Sixty-Five Days of Phoenix Bloodline

Guan Canghai never expected Pan Yueyang to appear in the imperial palace. Suddenly, a name flashed through his mind—Yan’er. It seemed something must have transpired between the two of them. He had clearly witnessed that foul-smelling man pressing down on Yan’er, intent on violating her. Now that Pan Yueyang was also in the palace, could it be that he had come to plead for that woman?

“It’s been a long time, General Pan,” Guan Canghai said, running his hand through his hair with one hand, while the other remained locked firmly around Mu Qianxue’s vital point. As for the group of young guards behind him, he paid them no mind at all.

“It has indeed been a long time.” Pan Yueyang stood with his hands behind his back, making no excessive movements—proud as ever.

Having recuperated for several months, Guan Canghai’s power had grown substantially. With the assistance of Zheng Tiandao, leader of the evil Tiandao Sect, he had finally mastered the Heaven-Defying Art, using the blood and vital essence of young maidens as a catalyst. Zheng Tiandao, his most prized subordinate, had even found for him the hundred-year-old Gu King from Miaojiang. Now, he was truly invincible in the world.

Dispensing with further pleasantries, Guan Canghai made his move—swift, precise, and ruthless, unleashing a flurry of silver threads. Pan Yueyang, who had crossed arms with Guan Canghai before, was intimately familiar with this deadly weapon. No matter how formidable the silver threads, they could not overcome the soft sword at his waist, tailor-made to counter them. Dodging the dozens of threads that sought to ensnare him, Pan Yueyang drew his sword, which traced a perfect arc of silver light through the air.

“It seems General Guan is exceptionally fond of me,” Pan Yueyang taunted, not forgetting to mock his opponent.

Indeed, before Pan Yueyang’s arrival, Guan Canghai had slain countless guards, yet only released a few threads each time. Now, against Pan Yueyang, he unleashed dozens at once—proof enough of how seriously he regarded him.

Could Pan Yueyang’s skill measure up to Guan Canghai’s? Pan Yueyang’s inner force was pure and vigorous—having trained exclusively in righteous arts to cultivate this robust internal energy, for which his very constitution was ideally suited. Guan Canghai, on the other hand, practiced a sinister cultivation, where ruthlessness was key. His techniques were elusive and unpredictable—righteous against wicked, a study in contrasts.

In terms of inner strength, Guan Canghai admitted to himself that he could not match Pan Yueyang’s depth. His focus had been the Heaven-Defying Art, not the accumulation of internal force. In martial arts, inner strength is the wellspring of all power. If not for his arsenal of sinister weapons and mastery of poison, repelling Pan Yueyang would have been nigh impossible. But things were different now—the Heaven-Defying Art’s greatest strength was its ability to absorb an opponent’s internal energy.

Guan Canghai smirked wickedly. Just as Pan Yueyang slipped free from the encroaching silver threads, they abruptly changed course, shooting toward the surrounding guards. Within moments, dozens of guards fell, dispatched to the underworld before they could even comprehend their fate.

Wasting no time, Pan Yueyang darted past the fallen guards, launching himself at the yet-unretracted threads. His soft sword, as if alive, wrapped around several that Guan Canghai had not yet withdrawn.

Pan Yueyang raised an eyebrow; the silver threads were no longer so easily severed by his sword. They seemed tougher, more resilient than before. Withdrawing his blade, he abandoned the attempt and attacked Guan Canghai directly, knowing that the threads, however lethal, were mere weapons. Capture the leader and the bandits scatter—such was the art of war.

Guan Canghai retreated steadily, undisturbed by Pan Yueyang’s assault—precisely the outcome he desired. The threads ceased, and Guan Canghai raised his palms, challenging Pan Yueyang to a direct contest of inner force.

Pan Yueyang summoned his full power, his palms striking toward Guan Canghai.

As their inner energies clashed, the guards squinted their eyes. Rarely in their lives would they witness such a duel between masters. The collision of their internal forces birthed a small whirlwind, swirling frigid air across every face present.

Pan Yueyang sensed his own strength waning, alarm rising in his chest. He could not fathom what sinister art this demon had mastered, but it was devouring his power. With all his strength drawn up, if he tried to withdraw now, severe internal injury would be inevitable. Without further hesitation, Pan Yueyang mustered a final burst of force, breaking away from Guan Canghai. The backlash hurled him back dozens of paces. Fighting the urge to cough up blood, he swallowed it down by sheer will.

“Hmph. Wudang Mountain truly produces heroes,” Guan Canghai could not help but admire the Wudang Sect’s internal arts, which enabled Pan Yueyang to break free of the Heaven-Defying Art’s grasp, denying him the chance to absorb his energy. Still, he reckoned Pan Yueyang must have suffered significant internal injuries.

“Despicable!” Pan Yueyang spat out the word, clutching his chest and gritting his teeth.

Suddenly, Guan Canghai felt something was amiss—Mu Qianxue was no longer among the crowd.

That wretch had seized the moment while he was engaged with Pan Yueyang to slip away. His greed for Pan Yueyang’s inner strength had cost him; the night’s true goal was to capture Mu Qianxue and force her to reveal the whereabouts of the imperial seal. Ignoring Pan Yueyang, Guan Canghai leapt aloft. Their battle had not lasted long—Mu Qianxue, untrained in martial arts, could not have gone far. From his vantage, he smiled coldly, spotting a figure racing toward the north gate.

“After her!” Pan Yueyang, clutching his chest, fixed his gaze on the direction of Guan Canghai’s flight and ordered his men to pursue. He could scarcely believe Guan Canghai would dare to infiltrate the imperial palace of Panlong all alone. If not for his plea to the emperor to spare Yan’er that night, he would never have crossed paths with Guan Canghai. A wicked smile flickered across his face; if he hadn’t appeared, would Guan Canghai have dealt with the emperor as well? Startled by his own thoughts, Pan Yueyang steadied himself against a wall. “Send some men to protect His Majesty!” he commanded, suppressing the chaotic energy roiling within him as he hurried toward the north gate.

As Mu Qianxue ran, she looked back repeatedly, thinking: So vast a palace, so many guards—surely she could buy herself enough time. She must not let Guan Canghai catch her—she had to escape!

But Guan Canghai, a master of martial arts, caught up with her effortlessly. He landed behind her. “Stop!” he commanded.

Mu Qianxue heard him but did not stop; instead, she quickened her pace, heading straight for a secluded annex ahead. Without hesitation, she dashed into the courtyard.

Guan Canghai looked up, startled by the inscription on the hall—it read “Sifu,” a name that seemed to haunt him.

“Ah! You traitor—usurper of Tianfeng, murderer of my father! May you die a wretched death!” Mu Qianxue, her wrist caught in Guan Canghai’s grip, could do nothing but curse him with all her might.

Usurper of Tianfeng? Murderer of your father? Guan Canghai regarded her with a complicated gaze. “Hand over the imperial seal!” One hand clamped around Mu Qianxue’s neck.

“Never! That is the treasure of Tianfeng, not something an outsider like you could ever covet!” True to her status as a princess, even with her life at stake, Mu Qianxue did not forget her dignity. She lifted her chin, giving Guan Canghai a bewitching, defiant smile.

Pan Yueyang and the guards, catching up, were momentarily stunned. Guan Canghai was notorious for his demonic charm, but just now, Mu Qianxue’s smile had been uncannily similar!

“You should have died with your wicked mother!” Guan Canghai hissed venomously in Mu Qianxue’s ear.

Mu Qianxue turned to look at him. For the first time, she examined Guan Canghai closely, unclouded by matters of status. Suddenly, she clapped her hand over her mouth in shock. “Ah—”

“What is it?” Only now had she truly seen him—was it not a little late? Guan Canghai was unperturbed.

“Hey, who’s making all that noise?” A hapless young eunuch, reeking of wine, staggered out and flung open the door behind Guan Canghai. Instantly, the sight sobered him: a man strangling a woman, palace guards blocking the only exit, the entire yard ablaze with torchlight, and even General Pan among the crowd—though the eunuch failed to notice Pan Yueyang’s pallor.

“Assassin! Help! Spare me, I beg you!” the eunuch shrieked, dropping to his knees and trembling so violently he scarcely dared to breathe.

No one paid the hapless wretch any mind—such creatures, neither men nor women, were beneath contempt.

Awakened by the commotion, Yan’er gingerly checked her clothes—still intact—and, with some effort, rose to her feet. She peered toward the brightly lit entrance, where she saw a eunuch trembling on his knees. Curious, she crept to the doorway.

“Yueyang?” Yan’er, her red dress in disarray and one bare arm exposed, leaned weakly against the doorframe. Of all those present, her eyes found only Pan Yueyang.

Seeing Yan’er appear, Pan Yueyang was overcome with emotion. His gaze swept over her, and then, with sudden sharpness, he shouted to the two in the courtyard, “Guan Canghai, if you value your life, release Mu Qianxue!”

“Ridiculous!” Guan Canghai merely turned his head slightly toward the door. This woman’s heart held only Pan Yueyang—he had saved her twice, yet she would not even look at him directly.

“Ah! Guan Canghai!” At Pan Yueyang’s reminder, Yan’er recognized the figure in purple. Her first thought: Guan Canghai!

“Let me go,” Mu Qianxue said softly to him, heedless of the others.

Yan’er’s attention shifted to the courtyard. The woman in Guan Canghai’s grip—was that Mu Qianxue? What on earth was happening?

“If I spare you, will your wicked mother spare her own sister?” Guan Canghai’s tone suddenly held a hint of sorrow.

“Whatever you say, I am still your elder sister!” Mu Qianxue, desperate, could only cling to their blood relationship and beg for her life.

“Yet you accuse me of usurping Tianfeng and murdering your father?” Guan Canghai laughed quietly.

Everyone present heard the exchange. Pan Yueyang’s first thought: Family matters. It seemed Mu Qianxue did not know—or perhaps no one in Tianfeng knew—that Guan Canghai, too, was a lost scion of the royal bloodline.

“I am your sister!” Mu Qianxue said, tears brimming in her eyes.