The night was deep and silent, with a sparse scattering of stars beneath the bright moon.
A terrifying sword aura, like a massive whale surging in the depths of the ocean, loomed heavily across the cool, watery expanse of the night sky. It resembled a primordial beast baring its claws, its every breath concealing unimaginable destructive power.
The commotion was so great that within moments, nearly half of the Qin Hai Main City’s mansions had lit their lamps.
The night was split in two by the sword intent, solidified into tangible form. A frost-white gleam flashed across the pupils of onlookers before abruptly landing beside the gates of Dongheng Courtyard. The ground where the sword aura struck instantly split open with bottomless fissures, sending splinters of earth flying like shrapnel, the sound echoing like thunder.
Song Yunhe arrived earlier than Qiu Shi.
As the young lord of Qin Hai Main City, encountering such a situation, even if the one standing opposite him was Qin Donglin—a man of equal status and a childhood acquaintance—he could not simply stand by and do nothing.
Qin Donglin hovered mid-air, his brow furrowed like a curved blade. When his dark, fathomless pupils fixed on a person, the pressure rolled over them like a collapsing mountain or a raging tsunami.
Lu Jue, the guard responsible for watching over Dongheng Courtyard, clutched his chest as he staggered to his feet, swallowing back the metallic tang of blood in his throat with a deep breath.
Song Yunhe took a step forward. “Donglin.”
His voice was clear and gentle, even as he subtly positioned himself to block the trajectory of Qin Donglin’s sword. “Why come so late without giving me any notice?”
Qin Donglin finally deigned to look at him. He lowered his gaze, his voice steady yet laced with an unrestrained, icy impatience: “You mean to stop me?”
As if sensing his irritation, the sword in his hand trembled with a resonant hum, its aura bursting forth, sharp and unyielding.
The reason Song Yunhe found Qin Donglin such a headache was precisely this—he never followed convention.
If a situation like this had happened to him, Song Yunhe would have swallowed his anger out of consideration for their families’ relationship and handled it calmly and rationally. But Qin Donglin would not.
He was like an untamed hurricane—acting on impulse, without reason or need for one.
Like tonight. Like right now.
Had Qin Donglin merely suppressed his temper long enough to demand an explanation, things might have been salvageable. But his stance made it clear: he cared not for hidden circumstances, nor would he listen to excuses. That black dragon would die by his sword.
Song Yunhe frowned, standing firm against him. “Let Qiu Shi explain this to you.”
“Why would I need her explanation?”
Qin Donglin’s eyelids lifted slightly, his black sleeves billowing in the wind, revealing his pale, almost bloodless hands. He let out a derisive laugh, his strikingly beautiful features sharpening into something dangerous, carrying an undeniable aggression and possessiveness. “I simply don’t like others touching what’s mine.”
“At the very least, as long as the names Qin Donglin and Song Qiu Shi are tied together—no one touches her.”
This had always been his stance.
Song Qiu Shi was troublesome, annoying, fussy and delicate, constantly causing messes that others had to clean up. Those who disliked her truly despised her—but no one dared to bully her.
Not because her brother was Song Yunhe, but because her fiancé was Qin Donglin.
“Song Yunhe.”
Qin Donglin’s patience had run thin. He stared at the man blocking his path, his brow arching slightly as his voice turned frigid: “Move.”
The words fell, but Song Yunhe’s feet remained planted. Qin Donglin, however, had no intention of waiting or prolonging the standoff.
With a flick of his wrist, two streaks of sword light sliced through the air like twin dragons, their angles impossibly precise—one grazing past Song Yunhe’s waist, the other skimming the left side of his face.
The first sword shattered the barrier around Dongheng Courtyard, reducing every building and pavilion within to rubble.
The second locked onto Cheng Yi’s aura, aiming to annihilate him where he stood.
Song Yunhe’s gaze sharpened. He moved to intercept, but his body froze mid-motion.
The second sword’s force, timing, and the sheer weight of its intent made it impossible to deflect.
This strike could not be dodged—only endured.
Cheng Yi, already severely wounded, would perish instantly if it landed.
But Song Yunhe knew—Qiu Shi had given him a spiritual bracelet. This attack would not deal any real harm.
At this moment, he couldn’t help but recall Qiu Shi’s earlier words. Against the chaos unfolding now, they matched perfectly, down to the last detail.
It was unbelievable. That someone as temperamental and unpredictable as Qin Donglin could still be read so clearly.
Amid the shattered ruins of the courtyard, a massive black dragon took its true form, coiling in mid-air. Its head and tail were snow-white, dazzling against the night like the first snowfall of winter, painfully bright to the eyes.
The pursuing sword light was halted by a faint golden barrier, unable to advance another inch before dissipating into scattered motes of light.
The sudden turn of events left everyone momentarily stunned.
Qin Donglin’s dark eyes flickered. He recognized the familiar aura emanating from that glow. After a pause, he turned his head, enunciating each word with deliberate clarity: “Meteor Bracelet.”
A treasure personally forged by Ruan Yuan and gifted away. As her son, he would recognize it anywhere.
Song Qiu Shi—to protect this black dragon, she had shown remarkable generosity and cunning.
Even the Meteor Bracelet, a one-time-use life-saving artifact, had been given away without hesitation. And she had timed it perfectly, ensuring it was in place before his arrival.
How very… impressive.
For the first time, the emotion in Qin Donglin’s eyes cooled entirely. He lowered his gaze to his own pale, slender fingers, and with a thought, the sword in his hand vanished without a trace.
Song Yunhe took this as the sign Qiu Shi had described—that Qin Donglin’s anger had subsided. His shoulders relaxed slightly, yet before he could speak, his expression abruptly shifted.
The sky and earth changed colors, like a massive cauldron of tepid soup suddenly set aflame, boiling violently from beneath!
Sensing danger, the enormous black dragon’s golden pupils narrowed, its massive body stirring uneasily.
Lu Jue, standing not far from Dongheng Courtyard’s gates, watched as the winds howled and the very elements seemed to twist in turmoil. His gaze locked onto Qin Donglin’s chest.
A three-inch-long ancient sword gleamed with a silvery sheen, its patterns flawless, as if carved by nature itself. An oppressive might, ancient as the dawn of creation, weighed down on all who dared look upon it, bending their spines beneath its majesty.
Qin Donglin extended his palm, his long brows sharp as blades. The innate laziness and aloofness he carried had vanished without a trace. Standing at the precipice between light and shadow, cloaked in that overwhelming sword aura, he was terrifying beyond measure.
“The… Prana Sword.”
The last trace of a smile faded from Song Yunhe’s face as he uttered each word, as though trying to expel some trembling emotion from his chest.
Qin Donglin arched a brow. The moment his fingers closed around the hilt, another hand pressed atop his—Song Yunhe’s voice was grave: “Qin Donglin, the Prana Sword should not be used for such a purpose.”
The Prana Sword was one of the Seven Sacred Artifacts of the Six Realms, passed down since the dawn of time. Over countless generations, it had chosen only three masters—each leaving an indelible mark upon history.
The current Heavenly Emperor of the Celestial Clan once attempted to subdue this sword in his youth but was forced to retreat in defeat.
It is a sacred artifact ranked alongside the Demonic Moon Zither, if not higher.
Today, in such a setting, it has been unveiled once more!
Dongheng Courtyard and its surroundings for dozens of miles were engulfed in crisscrossing sword energy, bright as moonlight, slowing the movements and words of everyone present.
Qin Donglin did not shake off Song Yunhe’s hand, but the latter could clearly feel a crushing, mountain-like weight pressing down on his shoulder.
Again and again—even in a situation where he was at fault—Song Yunhe, usually even-tempered, finally felt a surge of anger.
“Qin Donglin.”
His fingers tightened around the gleaming white halberd hovering in the air. “This is Qin Hai Main City.”
Song Chengshu and Tang Ru had yet to intervene, deliberately turning a blind eye—first, out of respect for Liugi Mountain, and second, because this was a matter between the younger generation, and they were reluctant to interfere.
Qin Donglin paid no heed to such considerations. His infamous temper was widely known, and though Song Yunhe had heard rumors, it wasn’t until today that he witnessed it firsthand.
By the time Qiu Shi arrived, the scene before her was one of fierce confrontation, blades and halberds locked in tension.
She soared into the air and pressed down on Song Yunhe’s halberd-wielding hand. “The power of the Posa Sword is too immense. If the two of you fight, the entire main city will be reduced to rubble.”
Song Yunhe also realized he had acted impulsively. He glanced at the devastation behind him, his brows furrowing. “He won’t listen to me. You talk to him.”
Qiu Shi’s gaze first landed on Qin Donglin’s thunderous expression, as if carefully choosing her words. After a long pause, she spoke her first line: “You brought the Posa Sword with you?”
Song Yunhe was momentarily stunned—this was such an obvious attempt at small talk.
Qin Donglin’s slender fingers tensed slightly, and the Posa Sword flared with a sudden burst of spiritual light. His impatience was palpable; his eyes barely lingered on Qiu Shi before he turned to strike at the black dragon that had nowhere to hide.
Qiu Shi mirrored Song Yunhe’s earlier move.
She lightly placed her wrist on the back of Qin Donglin’s hand.
She had just emerged from the secret chamber, dressed in white with ink-black hair, her lips pale as if a gust of wind could knock her over—fragile and delicate.
Qin Donglin stared at his hand, pressed down for the second time that day, and suppressed a frown, his voice deep and cold.
“Song Qiu Shi.”
He said, “Let go.”
“No.”
Qiu Shi quickly glanced at him. “Don’t be so angry first.”
Qin Donglin had no patience for arguments. Just as he was about to shake her off, he felt her fingers curl around his wrist, clinging like a parasitic vine—soft but persistent.
The moment he moved his hand, Qiu Shi let out a faint cough.
Her face was small, the size of a palm, her skin as pale as snow—like a patient who hadn’t seen sunlight in years. A slight frown, a lowered gaze, and her lashes were already glistening with unshed tears.
Qin Donglin had seen this act countless times since they were children.
Every time, without fail, it was either to weasel her way out of trouble or to manipulate him into cleaning up her messes.
She adored this fragile, tearful persona—gasping every three steps, shedding a tear every five—while wreaking havoc, stirring up chaos, and diving headfirst into reckless adventures. And she never tired of it.
“I just came out of the chamber.”
Qiu Shi’s voice was soft. “I couldn’t decipher the music score. My head hurts.”
The Demonic Moon Zither’s music score was different from other arcane techniques—when backlashed, the pain manifested in the mind. Headaches were a common occurrence.
Whenever she messed up, she’d complain of pain, her acting so convincing that Qin Donglin could never tell if it was real or fake.
Every time he moved his wrist, she coughed again—utterly shameless.
His movements stiffened, paused. After a few repetitions, his eyelid twitched, barely restraining his irritation.
