Prologue

This was an exceedingly peculiar weapon, measuring only eighteen inches in length. Its tip resembled that of a treasured sword, with one edge razor-sharp and the opposite side bearing jagged serrations—utterly bizarre.

Its entire form glittered with icy brilliance, dazzling to behold.

At the blade's center were carved three characters: Bones of Authority.

One edge could split floating hairs, while the serrated side gleamed with the cruel sharpness of a wild beast's fangs, exuding bone-chilling coldness.

This strange weapon bore a terrifying name: "Bones of Authority!"

"Bones of Authority!"

It stood for:

Terror!

Cruelty!

Bloodshed!

Its emergence cast an additional shadow of fear over the already turbulent martial world. Every practitioner lived in dread, paling at the mention of "the Edict."

Those who received Bones of Authority met their demise within three days—arms severed at shoulders, legs chopped at hips, before final execution through the chest by this grotesque blade.

Truly cruel. Absolutely horrifying.

All victims—whether losing arms or legs—exactingly displayed precision wounds: on the right side sliced smooth as a mirror's edge; on the left, serration marks like beastly tooth imprints; chests pierced with identical circular wounds.

"Bones of Authority!"

It shook the entire martial world, dominating conversations among both righteous sects and the underworld.

"Bones of Authority!"

Mysterious and dreadful.

Countless experts mobilized from both factions to investigate its source, yet found no trace.

The Edict materialized unpredictably—today south, tomorrow north—eluding pursuers effortlessly, leaving them exhausted and empty-handed.

Who controlled it? None knew.

Why had Bones of Authority emerged? None understood.

All recipients were renowned figures of high skill, yet none escaped its judgment.

Only the dead knew why they were targeted—but dead men tell no tales.

Thus, beyond terror and brutality, Bones of Authority gained an aura of impenetrable mystery.

Bones of Authority, this strange blade, had never before appeared in the martial world. None could trace its origins.

Within three short months, it struck five times—each claiming a renowned master's life. Some lost both arms, others both legs.

These victims had been untouchable overlords dominating their domains.

Now, mere mention of "the Edict" drained color from warriors' faces.

First Strike - Nanchang City

"Central Plains Condor" Shangguan Yunqi—foremost among white path masters—had his arms severed before the blade pierced his heart.

Second Edict - Jiujiang

Leader of White Lotus Society, "Dragon-Slayer Hand" Gao Yuan, met identical fate within his heavily-guarded stronghold—an unimaginable humiliation for the elite sect.

Third Mystery - Southern Territories

Wu Ziqing, One-Eyed Ghost Beggar chieftain of the Beggar Sect's southern branch, received Bones of Authority at dusk. By moonrise, his legs ended at the thighs; amidst chaotic defenses, a blade found his heart.

Fourth Judgment - Kaifeng

Wan Yuantong, "Thousand-Armed Buddha" overseeing five major escort bureaus, perished armless and chest-pierced.

Fifth Defiance - Wuchang

Jiang Xu, "Living Yama" who terrorized the black path for thirty years, opened his gates to find Bones of Authority. At seventy, the butcher-king bled out through thigh stumps and a shattered sternum.

Five legends extinguished in ninety days.

Bones of Authority!

It saturated the rivers and lakes with terror and gore.

Every practitioner aged fifty winters or more clutched concealed weapons—awaiting the Edict's judgment.

No clues linked the slaughtered. No rationale emerged. The martial world quivered with speculation:

Who next?

When would this carnage cease?

Logic dictated Bones of Authority's master must be a martial arts monster—else how could he fell five supreme experts without resistance?

Yet here it resurrected.

The sixth summons materialized a moon after Jiang Xu's death.

Its target: Zhao Yiqiu, "Threefold Cloud-Dragon," retired lord of Flying Dragon Manor.

Even at sixty, Zhao's qinggong remained legend—a shadow shifting thrice before eyes could adjust. His decade-long seclusion should've granted peace.

But Bones of Authority cares not for retirement.

Martial factions descended on the manor. Allies like Divine Flame Palm Lei Qing and Wanderer of Four Seas Bai Rufeng raced against time—arriving on dawn's third day to find comrades intact.

Surveillance saturated the compound. Lamps banished darkness; guards manned every yard.

Scholars argued patterns. Past Edicts never lingered beyond three days. Sunset would bring deliverance... or doom.

By twilight, apprehension thickened. Death's hourglass trickled final grains.

The manor stood fortified like an army awaiting invasion.

Every corner—front courtyards to back alleys—manned by sentries.

Within three miles of its walls, martial artists lurked in darkness. All craved a glimpse of Bones of Authority.

The main hall hosted an endless banquet. Twenty masters encircled Zhao Yiqiu—their moon orbiting dimmed stars.

The manor lord paced endlessly. His silver beard whitened with each sigh.

At the feast's center, encircled by abandoned delicacies, lay the blade.

Eighteen inches of pristine steel—half-sword, half-saw.

The Bones of Authority delivered three nights prior.

A tangible death warrant sending chills through dinner guests.

Pretenses of calm frayed. Cups clattered; fingers trembled. Minds oscillating—anticipation and dread.

Four moons of carnage. Five legends slaughtered. Today marked strike six.

What devilish visage hid behind the Edict? None knew. They feared to imagine.

Lamps blazed daylight-bright across the manor. Sentries shadowed every path. Yet all wondered—would their vigilance blind Death himself?

Stars pivoted. Third watch arrived. Silence clung.

Two hours until dawn's reprieve.

"Has the Edict master broken pattern?" Minds whispered. Lips stayed sealed. Dread festered—had Death already breached their walls?

Divine Flame Palm Lei Qing stroked his beard. "The coward finds no opening!"

Wanderer Bai Rufeng nodded. "Not even a moth slips past us tonight!"

Zhao Yiqiu forced a smile. His premonition crystallized—the Edict's promise would hold.

Fourth watch clappers struck.

In their echo—a bone-chilling sneer pierced hallowed silence. Unearthly. Corpse-cold.

Dread!

Eerie resonance!

Ominous vibrations shimmered through night air.

The hall plunged into graveyard silence.

Boastful warriors now quaked, breath frosting in lamplit corridors.

From which hellmouth had that sneer emerged? Had battalions of watchmen truly allowed Death's envoy to breach the manor?

Zhao Yiqiu squared his shoulders. Since the Edict's herald moved through defenses like smoke, resistance proved futile. With fatal calm, he projected his voice: "This Zhao awaits. Claim limbs as you will—but name my transgression."

An arctic voice answered:

"Zhao. This Edict deals justice—not savagery. Remember the Sweet Dew Sect's massacre at Wuling Mountain two decades past?"

Zhao's complexion drained.

Gasps rippled the assembly.

Twenty years. Twenty years since fifty masters slaughtered Sweet Dew Sect's 200 devotees in a single night. Blades had hacked limbs and heads. Survivors could be counted on maimed hands.

The motive? Lost to history.

Now Bones of Authority resurrected those graves.

"State your final words."

The voice slithered between courtyard stones and rafters.

Zhao snarled hoarsely: "Demon—your name!"

"Bones of Authority Keeper."

"What binds you to Sweet Dew?"

"Kekekeke..."

Laughter crackled like glacier fissures. Winter lunged through hall archways. Frost crystallized wine cups.

"This Edict belongs to the Sweet Dew Sect's Master!"

Gasps convulsed the hall.

Zhao Yiqiu's soul shriveled. Twenty-year-old sin clawed his throat. His sandalwood sword trembled—either strike now or meet fate.

Before resolve solidified, pearlescent robes flickered. A maiden fairer than moon blossoms materialized with inverted blade.

"Father!" She wailed, darting toward courtyard shadows.

Zhao's heart ruptured. "Zhen'er! Desist!"

Lamps died instantly. Chaos erupted.

Blades sang from scabbards; twenty masters lunged blindly.

Darkness as thick as a grave.

When flames rekindled seconds later:

Zhao Yiqiu sprawled crimson. Arms severed. Sternum jagged. His blood painted phoenix carvings on ceiling beams.

Eighty-year-old Lei Qing staggered, murmuring scriptures.

His daughter Zhen'er lay motionless across his corpse, jade hairpin shattered.

Sixth Victory of Bones of Authority complete.

Dawn's blush exposed haggard warriors retreating. None glimpsed Death's shadow—only learned two truths:

First, Sweet Dew Sect rose from ash.

Second, Virtue's vengeance harvests neither mercy nor witness.

Rumors spread faster than plague:

How? Yang Zhenhuan died screaming beside his infants. 200 corpses fertilized Wuling Valley. Did ghost mastermind this retribution?

Roadside tea stalls buzzed:

"Who slaughtered Yang's family then?"

"Karma."

"A survivor?"

"Demon's pact!"

Each traveler had theories. Yet beneath summer sun, all felt winter's bite.

Three irrefutable facts lingered:

Seekers missing limbs. Chests holed. And all victims above fifty—each buried with Sweet Dew Sect's final dirge etched into tombstone:

"BONES. NEVER. FORGET."