Chapter 303: Kunlun

Chapter 303: Kunlun

The next morning, heavy snow fell.

Black Dapple trod through the snow, leaving Beimang behind.

The last time he drew his blade from Beimang, it was his first foray into the martial world, a path to test his steel.

This time, leaving Beimang again, the world watched, a journey to seek mastery.

South from Beimang, within a few days lay the capital. Zhao Changhe gazed from afar at the vast city veiled in snow, but did not draw near.

Word had it the south was in dire straits; Tang Wanzhuang had gone to Gusu again, no longer in the capital. The Yihuo Snake lady might still be in the palace, but given her nature, she wouldn’t be trapped there—she’d leave if she pleased.

Beyond that, the capital held nothing to lure him.

It was a city like a whirlpool—the political heart of the mortal world, the core of the battle between the Human Emperor and gods and demons. Ignorance was bliss; knowing it, one only shunned it.

If he could bridge the gap between man and heaven, proving his path to mastery, would he then be worthy to tread here again?

How far must he go to avoid another hasty retreat like last time, fleeing in disgrace?

And how strong must he be to face Xia Longyuan and say, “What you do, I oppose”?

Zhao Changhe stared long, then reined his horse and rode away.

The western frontier was far, truly far, and there was no Yue Hongling to ride beside him. In this bitter winter, a sense of loneliness and desolation, like snow on a bow, crept over him.

At times, he even missed those days when he rode the road, ever wary of the Blood God Sect and Listening Snow Tower ambushing him. Though fraught with peril, it was never dull.

Speaking of which, where had the Listening Snow Tower assassin gone?

The Listening Snow Tower assassin was at Yanmen Pass.

“Zhao Changhe? Long gone.” The lingering martial artists in the county eyed the white-clad swordsman oddly. “Showing up now, when the battle’s been over for ages—what for?”

Eagle Frost: “...Do you know where he went?”

“How would we know? Word is he left right after the fight, wouldn’t even drink with Cui Yuanyong.”

If Zhao Changhe had heard, he’d realize how unreliable it was to always fear assassination in old martial tales. An assassin never fears a target’s strength—if the target’s movements are predictable, no matter how strong, they can be ambushed. The worst is a target with no fixed abode, lost in the vast world; by the time you hear where they are, they’ve vanished.

Many villains roamed free for this reason—information was too hard to come by in those days.

Now, Eagle Frost wasn’t the only one wanting Zhao Changhe dead. Wang Daozhong, tasked by his clan to arrange the killing, was fuming. He’d heard Zhao was in the capital, rushed there, but was a step too late. Then he learned Zhao had made a name in the north, planned to stir trouble with the Wangs in Yanmen, but the man was gone again.

Eagle Frost was the same.

Getting no leads from passersby, he trudged to a gambling den in Yanmen County.

They usually worked with Ying Wu’s people for intel, but lately, trust had broken. The Tower Lord had gone to negotiate with Ying Wu; word was Sha Qi had been dismissed. But Sha Qi was the son of Ying Wu’s old brother—Ying Wu would likely protect him. A dismissal was a slap on the wrist; he’d be reinstated elsewhere.

Still, maybe it was just that brat’s recklessness. A normal manager wouldn’t be so mad. Might as well ask at this den.

Pushing open the door, Eagle Frost was about to ask for the manager when his eyes went wide.

Sha Qi, face flushed, sat at the dealer’s spot, shaking dice. “Place your bets, place your bets!”

Enemies truly met face to face. Eagle Frost, who’d wandered Jiangnan for three months, erupted in rage, lunging to grab Sha Qi’s collar. “Sha Qi! You dare show your face here?”

Sha Qi was even angrier. “I was doing fine in Sword Lake City, then got shipped to this godforsaken border—all because of you! And you dare come curse me?”

Eagle Frost laughed bitterly. “Because of me?”

“Of course!” Sha Qi said, unabashed. “He was heading south when he left. I just gave a direction, didn’t tail him! Your Listening Snow Tower chased him before—didn’t you know he’d take detours? Brother! You’re his enemy; you should know his habits, not me! He laid false trails and vanished, and I got punished by Fifth Master. Am I not wronged?”

Eagle Frost knew the man was twisting words. If he’d truly gone south, there’d be clues along the way, not total darkness. If Sha Qi had said north, they’d have heard of Zhao’s exploits in the capital—how could they have missed him?

But Ying Wu protected him, and Listening Snow Tower wasn’t ready to break with Ying Wu. Eagle Frost said coldly, “And this time? Where’s he headed?”

Sha Qi looked amazed. “You wronged me, and you still want me to tell you?”

“Fine, fine, I wronged you.” Eagle Frost’s face was blank. “Was my gold for nothing?”

“Oh, that’s true.” Sha Qi sighed. “For the gold’s sake, I’ll let it slide. This time, Zhao Changhe went to Beimang, no mistake. If you go and don’t find him, don’t say I misled you.”

Eagle Frost turned coldly. “If it’s wrong again, our two factions are through.”

“Wait.” Sha Qi called him back, handing him a dagger. “This mess left a bad taste. Let’s not hold grudges. Take this gift, be friends.”

Eagle Frost couldn’t follow the erratic shift, but took the dagger, finding it well-made with a faint chill. He couldn’t help liking it. “What’s its name?”

Sha Qi told him solemnly, “Sha Dagger.”

Eagle Frost had no time to ponder the name; he hurried to Beimang.

Arriving, he did find signs of habitation—discarded clothes in the chieftain’s hut. This time, it was right.

But the place was empty. Not a trace of Zhao Changhe, not even a lowly bandit to interrogate. The whole band had vanished. Snow filled the empty stockade, a dead silence.

Eagle Frost trudged through thick snow, searching for clues. Suddenly, the ground gave way with a crack, and he fell into a pit.

But a top-ranked assassin had his tricks. Before hitting bottom, he shifted midair, leaped up, barely dodging a frozen piss trap.

“Who the hell digs pits by a training ground? Zhao Changhe, are you insane?” the assassin howled to the sky. “Don’t let me find where you are!”

By then, Zhao Changhe was nearly at Longyou...

The Kunlun of Chinese legend wasn’t the same as the modern Kunlun Mountains.

But in this world, it was simpler—roughly the same Kunlun range, stretching across the west.

“Going to Kunlun” didn’t mean the endless peaks; that would take forever. In common parlance, Kunlun referred to Yuxu Peak and its surrounding ridges.

There was a city at the foot.

But as Third Lady said, it was a city of chaos.

Zhao Changhe led his horse inside, taking in the sights, thinking he’d seen many chaotic cities. Sword Lake City was chaotic, with no official rule; Yellow Sand Bazaar was chaotic, a lawless frontier.

But Sword Lake City’s factions were low-level, easier to balance; Yellow Sand Bazaar had Ubalur keeping order, and trade required rules. Both had limits—essentially, they operated within certain norms, just more brutal and violent.

Kunlun, though, was said to be nearly all villains. Even a street vendor might be a murderer from the Central Plains in hiding. What rules governed this place?

Zhao Changhe didn’t believe in total chaos, especially with a Heavenly List master looming above. Behind the chaos, there must be another order.

As he pondered, a sharp-faced man scurried over, grinning from afar. “Outsider, need a guide? This city’s big; you’ll get lost without one.”

Zhao Changhe asked, “How much?”

“Depends how long you need me.” The man sidled up, leaning in with a sly grin. “There’s all sorts of fun to be had here...”

Zhao Changhe smiled faintly.

From his bird’s-eye view, like moonlight on water, he clearly saw the man, while leaning in, quietly draw a dagger from below and stab at his ribs.

Truly a land of chaos. Nowhere else had been so direct—a stranger trying to kill you on sight, for no reason.

Zhao Changhe shot out a hand, seized the man’s wrist, and twisted it back.

A pig-like scream rang through the street: “He’s hitting me! Outsider’s hitting me!”

“Clatter!” A crowd surged from all sides, surrounding Zhao Changhe with menace. “Where’d this dragon come from? Let him go!”

Zhao Changhe grinned, twisted the man’s arm further, and with a crack, tore it clean off, dangling limp from the shoulder.

The screams rose several more decibels, as if the vocal cords were about to tear from the shouting.

The faces of those surrounding Zhao Changhe also changed—this 'river-crossing dragon' had such immense strength and such a ruthless hand!

A burly man asked in a deep voice, "Who are you, sir? Dare you give your name?" Zhao Changhe leisurely looked around and said calmly, without changing his expression, "Wang Daozhong of Langya, paying respects to Kunlun."