Chapter Ninety-One: The Bloodstained Blade (2)

Li Xuan sat cross-legged on the soft couch, his expression calm. He allowed Li An’s scolding to continue, making no attempt to intervene—a silent consent. Kong Sheng’s brows furrowed slightly, but he said nothing.

Mu Changfeng, dressed in flowing white, walked over slowly. “May I ask the steward, where exactly have we acted rudely or disrespectfully? Your young master and mine are but strangers, neither old friends nor acquaintances. If my young master refuses to share wine and conversation with yours, does that constitute a crime?”

“In broad daylight, you rely on numbers to block our way. What is your intention?” Mu Changfeng’s retort left Li An speechless for a moment. Yet his temper was volatile, quick to ignite like dry tinder. He had already taken a dislike to Kong Sheng and his party yesterday; now he could no longer contain himself.

His master’s dignity had been slighted, and as a senior servant, it was his duty to restore it and vent his master’s indignation. His master’s silence was a tacit order.

Li An sneered, pointing arrogantly. “Don’t mistake kindness for weakness. Have him come over and apologize to my young master, or you’ll regret it!”

Mu Changfeng’s gaze turned cold. “You insolent wretch! If you utter another word of disrespect, do not blame me for acting harshly.”

“You think I’m afraid of you?” Li An spat, then turned to pull out a peculiar long-handled blade from beneath the carriage’s wooden floorboards. Drawing it from its sheath, he drove it into the snow, casting a provocative, disdainful look at Mu Changfeng.

Mu Changfeng, a free-spirited wanderer intolerant of injustice, found Li An’s repeated provocations unbearable. He drew his sword, pointing it forward, his own gaze more contemptuous.

The tension between them grew, each poised for combat. Li Xuan’s attendants jeered, spreading out to form a loose circle, hinting at an encirclement.

Kong Sheng’s eyes narrowed; he rose suddenly and called out, “Brother Mu, wait!”

He approached, fixing his gaze on the strange long-handled blade in Li An’s hand, his expression growing ever more grave.

This blade’s handle was unusually long—over thirty centimeters—with a double-edged blade, the entire weapon measuring about one hundred sixty centimeters. Mu Changfeng didn’t recognize it, but Kong Sheng did intimately.

It was the most famous and formidable weapon of the Tang Dynasty: the Mo Dao. Developed from the Han Dynasty’s horse-cutting sword, it incorporated the design and forging techniques of the Han Lu Mo Dao and the long blades of the Six Dynasties.

The Mo Dao was razor-sharp, its killing power unmatched, used in battle to cut down enemy cavalry, its tactical role akin to anti-tank weapons in modern times. Its formidable presence also made it a symbol of authority among high-ranking civil and military officials and regional governors.

Here lay the crux of the matter: the Mo Dao was standard military equipment, forged, stored, and managed by designated government departments. Commoners could neither see nor use it; possession was a serious crime, punishable by exile for three thousand miles or, in cases of rebellion, execution of one’s entire clan.

Military weapons were matters of state—how could ordinary people possess them? Thus, a single Mo Dao revealed volumes.

Since Li An wielded the Mo Dao, he must have a military background. With soldiers serving as Li Xuan’s attendants, his origins and status became unmistakably clear.

Nearby, the brothers Wu Xian and Wu Jie, former palace guards who had served in the regular armies of the provinces, recognized the Mo Dao. Their eyes widened in shock, barely suppressing cries of alarm.

Who but the military would dare carry a Mo Dao for defense?

After a moment, Kong Sheng composed himself, smiled faintly, and chose not to expose the truth. Feigning ignorance, he turned to pat Mu Changfeng’s shoulder, speaking softly, “Brother Mu, we are not street ruffians. Why quarrel and brawl in public? We must hurry on our way. Come, let’s go.”

Kong Sheng then cupped his hands in salute to Li Xuan in the distance. “Young Master Li, my party is on urgent business and must hasten our journey. If we have offended, please forgive us.”

Mu Changfeng was no fool; he understood Kong Sheng’s intervention had its reasons. He cast a furious glance at Li An, sheathed his sword, and followed after Kong Sheng. As a man of the martial world, Mu Changfeng was unfamiliar with the military regulations of the court; he simply found Li An’s blade odd but paid it little mind.

Li Xuan sighed lightly—a sound that, though faint, carried clearly to Kong Sheng and his companions.

“Li An, you have disappointed me greatly.”

Li Xuan brushed aside the maids’ attempts to support him, rising and looking toward Li An. Li An’s face turned deathly pale; he bit his lip, knelt on one knee before Li Xuan, shoulders trembling, head bowed in silence.

“To draw weapons, act so brazenly, and offend honored guests—what punishment do you deserve?” Li Xuan’s expression was indifferent and lofty as he looked down at Li An.

“I acknowledge my guilt and accept punishment,” Li An’s voice quivered.

“Since you know your crime, sever your own arm as a token of minor penalty.” Li Xuan’s voice was cold, merciless, his command delivered as casually as if crushing an insignificant ant rather than mutilating a subordinate.

“I obey!” Li An shuddered, stood, and looked up at his master, the last trace of pleading vanishing from his eyes.

He understood he had crossed Li Xuan’s line; only by severing his own arm could he hope to quell his master’s fury. He also knew Li Xuan was strict with his servants, his word law. Once commanded, there was no reprieve.

Regret overwhelmed him. The mission was critical; if his impulsiveness ruined it, not only would he lose an arm, but even his life would be forfeit.

Li Xuan stood tall, his bearing upright and unmoving, as cold and unyielding as an iceberg.

He cared nothing for Li An’s provocations toward Kong Sheng and his companions; indeed, he welcomed Li An’s harsh treatment of what he deemed arrogant and disrespectful outsiders. But Li An’s public use of the Mo Dao, exposing his identity, had directly incited Li Xuan’s wrath.

If their cover was blown and the secret mission to transport grain south disrupted, Li An’s repeated deaths would not suffice to absolve him.

Li An raised the Mo Dao high, his face ashen, eyes closed, breath ragged.

Just as Mu Changfeng suspected the master and servant were merely acting, Li An, with swift resolve, brought the blade down, severing his own left arm in a flash. Blood sprayed, staining the ground, and Li An staggered, his mouth releasing a cry of agony.