The Azure Phoenix Blade

Prelude: The Traitor's Night(II)

The Traitor’s Night

II. Blood in the Storm

The camp had become a slaughterhouse. Flames raced along supply wagons, burlap, and flagpoles, burning fiercely despite the rain—clearly fueled by pre-placed oil.

Soldiers in wolf-pelt cloaks poured out from between the tents, blades flashing. Rain streamed off their shoulders, occasionally revealing the fine inner armor patterns of Conrad’s personal troops beneath.

Darius flicked aside two curved blades and slashed horizontally, opening a man’s throat in a spray of blood that mixed with the rain. Standing amid fire and storm, his voice rang out heavily:

“Wearing wolf skins and pretending to be barbarians? Conrad, if you’ve come, why hide behind another’s banner?

The fighting faltered. The rebel troops parted, and a figure emerged slowly from the flames and rain.

Silver armor untouched by mud, a skyward halberd held loosely in one hand, raindrops sliding off its blade.

His features were still handsome and refined, with a faint, almost mocking smile.

Even in this blood-soaked chaos, he looked as if he had arrived fashionably late to a banquet.

The smile stayed on his lips but never reached his eyes.

Conrad regarded his brother with gentle courtesy.

“Elder brother, you exaggerate. I heard the central camp was in trouble and came specially to share your burdens.”

Quentin Mo gave a cold laugh, staff pointing at Conrad’s chest. “Your way of sharing burdens includes setting fires right outside the imperial tent.” Conrad’s gaze flicked across the staff.

“It’s good to see Commander Mo still alive. It eases my mind. If you had also fallen to the Baili, my brother would truly have no one left to protect him.”

Darius stared at him. “The border is not yet secured. The Baili are still ahead. You bring troops into the central camp tonight—do you want Yaoguang to rot from both inside and out?”

Conrad actually smiled. The smile carried neither anger nor heat, yet it sent chills down the spine—like a thin blade pressed lightly against the back of one’s neck.

“Elder brother always speaks of the realm, the nation, the people. After hearing it so often, even I almost believed this empire rests on your shoulders alone.” Darius’s grip tightened on his sword. “I have never treated the empire as my personal property.”

Conrad raised his halberd slightly. “If it’s not personal property, then why, when Father hesitated in the East Warm Pavilion that year, did you not yield the throne?”

The words made every soldier present lower their heads. Brock Zhao could no longer hold back.

With a furious roar, he charged, blade raised in a desperate, ferocious strike aimed at Conrad’s face.

Conrad didn’t even lift his eyelids. A black shadow shot out from behind him—Chen Hawke.

The blade flashed like lightning in the rain. There was a soft *schick*, and Zhao Brock took two more steps before a thin red line appeared on his neck. His knees buckled and he collapsed heavily into the mud.

“Brock Zhao !” Darius cried.

Conrad glanced at the corpse. “Loyalty in the wrong place is lighter than wild grass.” Quentin Mo’s fury erupted.

He swung his iron staff in a wide arc—“Prison Gate“—spinning mud, stones, and sparks into a grinding wheel that smashed two nearby rebels flying, carving deep furrows in the ground.

“Stop pretending with your pretentious words!” he roared. “If you want to usurp, just do it!”

Conrad finally looked at him properly, as if appraising a regrettable weapon. “After all these years with my brother, you still don’t understand.

In this world, the first to die are not the incapable, but those who see the wind clearly yet still insist on holding the umbrella for others.”

Suddenly arrows rained from the side. Quentin Mo whirled his staff into a black shadow—“Black Tortoise Carries the Mountain”—deflecting dozens.

Yet one black-feathered arrow slipped through at a vicious angle and struck Darius in the shoulder seam.

Darius staggered back half a step, bracing himself with his sword.

Dark blood soon seeped from the wound, flowing like ink in the rain. Quentin Mo’s face changed drastically. “Your Majesty!”

Darius raised a hand to stop him. “Stay calm.” Conrad watched the black blood, a flicker of genuine satisfaction in his eyes—the final piece of his meticulously laid trap falling into place.

“Dear brother, the night is cold and the rain heavy. Why keep struggling? All your life, you’ve never been willing to be ruthless. Since you can’t bear it, you should never have sat on that chair.”

Darius looked at him. The gaze was eerily calm, free of rage or panic, as though he had finally seen clearly what had been obscured for years.

Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “My greatest mistake was not guarding against you too late... but still hoping, even now, that you might turn back.”

The faint smile on Conrad’s lips finally froze solid.