For the first time, the waters of the Qinhuai River were stained not by the setting sun, but by the blood of the aristocratic families.
The splendid metropolises of Suzhou and Hangzhou, which had once lined the banks and resounded with music and revelry, were now densely packed with scholars in blue robes, all kneeling. Thousands of scholars had gathered here, their voices of condemnation rolling like thunder. They demanded justice for the slaughtered 'illustrious families' and sought accountability for the collapse of civilised society.
"Xiao Wuchen, your blood debt is too heavy—you have finally met divine retribution!"
Suddenly, a fissure split the clouds, revealing an elder with snow-white hair and a long beard. Enveloped in an aura of righteous energy, he stepped forth through the void. With each stride, a pure white lotus blossomed beneath his feet.
The Confucian Sage of Jiangnan — Meng Changkong.
This being, who had secluded himself for sixty years and was revered as a deity by scholars across the land, had finally been roused by the city's stifling bloodshed. With a light tap of his wooden staff, he dispersed a third of the oppressive sword intent suffocating the heavens.
"This old man is here! You castrated scoundrels, kneel and confess your crimes!" His voice carried the majestic authority of one who admonishes all living beings, as if he himself were 'Reason' and 'Heaven'.
Xiao Wuchen stood on the Broken Bridge over the Qinhuai River.
The bitter wind ruffled his silver hair and his crimson, dragon-embroidered robe stood out starkly against the sea of green robes below. He was an image of profound solitude and incongruity.
"Confess?"
Xiao Wuchen looked down at his blood-drenched hands and suddenly let out a low, hollow laugh. His laughter shook him to the core; the lingering crimson at his temples made his expression all the more desolate.
"Venerable Master Meng," he declared, lifting his head. His phoenix-like eyes blazed with destructive madness. "I care not for the world's scorn, hatred, or curses directed at me. But ask the wronged souls beneath the Qinhuai River: Who will confess their sins? Ask the thirty years of famine that ravaged Great Qian—who will confess for the peasants who traded their children for sustenance?"
"Utterly deluded!" Meng Changkong sighed deeply. A colossal hand of righteous indignation, bearing the weight of moral justice, descended like a thunderous fist to crush Xiao Wuchen beneath its might.
"Open!"
Xiao Wuchen roared with fury. The Sword Intent of Birth and Death had ceased to manifest as a blade of light and had instead coalesced into a pillar of pitch-black radiance, piercing heaven and earth.
Amidst this earth-shattering collision, Xiao Wuchen held his ground and hurled a jet-black mystical iron token from his bosom.
"Rise!"
At his command, the heart of the Qinhuai River surged violently. A colossal stele, ten zhang tall and carved entirely from deep-sea obsidian, erupted from the water amidst the clanging of countless chains. It rose to stand majestically in the river's center!
At the stele's apex were engraved three blood-red characters: [Stele of Self-Reproach].
Scholars across the realm froze in shock. Expecting Xiao Wuchen to yield under pressure and confess his sins, they wore expressions of contemptuous triumph.
Yet, as the Sword Intent of Birth and Death peeled away the crimson silk shrouding the names on the stele, inch by inch, the entire Qinhuai Riverbank fell into a deathly silence.
The first name on the stele was: Seventy-two souls of the Xiao clan. (Note: Perished when Su Huaian colluded with the aristocratic families to embezzle disaster relief funds and silence witnesses.)
Second name on the stele: Three thousand humiliated peasant women of Jiangnan. (Note: They perished at the hands of Zhao Qing, a direct disciple of Meng Changkong and a renowned Confucian scholar of the era. They were tortured to death in a dark chamber.)
Third name on the stele: One hundred thousand soldiers who froze to death on the Northern Frontier. (Note: They perished due to the six great clans of Jiangnan withholding winter clothing and profiteering from military provisions.)
...
Row upon row, line upon line, densely packed.
These were not Xiao Wuchen's crimes, but rather the names of the weak—those trampled, silenced, and devoured over the past century by the so-called "noble righteous factions" and "saints of Confucianism"!
Behind each name is a blood-soaked character who recorded a scandal sufficient to make heaven and earth tremble with fury.
"Old Sage Meng," Xiao Wuchen said, flashing before Meng Changkong and pressing the tip of his sword against the Confucian sage's throat. "Has the 'Principle' you speak of ever beheld these names? Has the "Heaven" you protect ever heard the wails of these wronged souls?!'
Meng Changkong stared at the name of his most prized disciple, Zhao Qing, etched upon the monument. As he read the horrifying list of crimes, the righteous spirit that had once filled him dissolved in an instant.
He opened his mouth, yet found himself utterly speechless.
Below, the fervent fighting spirit of the myriad scholars crumbled before this irrefutable evidence of wickedness. Some covered their faces in shame. Others collapsed to the ground. Still others, seeing their fathers' names listed under "Crimes," were so terrified that their souls fled their bodies.
"This," he declared, "is my crime."
Xiao Wuchen stood atop the stele, surveying the crowd of self-proclaimed nobles, his voice echoing across the Nine Provinces:
"My crime lies in slaying too late! My crime lies in allowing you beasts in human form to linger in this mortal realm for twenty years longer!"
"From this day forth, this monument will stand on the Qinhuai. Whoever dares touch it shall see their entire clan slaughtered!"
On this day, the Confucian Sage's heart of truth shattered and fell into the river's depths. Scholars across the land fell silent like cold cicadas, never daring to speak of the Xiao name again.
Xiao Wuchen sheathed his sword. As he watched the ripples on the river gradually calm, he stood alone, as solitary as an iceberg.