Chapter Twenty: At Last, It Arrives

The group fell silent for a long while before Master Yuanhui spoke, “Mr. Zhu, this Ghost Sword and White Snake spoke of coming to seize some Sacred Armor. But what exactly is this Sacred Armor? Now that we are embroiled in this turmoil, surely you owe it to the martial world of Jiangnan to tell us what the Sacred Armor is, and whether it is truly worth risking our lives for.”

Everyone agreed, “Master speaks rightly. Mr. Zhu, don’t keep us in the dark. What is this Sacred Armor? Show it to us so we can see for ourselves what treasure has driven those Crane Sect fanatics all the way from the North to Jiangnan.”

Zhu Shitian looked troubled, hesitating as he replied, “In truth, the Sacred Armor is nothing so rare or precious. It’s simply an heirloom left by my ancestors—a keepsake, nothing more.”

Liu Xiucai, known as the Pen of Death, sneered, “We all have homes and families here. Who doesn’t have some family heirloom? Why don’t you see others trying to steal them? Take my pair of iron pens, for example—they’ve been passed down for six generations, over two hundred and thirty years. They’re antiques in their own right, yet no one comes for them.” As he spoke, he drew two iron pens from his sleeve and set them with a clang on the table. Each was over two feet long, the tips gleaming with a cold blue light, evidently razor-sharp. Pointing at the Daoist priest who’d spoken earlier, Liu continued, “Daoist Huang Song’s long sword was taken from a Khitan general. A martial family once offered five hundred taels of gold for it, but he refused to sell. Isn’t that a treasure? Yet no one tries to steal it. But your Zhu family heirloom is being hunted—surely there’s something extraordinary about it?”

Zhu Shitian’s face changed. “Naturally, my family’s treasure is different from yours, but—”

Daoist Huang Song pressed, “Then tell us, how is it different?”

Liu Xiucai said, “If Mr. Zhu refuses to speak, he must look down on us as friends. Since you don’t treat us as friends, there’s no sense in wading through this mess for you. We might as well leave.” The others began clamoring in agreement.

Seeing he could not pacify them, Zhu Shitian softened his tone. “This is a family secret, not meant for outsiders. But since you all ask, I cannot withhold it. My Zhu family was once a great clan of the North, wealthy and powerful, with many branches. Though numbers bring strength, they also bring trouble. Each time the patriarch died, the branches vied fiercely for succession, even coming to blows. To prevent this, our ancestors established a rule: when our forebear served as a general under Emperor Taizong, he was awarded a suit of iron armor by the emperor himself, hence called Sacred Armor. The household that held the Sacred Armor led the clan. The emperor’s grace was great—our family has held the Sacred Armor for two generations now, producing two patriarchs in succession. Naturally, the other branches grew envious and stooped to hiring martial artists to seize the Sacred Armor and the clan leadership. To avoid disaster, I, Zhu Shitian, journeyed south to Hengzhou, sparing no expense to befriend the heroes of the martial world, all to safeguard my position. Yet my kin would not relent, going so far as to collude with the Crane Sect from the North, offering rich rewards to force me to surrender the Sacred Armor. Alas.” His words were heavy with sorrow. Tears streamed silently down his cheeks.

Liu Xiucai and Daoist Huang Song, both men of humble birth, had never imagined the intrigue and rivalry within great clans could be so ruthless. They held their tongues in silence.

“Heh heh heh,” Xu Qianfan chuckled coldly. “So this is how it is. I’ve known Mr. Zhu for nearly twenty years, and yet I never expected such theatrics from you. Perhaps you hail from the training halls of entertainers?” Formerly, he’d called Zhu “Brother Zhu,” but now he addressed him as “Mr. Zhu,” signaling a rift. The training halls were where official courtesans learned music and dance; to say Zhu Shitian hailed from there was to call him a liar and a player—clearly, Xu was furious.

Hearing this, Zhu Shitian flushed with anger, though he soon composed himself, wiping away his tears. “Brother Li, what do you mean by this?”

Xu Qianfan replied, “I’ve known you for twenty years, and Han Qinghua as well. For those twenty years, we ate and slept together, knowing each other as well as ourselves. Han Qinghua’s nature is lofty—without such a heart, he could not have become one of the Four Great Sword Masters. Do you think he’s greedy for wealth? If he were, with his sword skills unmatched, why not turn to banditry? What authority could catch him? He’d be rich beyond measure. Who could possibly offer him enough to help seize your clan leadership? Forgive my bluntness—even if you gave him all your fortune, he wouldn’t spare it a glance.”

Zhu Shitian could no longer contain himself. “Then why did he attack my convoy?”

Xu Qianfan replied, “It was merely to send a message. The goods may serve some purpose, but not for his own indulgence.”

Zhu Shitian spat, “And this bloody affair—what was his aim?”

Xu Qianfan snorted, “His aim? I do not know. The hearts of men are hard to fathom; none can guess his true mind. But what you should be telling us now is not about Han Qinghua, but the story of the Sacred Armor!”

By now, night had fallen; servants lit giant tallow candles, flooding the room with light. Zhu Shitian was at a loss for words, staring into the candle flames in silence.

Suddenly, a faint, almost imperceptible sound drifted in—thin as a mosquito’s hum, yet clear.

“Gossip behind people’s backs—aren’t you afraid of retribution?”

Xiang Lianfu’s face changed. He whispered, “That’s White Snake Yan Fengjiao’s voice—they’re here!”

Master Yuanhui said, “The Netherworld Soul-searching Technique—do not let your minds wander. Such sorcery preys on the unwary; stay strong!”

When the first syllable sounded, the speaker was miles away, but by the last, her voice was at the door, never wavering in volume—a mark of astonishing swiftness and perfect inner strength.

Xu Qianfan stood up. “Mr. Zhu, my disciples and I will withdraw for now. When Ghost Sword appears, I will confront him myself.” With that, he did not wait for Zhu Shitian’s consent but led his four disciples—Qinggao, Qingyuan, Qingbai, and Qingli—to the inner room.

At the doorway, Yan Fengjiao’s voice rang out again: “Mr. Zhu, they say you’re a modern-day Lord Mengchang—why are you shutting your doors to guests tonight? Well, we’ll just have to open them for you.”

Master Yuanhui gave a wry smile. “Mr. Zhu, we’ve lost the first round. Do you think closed doors can keep out such people? It will only make us a laughingstock.”

As he spoke, the massive, lacquered nanmu doors began to bulge inward, wood creaking, the iron bolts bending slowly. In moments, the doors swelled like a great belly, then, with a thunderous crash, the entire doorway, frame and all, toppled to the ground, sending clouds of dust billowing.

A giant of a man, tall as an iron tower, stood in the entrance, one enormous hand still outstretched like a fan.

To break through such doors with a single blow was no marvel for a master, but here, the giant had not struck; he had simply pressed his hand against the wood and slowly forced the doors down—a feat of raw power seldom seen.

Xiang Lianfu exclaimed, “The Vajra of Kunlun, Muller!” The giant laughed heartily, “Well met, Master Xiang!”

Muller was said to be a black slave brought from Rome by Arab merchants, once a gladiator who fought for the entertainment of Roman nobles. When civil war broke out in Rome, Muller slew his guards and escaped the slave camps, eventually stumbling into an Arab caravan, where he drank himself insensible on their wine and was recaptured, then sold into the Tang Empire. Prince Li Xian of Luling encountered Muller while out hunting. Impressed by the giant’s strength, he purchased him and had him trained in martial arts and kept as a bodyguard. Even Xiang Lianfu, once in Prince Luling’s employ, had taught him a few moves. Muller was addicted to wine, stubborn and slow-witted, shunning the soft internal arts for brutal external techniques. Coupled with his natural strength, he was a formidable opponent. The people called foreign slaves “Kunlun,” but Muller, being exceptionally large, earned the title “Vajra of Kunlun.” After Prince Luling’s fall from grace, Muller drifted into the martial world. Rumor had it he’d been recruited as a frontier soldier by the Protectorate of Anxi, earning high regard from its chief, Tian Yangming, for his exploits against the Arab armies. Unable to submit to military discipline, he soon deserted, gathering a band of minor outlaws and vanishing into the martial underworld.

Outside, a green gauze palanquin was parked, eight strong men in black cloaks standing at attention. Muller strode over, respectfully lifting the curtain. A woman in luxurious robes alighted gracefully, gliding through the doorway. Her face was hidden by a wide-brimmed hood, but her pointed white chin and thin red lips curved in a soul-stirring smile.

At the sight of her, Xiang Lianfu’s face turned ashen. Pointing at her, he whispered to Zhu Shitian, “Master, this is the very woman who disguised herself as an old lady to rob the convoy that day.”