Fists shattered.
The heavy sword cleaved through battle-qi, fists, and helmet, finally splitting Caesar's entire body in two. Blood and organs spilled across the ground, and the ninth-level warrior's corpse fell to either side, still twitching faintly.
The remaining knights were stunned.
Lord Caesar... dead? In three moves?
Fear spread like a plague. No one knew who first shouted "Run!" The twelve knights-four already dead, eight remaining-wheeled their horses around, trying to flee the street.
But it was too late.
Linley came out of the carriage, holding Clayde in his left hand. The king dangled like a chicken, seized by the back of his neck, his feet off the ground as he struggled desperately. Blade in his right hand, Linley looked at the knights.
"Leave none alive."
Wharton moved.
The heavy sword was as light as a wooden stick in his hands. He caught up with one knight and swept the blade through him, cutting horse and rider in two. He turned, stepped forward, and struck again, cleaving another knight from shoulder to hip. Blood poured like rain onto Maple Leaf Street, staining the flagstones and the maple trees red.
Bebe was killing too. The black shadow darted among the knights, and every time he paused, another knight fell with blood spurting from his throat.
Twenty seconds.
Twenty seconds had passed since the ambush began. The eighteen-man escort had been wiped out. Two ninth-level fighters, Caesar and the magician; twelve seventh-level elites; and four sixth-level fighters. Not one survived.
The street fell deathly silent.
Only the sound of dripping blood and Clayde's ragged breathing remained.
Linley threw Clayde to the ground. The king landed in a pool of blood, his splendid ceremonial robes smeared with gore and his crown askew, a wretched sight. He tried to get up, but Wharton's heavy sword was already against his chest. A light press of its tip made his ribs creak.
"Who are you?..." Clayde looked up, all color drained from his face. "Attacking the king is a crime that will bring death upon your entire clan-"
"Shut up." Linley crouched down and pressed the blade against Clayde's face. "I ask, you answer. One more useless word, and I'll cut a piece of flesh off you."
Clayde fell silent. He stared fixedly at Linley, the fear in his eyes gradually giving way to a kind of madness. This king was no mediocrity. He had fought a bloody path through the other princes to take the throne and held it securely for twenty years, and he had not done it through kindness.
"Twelve years ago," Linley said, crouching down and grabbing Clayde by the hair to lift him up, "you sent men to seize a woman. Remember?"
Clayde's pupils abruptly contracted.
He remembered. Of course he remembered. The woman with the pure soul had been one of the "sacrifices" he offered to the Church. Because of that sacrifice, he had been raised from a seventh-level warrior to the ninth level and had also received the saint-level magic scroll Destiny Guard.
But he did not understand. How did these two monsters know about it? Could it be...
"What was she to you?" Clayde blurted out.
"He was my mother." Linley's voice was as cold as ice. "Now tell me where my mother is."
Clayde's mind raced. He could not admit it; if he did, he was as good as dead. But if he denied it, these two monsters would not let him go either. What could he do? Stall for time? Wait for the Church to send help?
"I don't know what you're talking about." Clayde forced himself to remain calm. "Have you got the wrong person?"
Wharton stamped on his leg.
Crack.
The leg bone broke. Clayde let out a scream like a pig being slaughtered.
"I'll ask again." Linley leaned close, his dark golden eyes fixed on Clayde's. "Where is my mother?"
Cold sweat streamed down Clayde's face from the pain, but he gritted his teeth. "I... I really don't know..."
Wharton lifted his foot, preparing to stamp on the other leg.
"Wait!" Clayde finally broke. "I'll talk! I'll talk!"
Linley let go, allowing him to slump to the ground.
"Twelve years ago... yes, I did seize a woman." Clayde panted. "But I didn't kill her! I only... only handed her over to the Church!"
"The Church?" Linley's gaze sharpened. "Why?"
"Because... because her soul was very pure." Clayde dared not look Linley in the eyes. "The Church has always collected pure souls to... to sacrifice to the Lord of Light. In return, the Church grants the one making the sacrifice a blessing. It was because I offered her that I broke through from the seventh level to the ninth and received a saint-level scroll..."
As he spoke, he fished a scroll from inside his robes. It was bound with gold thread and covered in intricate magical patterns.
"This is Destiny Guard, a saint-level defensive scroll. I'll give it to you! You can have it all! Please, let me go-"
Linley snatched the scroll and tossed it to Wharton without even looking at it. All his attention was on what Clayde had said.
Sacrifice. A pure soul. The Lord of Light.
Each word stabbed into his heart like a knife.
"Sacrificed..." Linley's voice trembled. "What does that mean? My mother was... was sacrificed?"
Clayde lowered his head. "I... I don't know exactly how it was done. After the Church's people took her away, I never saw her again. But as a rule, a sacrificial offering... couldn't possibly survive."
Linley stopped breathing.
Sacrifice. The Church. Divine grace.
Every word was like a knife twisting in his heart.
"Why... why?" He heard his own voice trembling. "Why did they choose her?"
Linley stabbed down with his blade. Not at a vital spot, but at Clayde's shoulder, piercing flesh and pinning him to the flagstones. Clayde screamed, but Linley punched the cry back down his throat-his jaw shattered, and a mouthful of teeth sprayed out with blood.
"Brother!" Wharton seized Linley's shoulder. "Calm down! Get the full story!"
Linley trembled all over. He pulled out the blade and stabbed it into Clayde's other shoulder, pinning the king firmly to the ground.
"Who ordered it?" Linley asked, enunciating each word. "Who in the Church was responsible for this?"
Clayde's mouth was full of blood, and his words were slurred. "Car... Cardinal Gilmer... and Useno of the... Inquisition... they were both... both involved..."
The distant clamor was drawing closer, mixed with the sound of hooves-the royal city's guards were coming.
"Brother, it's time to go," Wharton said in a deep voice.
Linley stared at Clayde. The king was finished. His jaw was shattered, both shoulders pierced, and he had lost too much blood to live much longer. But it was not enough-letting him die like this was too easy for him.
Linley pulled out his blade and raised it again.
The madness in Clayde's eyes finally gave way to fear. He shook his head desperately, trying to say something, but could only make a hoarse rasp.
The blade fell.
Linley put away his blade and turned. "Let's go."
"He got off easy," Wharton said.
The brothers prepared to withdraw. Bebe jumped back onto Linley's shoulder, his little claws also covered in blood.
Just then-
The sky darkened.
It was not the darkness of clouds blotting out the sun. Something heavier and more oppressive had enveloped the entire city. The air suddenly grew thick, making it difficult even to breathe.