Wandering Swordsman |

When Bei Ming opened the double door, a hint of vigilance was visible between his brows.

As the second young master of the Beiming family, he was exceptionally talented but also habitually suspicious. However, the moment Shen Mo shed his disguise and revealed the Flame Demon Lord's token, the sharp, knife-like scrutiny in his eyes instantly transformed into shock and awe.

"The envoy arrives late at night. Has the Demon Lord given orders?" Bei Mingshuang's voice was low, but he had already bowed in greeting.

Shen Mo did not answer, but coldly repeated his question to Bei Mingji: "After the arrival of the overseas heretical cultivators, how did the Bei Ming family respond?"

Bei Ming Shuang hesitated for a moment, then told the truth: "The patriarch treated us with courtesy, neither agreeing nor refusing, and respectfully saw us off from the mountain three days later. However, he declared to the outside world that he would defend the righteous path of the Central Plains to the death and would never coexist with the evil cultivators overseas."

These remarks are completely consistent with what Beimingji said.

Shen Mo's eyes narrowed slightly, his mind already certain: the head of the Beiming family was indeed cunning and shrewd. In this way, he had neither betrayed the Martial Alliance nor severed ties with overseas forces. This deep-seated scheming was chilling, yet also perfectly reasonable.

He didn't say anything more, only calmly saying, "Guard your position and don't let outsiders discover your relationship with the Divine Sect." Before he finished speaking, he had already vanished like smoke, leaving only a wisp of cold wind that lifted the curtain and gently brushed against Bei Ming Shuang's cheek.

Bei Mingshuang stood at the doorway, motionless for a long time. He gazed at the empty snowfield, his eyes filled with complex emotions—a hint of secret smugness at being trusted, and a deep sense of apprehension towards the young man's agility.

This young man is like a dragon hidden in the abyss; even I, a genius considered one of the top in the Central Plains, cannot fathom even a fraction of his cultivation level… The Heavenly Demon God Sect is indeed unfathomable. It is simply incomparable to the likes of Shen Mo, the overseas evil cultivators, or the martial arts alliance.

......

Shen Mo returned through the snow, his figure like a bolt of black lightning tearing through the night. As his clothes fluttered, he stirred up fine snowflakes, but not a single drop touched him.

The wind and snow danced and roared behind him, like a thousand horses galloping and chasing, but could never catch up with him even half a step—as if heaven and earth made way for him, the wind dared not stop him, and the snow dared not fall.

When we returned to the inn, it was almost midnight.

Snow dripped from the eaves, striking the bluestone slabs with a sound like a water clock, causing anxiety and distress.

The candlelight inside the hall was dim. Eight members of the Qingfeng team sat around a table with several unopened jars of wine in front of them. The wine bowls were upside down, and no one raised a glass.

They appeared relaxed, but in reality, each of them had a tense back, eagle-like eyes, and a solemn, iron-like face.

It wasn't about drinking to relieve boredom, but about feigning composure while waiting—waiting for their captain to return, waiting for a storm to come.

Suddenly, the door creaked softly, like a crow skimming over a withered branch, subtle yet chilling.

Shen Mo stepped into the inn's main hall, like a wisp of a night soul returning from the netherworld—silent, yet causing all the candlelight in the room to tremble.

Peng Chengxiao was stroking the hilt of his sword with his fingertips when he suddenly heard the door open and abruptly looked up—

"Captain!" He suddenly stood up, the wooden stool overturned with a "bang" and hit the blue brick floor with a sound like cracking bones.

His voice was rapid and forceful, each word dripping with blood, as if torn from his very chest: "Urgent news has arrived from the martial world! The Righteous Alliance has suddenly launched an attack in the southwest! They've feigned an attack on the Tang Clan, drawing the main force of the Martial Alliance westward!"

"In this brief lull—overseas martial artists along the East China Sea coast suddenly launched an attack! The 'Divine Wind Camp' and the 'Night Parade of One Hundred Ghosts'—two overseas evil cultivation forces—overwhelmed the defenses of the seven major coastal sects like a tidal wave, advancing rapidly within a single day, and now—they are at the gates of the Nanjing Martial Alliance!"

He gasped for breath, his eyes bloodshot, his voice almost a roar: "The message says... that the enemy is fiercely attacking the outer city gates! The Alliance Leader is personally directing operations from the city tower, along with the remaining disciples from various factions, to defend Nanjing to the death, but the main force of the Martial Arts Alliance has already been transferred westward, and the Nanjing Martial Arts Alliance is in dire straits!"

"What?!" Shen Mo felt as if he had been struck by lightning, and his blood suddenly turned backward!

In that instant, time seemed to freeze, the candlelight flickering violently in his pupils, reflecting a blood-red phantom—smoke billowing over Nanjing, vermilion gates shattering under the giant hammer, glazed tiles falling like shards of ice.

Amidst the flashing swords, Murong Qing leaned against a corner of the city wall, his shoulder wound still unhealed, his face as pale as paper; Situ Meng was surrounded by the chaotic army, his long sword broken, his eyes filled with only despair and cries... That scene was like a poisonous needle, piercing the softest part of his heart.

His mind raced: from Nanjing to the Beiming family, even at the fastest horse, it would take two days; the fastest carrier pigeon would take six hours. This urgent report must have been sent at least six hours ago!

Six hours...

He had no time to elaborate on the intrigue and power struggles within the Beiming family… At this moment, all intelligence seemed as light as dust, easily scattered by the wind. Only the safety of the two individuals weighed heavily, almost suffocating him.

If the Martial Alliance falls... the Central Plains martial arts world will be leaderless, with the nine sects and one gang fighting their own battles, and order vanishing from the martial world. The overseas heretical cultivators and the Righteous Alliance will surely join forces to slaughter the righteous path, treating the common people like dirt and martial artists like livestock. And they—will they be captured? Or... will they be completely obliterated?

The mere thought felt like a thousand needles piercing his heart, making his fingertips tremble.

"Go!" Shen Mo's voice was deep and rumbling like thunder, his eyes flashing with a cold light as if a thousand horses were galloping within them. "Hurry back to Nanjing with me and support the Martial Alliance!"

Before he finished speaking, he strode out, his black clothes fluttering like a battle flag tearing through the wind and snow.

Behind them, the Qingfeng team members didn't say a word. There were several loud crashes—the wine jars were kicked over, and the wine spilled like blood; the longswords were drawn, their cold light reflecting off the snow, and their clanging swords rang out like a dragon's roar that soared into the sky!

The wind and snow intensified, turning the world as dark as ink.

Eight figures followed closely behind the dark figure, speeding through the snow like arrows released from a bow, heading towards Nanjing.

......

Night had fallen, but Nanjing was far from peaceful.

The headquarters of the Martial Alliance stood majestically in the heart of the city, its high walls as solid as iron and its eaves soaring upwards. It should have been a symbol of the righteous path of the martial world, but now its tranquility was shattered by fire and murderous intent.

Outside the wall, a dark mass of overseas martial artists stood in formation like a tide, their torches forming a sea of ​​blood that turned the entire night sky crimson.

The blades gleamed coldly, the clanging of armor sounded like ghostly whispers, and the air was thick with the stench of blood and rust.

On the walls of the Martial Alliance, the disciples held their bows taut, with kerosene and rolling stones ready, their faces as solemn as iron.

Alliance leader Situ Dengfeng stood in the center of the city tower, his black robe fluttering in the night wind, his eyes blazing as he stared directly at the enemy formation.

Behind him, the curator stood still like a pine tree, his white robe as white as snow; Murong Qing leaned against the arrow stack, his face pale but his eyes resolute; Situ Meng gripped his long sword tightly, his knuckles white, his eyes full of a willingness to die, without a trace of fear.

The two armies faced each other in an eerie silence—only the fluttering of battle flags in the wind and the howling of wild dogs in the distance could be heard, as if the heavens and earth themselves were holding their breath, waiting for the war drum that would tear through the night.

Three miles outside Nanjing, overseas military camps stretched for miles, with bonfires like stars and tents like a forest.

In the center of the camp, a bright red flag embroidered with the character "Emperor" fluttered high, and inside the large tent under the flag, candlelight shone brightly, and shadowy figures moved about.

Just then, a dozen dark figures, like crows skimming the ground, silently emerged from the forest, using the reflection of the snow and the shadows of the tents as cover, and quietly blended into the overseas martial artists' camp. They were clad in black robes, their faces covered in iron armor, their steps as light as cats, their breathing almost inaudible—they were the elite overseas evil cultivators of the Righteous Alliance, and their leader was none other than Oda!

He removed his helmet, revealing a cold, chiseled face, his pupils gleaming with a pale gold, like a wild beast's night vision. Behind him,

More than ten evil cultivators followed closely behind, each with their aura concealed and their killing intent hidden.

Oda walked straight toward the central tent. The guards, seeing his token, dared not stop him and bowed to let him pass.

Inside the tent, incense smoke curled from the burner, and a young man dressed in a white and gold divine robe sat in the main seat, his gaze as imposing as a mountain—it was none other than the Japanese "Divine Emperor" Kenjin. He closed his eyes to meditate, his hand twirling a string of black jade prayer beads; with each turn, the temperature inside the tent seemed to drop a fraction.