Chapter1: Before the Tears of Blood dried up

Banshee winds ripped across frozen wastes where breath crystallized mid-air.

Snow—relentless for twenty-four hours—had sculpted the world into a crystalline basin. Mountains wore diamond veils, pines bore platinum garlands. Riverbeds and gullies merged into a seamless alabaster tapestry.

No tracks of beast or man marred the frosted glaze.

Skies hung like tarnished steel, erasing time's passage. Day? Night? Irrelevant.

Wuling Mountain loomed—a frost-giant petrified mid-roar.

Then—movement.

A bouncing ink dot raced toward its eastern gorge. Against endless white, its progress stabbed the eye.

Weirder still—

In this ice-kingdom graveyard, life persisted. Human life.

Observe closer:

A youth hunched against gales, giant satchel strapped to back. Wolf-fur hood masked his face, but his gait... Ah, trained steps over hidden gullies. Clearly martial arts forged.

Memory guided him through blizzard blindness. The valley's throat yawned ahead—vertical cliffs stripping snow to reveal granite vertebrae.

At the precipice's foot, he craned toward an outcrop fifteen zhang above*. One breath.

Launch.

His leap defied physics—six stories upward without footholds. Momentum spent, toes kissed rock. Rebound. Second vault. Five zhang higher. Midair pivot, spiral descent—a feather alighting on destiny's ledge.

*(Note: 1 zhang ≈ 3.3 meters)

Behind the outcrop gaped a ten-foot cave mouth.

Hood discarded revealed—

Perfection.

Sixteen summers old. Pleasing symmetry of features: sleek jawline, sharply arched brows framing twin obsidian pools. Lips neither thick nor thin, nose aristocratic. Even ancient Pan An* would blush.

*(Legendary Chinese male beauty)

Satchel lowered. A smile dawned.

"Shifu!"

Echoes mocked.

"SHIFU!"

Darkness swallowed his call.

Crimson drained from his cheeks.

Urgent strides carried him inward. Twenty zhang depth. Main chamber ahead—stone dais centered, meditation mat visible from entrance.

Emptiness stared back.

Pulse quickening, he darted deeper—

A metallic stench assaulted him.

His vision cleared.

Blood.

Blackened blood.

Three corpses sprawled across the chamber—limbs missing, torsos shredded.

Thud.

His satchel spilled salt, rice, cured meats.

The youth—that peerless beauty—quaked. Tears carved silver trails down jade cheeks.

Five hours ago, they'd shared congee here.

Now: butchered kin.

Corpse One: White-haired elder missing an arm. Eleven stab wounds puckered his chest.

Corpse Two: Armless elder with filleted torso.

Corpse Three: Legless elder whose throat gaped like a second mouth.

Movement.

White-Hair's eyelid twitched.

"Shifu?!" His fingers pressed the neck—warmth.

Alive. Barely.

"Shifu! Speak! Who did this?"

No answer.

Poison? Internal injuries? With his meager qi skills, reviving the master proved impossible.

He surveyed the room. No allies. No miracles. Just teenage terror.

Memories cascaded:

A nameless orphan. Beaten in snowbanks. Rescued by this one-armed sage. Gifted a name—Yang Zhizong: "Ambition's Ancestor." Five years learning swordsmanship from three crippled masters. Fleeting warmth in a cruel world.

Now cold steel's bite reclaimed him.

White-Hair's lips quivered.

"Zhong'er... listen..." Blood bubbled at his mouth.

"Shifu! Save strength! I'll—"

A gnarled hand gripped his wrist. Dying light burned in the elder's eyes.

"Bones... Never... For...get..."

Bones of Authority's truth began here.

The master inhaled sharply, vitality briefly returning.

"My boy... no healer can mend these wounds now. Heaven's mercy grants me these final breaths—listen well!"

Yang Zhizong nodded through tears.

"You... possess gifts unseen in martial realms for a century. I meant... to forge you into... a phoenix among swordsmen. Fate disagrees..."

Wheezing. Blood speckled lips.

"Your jade pendant—'Dragon Key'—mirrors its lost twin 'Phoenix Key'. Together... they cure poisons... unveil your origins..."

Shock widened the youth's eyes—he'd worn the dragon-carved jade since infancy.

"Coveted... martial treasure... Five Supreme Palm Forms... carved by the Heretic Sovereign..."

Old fingers trembled toward the cracked stonewall. "Fourth niche..."

Yang retrieved a bearskin casket. Inside—charcool tablet etched with microscript.

"Ah!" The master coughed violently. "This... erased our sect! Two tablets... united reveals lethal palms... Twenty years past... fifty attackers razed our fortress... For this!"

Yang clutched the charcoal relic. His masters' blood stained its edges.

"Survivors..." The voice thinned to whispers. "Just three cripples... until tonight's..."

"Who?!" Yang screamed.

Scarred eyes rolled back. Words came in staccato bursts:

"Look...12 wounds...matched Burns"... Your path..."

Gurgling. Soul departing.

Yang howled.

The master's claw-hand seized his neck.

"Bones... Authority... our vengeance... Merge...keys...Chaos Palm..."

Light abandoned those elder eyes.

The master's eyes fluttered—agreement.

Crimson flush receded from his cheeks. Pupils film over. A final gurgle. Stillness. Eyes open.

Dead.

And with him—Yang Zhizong's last tether to humanity.

Three corpses now. No warmth remains.

Arctic winds howled through caverns where laughter once echoed. That day's training routines echoed mockingly in his skull. Hours? Days? Time coagulated.

A scream tore free—raw, bleeding. Tear ducts voided crimson trails.

When grief exhausted itself, something primal rose: Hatred.

He knelt before his master's unblinking gaze.

"Shifu! On my life, I'll burn them all. Every last butcher who feasted on Sweet Dew Sect's blood. Rest... now..."

The corpse remained wide-eyed.

Memories flashed—the master's dying finger pointing at the second wall niche.

Yang wrenched open the crevice. A cloth bundle tumbled out.

Revelation.

A serrated blade blurred into vision—eighteen inches of dual-edged savagery. Three engraved characters dripped fresh blood: Bones of Authority.

Beneath:

A poem in dagger-like calligraphy:

Blade harvests debt

One strike claims three

Mutilate kindred

Ascend Death's decree

A manual followed—Sweet Dew Chronicles of Blood.

The first page listed sins:

No.1: Crimson-Haired Demon Chu Wuding

Six names crossed in vermilion—the old masters' final hunts. Yang's fingers traced gutted tendons on his master's corpse.

Vow solidified.

At sunset, Yang sealed the cave-tomb. Three mounds marked by blood-smeared boulders.

Northern winds laughed as he descended Wuling's slopes.

3 Days Later - Changyang Road

Travelers shivered away from a youth colder than winter itself. Yang Zhizong walked—vows etched into marrow.

Hoofbeats. Screaming dust.

A chestnut mare reared inches from his face. Sand coated his mourning robes.

"Having death wishes, bumpkin?"

The rider—a scarlet-clad beauty—smirked down. Phoenix eyes mocked his gritted teeth.

Yang stepped around. Ten paces.

Whoosh.

Vermilion sleeves blocked his path.

"Deaf? I asked a question!"

Jade fingers brushed her whip. Passengers froze—this was Fiery Phoenix Ling's daughter.

Yang's pupils dilated—not fear. Calculations of how fast her neck would snap.

(Sword whispers: Three Terminations)

An orphan's patience frayed.

The red-clad beauty pouted. "Hmph! Either you're headed to Yaksha's Abyss for the artifact, or you're the worst liar in Chu Province!"

Yang's brow furrowed. Yaksha's Abyss? Artifact? A scavenger hunt in demonic floodlands—new intel. "What treasure?"

"Don't play dumb! The Black Tortoise Pearl! They say it resurrects—" Her cheeks flushed. "Forget it. Just show me the route!"

"Don't know."

"Liar!"

Her whip cracked—snap!—aiming to split his forehead.

Yang sidestepped using Miststeps—his uncle's legendary evasion technique. Dust erupted where he'd stood.

She gaped. Most men crumbled at her first lash. This ice prince? Infuriating. Intoxicating.

"Defiant and quick!" she taunted, launching six strikes. Whip-tips became hornet stings.

Yang back-flipped over slashing arcs. "Enough!"

"No!"

He counterattacked with triple palm strikes—Dragonbreaker, Tide Sunderer, Shifting Stars. Leather snapped as she stumbled back.

Her whip went slack. "How—"

Yang gripped the steel-laced tip. Their faces inches apart. Rosewater scent. Trembling lips.

He released it.

Slap! Her palm branded his cheek.

Silence.

She blanched. Why did I…

Three galloping stallions shattered the moment.

Two violet-robed youths dismounted—faces greasy with false charm.

"Ling'er! We've searched everywhere!" whined the hawk-eyed one.

The rat-faced lackey glared at Yang. "Did this gutter rat harass—"

Yang's gaze froze his tongue.

"Meddle again," the girl hissed, "and I'll fry your tongues!"

Mounting her steed, she spurred westward. The sycophants followed, shooting Yang looks worth murder.

Dust devils swirled where passion almost detonated. Yang rubbed his stinging face. Not hate burned there—confusion.

And beneath confusion, something darker: Three Terminations itched in its sheath.

Yang Zhizong swirled wine in his cup. Blood debts screamed in his marrow. "Gourd-Faced Vulture" Liao Cang snored drunkenly down the corridor. Now—at last—vengeance mantled in mystery would strike.

Third Watch

A knock shattered tavern silence.

"Who dares?" croaked the vulture.

"An old friend."

Liao wrenched open his door. Ghostly radiance flooded in—revealing an eighteen-inch blade shimmering like glacier tears.

Bones of Authority!

Before panic could root, steel flashed. Twin arcs of pain—his arms thudded floorward. Blood geysered as the serrated edge withdrew from his ribcage.

Liao gargled one word: "You—..."

Standing over him: Yang disguised as his resurrected master. The dead would collect debts tonight.

Three Floors Below

Guests stampeded into crimson-splashed chambers. Muttered horrors spread:

"Seventh victim..."

"The Prophet of Bones hunts here..."

"Yaksha's Abyss tomorrow—that demon blade will claim the Black Tortoise Pearl!"

Ling Xueyan pressed through the throng. Her ruby lips curved upon spotting icy perfection leaning against bloodied walls—Yang Zhizong, feigning shock with actor's precision.

Yang slipped into his room, pulse roaring. His hands trembled—not from slaughtering Liao Cang, but her touch.

Twilight Rituals

By Yaksha's Abyss, three hundred martial artists clustered. Treasure hunters. Hungry crows. Among them, Yang—a ghost wrapped in mortal flesh.

The glint of Bones of Authority beneath his cloak vibrated with anticipation.

Moon's Zenith Approaches

Murmurs swelled. Three figures emerged from rear forests—

First: A lavender-robed elder with falcon eyes.

Second: Scholar's silk draping a tiger's build.

Between them—

Seduction incarnate.

A white-robed widow stepped into moonlight. Hips undulated like summer serpents. Even the girl beside her—Yang's mysterious whip-wielder—paled in comparison.

Her eyes: twin poisons, liquefying resolve.

"Who...?" neophytes whispered.

Veterans spat warnings: "Zhou Manor's viper widow! Her needle embroidery—every stitch a soul tethered."

Two violet-robed lackeys flanked the whip girl. Seven martial guardians sealed the entourage.

All part of the powerful Zhou clan's bid for the Black Tortoise Pearl.

Yang's disdain hardened. Vultures.

He blended deeper into shadow thickets.

Not all sought treasure. Some sought war.

Dragon's Vortex

The wyrm's lair yawned—circled centuries ago by blighted peaks. Centermost: an inky abyss. Mist coiled upwards as if breathing.

At the cave mouth, ancient glyphs warned unreadable horrors.

For warriors? Not fear—ambition's sweet stench.

A child pointed. "The wyvern! It rises for lunar qi!"

Silence.

Then:

Ten-foot claws scraped stone. Sulfur stench blasted nostrils.

Haaaaa-rarooooonnn!

A scaled leviathan emerged—horned crown glistening. Between its eyes:

The pearl.

Gold-black. Power incarnate pulsating.

First Strike

A Zhou guardian lunged. Twin axes screaming.

The yaksha wyvern sneezed.

Splorch!

Acid saliva melted his armor. Flesh followed.

Chaos erupted.

Yang unsheathed three inches of serrated legacy.

Ding.

Behind him—a familiar voice purred: "Seekers and fools collide tonight, icy princeling."

Ling Xueyan's breath warmed his neck.

But why did her dagger point at his kidney?

Yang blended invisibly into the carnivorous crowd. Across the abyss—

Ling Xueyan blew him a grin-wrapped dagger. Her two violet-roc lapdogs caught it. Venom brewed.

"Whelp!" The thin-faced sycophant thrust through bodies. "Today you grovel!"

His hawk-eyed twin smirked. "Mongrels chase carriages, not phoenixes."

The crowd rippled—vultures for spectacle.

Ling materialized between them, contempt icing her gaze.

Yang stepped forth. Three meters. Frost coalesced.

"Your proposition?"

Whips cracked first. Twin Scarlet Serpent stances.

Yang blurred sideways—Phoenix Soar carried him behind them. Cross-palm strikes hammered kidney zones.

Squelch.

The youths crashed face-first into dung-scented mud.

Ling's laugh sparkled.

Tiger's Roar

The lavender elder roared, palms conjuring a landslide.

Yang yanked his detritus-shields airborne.

Boom!

The shockwave cratered adjacent boulders.

"Boy!" The silk-robed elder rasped. "Who taught you Cloud Grasp?"

Yang's pulse raced. Cloud Grasp was his martyred master's signature technique.

"Your tombstone won't need that answer."

Slender fingers gripped sword—Bones of Authority unsheathed three inches.

Triple Carnage

Three predators lunged—violet-robed, silk-gowned, and the viper widow, whose strikes aimed below belts.

Yang spun Miststeps, evading their synchronized deathstorm. Crowd oohed.

But ten thousand hours of debt-drenched training proved brittle. Ribs snapped under the silk elder's Hammer of Zhou.

Yang catapulted skyward. Crimson rain arced from his lips.

Lion's den. Three killers closed in.

Clang. His blade fully unsheathed now—Bones glowed.

First Termination: The viper widow's embroidered sash unraveled. Arms followed.

Second: The silk elder's knees met serrated truth.

Third—

A lavender palm hovered at Yang's throat.

"Last chance. Míngbài!"

Through blood-rimmed teeth, Yang hissed: "Bones never beg."

Serrated edge inverted. Entered his own stomach. Exited the elder's spine.

Twin gasps. Twin corpses.

Blood Jade

Only the violet fools remained. They fled.

Yang collapsed.

Darkness encroached as Ling's perfume engulfed him.

"Fool," she wept, cradling his fractured form. "Why play martyr?"

A shadow loomed—her violet-robed patriarch.

Cold steel caressed her neck.

"Hand over the pearl, witch."

The true dance began.