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And just like that, another half-month passed.
In a quiet rural courtyard, Ji Miao was training hard with his blade.
Outside, the sound of children’s voices drifted in.
“May the emperor be safe, may blessings remain. The mountains stand tall for millenia.”
No one knew exactly when this nursery rhyme had first appeared, but it had spread far and wide through the region.
Ji Yan had once asked about it, and the answer he received was simple. It was just the common folk praying for peace and prosperity. He’d accepted that explanation without much thought. Later, when he heard the same rhyme echoing beyond Westgorge, he stopped asking altogether.
Ji Miao had heard it back in the city.
Now, hearing it again in the countryside stirred something in him, a deep homesickness, perhaps a longing for everything that had been taken.
Clenching his fists, he resumed practicing the move Li Yuan had taught him.
The blade cut through the air, sharp and clean. The boy trained with fierce focus.
Only when his limbs were spent did he collapse to the ground, breathing heavily.
The night was cold and overcast.
But the moonlight shone down, bright and clear.
Suddenly, a flash of cold, silver light tore through the soft moonlight like a whip of ice. It was sharp, blindingly so. Ji Miao froze for a split second, then scrambled to his feet and rolled to the side. When he looked back, several throwing knives were embedded in the spot where he had just been sitting.
A flicker of fear and fury flashed through his eyes.
It’s...
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