Chapter 12
1004 Words
The Throne of Darkness
Changshan City lay in the grip of midwinter, snowflakes swirling in relentless flurries, the cold biting deep. Even beggars huddled against walls, shivering uncontrollably, their ragged clothes scant shield against the frost.
From the look of their threadbare garb, enduring this season would test them sorely.
Fan Xue Li trod slowly through the snow, his gaze lingering on these unfortunates. A soft sigh escaped him.
A millennium past, his father—the king—had harbored ambitions for all under heaven, vowing, "May the world share in chill alike." In his time, those words had earned him reverence beyond measure.
To share in chill was not to wallow in want together, but to lift every soul from poverty's grasp.
Alas, his father was gone.
A glint of resolve sharpened Fan Xue Li's eyes. He would strive to grow mighty, to point his blade at Qing Xi and rekindle his imperial father's glory.
And it all began with this Rising Sun Rite of Forging Assembly!
The night before, he had sat in meditative repose, the chi dragon essence within the azure jade fan pendant hastening his recovery and revealing the silver-grade artifact's formidable potency.
He pressed onward, the Taiyi Pavilion drawing nearer with each step.
The Taiyi Pavilion served as the venue for the Rising Sun Rite of Forging Assembly, the most solemn and august site in Changshan City. It harnessed the might of heaven-spanning lions and earth-anchoring dragons—a sacred ground for cultivation. All rites to the heavens, all forging assemblies, unfolded here.
Yet in this moment, Fan Xue Li halted abruptly, his gaze turning frigid as it fixed on the street's distant end.
"Out of the way!"
From afar came the thunder of urgent hoofbeats, laced with unbridled arrogance, haughty to the core.
Three or four war steeds barreled forth in a whirlwind. At their head rode a youth in a lion-crest helm, clad head to toe in iron-leaf armor, a steel spear gripped in his fist—his aura thick with killing intent.
The sparse pedestrians on the road scattered in fright, but the snow-slick ground betrayed them; many tumbled hard into the drifts.
At the sight, the youth threw back his head in unrestrained, mocking laughter.
This was Fan Yin Wen, third young master of the Fan Clan—Fan Xue Li's elder brother by three years. Trailing him were his personal guards, clad in gleaming mail, honed warriors to a man, evident dead men sworn to his cause.
Fan Yin Wen, son of the second consort, ranked third in the line of succession yet held himself in lofty esteem, deeming himself the Fan Clan's finest scion. Wayward and cruel, he took delight in others' humiliation. Bolstered by vast resources, he had long since attained the fourth realm of the fleshly body—Muscle Tempering—second only to the eldest young master among the youth of the clan.
In this instant, his eyes had long since caught the lone figure in threadbare winter garb standing distant: Fan Xue Li. A sneer curled his lips.
The boy was but the spawn of a lowly concubine, baseborn and weak—lingering in the second realm of the fleshly body after all these years of "cultivation." How could such a wretch claim kinship with the Fan bloodline? How dare he vie with one such as himself?
And with the Tianwu Sword now in his grasp, Fan Xue Li was bereft of even a sliver of hope—likely to scrape the very bottom at this forging assembly.
Unable to resist, he bellowed in derision, "Little Seventh Brother, shall I have one of my guards lend you a mount? You look half-frozen, swaying like a reed—don't faint before you even reach the Taiyi Pavilion!"
By the Fan Clan's tenets of composure and self-mastery, such barbs were a grave breach. Yet flush with the thrill of his new prize—the Tianwu Sword—he rode high on triumph, heedless of propriety.
Fan Xue Li fixed him with a stare of glacial ice, a chill intent flickering in his eyes. This third brother had heaped scorn upon him time and again, coveting the Tianwu Sword with feral hunger. No doubt the grand steward's machinations were entangled with him.
He marked the looseness in the man's fleshly form—tempering incomplete, riddled with flaws. Though at the fourth realm, defeating him would prove no great toil.
Yet Fan Xue Li lowered his gaze, falling silent. To his mind, Fan Yin Wen warranted no such regard. Moreover, the Fan Clan forbade fratricide; even private brawls beyond the walls constituted a breach of code.
Seeing what he took for cowardice, Fan Yin Wen's smirk deepened. With a triumphant chuckle, he slapped the flank of his lead steed hard.
The beast reared in startlement, forelegs pawing the air as it lunged forward—its hooves poised to crush a beggar sprawled at the wayside.
The man had succumbed to the cold, limbs curled rigid in frostbite's vise; his arms bore the calluses of endless crawling, elbows grinding where legs had failed.
In this heartbeat, Fan Yin Wen's laughter pealed louder. To trample the wretch dead would serve as a fitting prelude to humbling Fan Xue Li.
Fan Xue Li's eyes turned to chips of black ice, dark flames kindling within. His finger twitched—and a gale-force blast whistled forth!
The power erupted like a tiger's pounce, a dragon's strike—unyielding, inexorable. In a flash too swift for retort, it slammed into the horse's hoof a dozen zhang distant!
Boom!
The war steed's leg buckled under the colossal gust, a shrill whinny splitting the air. Its balance shattered; the beast toppled rearward in a churning roll, momentum hurling it past the beggar's edge in a thunderous skid!
The backlash jolted Fan Yin Wen's qi and blood into turmoil. He flipped twice through the air before crashing to the snow in a stagger, a gush of blood surging hot in his throat.
- Writer
