The storm from that single strike in Silverwood Prefecture did not calm with the carriage's departure. Instead, like a boulder thrown into a deep pool, the ripples it created spread outwards, swiftly engulfing the entire underworld of the Savage Reach.
Faelan "Crimson Snow."
This name, like a brand, was seared onto the first page of every intelligence organization's files. In smoke-filled taverns, in heavily guarded mercenary guilds, in every den of iniquity, the name was whispered in low tones, linked with terrifying phrases like "one strike," "Will of the Blade," and "bearing of a Grandmaster," chewed over and speculated upon endlessly.
Some said he came from a thousand-year-old sword clan from the heart of the Empire, a peerless genius out for experience. Others claimed he was the successor of a reclusive sect, backed by an untouchable behemoth. Still others spun wild tales, claiming he was the reincarnation of an ancient sword demon, that his one strike carried the baleful energy of hell itself.
Regardless of the rumors, the conclusion was the same: this person was not to be provoked.
...
At the headquarters of the Trident League, a black stone fortress standing in the center of the Azurewood Prefecture, the atmosphere was as oppressive as molten iron.
The League Master, High Lord Arion, sat quietly on his obsidian throne. He was not the brawny brute one might imagine; instead, he was slender and scholarly in appearance, dressed in a well-tailored silk robe. If not for his deep, bottomless eyes that seemed to see through a person's very soul, he would look more like a scholar than a hegemon.
Sirus "The Frost-Halberd" Vane knelt on one knee in the hall below, his usually stern face now holding a trace of unconcealable, lingering fear. "League Master, that is what transpired. That strike... I have never seen, nor even heard of, anything like it. It transcended technique; it was more like... a manifestation of a rule."
Arion's fingers tapped lightly on the smooth armrest, the soft tap, tap being the only sound in the great hall.
"Will of the Blade..." he repeated the words softly, a grave and wary light flashing in his eyes. "Horace... did not die in vain."
He was silent for a long time, so long that the air in the hall seemed to freeze solid. Finally, he spoke, his voice not loud, but carrying an unchallengeable decisiveness:
"Pass down my order. All Trident League personnel stationed outside are to immediately contract their defensive lines and withdraw to the Azurewood Prefecture. Wherever Faelan 'Crimson Snow' appears, all are to retreat and avoid any conflict with him."
"League Master!" Sirus looked up abruptly, a flash of unwillingness in his eyes. "Are we to just let the deaths of Elder Horace and the Ironwood Brothers go?"
"Let it go?" Arion's gaze suddenly sharpened, like two unsheathed swords piercing straight into Sirus's heart. "With what? Shall we gamble the entire foundation of the Trident League on the chance that this monstrously talented individual with a mysterious background doesn't have even more terrifying elders in his sect? Sirus, anger makes one lose reason, and that is a luxury I cannot afford."
He stood and walked to the window, gazing at the gloomy sky outside. "The waters of the Savage Reach are about to stir. A peerless genius of unknown origin cannot make such large waves on his own. There must be something else behind him. What we need to do now is not seek revenge, but to survive, and to see clearly."
...
Meanwhile, at the center of the storm, Finn and his group were already far from the clamor.
In an inconspicuous estate on the outskirts of Silverwood Prefecture, the air was filled with the faint scent of flowers and fresh earth. This was an abandoned villa belonging to the Vance family, hidden and far from the noise of the city, a perfect hiding place.
Inside a room, Isolde personally poured Finn a cup of hot tea, the steam blurring her still-grief-stricken eyes. Her brother, Jace, a boy of about fifteen or sixteen, was curled up in a chair, stealing glances at Finn with a mixture of fear and adoration.
"Mr. Faelan," Isolde's voice was a little hoarse, but her tone was incredibly solemn. "You saved Jace and avenged my family. I have no way to repay this kindness. Please, follow me. I will fulfill my final promise."
She led Finn into the master bedroom of the estate. The room was simply furnished, with only a heavy wooden bed and a few wardrobes. Isolde went to the bed and, with Jace's help, strained to move the heavy bed frame aside, revealing a stone slab beneath that was a slightly different color from the other floor tiles.
She fumbled in the crack at the edge of the slab for a moment. With a soft click, the stone slab slowly sank downwards, revealing a dark opening leading underground, just large enough for one person to pass through.
A dry scent, a mixture of dust and aged wood, wafted up from the opening.
"This is the secret vault left by my maternal grandfather. Besides Jace and myself, no third person knows of it."
Isolde lit a candlestick from the wall and was the first to enter. Finn followed close behind, descending a steep stone staircase. After about a few dozen steps, the view opened up before them.
It was a secret chamber, about half the size of a council hall, with walls built of hard, green-gray rock, dry and clean. In the center of the chamber, five large, locked wooden chests were neatly stacked, their corners reinforced with brass. Against one wall stood a row of tall bookshelves, densely packed with all sorts of books, from heavy, hardbound tomes to yellowed parchment scrolls.
Isolde walked to the chests and used a key to open one of them.
Clatter—
A chest full of gold coins reflected the candlelight with a dazzling brilliance, nearly illuminating the entire chamber.
"There are twenty-three thousand gold coins here in total," Isolde's voice was calm, as if she were speaking of something that had nothing to do with her. "And these books were my grandfather's entire life's collection. Now, they all belong to you."
Finn's gaze lingered on the chests of gold for a moment before turning to the bookshelves. Compared to the glittering treasure, the knowledge lying quietly in the shadows held a more fatal attraction for him.
He walked to the shelves, his eyes slowly scanning the titles. Most were martial arts manuals, things like Fierce Wind Saber Technique and Stone-Shattering Fist Manual. Before his orange-quality Eightfold Path of the Asura Blade, these were like children's scribbles, not worth a second glance.
His gaze passed over them and finally settled on the top shelf, on a few miscellaneous books wrapped in a special kind of animal hide, with no titles.
He reached up and took one down. It felt cool and supple to the touch. He opened the pages, and an ancient, mysterious aura washed over him. It wasn't a cultivation manual, but a record of various strange tales, geographical features, and... some forbidden history of the Savage Reach, deliberately erased by the Empire, all written in an ancient script.
Finn's fingertip slowly traced a line across one of the pages.
On it, drawn in bright red ink, was a strange symbol—a falling, burning star.
Beside it, a small note was written:
The Starfall Sect, Children of the Star, a blood sacrifice to welcome the god's return...