The night within the Thang Long Imperial Capital was deep and heavy. The north wind blew from afar, carrying the biting chill of the approaching winter, howling mournfully through the unlit streets like the wails of resentful spirits. In stark contrast to its usual clamorous bustle, the capital tonight was submerged in a terrifying silence. Martial law had been declared. Squads of the Imperial Guard, torches in hand, patrolled the deserted avenues; the clanking of their armor was the sole sound piercing the stillness. The atmosphere was taut as a bowstring, as though an invisible leviathan were holding its breath, awaiting an earth-shattering event about to unfold.
The eye of the storm did not lie upon the soaring city walls, nor did it reside within the tightly bolted estates of the officials. It lay in the most secluded, most sacred of places: the Imperial Palace.
At the Manor of the Marquis of Vinh An, within a gloomy secret chamber, the eerie emerald flame flickered, illuminating a face drained entirely of its blood-hue. The Marquis no longer possessed the refined demeanor of a powerful official. His hair was disheveled, and his eyes were crisscrossed with bloodshot veins. He resembled a gambler who had lost everything and was preparing to stake his very life on one final, desperate wager.
Before him knelt twenty black silhouettes. They wore neither the armor of soldiers nor the garb of common martial artists. Their entire bodies were enveloped in a specialized black cloth capable of merging into the darkness. Upon each of their faces rested a mask of black iron, devoid of any expression. They radiated no killing intent, nor did they emit any fluctuations of spiritual energy. They were like phantoms—lethal, mindless puppets.
This was the final trump card of the Marquis of Vinh An: a squadron of deathsworn he had secretly nurtured for decades—the Shadow Guards. Every single one of them was an expert at the Foundation Establishment Realm, trained solely to kill and obey.
"Are you clear on your mission?" the Marquis rasped.
"Clear!" twenty voices responded in unison, devoid of emotion.
"Good," the Marquis nodded, a glint of madness flashing in his eyes. "I do not care what methods you use. Smash the gates, scale the walls, or follow the secret path provided by our spy. I require only one outcome: capture Trịnh Lam Vy alive. Anyone who dares obstruct you, kill without mercy! Even if that person is Duke Dinh Quoc, Tao Chinh, or even..."
He paused, not daring to utter the final two words.
"This is not merely my command," he produced a pitch-black command medallion engraved with an ancient Shamanic rune, radiating a wicked aura. "This is the edict of the 'Sacred Dynasty.' Fulfill your mission, and you shall be rewarded with supreme power. Fail, and you may erase yourselves from this world."
"Your will be done!"
The twenty black silhouettes uttered no superfluous words. They rose silently and, like wisps of smoke, melted into the darkness of the chamber, vanishing without a trace. They were embarking on a mission of unparalleled madness: infiltrating the Imperial Palace to abduct the Mistress.
Meanwhile, at An Lac Temple, deep within the palace grounds.
The ancient temple remained as peaceful as ever. The occasional resonant tolling of the bell carried a sense of serenity. The monotonous chanting of the monks drifted through the air. Yet, anyone with a discerning heart could sense that beneath this tranquility, a peerlessly sharp Sword Intent was silently circulating, enveloping the entire temple.
Within a simple Zen meditation room, Lam Vy was not asleep. Clad in simple white robes, she sat cross-legged upon a meditation cushion, her eyes tightly closed. She was not cultivating; she was calming her mind. Resting in her hands was the pottery shard shaped like a Lac bird, which emitted a gentle aquamarine halo, bathing her small frame. She was no longer afraid. In her heart, there was only absolute faith in him.
Outside in the courtyard, beneath the ancient Bodhi tree, Uncle Sword sat with his wooden sword resting across his lap. He was not meditating, nor was he polishing his blade. He simply sat there with his eyes closed, as if merged into one with Heaven and Earth. But any expert of sufficient strength could sense that the entire space surrounding him had seemingly transformed into a world of swords. Every falling leaf, every passing breeze could instantly manifest as an invisible, peerlessly sharp blade.
And within the main hall, Grandmaster Phap Chan continued to sit before the Buddha statue, thumbing his prayer beads and murmuring sutras. He seemed entirely unconcerned with the brewing storm outside. But looking closely, one would see the one hundred and eight Bodhi beads in his hand were each radiating a faint golden Buddhist light. The lights interconnected, forming an invisible array that shielded the entirety of An Lac Temple.
All were waiting.
The Hour of the Rat struck.
From the darkest corners of the Imperial Palace, the twenty black silhouettes of the Shadow Guards moved like cats, crossing the Imperial Guard patrols without a sound. They alerted no one. The path provided by the spy was a "dead angle"—a secret passage utterly unknown even to the elite guards.
Finally, they arrived before the gates of An Lac Temple.
"This is the place," the leader, a gaunt old man known as "Old Shadow," signaled. "The target is inside. Ten men, follow me to breach the main gate. The remaining ten, surround all four sides; do not let even a fly escape!"
"Understood!"
"BREAK!"
Old Shadow wasted no words. He and nine other deathsworn simultaneously channeled their demonic arts. Ten torrents of billowing black qi merged into a colossal black wolf, which roared and slammed violently into the wooden gates of An Lac Temple.
"BOOM!!!"
A massive explosion shattered the tranquility of the palace. The sturdy wooden gates, subjected to the full-force strike of ten Foundation Establishment experts, instantly blasted into splinters.
But what welcomed them was not a panicked temple.
It was eighteen figures clad in brown kasayas, holding Zen staffs, standing in a horizontal line as silently as eighteen Arhats. The aura radiating from each of them was incredibly profound and stable. These were the Eighteen Arhat Monks, the most loyal protectors of An Lac Temple.
"Amitabha," the leading monk spoke, his invocation carrying a coercive, suppressive power. "This is a tranquil place of Zen. For you benefactors to arrive uninvited and strike with such cruelty... I fear your karmic debts run far too deep."
"Bald donkeys!" Old Shadow sneered. "Step aside! Or else today, I shall dye this temple red with your blood!"
"Karmic debts cannot be avoided. We can only use the Vajra to subdue demons."
The Eighteen Arhat Monks said no more. They swung their Zen staffs in unison, forming an array as impregnable as the Vajra to meet the intruders. "The Arhat Array!"
A blood-soaked battle officially erupted at the gates of Buddha.
Old Shadow paid no heed to the others. He knew his sole mission was to capture Lam Vy. His figure moved like a phantom, slipping past the Arhat array and darting straight into the courtyard.
But the moment he stepped inside, an icy, peerlessly sharp Sword Intent locked onto him.
Uncle Sword had been standing there, beneath the Bodhi tree, for an indeterminate amount of time. The wooden sword in his hand, for the first time, had been drawn from its scabbard.
"Your opponent," he said, his voice placid, "is me."
A battle on an entirely different level commenced. Uncle Sword's Sword Intent was ethereal and fluid as flowing water, yet harbored world-shaking power. Old Shadow's movement technique was eerie, and his attacks were sinister and lethal. As the two clashed, only flashes of sword-light and black qi could be seen; no one else could approach.
Within the meditation room, Lam Vy felt the tremors outside and clenched her hands tightly. She was not afraid. She used her own Lac Viet bloodline to activate the Lac bird pottery shard. The gentle aquamarine halo expanded—not to attack, but to create a subtle spatial disturbance, affecting the movement techniques of the assassins.
And outside the Imperial Palace, the first explosion at An Lac Temple acted as the signal. Tao Chinh, sitting in a teahouse, coldly set down his teacup. "The time has come."
Duke Dinh Quoc, waiting in his estate, abruptly stood up and donned his golden armor. "All forces," he roared. "Target: The Marquis of Vinh An's Estate!"
The net of Heaven had closed. But would the cornered tiger, in its death throes, manage to drag its prey down to the Yellow Springs? The final game of life and death had reached its climax.