HCAW 44

Chapter 44 – Let Wildness Run Free

The day of execution arrived.

Cold winds howled through the streets, sharp and biting like wolf howls. At the break of dawn, with only a pale line of light on the horizon, the Xian Mountain officials already filled the avenues. Hundreds of black-clad figures packed the roads, a tide of heads flowing like Mountain Rong beans rolling in waves. In the center of this mass of black beans, several prison carts carried condemned criminals in long wooden stocks. Trumpets blared like thunder, wailing through the air.

The execution grounds were broad. In the center stood the execution platform, surrounded by a wooden palisade. The Xian Mountain officials formed a thick, impenetrable human wall, wielding whips and water-fire staves to push the crowd back. Still, the onlookers were filled with fervor—after all, this spectacle only came once a year.

To the north of the platform was a high stage lined with rows of vigilant soldiers. Above stood a pointed canopy embroidered with golden thread in the shape of apes and beasts. Beneath it sat two lacquered chairs: one held a sword-wielding old woman—Yu Yin Guard; the other, the National Preceptor in his snow-hooded cloak. A bitter scent of blood seemed to swirl faintly in the wind around them.

Farther north stood a grand tower with sandstone walls and a double-eaved roof. Today, Emperor Changyi would personally oversee the executions from atop that tower. Though he traveled with only a modest entourage, both the Yu Ji Guard and the Mohe Guard accompanied him—security was tight.

From a distance, waves of imperial officers could be seen entering the tower. Dragon banners fluttered. Bells, drums, flutes, and pipes rang out in grand procession—clearly, the Son of Heaven had arrived.

The National Preceptor sat inside the canopy, slowly stroking the hilt of the sword at his waist.

A few days prior, he had advised the Emperor and exposed the Mohe Guard’s past misdeeds, seizing the sword Hanguang from him—a trophy of victory. As the prison carts rolled into the square, guards with red-and-black faces and hooked blades marched out the prisoners. The National Preceptor’s lips curled into a cryptic smile as he turned to Yu Yin Guard.

“Yu Yin Guard, look at your fine disciple—he’s been delivered.”

The old woman had been sitting with eyes closed, deep in thought. Without opening them, she replied flatly,

“Once the verdict is set, he’s no longer my disciple. He’s just another dead man.”

The National Preceptor smiled.

“So eager to cut ties? I was only giving him some lenience for your sake.”

From inside the canopy, they could see the executioners, faces smeared with chicken blood, hauling out the prisoners one by one. Most were limp and spiritless, like wilted vegetables, barely flesh wrapped over bone. Only Fang Jingyu stood upright, walking on his own two legs. The National Preceptor sneered.

“Back then, they didn’t dare remove his iron frame, fearing he’d bleed out and die. But now he looks full of strength—seems the punishment was too light.”

Yu Yin Guard replied without opening her eyes,

“Even if you stripped out his bones, he wouldn’t kneel. His will is unbreakable.”

The National Preceptor’s smile faded. According to Penglai law, if one were of imperial blood, they were to be executed in secret. But no one could produce evidence that Fang Jingyu was Emperor Bai’s son—so public execution it was.

He looked north toward the city tower. Emperor Changyi should be watching from there. But the emperor’s eyes had grown cloudy of late, prone to sudden blindness—whether he could even see today was uncertain. He had long withdrawn from state affairs. That he came in person today had caught the National Preceptor by surprise.

Executioners were now washing their blades in wine. Officials began reading out the crimes. At last, the officer presiding over the execution cried out,

“It is now the hour of the Rabbit!”(5:00 AM to 7:00 AM)

The trumpets screamed in unison, their piercing wail seeming to rend the sky. Executioners stepped forward and grabbed the prisoners. But at that moment, someone in the crowd shouted:

“Innocent!”

The word came at the perfect moment—neither too early nor too late. Like a pebble thrown into a still lake, it rippled out, igniting a flood. That single spark turned into a wildfire. Behind the wooden palisades, the crowd surged forward, their voices overlapping:

“Officier Fang is innocent!”

The red-faced executioner froze mid-motion. The presiding officer lifted his palm in midair—immediately, the blades were lowered. The voices grew louder:

“He’s been wronged! We beg the Emperor to investigate!”

“He didn’t commit murder—why must he die?”

“He’s innocent!”

Some in the crowd toppled the wooden barriers, using hands and feet to push back the guards. Over the past few days, with Xiao Jiao and Zheng Deli stirring public sentiment through theater and protest, the people’s hidden outrage had swelled into a tidal wave—now it burst its dam.

Those once beaten by cruel officials, those whose family had been tortured into false confessions—all raised their fists and shouted. No one knew whose injustice they were crying out for anymore. In moments, the execution ground descended into chaos. Shouting, scolding, the crack of whips—everything melded into a boiling storm.

The National Preceptor barked coldly:

“Execution officer! Command the guards to suppress the riot!”

But just as he spoke, the young man on the execution platform suddenly relaxed his arms. The ropes binding his hands slackened. In the blink of an eye, Fang Jingyu summoned strength in his wrists. His arms swung like blades, and with the hardened strength of his iron bones, he shattered the wooden stock around his neck. He tore off the blindfold and gag—then dove like a hawk at the executioners.

His fists and kicks were brutal. In seconds, he’d floored the executioners and seized one of their hooked blades. The National Preceptor watched in stunned silence as blood dripped from Fang Jingyu’s fingertips. Beneath his skin, a sharp iron shard—once the tip of his dragonhead iron frame—had broken through his flesh, sharpened into a hidden blade.

So that was it! This boy had drawn the iron from within his own body and secretly sharpened it into a knife—using it to cut his bindings!

The National Preceptor turned pale and roared:

“Protect the sovereign!”

As expected, Fang Jingyu leapt from the execution platform like an arrow from a bow, charging directly toward the canopy where the National Preceptor sat. The Xian Mountain officials had been busy trying to control the riotous crowd—none were in position to stop him. Only thirty-six palace soldiers below the high stage scrambled to form a barrier, planting themselves in his path.

Yet the young man seemed to know their positions by heart. Like an eel, he slipped through the gaps between them and dashed up the steps.

“Little monkey, don’t take another step!” shouted several cavalrymen in iron-studded armor, blocking his way. Mounted on tall horses, their bodies were like walls of flesh, each wielding massive golden melon-headed maces.

The maces swung down with thunderous force—but Fang Jingyu’s footing was light as air. He dodged nimbly. The Xian Mountain officials threw flying cymbals and iron olives at him, but the blade in his hand spun like a bat in the shadows, knocking them all aside—none so much as grazed him.

Just then, soldiers arrived leading several black-headed hounds. These dogs were fierce to the extreme, able to take on tigers and bears. Trained by burying pig heart and liver in hay to whet their bloodlust, they were savage and deadly. Catching the scent of blood on Fang Jingyu’s fingers, they sprang taut like bowstrings and lunged with savage howls.

Without hesitation, Fang Jingyu wrapped the chain on his arm into a coil and rammed it into the gaping maw of one dog. Its teeth cracked; he seized the moment to strike its chest and belly, sending it flying into a cluster of Xian Mountain officials.

Now the guards of the yamen joined the fray. Blades flashed—ring-handled sabers and long jian danced like serpents and dragons, all aimed at Fang Jingyu. But his swordsmanship was supreme. As one stroke of his blade swept forth, it shone like autumn water under moonlight, outshining all other attacks.

More Xian Mountain officials surged forward. The crowd engulfed that lone figure, only to be forced to spit him back out again. That youth moved like brilliant sunlight in the bleak sky, radiant and unstoppable. He charged forward with such force that no one could stand in his way.

The National Preceptor trembled. A condemned man moments from death—yet instead of fleeing into the crowd, he charged toward the heavily guarded high platform. Why?

He couldn’t understand it—until he saw the youth’s eyes: cold and resolute like ice and snow. And in that moment, he was reminded of someone from long ago. Eighty-one years before, someone else had stood alone within enemy lines, wielding The Vipashiyin Blade with unmatched heroism and sweeping sword intent.

That man was—Emperor Bai, Ji Zhi!

Fang Jingyu dashed up the stone steps in swift strides. At last, the Xian Mountain officials reacted. Like swarming ants, they rushed from all directions, scrambling over one another to form a human wall. But Fang Jingyu struck one man in the gut, leapt as the man doubled over, used his back as a step, and planted a foot on another’s shoulder. He darted across the sea of shoulders like a dragonfly on water—until at last, he reached the high platform.

The moment he landed, a blade cleaved through the air. Fang Jingyu turned and snatched a Xian Mountain official’s sword to block it. A black-robed old woman stood before him, cold and imposing.

“So you’ve come.”

Fang Jingyu nodded.

“Yes. Master must’ve expected I would.”

“I expected you to escape—not to throw yourself into the noose,” she said coldly. “Whether or not you’re guilty, if you dare stand before me, you’ll take my blade.”

As soon as she spoke, she drew Shouci. The blade gleamed like snow, slicing through the air toward Fang Jingyu. But he was as quick as a rabbit. His blade flared three times, striking one point like hammering a great bell. His mastery of sword and saber arts astonished even Yu Yin Guard.

But age and skill win out. Her technique was unmatched. With a flick of her wrist, she cast a thin layer of sand across her blade like Guanyin scattering dew. Then she swung again—the sand flew like throwing needles. Fang Jingyu couldn’t avoid them in time. His shoulder and arm were peppered with fine wounds, blood oozing from dozens of tiny punctures.

Fortunately, he had a quick eye and agile hands. Using skills learned from rogues and outlaws, he parried and dodged, his stance steady as a war chariot—enough to hold his ground.

The old woman scowled.

“You never trained properly with the blade—why waste time on these heretical tricks?”

Fang Jingyu replied,

“Without those tricks, I wouldn’t stand a chance of surviving you.”

She asked,

“Fang Jingyu! Why didn’t you run? Why come here to die?”

Her knuckles cracked like snapping bones. A dark flush rose to her face, veins bulging like earthworms. Fang Jingyu’s heart clenched—she had activated the power of the Immortal Elixir.

So she truly meant to kill him.

Fang Jingyu called softly, “Master…”

For a moment, Yu Yin Guard faltered. Did she feel the weight of ten years of mentorship?

But in the next breath, her blade came down, mercilessly aimed at his shoulder and neck. It split his flesh open. Had it not struck iron bone, it would’ve cut him in two. The blade stuck fast in the metal. Though Fang Jingyu bled profusely, pale as death, his expression did not waver.

Yu Yin Guard sensed something wrong—just as Fang Jingyu slammed the exposed dragonhead iron against her blade, snapping it. The broken fragment shot through the canopy like a dart, slicing through the National Preceptor’s snow hood.

A terrible, bone-chilling scream split the air. Like lightning, it tore into every ear present—it was the National Preceptor.

While Yu Yin Guard was stunned, Fang Jingyu wrenched Shouci from his flesh. Moving like thunder, he slashed the Preceptor’s cloak. Black blood burst like a geyser. Several Xian Mountain officials were splashed and screamed in agony—the liquid was molten hot, corroding their flesh like acid.

Fang Jingyu reached out and grabbed the back of the Preceptor’s head, lifting the severed skull high for all to see.

The crowd gasped. In his hand was a grotesque head—sparse hair, and covered in countless tiny eyes, irises shimmering in all colors. It was the National Preceptor’s head. The fallen body was equally bizarre—covered in hair, with many arms and legs, like a monstrous squid. It looked strikingly like the Da Yuan Dao sect leader.

Fang Jingyu’s eyes darkened. His suspicions were confirmed. The Immortal Elixir and Da Yuan Dao came from the same root.

In the days he’d been imprisoned, he had planned all of this. That strange, maddening porridge… the sect… all the clues pointed to a terrifying link between the murderous National Preceptor and the sect leader. There was no hope of escape—only a frontal assault offered any chance of survival.

Yu Yin Guard’s calm was gone. She shouted,

“You’ve killed a man!”

“I didn’t mean to. I aimed for his chest—but that was where his neck was,” Fang Jingyu said.

“Master, you must see… he wasn’t human.”

The crowd saw the grotesque head and cried out in horror.

“The National Preceptor… was that really him?”

“It’s a monster! Why was such a creature running the Immortal Palace?”

“An omen! A curse! Disaster is coming to Penglai!”

Chaos spread across the execution grounds.

In the uproar, Fang Jingyu’s thoughts raced. He knew that killing the National Preceptor—violating the authority of the Immortal Palace—would bring swift retribution. No words could save him now.

But he had already staked his life—this was his final gamble.

So the youth, drenched in blood, raised the grotesque head high and shouted:

“The Immortal Elixir and Da Yuan Dao are one and the same! The National Preceptor rewarded merit with poison!”

“I have been wronged—I beg His Majesty to investigate!”