Seventh Section: Night Shadows Surge

Liu Shan'er stood frozen by the fish pond, her bamboo basket tilting in her hands, a single carp slipping free and splashing back into the water, sending ripples across the still surface. Her pale green skirt fluttered in the morning breeze, the hem damp from the pond's edge, her short sword swaying faintly at her waist. The sunlight caught the jade studs on its scabbard, casting fleeting glints, but her usual brightness dimmed as Ling Yingjue's low command cut through the air. Her almond eyes widened, and she stepped closer to him, whispering, "Brother Ling, it's them again, isn't it?" Her voice, clear as a spring chime, trembled slightly, her hand tightening on the sword hilt, the white silk wrapping cool against her palm.

Ling Yingjue stood before her, his coarse tunic clinging to his sweat-damp skin, the Soul-Piercing Cone a reassuring weight at his waist. His sharp features hardened under the morning light, brows like distant hills furrowed, star-bright eyes narrowing as he peered through the willow branches. "Someone's coming—stay quiet," he murmured, his tone steady but edged with tension. The pond mirrored the sky, willows drooping into the water, their branches swaying like silk threads, the air thick with the scent of wet grass and river mud. A sharp wind rose, rustling the leaves with a sound too rhythmic—hooves, faint but growing louder, mingled with the clink of metal. He pulled her behind a willow, the soft mud squelching underfoot, his heart pounding as he thought: Blood Blade moves fast—that shadow last night, could it still be near? His fingers brushed the cone's hidden groove, ready to act.

Beyond the woods, Zhang Lie sat astride his horse, the thick-backed blade unsheathed, its dark red edge glinting ominously in the dawn. His burly frame strained his dark blue robe, a black cloak billowing behind, emblazoned with a crimson wolf's head that seemed to snarl in the light. Over twenty knife-wielders stood at his command, their blades etched with fishbone patterns—a crude mark of the Blood Blade League—eyes gleaming with malice beneath shadowed brows. Leading the vanguard was a stocky brute, his pockmarked face framed by a black headscarf, twin curved knives at his hips, sheaths studded with copper. Known as "Ghost-Faced Blade" Li San, he was the head of the Three Ghost Blades, his voice a gravelly rasp as he muttered, "Second Brother, with Liu Changfeng gone, we'll take them tonight, right?"

Zhang Lie's lips curled into a cold sneer, "The Liu clan's a rabble without Changfeng. Third's men are here—more than enough to crush them." His gaze, sharp as a hawk's, fixed on Liu Village, a low growl escaping, "If that kid stands in my way, he's dead first." Hooves thundered as another group emerged from the trees, led by a gaunt figure with fierce eyes, a curved blade at his waist, its copper-studded scabbard rattling faintly. This was Zhao Si, "Curved Blade Ghost," fourth of the Seven Killers, his grin jagged as he dismounted, "Second Brother, I've brought twenty good hands."

Zhang Lie nodded, "Good. Zhao Si, you hit the back courtyard—I'll take the front. Third guards the perimeter; no Liu gets out alive." Zhao Si's grin widened, "Count on me, Second Brother—Liu Village is ours tonight." He waved a hand, ten knife-wielders peeling off toward the rear, their steps silent yet predatory. Zhang Lie's voice cut through, "Move!" Blades flashed like crescent moons, the troop surged forward, footsteps pounding the earth, horses snorting as the wind carried their intent—a storm of steel breaking toward Liu Village.

Inside Liu Village's main hall, candlelight flickered, casting trembling shadows on the water-ink scroll of rivers and willows. Liu Shan'er stood by the window, her short sword fully drawn, its blade a cold gleam in the dim glow. Her pale green skirt brushed the floor, her grip tight on the hilt, knuckles whitening as she peered out, whispering, "Brother Ling, can you hold them?" Her voice wavered, a mix of fear and resolve, her almond eyes darting toward the courtyard where Ling Yingjue stood.

Fu Bo pushed through the door, blackwood staff in hand, his steps steady despite his stooped frame. His gray tunic hung loose, copper keys jangling at his waist as he glanced toward the fish pond, "Shan'er, young hero, the wind's off—trouble's coming." His raspy voice carried the weight of experience, etched with urgency. Ling Yingjue and Liu Shan'er hurried back, the girl's skirt swishing as she asked, "Fu Bo, Blood Blade?" He nodded, "Sounds like twenty or thirty—Master warned me last night they'd strike soon." His sharp eyes flicked to Ling Yingjue, "Your cone's odd, lad, but against a swarm, it'll be tough."

Ling Yingjue's grip tightened on the Soul-Piercing Cone, "If they come, I'll hold the front." His mind raced: Liu Changfeng's gone—only the old and weak remain. If Blood Blade hits hard, I'm not enough. Liu Shan'er bit her lip, "Fu Bo, how many can fight?" The steward rasped, "Me and five hands—we'll hold a bit, but they've got numbers." He paused, "Master said if it turns bad, head to Jiaxing for him." Ling Yingjue nodded, "If we can't hold, take Shan'er—I'll cover the rear." Liu Shan'er shook her head, "Brother Ling, I'm not leaving—I'll guard the village till Father's back." Her eyes burned with defiance, stirring Ling Yingjue's heart; he relented, "Then we stand together."

Fu Bo turned, "I'll rally the men, grab some gear." He strode toward the back, calling five villagers—rough-handed men in coarse tunics, their skin darkened by field work, clutching sticks and fishing spears, faces grim with determination. "Guard the gate and back," Fu Bo ordered, his staff tapping the floor as they dispersed, footsteps echoing in the hall's stillness.

At Jiaxing docks, dawn mist clung to the river, water lapping against wooden piles in a rhythmic murmur. Liu Changfeng stood at the edge, his blue robe fluttering, the Liu Wind Sword a quiet menace at his side. Two men shadowed him—one with a spear, its shaft worn smooth, the other with twin blades strapped across his back, their eyes scanning the fog. Fishermen hauled baskets ashore, the air thick with fish and damp wood. Liu Changfeng's voice was low, "Any sign of that man from last night?" The spearman shook his head, "Nothing, but folks say a black-clad figure was here—fast, asking odd questions." Liu Changfeng's eyes narrowed, "The Swallow Jade… Blood Blade's moving, and this stranger's no coincidence."

The twin-blade man muttered, "Master, if the village's hit, we're too far." Liu Changfeng nodded, "One more question, then we ride." He approached a rickety teahouse, its thatched roof sagging, where an old fisherman sat, pipe in hand, smoke curling upward. "Old-timer, what else did that shadow say?" Liu Changfeng asked. The man's cloudy eyes glinted, "Asked about the Swallow Jade—warned Blood Blade's on the move." Liu Changfeng's heart sank, "Thanks." He turned, "Full speed back—Blood Blade's struck." Horses neighed as they mounted, hooves pounding into the mist, urgency driving them toward Liu Village.

Back at Liu Village, night had deepened, moonlight spilling cold across the courtyard stones. Ling Yingjue stood before the gate, Soul-Piercing Cone in hand, his breath visible in the chill air. The wind howled, carrying the distant clatter of hooves and steel—Blood Blade was closing in. Liu Shan'er lingered at the hall's threshold, sword drawn, whispering, "Brother Ling, be careful." Her voice trembled, but her stance held firm.

The gate shuddered under a brutal blow, three knife-wielders hacking at it, splinters flying as blades bit wood. Ling Yingjue roared, the cone's broad end swinging down, a thunderclap splitting the night—bang!—the gate cracked, one attacker hurled back, chest caved in, blood splattering the stones. Two more lunged, knives flashing; Ling Yingjue dodged, chain snapping out to coil an arm, wrenching it tight with a surge of force—the man screamed, his blade clattering free, the cone's tip piercing his shoulder in a burst of red. The third slashed low; Ling Yingjue swept the broad end across, deflecting the strike, chain lashing to yank the man off-balance—he stomped the fallen foe's knee, a sickening crack echoing as the man crumpled.

Villagers rallied behind, a spearman thrusting at another foe, piercing a shoulder with a wet thud, blood streaming; a stick-wielder bashed a skull, the dull thump felling his target. But the tide swelled—ten more rushed in, blades weaving a deadly web around Ling Yingjue.

In the rear courtyard, Zhao Si scaled the wall with ten men, landing softly in a patch of vegetable beds, mud squishing underfoot, old trees looming over stacked firewood. His curved blade gleamed, "Kill everything—leave no one." He slashed at the back door, a villager meeting him with a stick, its swing fierce but frail—Zhao Si's knife cleaved through, blood spraying as the man fell. Fu Bo charged in, blackwood staff whirling, Willow Leaf Staff technique swift as wind, striking Zhao Si's knee with a sharp crack; the killer parried, force jolting Fu Bo back, who rasped, "Blood Blade—let's see what you've got."

Zhao Si sneered, "Old fool!" His blade arced, a howling crescent; Fu Bo's staff danced, deflecting force like swaying leaves, tip jabbing at Zhao Si's chest. The killer dodged, slashing sideways—Fu Bo rolled, staff tail cracking Zhao Si's ankle, staggering him. "Surround him!" Zhao Si barked, three knife-wielders closing in, blades flashing like a net. Fu Bo spun, staff fending off strikes, but a knife grazed his shoulder, blood staining gray—he grunted, "Can't hold much longer."

Zhang Lie watched from beyond the gate, his horse snorting, broad blade gleaming. "Kid's got guts—too green, though." He spurred forward, knife wind roaring as he slashed at Ling Yingjue's chest. Ling Yingjue blocked, a deafening clang sparking the night—he stumbled back, arms numb, Zhang Lie's force outmatches yesterday. The killer pressed, "Earth-Splitting Howl" sweeping wide, dust billowing; Ling Yingjue ducked, chain lashing at the blade, tangling it briefly—Zhang Lie's power snapped it free, slashing down, "Die, kid!" The blade descended, a crimson arc in the dark.